Sil

by Jill Harris

  The birds accepted his offer, and several said they’d drop by with ideas. Now, the meeting over, they flew off.

  Pip and Sil hopped down to join the rest of the family.

  “I heard you singing,” Mem told Sil. “It was beautiful.”

  “You handled that extremely well,” said Pip. “How did you feel about it?”

  “It was a lot better than I expected,” Sil said, but he didn’t say how proud he’d been. He felt a bit silly about that, now.

  Pip asked Mem, “Did you hear that cousin of yours from across the valley who seemed to think we were making a fuss about nothing. He flew off before the meeting was even finished.”

  Mem clicked her beak. “He’s a total beetle-brain! He’ll be the first to come flying for help if any of his family has trouble.”

  Sil had several hours before he was on nest guard. He had to do his practice and he wanted to visit Bron. He had mixed feelings about seeing her. During the night he’d dreamt that Tor and Bron turned into magpies and flew at him whenever he tried to get into the hideout. “You can’t come in here,” they’d chorused, “because you’re not our friend.”

  Was Bron his best friend any longer? he wondered painfully. He didn’t think he’d be able to hide his feelings if he visited her, so maybe he should stay away. On the other hand, he and Bron had done everything together since they were fledglings. Of course he should fly over straight away to see how she was.

  He’d visit the flax hedge for breakfast and then see how he felt.

  The flax hedge, like the big berry tree in the arena, was open territory — it didn’t belong to any one family. There was plenty for everyone. Several other tuis were feeding on some early flowers when Sil arrived. They all wanted to ask him about the magpie attack and the rescue, and he told his story several times as more birds arrived. Finally he was allowed to get on with his breakfast. He thrust his beak into the dark red flowers and sucked up the nectar. He hopped further up the stalk. The green spears of the leaves gleamed in the early sunlight.

  I’ll do my practice first, thought Sil. I’ll go to the big berry tree. But that would mean flying up the arena, and he was frightened. What if the magpie was lying in wait for him? The image of that black and white hurtling shape was still vivid in his mind. If Bron had been around, they could have gone together. Or could they? He slipped back into his mood of brooding hurt.

  He moved from stalk to stalk, putting off taking action. He thought out a strategy. He wouldn’t fly straight up the middle of the arena. He would move cautiously from tree to tree. Other birds would surely sound a warning if they saw the magpie, and if there were no other birds around, that would be a warning in itself. Several kererus lived up there and they didn’t scare easily. He would check out with them as he went. After his practice, he would visit Bron. He had a plan of action and he felt much better.

  11.

  Still Friends?

  SIL could see immediately he approached the arena that he had nothing to fear from the magpies. The air was filled with song and a number of birds flitted, glided and swooped from tree to tree. Many of them greeted him in a friendly manner and congratulated him on his part in Bron’s rescue. A fantail, darting around him, commented on his “tuneful, sensitive singing” at the singing-in. His spirits continued to lift as he made his way higher and higher, past the manuka thicket, the pohutukawa tree, the dead totara and up to the big berry tree.

  He had four weeks left before the competitions at the bird sanctuary on the other side of the harbour. The intermediate competitions involved three classes — technical competence, classical song and original composition. Sil had no fears about the first two. The technical competence class simply required him to practise a range of exercises daily so that his clicks, chimes, octave leaps, chuckles, gratings, runs and bell notes were fully at his command, supported by his posture and breathing. Every competitor would be competent in this area; it was what they did with their competence that would show up the winner.

  He and Old Sil had thought carefully about which classical song Sil should perform. It should demonstrate his technical superiority but not be too showy. It should be tuneful enough to appeal to the audience, but not merely pretty and lacking in depth. The song should be fresh and surprising, not one that was sung so often that birds had stopped really listening to it.

  In the end they had chosen My Love has a Collar of Frost, which had some challenging high passages, a haunting melody in the slow, middle section, and a passage towards the end in which he could improvise. According to Old Sil, it hadn’t been sung in the past five competitions. The song’s tragic ending would give Sil a chance to demonstrate his dramatic ability. Sil privately thought the song was a real tear-jerker, but he didn’t use those words with Old Sil, who would think him disrespectful of the famous song-maker who had composed it.

  The original composition class was the real test. Sil had now chosen the human sounds he intended to incorporate into his composition, and had practised them until he could sing them as naturally as tui sounds. Now the real hard work began — to create a song which was far, far more than a collection of sounds beautifully produced.

  Perching high in the bush, Sil let his eyes and thoughts wander across the tops of the trees and out to the sea and hills beyond. The colours in the bush, sea and clouds were as beautiful as bird plumage. What did humans feel when they saw such sights? What did they see and feel when they sang their music? What drove them to make their music tools when their own voices could sometimes be the equal of birds’? Was it possible that the same restlessness which was driving him to compose a new kind of song, also drove them to make their tools?

  He wanted his song to ask these questions and he had four weeks to get it right.

  The sun rose higher and higher over the bush as he thought and sang, thought and sang. An idea and a structure began to emerge from the mass of notes. He kept coming back to it from different angles. A fragment of melody repeated itself insistently in his head. Was it something he’d heard on one of the music tools? He sang it over several times. Where did it want to go? The rest of it came back to him. It was something he’d heard, but he didn’t like the ending, it was too obvious. He would change it. Yes, he thought with a sudden rush of energy, he would use the melody, but he would make it his own — a tui-human blend. I’m on the way! he thought.

  The branch beneath him was moving vigorously and the whole tree shook restlessly. Sil was tossed this way and that as the old, gnarled branches creaked and the leaves whispered and rustled. It was windier than he had realised, though strangely enough the bush around him seemed quiet. It was almost as though the big berry tree was trying to shake him off. The rustling grew louder until it filled his head. Surely he was imagining the slithery voice that whispered to him, “Beware, begone!”

  You’ve been up here too long, he told himself firmly. Trees don’t talk. By now he felt cold and hungry. The sun had moved so far around that his branch was in the shade. The nest guard! Help, he was going to be late again. Where had the time gone? He wouldn’t be able to visit Bron. Just as I never had time to play floop, he thought as he flew rapidly down the arena towards home. I should have explained to Bron how much time the preparation for the competitions would take. I assumed she’d know and understand. Suddenly he wanted to visit Bron that instant and say how sorry he was, but it would have to wait till later.

  Sil glided down to the tree, looking out anxiously for his mother. She’d be annoyed with him again. But there was no sign of anyone. Puzzled, he landed below the nest. It hadn’t been left unguarded like this for weeks.

  “Sil?” came a voice. Surely that was Mem, but where was she?

  “Sil?” the voice came from above. He hopped up to the nest. His mother was sitting inside, beaming at him.

  “You’ve laid the eggs!”

  “Just the one this time. Look.” Mem hopped on to the rim of the nest. Sil stared down at the pale pink egg with red-brown spots.

&
nbsp; “Wow,” he breathed. “How old is it?”

  “Not very.” Mem hopped back and settled on the egg. Sil noticed a bald patch on her chest.

  “Yes,” said Mem, “the feathers thin down so there’s more warmth from my skin for the egg.”

  With a flurry of wings, Pip landed beside the nest. “So what do you think?” he asked Sil. “Your mother’s pretty smart, isn’t she? You’ll have a new brother or sister in about two weeks. Then we’ll really get busy finding food.”

  “Sil,” said Mem, “what’s happening about your original composition? I haven’t heard you practising for it. The competitions are only four weeks away.”

  “I’ve got started on something,” said Sil. “I’m practising it up in the bush where I can’t be overheard. That’s where I’ve just been. I get so involved in it I forget the time.”

  “What sort of something?” asked Pip.

  “It’s kind of secret. I want it to be a surprise.”

  Pip looked thoughtful. “What does Old Sil think about it?”

  “He knows what I’m doing.”

  Suddenly Pip whipped along the branch and snapped his beak. There was a thin, high buzz. He knocked his beak against the branch and returned to the nest with a cicada. Mem crunched it up eagerly.

  “That was lucky,” he said. “They don’t often come to your front door.”

  Mem settled lower in the nest and closed her eyes.

  “Have you seen Bron yet?” asked Pip.

  “That’s what I want to do next,” said Sil. “Do I need to stay with Mem?”

  “No. I’ll be here for a while. I’ll go out for more food when Bel comes back. You go and see Bron.”

  Sil flew across the glade, practising loops and rolls as he went. He realised he was trying to postpone arriving. He wasn’t at all sure what he felt about Bron and what they would talk about.

  He landed on the kowhai next to Bron’s tree.

  “Hullo there, Sil,” Bron’s mother called. “Why are you sitting there? Come and join us.”

  He flew across.

  “Bron’s in the nest up there. She’ll be so pleased to see you. Go on up.”

  Sil hopped up several branches. Bron was lying propped against the side of the nest with one wing awkwardly stretched out and packed with a grey poultice. Bron looked up at him with clouded eyes. She looked sick and miserable. Sil felt a lump in his throat. Bron was like his sister and he wanted to cheer her up but the thought of Tor got in the way.

  “Hullo, Bron,” he said awkwardly. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Sore,” said Bron, “but I guess I’m lucky to be alive — thanks to you and Tor.”

  “Tor was the one who really saved you. You’d have hit the ground long before I got into gear. I was glued to the spot but Tor was on to it in a flash.”

  “Tor said he couldn’t have done it without your help.”

  “Yes, well …”

  “I don’t remember much about it,” said Bron. “One minute I was flying down the arena, the next I was on the gull’s back being taken home. Tor filled in the rest for me this morning.”

  Tor again. Sil bristled with resentment. He changed the subject.

  “How long before you can fly again?” he asked.

  “The kereru says about a month. She seems to know a lot about these things. She brought the poultice and says she’ll bring a fresh one today. I didn’t realise that other birds would help like this — the black-backs, the kereru, and heaps of birds have called in to see how I am. Some have brought insects and berries.”

  “Does it hurt much?”

  “It’s hard to sit up to eat and drink,” replied Bron, “but it’s okay if I lie still like this. You saw the magpie. Why did it attack me?”

  “Yes, I saw everything. It just launched itself at you from a tree at the side of the arena. It wasn’t an accident. It collided with you really hard then swooped away. I didn’t see where it went. You lost some feathers and started to spiral down. I’ve got no idea why it attacked you, but there’ve been other magpie attacks in the past couple of weeks. They discussed it at the singing-in this morning. Everyone’s quite worried.”

  Bron was silent for a little while. “How come you were in the arena?”

  Sil didn’t answer. Bron asked him again.

  “I came to play floop with you,” said Sil eventually.

  “I thought you were too busy practising to play floop. That’s why I was playing with Tor. Did you mind?”

  “Nah, play with who you like.” Sil turned his head away and groomed his wing.

  Bron looked at him steadily. “How’s the new song going, then? Four weeks to go.”

  “You can tell Tor I’m well ahead in my preparation, my new song will knock him out of his tree, and I expect to win,” said Sil meanly.

  “You know I wouldn’t talk to Tor about your new song,” said Bron quietly. “What’s wrong, Sil? Are we still friends, or what?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Well, we are. You’re my best friend.” Bron sighed, laid her head back and closed her eyes.

  Her mother hopped up to Sil. “She needs to sleep now, Sil. She’s still quite weak, but do come again — soon. She’ll need company while her wing’s mending and a visit from you will be as good as any medicine.” She smiled at him warmly. “What a good friend you are to her!”

  Sil ducked his head. He felt a fraud. He wished he could have been friendlier to Bron instead of being mean. It was all Tor’s fault.

  12.

  The Dead Tree Comes Alive

  TWO weeks passed in a flash for Sil. He found it hard to fit everything in. He was always doing something or flying somewhere. He longed to perch high in a tree with nothing to do except sway with the branches and feel the wind ruffle his feathers, or the rain wash him clean.

  As if he didn’t have enough to do, Mem told him, “You should be eating six good meals a day and snacking in between. It’s a long way to fly around the harbour and the competitions themselves are demanding. You need to be building up condition now.”

  She also insisted he groom himself thoroughly twice a day. “Those feathers of yours will have to carry you quite a distance. You need to keep them in top form. You’ll be one of the younger tuis in the travel party and you’ll have to keep up.”

  Sil felt the tension growing inside him. He now visited Old Sil twice a week so they could work on his song. His pleasure with it was beginning to turn to boredom as Old Sil made him sing it over and over. He would make him sing each part in several different ways until he felt Sil had got it right. And it might be changed again at the next lesson. He was getting thoroughly sick of the long flight to the big berry tree every day for secret practices, on top of his usual practice.

  He and Pip often went to the singing-in together now, which made his days even longer. The singing-ins added to his anxiety as hardly a day went by without a report of more magpie attacks. Eggs were being stolen when nests were left unguarded. The mother or father would return from a brief feed to find the nest empty and a few, pathetic fragments of blue or white or pink shell on the ground beneath the tree. Some birds were even driven from their nests by dive-bombing. It was now obvious that there were a number of magpies, but no one could discover where they roosted at night.

  All the birds kept a lookout and sent out warning cries at the first sight of the hunched, black and white shapes perched ominously, or glimpsed through the bush. Mostly the magpies hunted silently and without warning — one minute everything was normal and the next a black shape loomed. Younger birds like Bek and Tor’s brothers patrolled the area in pairs. They were told they could defend themselves or other birds but they weren’t to start fights. The magpies never attacked them; they went for smaller, weaker birds, and birds on their own.

  It was obvious that very few tuis could be spared to travel to the competitions.

  “It’s a real pity that more of us won’t hear you sing,” said Mem, “but Bek is needed to patrol the bush
, and Bron won’t be strong enough to fly all that way. It looks as though Bel will be the only one from the family.”

  “Do you think you can manage the journey?” Pip asked Bel. “It’s a long way around the harbour and up to the sanctuary. You and Sil will be the youngest tuis in the party.”

  “You’re not asking Sil that,” said Bel crossly, “and we’re the same age.”

  “You’re smaller than Sil,” replied Pip. “Don’t be so touchy. I’m not suggesting female birds can’t tackle things that male birds do, but size does affect stamina.”

  “It’s very important for Sil to have some support from the family,” said Mem. “You will find the journey long and tiring, Bel, but so will Old Sil. It won’t do any harm for you to ask the group to take it more gently — it will help Old Sil.”

  Jeb was to lead. Old Sil, Bel, Tor and two of his brothers, Mip and Wol, would make up the party, as well as Sil, himself.

  “I’m not sure I should be going at a time like this,” Jeb said to Pip. “You’ll have to stand in for me while I’m away and you’ve already got your claws full with the hatching.”

  “We’ll get by,” said Pip firmly. “Bek’s developing into quite a useful bird in a tight spot, and he seems to be a good influence on Sep. The pair of them make a strong team. And there are others. The black-backs will always rally around in real trouble.”

  The whole family was curious about Sil’s original composition.

  “Can’t you sing it for us?” asked Mem.

  It wasn’t ready, Sil explained. Old Sil kept wanting him to change bits of it.

  But Bel wasn’t fobbed off with that. “It doesn’t matter if you are still refining it,” she said. “It must be nearly in its final form. Do let me come to one of your secret practice sessions, Sil. After all, I gave you the idea in the first place.”