by Jill Harris
He still didn’t know what to do next. Bron had left and he had no one to talk to. He stayed in the hideout for another day. He hardly had the energy to go looking for food and he was heartily sick of insects. He itched all over. It must be the salt, he thought, and groomed himself several times, trying to get some relief. It didn’t make much difference. He scratched and scratched till his feathers started to fall out.
Bron returned later in the day.
“I’ve told your parents you’re okay,” she said. “Your mum was crying about you, and Bel wants to see you, too. Pip and Bek aren’t saying much. Roz makes up for that — she never stops chattering.” Bron grinned. “Her flying is coming on really well. She’s a bit cautious, but most girls are.”
She noticed Sil scratching. “Hey, you’ve started moulting! You’ve beaten me to it! Wow! Your feathers are falling out in nestfuls. What’s it feel like?”
“It’s driving me crazy!” said Sil.
“They say you should fly a lot. It helps to loosen the feathers.”
“I’m not flying anywhere,” said Sil grimly. “It just gets me into trouble.”
“You can’t skulk in here forever,” said Bron. “Why don’t we go and snack on the flax bushes by the park?”
But Sil wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t bear the thought of being whispered about by everyone who saw him. He stayed hunched on the branch, scratching miserably.
“Well, I’m not staying here hoping some insects will fly by,” said Bron. “I’m off for a decent snack, and if you had any sense you’d come with me. See you later.” She hopped away through the leafy network, leaving Sil to his black thoughts.
VI
At first, he missed the small bird painfully. The small bird was all that had made his life bearable. At the end, he had been no use to him at all. He had dropped off to sleep in utter exhaustion, despite the terrible danger, and in those few moments death had struck. He was jerked awake by squealing, just in time to see the small bird being dragged away into the darkness. He would have welcomed the same fate but, perversely, nothing further happened, so just as the lightening crept into the sky he was commanded back up into the tree, and sent off with the day’s instructions.
In the nights that followed, the big bird taunted him over and over.
“Friends, I thought you were,” he whispered. “Does that not mean sticking up for one another? Does that not mean staying on the alert and coming to the rescue?” He looked around at the other birds. “Would someone like this … thing … for his friend?”
The other birds sniggered.
“You have just three lightenings left to earn your place in this company. If you cannot, be assured your death will not be left to chance a second time. I shall call for a volunteer to do the job.” The big bird raised his head. “Will I find a volunteer?”
“You will!” shouted the birds.
“Louder,” he whispered.
“YOU WILL!” they screamed, and the wind moaned as it funnelled up the arena.
By now, the bird with the twisted claw felt very little. His heart had died with the small bird and he wanted to follow his friend. How and when made little difference to him. He felt a curious lack of fear. He would attack a tui, he thought, because they always attacked back, and that would be the end of it.
23.
A Terrible Discovery
HUNGER and thirst forced Sil out late in the afternoon. He managed not to be seen and was soon back in the hideout. What could he do to put things right? Old Sil would probably know. So would Pip, but his father obviously despised him — he couldn’t put Pip’s quiet, angry words out of his mind. Sil had to talk with Tor, too, and apologise to Mip for flying out on him at the sanctuary.
He couldn’t stop the voice in his head. It went on and on: “You’re no good, your family doesn’t want you back, you haven’t got a future.” He dreaded the coming night on his own.
Suddenly he was resolved — he would fly up to see Old Sil. He would wait till dusk when most birds were roosting and he would fly under cover in case there were magpies around. He knew it was risky flying into the bush alone but, the way he felt, being attacked by a magpie was the least of his worries.
Sil’s heart lightened a little. He could see a way forward. Old Sil had stuck up for him, maybe he still liked him. Old Sil knew everyone. He knew about everything. He was the wisest bird in the valley. If anyone could advise him what to do, it was Old Sil.
When the day’s breezes fell away and the sky had turned deep blue, Sil hopped to the edge of the tree and looked out. No birds were flying. He flew down to the pond for a drink and snapped up some water beetles. A sudden rustling in a bush nearby sent his heart racing.
“Gotcha!” said Bron. “Thought you’d come down here to drink when you got too thirsty.”
Sil was dismayed. He didn’t want Bron to know where he was going. This would be just between Old Sil and himself.
“You shouldn’t be flying around on your own,” he said.
“Well you are.”
“Yes, but I’m a …” he stopped. He didn’t want that fight right now.
“Go on!” flared Bron. “Say it — you’re a boy!”
“I am bigger than you.”
“Doesn’t seem to have been much use to you over the past few days,” said Bron tartly.
Sil looked at her. There was no answer to that.
“I’m on my way to talk to Old Sil, if you must know,” he said quietly. “I need to go on my own.”
“I’m going with you,” said Bron. “You can’t fly up there alone at dusk. There are no other birds. It’s dangerous.”
“I’ll take that risk,” said Sil. “It would be dangerous for you, too. What about your wing, anyway? No, I’ve already done enough harm by not thinking ahead. I don’t want you with me.”
“Quit being so sorry for yourself!” snapped Bron. “It’s getting boring. I suppose you think it would solve your problems if a magpie did attack you. Well, you’ve seen what those attacks are like — messy. And what if Old Sil felt he had to try to rescue you?”
Oh, Bron, thought Sil, I do like your style. He smiled. “So you think having the girl-warrior along will make it safer.”
Bron smiled reluctantly. “Actually, yes. I’m quite a smart fighter — it’s brains, not brawn. You can fly off on your own if you like, but I’ll just follow you. We’d be safer together.”
“Well you’re not sitting in on my conversation with Old Sil,” said Sil firmly.
“Let’s go.” Bron took off abruptly.
They headed up the valley, keeping to the edge of the bush and flying the long way round. Darkness was gathering before they reached Old Sil’s part of the bush. They had neither seen nor heard a single other bird and the oppressive silence was broken only by the whisper and creak of trees. A sense of menace had replaced Sil’s relief at finding a way forward from his troubles. Again he seemed to hear a whispered message from the trees: “Beware and begone.”
“Can you hear the trees talking?” he asked quietly when they stopped for a breather.
Bron looked at him strangely. “No, but I’ve heard it said that trees talk. What are you hearing?”
“Probably nothing,” he muttered.
At that moment a scream rang out. Sil’s blood ran cold.
Without a word they sped towards the sound. As they got nearer Old Sil’s tree they heard grunts and cries and beating wings. Through the thick dusk they could make out two birds locked in a terrible fight. A magpie and Old Sil.
“We’re here!” shouted Sil, diving down on the fight. Both birds were stabbing at each other and the branch was flecked with blood.
Old Sil, driven out to the end of the branch, raised his wings to parry the slashing beak of the magpie. His head was covered with blood.
Sil ran at the magpie with its black eyes and its beak like a knife blade. Eye and beak — something flashed in and out of Sil’s mind as he lunged at the bird. The magpie hissed. Beyond him,
Old Sil was breathing heavily and making small, mewing sounds.
“Hold on, Old Sil!” shouted Bron from above.
Distracted, the magpie looked up. Sil rushed at him again and stabbed him in the neck. The magpie grunted and stabbed back but the action unbalanced him and he missed. He scrabbled desperately to keep his grip. Sil noticed that one claw was twisted and hung down uselessly. He rushed in again and knocked the magpie hard. The impact shook Old Sil off the end of the branch. He fell through the tree and landed with a thud. The magpie gave a harsh shriek and took off into the gloom.
Bron screamed and flew down to Old Sil.
“Watch out!” yelled Sil as a sleek, brown shape flashed over the ground towards her. Flailing desperately, she lifted herself a few centimetres. The stoat launched at her, teeth gleaming. Sil heard the snap of its jaws as he dived on it. He felt the smooth, greasy pelt beneath his claws and smelt the stench as he stabbed — again and again — into its head.
“Get out!” he gasped to Bron.
She made for a low branch. The stoat twisted violently trying to dislodge Sil. Finally it ran under a low bush, knocking him off. Sil picked himself up and joined Bron.
She was sobbing wildly. “Old Sil, Old Sil!”
Sil sat close to her, breathing hard. “He’s dead, Bron. He couldn’t have survived that fall.”
“But we have to find out!”
“It’s too dangerous.”
As if to underline the point, the stoat darted back and seized Old Sil. He looked straight up at the two birds, his eyes mere glints of light. The last they saw of Old Sil was a limp bundle of feathers in the stoat’s mouth being dragged into the bush.
The two birds leant together in horror. Waves of dizziness washed over Sil, and he knew he would have fallen if not for Bron. Gradually her sobbing subsided and his head cleared.
“What about the magpie?” Bron whispered.
“He won’t be back,” Sil replied as confidently as he could. “He’s crippled. He wouldn’t take on two young birds. He might even be dead.”
“You saved me,” whispered Bron. “Again.”
“We have to tell the others,” Sil said urgently. “Do you think you can fly back?”
“It’s my wing,” said Bron. “It aches when I use it too much.”
Suddenly Sil was seized with a huge anger. How dare the magpies terrorise the valley! How dare they kill Old Sil! How dare they attack Bron! They had to be hunted down and punished.
“We can wait till you’re ready,” he told Bron, and they sat for a short while, side by side, each wrapped in their own thoughts but on the watch, nevertheless.
“I can go now,” said Bron, and they took off straight across the valley towards home. They made no effort to avoid being seen. Sil, still burning with anger, didn’t care. Just let any magpie try to stop them!
24.
A Brilliant Idea
AS they approached home Sil sent out warning cries so that by the time they landed, neighbouring birds had gathered with his family in the tree.
He was gasping for breath. “Old Sil!” he managed to say, “It’s Old Sil!” He gulped in some more air. “Killed!”
A ripple of horror spread through the listening birds.
Sil took another gasp. “We went to visit him. A magpie was attacking him.” He shuddered. “In his tree. There were feathers and blood everywhere.”
Bron continued. “He was badly hurt. He fell to the ground. A stoat took him.” A sob caught in her throat.
A low murmur of grief began to well up. More birds arrived.
“Fetch Jeb,” said Pip to Bek, and moved over to sit beside Sil and Bron. Bel was already on their other side.
“Wait for Jeb. Get your breath back,” Pip told them.
When Jeb arrived, he flew straight to Bron and laid his beak on her head. She started to weep. Then Sil told them what had happened. As he described it, he started to tremble and his voice seemed to be coming from far away.
“Watch out!” said Pip sharply to Bel. “Hold him steady.” He spoke quietly now. “Hang your head, Sil. It’ll pass. You’ve had a shock.”
Sil felt the warm, firm pressure on either side. He closed his eyes while the giddiness passed. He was aware that his mother had hopped down and sat between him and Bron, to comfort them.
Jeb was speaking. “We’ll fly up at first light to examine the scene. I’ll need three volunteers to join me. The best thing is for everyone to return to their trees now. We can’t do anything about Old Silver Song tonight.”
“But where is his body?” asked Bron in anguish.
“I doubt we’ll find it now,” said Jeb. “That’s the way of the bush. It’s for the best.”
Gradually the tree emptied, leaving only Jeb and Bron with the family.
“You saved Bron’s life again,” Jeb told Sil. “It takes a brave bird to attack a stoat.”
“This is a bad business,” said Pip. “I’m sorry you two youngsters had to see it all. You mustn’t blame yourselves for not saving Old Sil. He was probably already mortally wounded before you arrived. We should be thankful there was only one magpie, otherwise there might have been more than one death.”
“You do seem to have a beak for trouble, Young Sil,” said Jeb. “And Bron’s certainly a bird of a feather.” He looked at Sil with kindly concern. “We’re glad to see you safely home from the island, too.”
“So am I,” said Bel. “I was afraid I’d never see you again. I don’t care about the silly old competition, and I wish I’d been there to cheer you up.”
Jeb and Bron got ready to fly home.
“We’ll take it slowly, Bron,” said Jeb. “I’m amazed that wing of yours has held up.” He turned to Pip. “We have to stop all of this. We’ll have to work out a better plan.”
After they left, the family talked far into the night. They went through everything that had happened over the past week, sorting it out and understanding it better. No one pretended that wrongs hadn’t been done, but it was clear to Sil that his family wouldn’t have let him leave, and that they would stick by him now.
“You’re not Young Silver Song any more, you know,” said Mem quietly. “You’re Silver Song, the Singer, now. You’ll have to take over the things that Old Sil did for us. Not all at once,” she added, seeing the panic on Sil’s face, “but in due course.”
“I can never sit on his branch,” said Sil slowly. “I’ll never be as wise, or sing like him, or teach as well as he did.”
“You’re already well on the way,” said Pip briskly. “Old Sil spoke highly of your musical abilities. The rest comes from living — and learning from your mistakes.”
“I still haven’t heard your song,” said Bel.
“When all this is over,” said Mem, “we’ll have time to enjoy it. It’s a tremendous song and it must be sung again.” She hopped close to Sil. “You need to sleep now. You’ve been through a great deal this week.”
“This is your home, son,” said Pip. “This is where you belong.”
The whole family huddled around the nest, and when Sil cried out in his sleep, there was always a bird to press warmly into his side until his breathing steadied and he slept again.
. . .
The news spread fast and tuis from other bays started flying in, ready to farewell Old Sil at the singing-in next day. Many offered help with driving the magpies out. There were no magpie sightings or attacks that day, but the mood of anger and resolve built steadily.
Around midday, Bron arrived.
“Tor wants us younger birds to meet in the big pohutukawa in the arena. We’re not to fly alone, he says. I thought you and Bek and I could go together.”
“What about me!” said Bel indignantly. “Who am I supposed to go with?”
“Mem needs you here to help with Roz,” said Bek.
“Anyway, are you well enough to fly all that way?” asked Bron.
“Just look who’s talking!” snapped Bel. “You’re not exactly in peak conditio
n yourself!”
“Bel’s coming,” said Sil firmly. “Anyway, what’s it all about?”
“Tor didn’t say. Let’s go and find out,” said Bron.
Bel and Bron both needed a couple of short rests on the way, and by the time they reached the tree about 20 birds had gathered.
“I think we’re all here,” said Tor. “Come in closer — we don’t want to be overheard.”
The birds shuffled along the branches.
“The magpie problem has reached a crisis,” Tor began. “Nothing we’ve done has made any difference to their attacks. So far, 29 eggs have been taken, 17 fledglings killed, the ducks tell me they’ve lost six ducklings, snatched from the pond, and five young gulls, four dogs and three small humans have been attacked. We haven’t found where the magpies roost since they left the dead tree. They swoop out of nowhere, do their terrible deeds and disappear. No bird feels safe flying alone. All the joy of having new babies has turned into terror and grief. We’re used to dealing with cats and rats, stoats and possums, but when our own kind becomes the enemy, it’s bitter. Magpies are the thugs of the air.”
The birds listened intently. Tor continued: “The adult birds are busy protecting the nests — they haven’t got time to tackle the problem. I know that birds from the other bays are offering to help us, but it’s not numbers we need but tactics. Somehow we have to outsmart the magpies — but how?”
“Would the gulls help us?” asked someone. “I’ve heard they drove them out last time.”
Tor hesitated. “I don’t think they feel very friendly towards tuis right now,” he said quietly.
Sil hung his head with shame. Every eye was on him.
“If only the humans would help us,” said someone else.
“The magpies soon learnt not to attract their attention,” said Bek.
The birds sat in silence.
“Someone must have an idea,” urged Tor. “Think! It’s up to us younger birds — we’re going to have to solve this!”
Suddenly an extraordinary thought came into Sil’s head. No — it couldn’t possibly work. Or could it? He blinked and gasped.
