Sil

by Jill Harris

  Early birds, flitting into the arena after insects, saw the magpies. They filled the air with warning cries as they fled. But they had no need for fear or flight — the magpies hardly noticed them.

  The birds crept back to the arena under shelter of bush and watched intently. The magpies showed no sign of moving. Something strange was going on. Other birds arrived, summoned by the alarm calls. Word spread. Some black-backs took off from the beach and wheeled inland to see for themselves.

  The magpies moved restlessly on their perches. Their hunger and thirst grew. The larger ones glanced at one another. There was no trust between them, no suggestion that they might cooperate or devise a strategy for all of them. Yet each one knew that on his own he was vulnerable. When the first gulls appeared circling high in the sky, some took off, flying powerfully towards the safety of the hills.

  Those who were left muttered and whispered to themselves. A few left the tree to fly after the bigger birds, but they had hardly cleared the top of the bush when the gulls swooped on them with sickening impact. Some fell stunned into the bush. Others tried to recover as the gulls regrouped and came in for another attack.

  For many small birds looking on, it was too like what they had borne for so long. The sight of the black and white birds still filled them with terror. They shrank deeper into the bush, leaving the relentless gulls to mete out the punishment.

  As the remaining magpies looked on, paralysed, a wind came up. It whispered, then it sighed and moaned over the bush. It carried the scents of death and grief. The taller trees groaned and threw their branches around. The moaning turned to roaring. The big berry tree, standing above the shelter of the bush, was buffeted and blasted. It tossed its limbs this way and that, creaking in protest as its unripe berries fell to the earth. The wind gusted more powerfully. The huge trunk shuddered.

  The magpies clung to the wildly bucking tree. There was no one to tell them what to do so they did nothing.

  Another gust blasted down from the ridge and stripped away some of the leaves. The tree cried out, “Begone, begone, begone!”

  The shrieking wind plucked at the magpies. It tore them one by one from the branches, hurled and tossed them like dry twigs. They were flung above the bush towards the sea.

  From high above, riding out the fierce currents, the gulls saw the small cloud of black and white flotsam blown out across the water. One by one, the exhausted magpies dropped. They floated briefly, and were seen no more.

  29.

  Three’s Company

  “I think I can make it to the hideout now,” said Sil. He and Tor flew up from the pond to the macrocarpa tree and pushed deep into the foliage.

  Somebody was already there.

  Another tui sat hunched, back towards them. It made no effort to turn around when Sil said, “Who are you?”

  Then he realised.

  “Bron!” he cried, the tears springing to his eyes. “Bron!”

  He hopped up beside her. “Are you all right? It’s me, Sil.”

  Bron didn’t respond.

  “Bron,” said Sil urgently, “What’s wrong? Oh, Bron, we thought you were dead!” An enormous sob tore at his chest. He’d held it down for two days but now it burst from him. Bron had come back from the dead, even though Pip had not.

  Bron trembled violently beside him and he moved closer. She was trying to speak.

  “Cold … so cold,” she whispered.

  Tor hopped over and sat on her other side.

  “It’s me, Tor,” he said. “You’re safe now, Bron.”

  “I saw … I saw …” Bron couldn’t continue.

  They knew what she had seen. And that it was too shocking for words. The three sat close until the trembling passed.

  “She needs food and water,” said Tor. “She’s in shock. There should be insects under this bark.” He started prising it up with his beak and passing insects to Bron. At first she refused to eat but Tor persevered until she accepted them.

  “The shrieking. Day and night.” Bron shuddered.

  “You heard them last night,” said Sil, “because we fought them in the valley. A human with a gun killed their leader, we think.”

  “You must get down to the pond for a drink,” said Tor. “I’ll come with you.”

  Bron raised her head, eyes wide with panic.

  “We haven’t seen any magpies this morning,” said Sil, “and you must drink.”

  With quiet talk and reassurance they persuaded Bron to make her way to the outside of the tree. She sat shivering and watching.

  “Sil was hurt in the fight,” said Tor. “He’ll have to stay here but you and I can go down together. I wouldn’t risk it if I wasn’t sure it was okay. Honestly, Bron, you can see it’s all clear.”

  Bron took a deep breath, launched herself from shelter, and darted down towards the pond. Tor was close behind.

  When they returned, Bron looked much better but neither she nor Sil were fit enough to fly home. They sat together quietly.

  “Your family’s okay,” said Tor, “except Pip’s missing.”

  Bron looked hard at Sil. Her eyes had lost their glazed expression. She began to sit a little straighter.

  “I’m going home to tell the others you’re both okay,” said Tor. “Just keep packing in the insects while I’m away.”

  “Tor, hold on a minute,” said Sil. “I need to talk about what happened after the competitions.”

  Tor cocked his head.

  Sil paused. So much had happened since then. He sat for a moment to recall it completely. “What I did was wrong, utterly stupid, and I still feel terrible about it. I put you in dreadful danger. And the gulls. I can never put it right,” he said in a husky voice.

  “You’ve made a pretty good start with the gulls,” replied Tor. “They hate the magpies, too. They steal their food. It’s your marvellous idea that will probably drive them out.

  “Look, Sil, you’re an ideas bird, that’s why your new song is so important. It’s full of ideas. That’s why you’re important. Plenty of us can fly well and sing well, but not many of us have new ideas.”

  Sil went hot all over. He forgot about his sore shoulder.

  “That’s very decent of you, Tor, but there wouldn’t have been any more ideas if you hadn’t flown after me in the storm.”

  “That’s partly why I did it, I suppose,” said Tor, “and I thought you should have won. I felt bad about that. I could guess what you must have been feeling so I took off after you without thinking. I didn’t tell Mip I was going, either, and I had a real roasting for it.” Suddenly he looked sad.

  “You know, in a way, what happened is my fault, too. I persuaded the two black-backs to help me. They didn’t really want to.”

  The two birds looked at each other. I’ve changed my mind about Tor, thought Sil. He’s a pretty good tui. “You’ll win all the competitions from now on,” said Tor, “and the funny thing is, I don’t mind any more.” Before Sil could respond, he hopped away through the tree.

  Did Bron hear any of that? wondered Sil. She was sitting on a higher branch grooming herself. She seemed to be recovering fast.

  The sun reached the macrocarpa. Sil felt its warmth on his back. He glimpsed the blue sea through the shifting leaves and heard birds chattering around him. The bush was coming to life again, though he heard no tuis. He wondered how many moults it would take them to recover. Could they regain their life here, or would they have to join the tuis in another valley? No, he thought fiercely! My family has lived here for a long, long time. We shall survive!

  His thoughts returned to what Tor had said — he was an ideas bird. Hmmm … that felt all right. Bits of a new song floated into his head. As the song came together, the tree around him faded.

  A flash of white she saw,

  A flash of white, and more —

  A cruel beak, a glittering eye,

  A black shape looming in the sky.

  Like an arrow, down it sped

  To the treetops fas
t they fled.

  Now the feathers flutter down,

  Fledglings from the nest are thrown,

  They are gone, oh, they are gone,

  And she is weeping all alone.

  You have to sing about it, thought Sil. What else can you do? You have to tell the story. He couldn’t finish the song yet — the story was still happening — but he had a feeling it was going to have a good ending.

  A tap on his beak jerked him from his thoughts. Bron was watching him with bright eyes. “Oi!” she said. “Where have you been? We’ve got a lot of catching-up to do.”

  IX

  The fierce wind subsided. The big berry tree stretched and shook itself, free at last of the trash that had lodged on its old branches. It settled down to wait for the birds from the valley who would now come back to chatter among its leaves and share its red and purple berries as they ripened. Not many tuis would visit — yet. It would be several berry seasons before they returned in full number, but they would be back, singing their songs and squabbling with one another. The old tree had seen such things many, many times before.

  About the Author

  Jill Harris’s grandmother and father were great storytellers, and music was always very much a part of their family life. As a result, Jill has been writing since she was nine-years-old, and has had a lasting interest in singing and playing the piano.

  Jill Harris lives with her husband in Wellington where their house is surrounded by bush, sea and birds. Watching the tuis and kererus who visited the garden inspired Sil, Harris’s first book. A former English teacher and librarian, Jill has three sons and two grandchildren.

  Copyright

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the written permission of Longacre Press and the author.

  Jill Harris asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  © Jill Harris

  ISBN 978 1 869798 80 2

  First published by Longacre Press, 2005

  30 Moray Place, Dunedin, New Zealand

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

  Cover and book design by Christine Buess

  Cover painting by Clare Reilly – The Dance of Flight, 2003

  Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group, Australia