by Pete Lockett
“Don’t worry, little fella,” said the man, as he moved him down from in front of his face onto his knee, “we’re not going to hurt you; you’ll soon be back in your nest,” he said, as he turned him up, facing towards the top of the trees, bringing a second man into view. He was slightly younger, but wore a ridiculous red bobble hat which fought hard to restrain a full head of blond hair flowing out in every direction. The wind tossed it this way and that, as Ed started to feel the chill of the breeze.
“With this, we can have a good record of where they live and breed over their lifetime. With a rare bird like this it is really important. They’re just starting to reach sustainable numbers after so many were wiped out with pesticides,” proclaimed the man to his companion as he withdrew a medium pair of pliers with bright red handles from a small bag.
“Really? That’s great news. What do you know about this family?” replied the first man.
“Well this one’s quite old now, forty or fifty days or more I think. The mother was tagged living in Chichester cathedral a few years back.”
“Really, that far away.”
Ed listened intently, reassured by the fact that they were only tagging him and not ripping off his limbs with the pliers. It was still a mystery what bird he was exactly, but it was useful to know he was rare.
“Yes, not surprising though,” replied the man in the red hat as he took Ed’s right leg and held it still in front of him before adding,
“They are fast little mothers. Highest recorded speed of these is over two hundred miles an hour.”
“You have got to be kidding,” responded the man, as Ed mused at the possibilities.
Wow, I can fly at two hundred miles an hour. That’s bananas. How brilliant. This is going to be something else, he reflected as the man took out a piece of flexible bendy metal and forced it around his leg with the pliers, forming a loose and lightweight engraved anklet.
“These can’t be too heavy or else they can confuse the bird in flight. It weighs practically nothing,” declared the man as he let go of the bird’s leg. Ed looked down and saw a fearsome looking bird foot, long yellow fingers with sharp and offensive black claws, almost as long as the fingers. It looked to him like he had the equivalent to a thumb and three of these fingers but before he could properly inspect them, he was hurled into another bag which was immediately tied.
From inside Ed could hear the muffled tones of the two gents discussing what needed to be done next.
“Now we just have to weigh him and measure him and we can pop him back where he came from. We can weigh this one in the bag.”
“Great, then we can go to the pub. This is the last one isn’t it?”
“Yep, then we are free like the birds, although I don’t think we’ll see them in a pub. Imagine a peregrine falcon turning up at the bar.”
“Yeah, can I see your ID, sir, please?”
With this, the two men went about weighing Ed. A mysterious journey followed, bumping, tossing and turning as they made their way to wherever they were going to set him free.
“I bet I’ve lost quite a bit of weight since the last time I was weighed,” joked Ed to himself as they came to a halt and he felt the bag land gently on the floor. With all the kicking and jostling he could feel around him, he realised he’d been dumped on top of the other bag of birds.
“Right then, let’s get the rope and everything ready. We’ll be down this cliff in no time at all and get them all back in the nest.”
At least I’m in my own bag, not with the others, reflected Ed before considering what life would be like as a peregrine falcon. He had seen a few documentaries on TV but hadn’t really taken it in.
If I had known I’d become one, then I’d most certainly have taken more notice, he thought ironically.
At this moment, he felt the bag being swooped up, and from the speedy movement, imagined they were abseiling down a rock face. Soon they came to an abrupt halt and the bag was opened as they swayed from side to side in the wind.
“This one won’t be in the nest for much longer by the looks of it, John. He’s much bigger than the others,” shouted the man to his companion on the top of the cliff. He reached into the bag, grabbed Ed and plonked him out on a cliff edge barely as wide as his body. An uncomfortable, twiggy mattress was all that kept his bum from the white chalky surface as the wind battered him from every side. Instinctually he turned away from the gusts to protect himself, not particularly bothered to miss the cliff top sea view.
One by one he heard the other birds placed back on the cliff before the man abseiled back up to the top.
“Are any of you Transients? Are any of you Transients?” he shouted at the top of his voice amidst the deafening noise of the wind and the endless penetrating bleats coming from the other birds.
“Fuck it, this is not going to be much fun,” he reflected as he tried to protect himself from the elements. Just at this moment, a larger bird arrived and perched itself next to him. It was stunningly exquisite, a beautiful, light brown front with tiny black spots and grey back. The feathers fluffed up slightly as the frightening looking yellow and black claws clung on to the side of the tiny rock ledge, steadfast in the gale force conditions. The bird’s head was a dramatic grey with light brown under the beak and tasteful yellow trim around the eyes and face. The piercing shiny black eyes peered out at Ed as it moved closer with some sort of edible treat hanging from its mouth. Instinctually he found himself opening his mouth as wide as he could as the big bird stuffed the food into him.
Great! A bite to eat, and then I’ll fly inland and get away from this abusive wind, thought the bird, as he consumed the offering and watched his new friend fly down from the rock and out to sea.
Oh my god, it tastes like biltong crossed with smoked salmon. I’ve no idea what I’ve just eaten but it was certainly tasty, thought Ed, turning back away from the brutal wind, wondering how difficult it would be to fly.
Mmmm, that’s a point. I’ve never flown before. That will be a real test of nerve. I guess I just fall off and see what happens. Ed settled down into a ball, curled up his body and tried to protect himself from the elements as best he could.
I’ll try and sleep here for now, build up my energy and maybe there’ll be less wind when I wake up. I have a few days after all – unless I end up killing myself immediately cos it turns out I can’t fly – that would be really stupid. Anyway, if I can sleep here then I can sleep anywhere. With this, Ed resigned from the day and settled for a symphony of wind to send him to sleep.
***
When the morning came, it was indeed less windy. He turned around away from the cliff to assess the situation. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun had just meandered into the sky. The temperature was cold but his feathers seemed to divert the worst of it around him. He stretched out his wings for the very first time and shook his body with a stretching yawn. They were massive and felt like they stretched the whole width of the white chalky cliffs. He flexed and flapped them gently and felt their power ripple through his whole being. He looked down at the hundred or so feet drop to the rocky shore below. He might well have become a bird but his human consciousness had retained its fear of heights. He thought back on the terrifying rope ladder climb with Yedida just a day or so earlier. How useful the wings would have been then.
I just have to jump off and trust in nature. I’ve got wings like a 747. What could possibly go wrong? Even if I did die, I’d just come around again anyway.
With this reassuring thought, Ed moved a little closer to the edge of the tiny ledge, looking down at the terrifying sheer drop.
Well here goes, bungee without the cord. Arrrrggghhhhhhhhh.
Off he went, plummeting straight down towards the rocks, coming dangerously close to crashing back into the cliff face. He flapped his wings frantically, but nothing.
Oh my god, this is crazy. Get hold of yourself. You must be doing something wrong.
Ed stopped flapping and decided to glide,
wings stiff and erect like a small aircraft. In no time he was in the flow and becoming one with the air. It was like diving into a swimming pool without the resistance of water. He glided freely, swooping down to the left and speeding just a few feet over the tide drenched rocks before soaring to a dizzying height, looking down on the cliffs like it was toy town. Instinct guided him to glide on the various air currents, using virtually no energy whatsoever but travelling at a phenomenally blinding speed.
Up and down he went, descending, plummeting and falling before climbing and surfacing back into the heights, only to once more repeat the process.
I could live with this. This is brilliant. It makes my tortoise incarnation feel even more miserable. Weeyyheeyyyy, he thought, as he cut into and out of the wind streams like a fighter jet.
“I’m the racing car of the sky, the bullet train of the clouds, here we go again,” he gasped as he swooped down low over the top of the breaking waves before reaching back up to the top of the cliff and coming to rest on a protuberant, grass-topped, chalky rock.
I guess I must be somewhere on the south coast, probably Eastbourne or Dover. That’s some way from where I died. I should pay a visit to the area though, just like Jahani suggested. This is the ideal opportunity to get an overview of the whole scene, for better or for worse.
Ed considered his options and decided to fly inland, get his bearings and try to gather some more information on the circumstances surrounding his death.
Two hundred miles an hour, that would take me a very short time to get to the M3. I would just need to follow the A27 towards Portsmouth and then pick up the M27 and then on to where it meets with the M3. It won’t take long at all.
The falcon swooped down off the cliff before ascending high into the sky and heading inland. It was a bright autumnal day. The trees had half shed their browning, crumpled leaves, and the colours of autumn adorned the landscape below. Ed surveyed the splendid palette, reds, browns, yellows and greens randomly arranged as if targeted by a wacky paintball gang. He wove into and out of breezes and winds, left and right, up and down. In no time he had picked up what he assumed was the A27 and followed its path along the coast towards Portsmouth.
I guess this really is ‘as the crow flies’, even though I’m a falcon, considered the feathery beast, as he continued on his way, gliding for seemingly vast distances without even flapping his wings.
I want to get up to the area where I died, trace back my steps and see what I can remember, thought Ed and he made surprisingly quick time powering himself along the south coast. It was an astonishing feeling, toying with the currents, surfing on air. As he proceeded, he swooped down every few road junctions to check he was on the right path. A27, Portsmouth / M3, then M27, Southampton / Bournemouth and finally M3 London / the North.
The M3 was one of Ed’s favourite motorways, especially in Hampshire where it meandered its way through, over and around the South Downs, carving a path through massive white chalk hills and off into the distance. He glided down to get into the flow of the traffic, to feel once again the exhilaration of travelling at ninety MPH in the fast lane. He got in the slip stream of a speeding truck, riding against the unpredictable air flows that came from its surfaces and angles. His powerful muscular wings easily matched the task as he ducked behind and above the vehicle, much to the amazement of a coach of Japanese tourists alongside. Soon he climbed skywards again, speeding past and leaving the coach in the distance.
“Where’re your speed cameras now?” he murmured to himself as he swooped down and past a hurrying police car. Just to confuse them further, he held his speed and flew in front of them before shooting upwards again, twisting and turning like a spitfire in an air display.
Ed Trew, caught on camera at last. That will surely get on a ‘cops with cameras’ TV show, he thought, as the two middle aged men stared with shock through the windscreen, instinctively reducing their speed.
Ed knew the road fairly well and decided to head north at Winchester along the A34. He knew that this intercepted the A303 and then he could fly along the route he took on that fateful day driving back to London. The more he could remember, the better he would be in trying to piece together a plan in helping him decide on his future. He knew from his research that he had died somewhere west of Basingstoke near Dummer.
Can’t get much dumber than texting whilst driving, reflected the Falcon, momentarily getting angry with himself for being such an idiot. He was at least relieved that no one else had come to harm in the incident.
What’s done is done. I have to think ahead. If I fly north up along that route and then across on the A303 onto the northbound M3, then it might help jog my memory, thought Ed, inquisitive for any little scraps of information that could help.
Below him, the patchwork of fields created an enchanting landscape, yellows and greens, browns and greys all shapes and sizes, completely randomly carved into every sort of asymmetrical shape imaginable. Through it, the road carved its ugly, unending path, segueing off into junctions and smaller roads, like a life-giving organisation of concrete and tarmac veins. Through them a myriad of vehicles squirmed and flowed like millions of little red corpuscles speeding to fulfil their duties in the service of the all-encompassing master society. It made his death seem almost irrelevant as he looked down in awe at everything.
He sped on to the easily recognisable junction of the A34 and A303, swooping down to check the road signs before ascending once again and resuming his path along the A303, dipping into and out of the various avenues of wind.
I’d better get down lower and slow down a bit to get a better idea of things, thought Ed before plummeting down and flying just above the fast moving traffic for a while before suddenly swerving left and taking a moment’s rest on a small wooden fence adjacent to the road. He looked on curiously at the traffic speeding by, each car battering him with a stomach blow of pressure and a deafening ‘zwooshhh’.
I can’t believe it - was I really going faster than that? he thought, surprised by the speed of the traffic.
He was soon up and off again and in no time was flying at the same speed as the London-bound vehicles, swimming in the wind. It was a depressingly barren environment, the road cut through empty countryside with little else other than fields, a railway line and a few isolated farm houses. Further on there was a small airfield, loaded with dozens of tiny planes and two healthy looking airstrips. ‘26’ he could see clearly painted on one of them as he glided overhead.
Opposite was a small service station and restaurant. He could clearly see the big red sign ‘Little Chef’ adorned with a picture of a small fat cook obviously happy to serve up some tasty English breakfast.
Might I have gone in there on that fateful day? thought Ed, as he swooped over the road to look a little closer, soon realising there would have been no way of getting over from the London-bound carriageway. He continued on, and a little further he came across another service station, much smaller and next to some sort of industrial unit or scrap yard. Behind this, there was a large scale off-road dirt track for bikes, cut into the landscape like a never ending squiggly line carved by some sort of large lunatic monster.
He flew down to get a closer look, perching on the roof of the fuel stop. Soon he was overwhelmed by the fumes coming up from the pumps and was forced to swoop over to the roof of a small provision store and pay centre adjacent to the pumps. In no time people started to gather below him, outside the shop.
“Look at that little beauty,” exclaimed one young man, dressed smartly in a silky, shiny, grey suit. Impatiently he dug around in his pocket before extracting some sort of smart phone device, holding it aloft in Ed’s direction, and snapping away merrily. Soon the crowd started to swell, staring and snapping away at the falcon.
Might as well give them some good photos, thought Ed, as he stretched his wings to their full powerful span.
“Wow, Wow,” he heard from below as they clicked with their cameras, conversing with eager enthus
iasm.
“That’s not something you see everyday,” uttered one gent as the queue of cars started to build up, unaware of the situation and impatient to get to the pumps. Not wanting to draw too much attention to himself, Ed decided to fly over into the cover of some adjacent trees, but only after swooping down over their heads, giving them all the fright of their lives.
Once in the trees Ed reflected on the location. He was sure he had stopped off there to get petrol before the accident. It was sketchy but he could clearly remember the external décor of the place and the layout of the pumps. However, he also remembered stopping off at a café but he could see no café there. Did this mean he was in the wrong place? He decided to get a better view and flew higher into the trees.
From this new vantage point he could see another building, part of the same complex but hidden around the back. It was some sort of café and so he decided to fly over and check it out, this time from a less conspicuous position than the roof of the mini mart.
Having swooped down, he perched himself on a cluster of bushes beside a small car park and started to check out the area. The car park was virtually empty but he estimated there was space for approximately thirty or forty cars. Steam poured from the kitchen vents on the roof of the adjacent café and bright lights inside suggested that it was open for business. The building itself was a cheaply built, strange, square bungalow construct with bright yellow placards around the top displaying the name;
‘303 DINER, THE PLACE TO EAT’
It looked anything but the place to eat, but on the road, if it’s edible then it’s a friend. The diner sat slightly on the top of a mini-incline and behind it, away from the road there was a stunning panorama of rolling hills and fields, stretching off far into the distance. The horizon was dotted with trees, clinging longingly to their last remaining browning leaves, hoping for just one more day of sunshine.
A dark grey Ford station wagon pulled into the car park and reversed into a space just along from Ed, partially obscuring his view. As the engine died into its last revolution, the final vestiges of carcinogenic smoke trickled out from the exhaust in a puff. He ducked down onto a lower section of bush, as the man got out and made his way into the café, twisting his body around half sideways, and flicking a switch that electronically locked the car, omitting a loud, single-toned staccato ‘beep’ in the process.
