Falcon Wild

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  “No!” I cry. “You’re letting her go because I got bit? This was my fault, not hers.”

  “Karma, settle down. That’s not the reason.” Dad leans back and scratches his beard. “First of all, you know we can’t afford to buy a gyr for you. And you know she doesn’t like our hot Montana summers. She’s built for camouflage in snow. It’s better for her to go home.”

  “You understood this might happen,” Aunt Amy reminds me. “I know it seemed she’d make a great demo bird with the lure training. But soon you’ll trap your own redtail, and you won’t have time for her once you start your apprenticeship.”

  Sneaky, clever Aunt Amy. The assurance that I’m still allowed to be her apprentice makes me feel slightly better.

  “You’ll also be starting at an actual school next year,” Mom reminds me. “You won’t have the same flexibility that you have now, at home.”

  They all make good points, but they aren’t the ones who made a promise.

  “I know you want the best for Stark,” Dad says, glancing at Mom. “And to see the place where she’s from. That’s why I thought you’d like to come.”

  “You want me to go with you when we ditch her?” The walls of the kitchen are closing in around me. “I promised her I’d never leave her. I promised.” The word catches in my throat. This can’t be happening.

  “We’re all going to go. Well, your mom has to work, and Aunt Amy has to care for the birds. But you, me, and your brother will go. We’ll still do our lessons on the road; don’t want to miss those.” Dad grins sheepishly, his eyes full of conflicting emotions. When he searches my expression, he switches tactics and focuses on my brother instead. “What do you say, Gav? Ready for a road trip?”

  “Woo-hoo!” Gavin yells.

  Typical.

  Pickles screeches, and the sound rips through my head. I want to scream with her. I want to shred something.

  “How about you think of this as a little vacation from chores,” Mom says. “A fun road trip’s got to be better than cleaning the mews.”

  “That shows how much you know!” I feel like I’m going to explode. “I like cleaning the mews!” I scream.

  “Karma!” Mom and Dad yell at the same time.

  “Fledgling,” Aunt Amy says.

  The only one quiet in this house now is Pickles. She stares at me, unblinking, as I grab my jacket and flee toward the door.

  “You should start packing,” Mom calls after me.

  “We leave tomorrow,” Dad chimes in.

  As I head outside, Gavin begins singing “O Canada” at the top of his lungs.

  I hurry out to the mews. It’s still late afternoon, plenty of light left. I think we deserve one last flight together.

  How could this week have started so well and then gone so wrong? The perfect fall breeze, blue sky, and crisp air from yesterday linger today. But everything has changed.

  I’m losing Stark.

  Of all the raptors I’ve known, this one bird has gotten under my skin. Literally—the bandage on my arm is a reminder of how much. I open the door.

  The mews is a long building. Plywood divides it into smaller sections, and plastic-coated wire stretches across the top of each enclosure. A corridor runs down the length.

  In the first few sections we keep the hawks, then the falcons, and then the eagles. The owls are in a separate mews behind this one. Most of the crew, including Stark, is outside in the weathering yard. It’s an enclosed area where the birds can sun themselves on their blocks and perches.

  I make my way past the meat freezer, the scale, and the shelves loaded with hoods, creance lines, bells, jesses, and other falconry gear. I already have my satchel over my shoulder, and I stuff a tidbit of meat in it along with my lure, my gauntlet, and telemetry equipment so I can track Stark in the air.

  Cheeko’s bath pan has a casting in it. The chunky, brown ferruginous hawk glares at me as I change the water. His glare has a calming effect.

  “Yeah, I know, you didn’t get to show off yesterday,” I say apologetically.

  At the sound of my voice, Bert spreads his enormous eagle wings and bobs his head with impatience.

  “What? Someone else getting more attention than you?” I pet Bert’s head as though he’s a dog, which he loves. He peers at me from under his heavy brow ridge.

  I love being surrounded by these birds. I love the sounds and the smells and watching them rouse their feathers, which makes them look like big puffy balls before they lay their feathers down smooth again. I even love the air around them, the feel of it. How this wildness sticks to me. It’s soothing and pungent and real, and it helps me think clearly.

  But when I go out the back door and my gaze meets Stark’s, a fresh twist of pain grips my heart.

  Stark bobs her head as I approach, and I pretend the dance she does on her block is because she’s happy to see me. Even though she’d be able to pick me out in a roomful of people, Stark is slow to show me affection. Maybe that’s why I keep trying so hard with her. I sense she’s had a rough life. I want to prove to her that she can trust me. I keep my eyes averted, but I want to stare in awe at her. Once you fly a bird—see it soar free and wild, then come back—it’s like the bird owns your heart.

  In one smooth movement I hold my gloved hand in front of her legs and gather the jesses. She flaps twice as she steps onto my fist and studies me. There is no memory of what happened in her gaze, no remorse or unease. I don’t flinch as I bring my cheek next to hers, breathe in her slightly feral scent, and croon to her. I swear she likes this.

  She stands bold and proud, and I admire how her mottled white coloring contrasts with the black trim on her tail and primary feathers. Her breast feathers are coarse under my hand as I run my fingers through them.

  I counted the days until her molt was over last month. When her new set of feathers grew in, I could start flying her. That’s when I could finally tell that she was lure trained. And so smart. It made me seethe to think someone just ditched her. Or didn’t care that her transmitter got lost and she couldn’t be tracked. She didn’t know how to feed herself, or how to get home, or how to live in the wild. She nearly died. How would it feel to be abandoned like that? I wanted her to know someone cared. I told her I’d always be there for her.

  “So, I found out where you’re from.” I can hardly say it out loud. “But don’t worry, I’m going to go with you so I can meet this guy and see your mews. If it doesn’t seem good enough for you, I’m bringing you right back here, okay?”

  Stark studies me and then sneezes, misting me with her bird snot.

  “I agree. Let’s do one more together.” I slip a transmitter over her head and check the signal on the frequency. Her hood goes on next. I cinch the braces with my free hand and teeth. This way, she is calm as I carry her to the back field. Still, nervous energy charges through me.

  I cup my hand, making a triangle with the side of my thumb and first knuckle. This is the place a falcon sits, right on your fist. Stark’s long talons clench and unclench as she balances on my gauntlet while I walk. I ignore the ache in my arm where she nailed me. My breathing matches her grip. I face into the breeze, and it ruffles through her feathers, making her hop with excitement.

  “I know how you feel,” I tell her. With a wind like this, she wants to fly so badly, and a part of me does too.

  I stop in our usual place. The prairie sage sways in the open field, and my skin tingles with anticipation. I try to ignore that this is our last flight together. A quiver travels up my chest and ends on my lip. Don’t let her see you unsure. I shake my head and grow a smile.

  “Here you go, girl.” I pull off her hood, this time fully focused, and watch her take in her surroundings. She looks around, rouses, and poops—shooting a healthy-looking mute straight down. She glances at me briefly before crouching and leaping off my gauntlet.

  When she unfolds her wings to their full size, the sun reflects off her white plumage. It makes my throat tight. She is fit for a king.
No wonder gyrfalcons were once flown only by royalty.

  My next breath hitches as I watch Stark soar. Falconers aren’t supposed to wonder if my bird will come back, but I can’t help it after what happened yesterday. The scariest part of falconry is being so attached to an animal that can break your heart in a moment. All she has to do is keep flying and disappear.

  She pivots back and hurtles past my head, then rises again to begin climbing like stairs in the sky, spiraling up and up, all around me. I start to breathe again.

  I let her ride the thermals. When I fly her like this, it’s as if I’m soaring with her. I can almost feel the biting wind in my face. I am free and wild and brave.

  Stark swivels her head in my direction. She fixes her steady gaze on me as she soars. I must be patient, but the hope inside me is so big I can hardly stand it. Will she fly higher still, like a falcon is supposed to? Will I be able to swing the lure right, letting her hurtling body get close, but not hitting her with it? There are so many ways to fail, and I want our last flight together to be perfect. I automatically scan the sky above her for eagles. Even more, I don’t want this flight to end in disaster. She could be killed in an instant by a passing owl or eagle.

  Once she’s about two hundred feet above me, I pull out the lure with my right hand and begin to swing it in a large arc beside me. The rest of the string I hold loosely in my left. I let out a whistle I’ve perfected.

  Stark pivots in the air. I watch her fold up and dive. She drops out of the sky, and my heart plummets with her.

  I have to time the arc of the lure with her approach, always swinging the lure away from her. When she gets close, I pull the lure away, slicing the string back with my left hand and swinging in a figure eight. Stark reels up to miss the ground. She rolls and tucks and dives again. I let her get closer, and then I pull the lure around. It’s easy to see how smart she is when we play like this. She watches and calculates and swivels her body as she tucks, spirals, and dives.

  She is so clever, trying to guess my moves. She flies straight into the sun; I can hardly see her, which I think she does on purpose. Suddenly she summersaults backward and stoops so fast that I gasp at the impact when she smashes into the lure. It’s such a savage, primal thing that always brings up my blood.

  “Good!” My hands shake as I retrieve the lure from the ground, where she’s sitting on it. I’m so proud, though I’m not sure what part I’m proud of. Proud of how pretty she is? Proud that she hit the lure with deadly accuracy? Or that she chooses me over flying free?

  When I pluck her from the ground, she’s flapping and jazzed. I can feel her mood through the pressure of her grip on my fist. She grabs the lure back with an outstretched talon and holds it with one foot. I let her break into the meat I’m clutching between my fingers. She eats on my fist.

  “I’m going to miss you so much.” My throat aches a little as I watch her. Her sharp eyes glance dispassionately my way, then go back to her kill.

  “We’ll be gone four days, Gav. You think you’ll have enough reading material?” I ask as Gavin lugs another box of comics from his room.

  “One-box limit,” Dad says.

  “But I have to bring issues thirty-seven through forty-nine for traders,” Gavin explains. “What if I meet someone who has issue number three, and he wants to trade?”

  Gavin is obsessed with his quest for number three. He spends most of his Internet Forty-Five on it. I hardly ever use my daily forty-five minutes of computer time, since it doesn’t take me long to check my Facebook page. I have twenty-eight friends. My neighbor Michelle, who goes to a real school, has 781. I have no idea what it would be like to have that many friends.

  “One box,” Dad repeats. “You’re just going to have to make a decision. Life is full of tough choices.”

  Gavin mutters something as he turns to bring his box back to his room. My bag is only half full since this isn’t going to be like a vacation, more like a funeral. I’ve packed jeans and black T-shirts. Also my hoodie, which is my favorite color—white.

  When we load Stark into a tall and narrow wooden box built into the back of our green van, I hope that she will rage. I want her to fight against the hawk box. To flap and squawk and show Dad that she wants to stay here. But she goes in with no problem.

  The guilt I feel burns me from the inside out. She doesn’t realize we’re taking her away. After all my time getting her to trust me, now I’m betraying her. Inside my head, I’m raging for her.

  “Text me when you get there,” Mom says, handing Dad his phone.

  He leans in to kiss her, then she kisses us, and we roll out of our long driveway, under the arch that reads “Beaver-tree National Forest, Birds of Prey Education Center” in red letters.

  “We’re already late,” Dad says. “I wanted to be on the road before eight. We’ve got one day to get there and one day to see Stark settled in. Then I thought we’d detour on the way back through Glacier National Park, do some camping. May as well take a few days for Outdoor Classroom, huh?”

  “Yeah, Dad. That’s great,” I say.

  “All right! Who’s up for ‘I spy’?” Dad yells, as if he can change the mood in the car with the force of his voice.

  “Me!” Gavin has an insatiable obsession with our family version of I spy, or wildlife ID. It usually consists of describing species that aren’t even found in Montana. But if you can correctly describe color, shape, and distinguishing markings of what you “happened to see,” then you get a point.

  “Dad, we haven’t even reached town yet.” I stare out the window from the backseat, the closest I can get to Stark’s box.

  “Never too early for games, my little wild child,” Dad says. “I spy…”

  I tune them out as I stare at the colorful sedimentary rock and low buttes. The prairie on the left of us, the pine forest on the right.

  “Something mottled brown with dark brown tips!” Gavin calls out.

  It’s going to be a long trip.

  I settle further into the seat as I take out my apprentice study guide and look at the photos of bumblefoot infection, but I can’t concentrate. Even though Stark is in her crate behind me, I’m the one who feels caged.

  Later I’m woken by the van slowing as Dad pulls into a gas station. I stretch my kinked neck, trying to figure out where we are. The sharp silhouettes of two mountain peaks rise up in the distance. I grab the phone from the console in front of me and text Mom.

  Almost at Free Hold. What’s world record for longest I-spy game?

  A moment later she responds.

  Glad you’re having fun. Call me when you arrive. Love you.

  I stick the phone back in the console, next to Dad.

  “Just a quick pit stop,” Dad says as he pulls up to a pump. “I know it’s past lunchtime, but we’ll eat and stretch at Denny’s. How does that sound?”

  “Shocking, Dad. We only stop there every time we do Outdoor Classroom near Free Hold,” I say.

  He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “What? You saying your old man is predictable?”

  I tug on his ponytail and then automatically point to Gavin beside me, indicating he did it.

  While Dad fills the van, I notice a teenage boy leaning against the side of the store. He’s wearing blue jeans and a dark windbreaker. There’s something about the way he stands hunched over that makes me watch him closer. With an exaggerated flourish, he flicks his candy wrapper away, not bothering to walk the few paces to the garbage can.

  Dad knocks on the window. “You guys want anything?”

  “Doritos!” Gavin yells.

  “Water,” I say.

  When I glance back, the boy is staring at me from under long brown bangs. Our eyes meet, and his gaze is strangely familiar to me, though I’ve never met him. He reminds me of Stark when she first arrived. Fierce and afraid and desolate. There’s a wildness to him that I recognize.

  As Dad approaches him, the boy pulls his features into a smile, pushes his hands into his pock
ets, and stands straighter. He says something that looks like it’s meant to be charming. Dad pauses and pulls out his hand. They shake before Dad continues into the store. The boy glares at me, and I look away. A wooden sign on the lawn next to him reads “Home of the Free Because of the Brave.”

  When I glance back, the boy is gone.

  A few minutes later, Dad returns with a bag of snacks. He passes my water to me, hands the bag to Gavin, and buckles in. “Save those for after we eat, Gav.”

  We pull out onto the highway again, and just as I’m about to ask Dad what the boy said, I see him. He’s walking backward along the side of the road, with his thumb sticking out.

  “Oh, that kid asked me for a ride back there,” Dad says.

  “Stop!” I scream as we pass the boy.

  Dad slams on the brakes, pulling us over to the side. “What? What’s wrong?” He whips his head around to look at me.

  “I just…we have to…help him,” I stammer. Maybe it’s because he’s my age. Who knows, we could be at the same school next year. Or maybe it’s because he reminds me of a lost falcon. I just can’t leave him there.

  Dad fixes me with the stink eye, but by then the boy has walked up to our van and is peering in the window. Dad slides the window down, heaving a sigh.

  “Hello again. You still need a lift, son?”

  “Uh, yeah. Where you heading?” His voice is gravel.

  “Just a ways down the highway here, not far.” Dad eyes me in the rearview mirror. He is going to kill me later. I can feel his mood like a living thing.

  The boy opens the side door as I hastily unbuckle my belt and slide across the seat. For some reason I glance back to make sure Stark’s all right. She’s perched in the same position as she started in. The boy stares at me from the door.

  “Gavin, come up here with me,” Dad says.

  “Front seat!” Gavin cheers, as he climbs over the console.

  The boy breaks his piercing gaze to stare at Dad with an offended expression. He slumps into the seat beside me.

  “ ’Sup,” he says.