At the second bend they found the red canoe on the bank. They hopped out and pulled theirs beside. Her mother handed June the lamp, sat on a rock, and put the paddle across her knees. “All right, June,” she said with firmness, “go in there and call. See if they’re safe.”
June felt her mother’s courage pass on into her. She hesitated only long enough to say, “Oh, they’re all right. This is silly.”
“We’ll see!” her mother said with finality. “Never whine when there’s an important job to do. Whining’s for children—and cats!”
June walked slowly toward the entrance of Bear Cave, staring at the black and gray limestones that framed the opening. She dropped to her knees. Bear Cave had to be entered on the stomach, wiggling through five feet of narrow stoneway. Her fear of the tight darkness seized her as she entered, but her mother’s voice was so confident she pushed the lamp ahead of her and wedged in.
When she reached the big room beyond the passageway she stood up. The light from the lamp made eerie patterns over the vaulted walls. Water rushed somewhere in the dark. In a loud voice she called, “Hey, where are you?” And “...are you?...are you?...are you?” answered back. The wind rushed out of the passageway. Stones dripped. Bats circled swift and quiet. June could feel her flesh go goose pimples. She stood still and called again.
From the darkness she heard, “June? Is that you?...you?...you?”
“Yes. Where are you?...are you?...are you?”
She watched her light create a leaping shadow on the wall and as it danced she opened her eyes wider to see the new cave-in Will Bunker had mentioned. It was black. And it rumbled with the sounds of a subterranean river carving holes in the belly of the earth. The sounds were cold and unfriendly. June fought down her urge to run. She walked to the passageway, wiggled into it, and called to her mother. “I hear them!”
“Thank heavens. Can you see them?”
“Not yet.”
She dreaded going back to the cave-in; but she clenched her fists and backed up, walking slowly to the edge of the new opening. There she shouted into the earth.
“Are you all right?...right?...right?”
“No!” Uncle Paul answered. “We don’t have lights...lights. Rod fell off the rope...rope...collarbone, I think...another rope...flashlights...somewhere.”
June held her kerosene lamp high and looked around. Cached by the big boulder where the rope was tied lay two flashlights.
“I found your lights,” she called. She wondered why they were there.
“Good! Now, go...attic and get us that big rope...rope.” It was Charles’s voice. “Don’t worry, we’re okay...okay...okay.”
“Is Rod?”
“Yeah,” Rod answered. “Snor toots (it hurts)...toots...toots.” With Rod and the twins and Uncle Paul somewhere in its deep insides, the cave seemed a little more friendly. She looked around with confidence before she went to the entrance.
“I’ll be back...back...back” she shouted. She wiggled between the great rocks, glad to be leaving the darkness, and reported to her mother.
“Honestly, you would think grown men like Paul and Will could take three boys into a cave without doing something stupid,” her mother said, angry, now that her worries were relieved.
June shoved the canoe into the swift current. “Well, heck, they couldn’t help it if the rope broke,” she said. “Poor Rod,” she added.
“You can bet that’s not all of the story. With Will Bunker on an excursion, everything becomes more than adventure. It becomes high adventurous comedy. Mark my word.” She paddled hard and straight, docked the canoe perfectly in the dark, and held to the landing while June ran up to the house and took two steps at a time to the attic.
She found the rope and returned to the canoe. When she handed the rope to her mother the weight sunk her arms. “Go get a ball of cord. You can’t possibly climb down to them with this heavy thing. Throw them the cord ball, and tie the rope to it. Let them pull it down.” June hurried back to the house for cord. She hummed as she picked it out of the table drawer, pleased to be part of the high adventure, at last.
They paddled back without talking. As the canoe was being beached a white shadow came softly overhead. It wheeled into a leaning willow. The shadow was Windy.
“No one fed him,” June said, and laughed as she looked up to see the friendly old owl. He hissed, and they both felt reassured by his presence.
“He’s not afraid of the dark,” June said. “He loves it. I wish I did.” But concern for Rod overcame her fear and she wiggled back into the cave on her stomach. It was easier this time, even with the bulky rope, for there were familiar voices inside.
As she crawled into the big room, a few bats swung low around the opening, waiting for her to unblock their exit. They dropped like stones and winged out the passage to hunt insects over the creek.
“I’m back,” she called into the abyss.
“Okay!...kay!...kay!” answered the twins and the walls. “Now crawl down to that first ledge,” came her uncle’s voice. “Then call. I’ll tell you...do next...next.” She hung a flashlight on her belt and looked down onto a broad ledge ten feet below. It was as dreary as the dark cellar—and as damp. She dropped the rope, stuck the ball of cord in her blouse, and clambered down to the ledge. There she stood, frightened to be going down into the earth. So she called to hear her own voice, “What do I do now?”
“Go to the right around the big stone. Climb down on the next ledge. We are below that.” The echoes were fewer.
She turned the light on the rocks and saw another great abyss. It vaulted like a huge dome above her head and plunged out of sight below. She could feel her head spin. Her knees stiffened and she could not step. Her feet would not lift even when she took a leg in both hands and pulled up on it.
She thought of Rod and the twins and Uncle Paul depending on her. She tried to summon courage. There was none to summon. She could only step back. So she did—two, three, four, and then she leaped against the wall and scrambled back to the entrance. “Mother!” she called, “Is Windy there?”
“Yes. Are you all right, June?”
“Yes, but I need Windy. Call him to you.” She heard her mother whistle the Windy call. “Here he is!” Then June whistled. Carefully, curiously, skip-hopping as he looked and walked, the hungry owl came through the passage. June picked him up, fuzzy and warm, and kissed his soft neck.
“Come here,” she said and walked to the first drop-off. The flashlight on her belt found foot camps. She climbed to the first landing and sat with her back pressed securely against the wall as she threaded the end of the cord ball into Windy’s jesses. Then she set the old owl on a rock and unlooped about one hundred feet of string from the ball. Her feeling of elation was rising in triumph as she called out, “Whistle for Windy!” There was a long silence from below. Water rushed and splashed in some unlighted river.
Then Don cried, “Are you nuts? Get down here!...here! Rod’s hurt. We need that rope...rope...rope.”
“Call him—please!” she screamed. There was another silence. Finally the Windy whistle bounced up among the rocks. The big owl stood in the darkness and shook. He listened, swung his head around in an enormous circle, and peered into the cave night.
June knew what his eyes were doing. Last summer she and Rod had played with him night after night with flashlights. In the dark the pupils of his eyes were so large they covered the iris as they took in the light that June and Rod would never know. When the lights went on the pupils became pinpoints so rapidly they could hardly see the owl eye adjust to the light. June knew that now Windy’s eyes were taking in lights of far red and of night yellow as he saw rocks and crevasses and bats. The night had created his eyes.
“Keep calling!” June shouted. And the all-seeing Windy flew toward the whistle, down past the ledges to the men at the bottom. He chuttered hungrily when he reached them.
“Take off the cord and pull. The rope is tied to it.”
At
her side the rope began to unwind, and reel into the darkness of the abyss.
“We’ve got it!” three voices shouted. “Wrap it...boulder.” June wrapped it and cried, “Okay.”
“Is it firm?”
“I hope so.”
“Hope so? It must be!” The rope went taut. There was a long pause, then nimbly over the ledge below came her brother Charles, panting deeply. He crossed the next ledge and climbed up to June. “Hi,” he said, and gave her a bear-hug. “Gee whizz! it’s good to see you. That Will Bunker and his jokes. He had to go home early. We knew that. But just before he left we were jumping the boulders and he said ‘Try it in the dark—I’ll bet you can’t.’ Well, you know us—that’s all we needed to hear. There was enough light from a hole up high and so, dopes that we were, we accepted the challenge. We gave Will our lights and ran over the big rocks...jumping, laughing, seeing as well as raccoons. Then we noticed Will was gone. We called and shouted...but he was off with all the lights!” While Charles talked, he worked. “We got back to the ropes all right. We could see that well. And we would have had the last laugh, but when Rod started up the rope it frayed and broke. It had rubbed thin on a sharp stone as we came down. He fell only about seven feet; but we think he broke his collarbone. So there we were. We were sure glad to hear you ’cause Don and I were about to stand on each other’s shoulders on top of Uncle Paul’s to get one of us over the sheer drop. And there might have been two more busted collarbones.”
As June held the flashlight he finished a mountain climber’s sling out of the broken rope to put under Rod, tied a flashlight onto his belt, and disappeared over the ledge. With a few shouts and exclamations they hoisted Rod. They lifted him to the big room. June followed and sat down beside him.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Okay now,” Rod said with a grin. “Let’s go!”
When they were all out of the cave Rod curled up in the bottom of the canoe, and the expedition pushed off for home.
“Windy,” Charles said. “Where’s Windy?” There was a hiss in the willow and the owl swung down to his shoulder. Charles promised him a big fresh starling as soon as they reached home.
Their uncle took Rod to the doctor while Aunt Helen and June fixed fresh sheets on his cot. Then everyone waited for him in the warm kitchen, and they talked of the rope and Will and the lights. Finally Charles said to June in honest awe, “Whatever made you think of getting Windy?”
June was sitting on the table. She looked at her brother to say, “a stroke of genius.” But the words would not come out. Instead she blurted, “I was too scared to move. I had to!” Fear was not a virtue in her brother’s world, and she waited for the teasing she felt she deserved.
But Don surprised her, “That’s all right. It was a great idea. It’s good to be afraid if it makes you think...and you sure did!”
“Well, Windy made me think, too. I see what you mean by a well-trained bird. I’ll work harder with Zander.”
The twins grinned at her in pleasure. She was a heroine in her brothers’ eyes. And it was pleasant—just awfully pleasant and rewarding.
4. Trained
WILL BUNKER WAS at the house before dawn, knocking at the doors and windows. Charles crawled down the rain-spout and greeted him with the news about Rod. Will, who had known and loved Rod since he was a baby, cried out loud in his shame. He threw open the door and rushed up to the sleeping porch. He tiptoed gently to the far cot and dropped to his knees to put his arms around the sleeping boy.
“Forgive me, Rod. I didn’t want it to work out this way. I came back to the cave after my meeting and I couldn’t find you all. I was sure all you nimble and wonderful Pritchards had climbed out. I know you boys climb cliffs, jump over boulders in streams, swing up trees—you can do anything out of doors; and I guess I didn’t think. I just didn’t think anything could happen to any of you.” He paused.
Rod opened his eyes and smiled. “Aw, it doesn’t hurt anymore.” He sat up to prove it.
“You’re a hero,” said Will.
“No, Windy is the hero.” And he told Will about the owl.
When Will came down to the kitchen, Elizabeth Pritchard was up and about. She was furious with him. She scolded the child in him. And he took a long, deep breath and answered her like a man.
“Sometimes I don’t understand boys, Elizabeth. I guess it’s because I have only girls. I think boys can do everything a man can do, but with more spirit. I guess they really are young—their bones and their brains.” He sat down and rubbed his hands in his hair. June overheard him as she stepped into the kitchen. Shyly, she walked over to him and touched his shoulder.
“Will, I’m going to train Zander so that he can be as wonderful as Windy.” Then she sighed, “And that means work.”
She went to get the lure, tied a bit of beef on it, and ran out to the maple tree. Will and her mother were forgotten as she whistled and held up the birdlike lure, a block of wood, decorated with feathers. She called and waited...called and waited...called and waited until the sun was hot and her new resolve to call Zander to her fist growing weak. Three hours later, he was hungry enough to fly to her. “Pheew!” she said, and was glad she had stayed with her job.
For ten days June got up at dawn and called Zander to her fist. And it was work, boring work. She stood and called, and waited again and again, and called, each day. Zander seemed to prefer starvation to bending to her will. As the days passed she grew bored, and wondered each morning whether her father was right. Would she have the stick-to-itiveness to master the bird?
But on the eleventh day Zander flew to her in half the time. She petted him and talked to him. He tilted his head the better to let her voice fall on the flat drum of an ear that lay under his feathers.
On Friday afternoon her father came for the weekend. During the summer he commuted only on weekends from his job as an entomologist for the government. June watched the road for him. As he drove into the yard, she met him with a leaping hug. “Zander will fly to me from the maple tree to the middle of the yard,” she said as she hung on his neck.
Charles Pritchard, Sr., looked at his undisciplined daughter. “That’s a start. But you’re not nearly there. Work harder!”
“But that’s good!”
“It’s good, but not excellent!” It was in moments like these that she wanted to fight her father. She stomped to the maple and lifted the buffy-breasted falcon upon her finger. His beautiful flat head tilted as he looked at her. Deftly she untied the leash from the pole and walked down the yard with him. She crossed the railroad tracks and pushed through the joe-pye weeds to the meadows.
“It’s no use” she said to Zander. “I thought I was doing a good job...I might as well give you up...oh phooey.”
In anger she unsnapped the swivel in the jesses and twisted it out of the leather holes. The bird sat free on her hand.
“I never do anything well enough,” she cried, and felt so sorry for herself she threw the bird into the air. “Go away. Go away.”
Immediately she regretted her action. Zander danced on his wings and whirled over her head. He circled, and took to the sky. She called, furious with herself for “cutting off her nose to spite her face.” She knew she was hurting only herself and she did not like it.
There was no food with which to lure the bird back. June could only whistle and swing her arm. Zander climbed higher: above the willows, over the sycamore, up to the tall ash, and into the hot white sky.
She watched him bank and tip onto a high river of wind and ride it like a bullet beyond the swimming hole. She whistled. And then climbed the fence to balance herself on the rail.
“Come down here, Zander!” she pleaded. She could feel the tears running warm down her cheeks. “Please come,” and she lifted her hand. Suddenly—and she did not even see it happen—her hand was struck; she toppled, she jumped, and Zander fluttered above her. She held out her arm again and her falcon settled upon it as beautifully as a ballerina. In relief,
June wept openly and hard.
“That was wonderful...not just good...but marvelous. Ulysses couldn’t do better.” June talked on and on as she slipped her thumb and forefinger around the jesses, held Zander tight, then looked for an insect for a reward. The meadow grasses bounced with grasshoppers; and she finally caught one and fed it to the falcon. While he ate she promised herself that she would never again turn him loose in spite. The loneliness had been too deep.
As she crossed the railroad tracks to go home, she stopped on the hot cinders to study him, wondering what she had done to reach his small bird brain and make him react. She knew they could not communicate, except through whistles and screams...and yet the bird had known what she had wanted, and he had come to her.
Suddenly she became aware that words were not the only way to express ideas, and she whispered, “Now you and I have a secret language, too.” She skipped home.
June did not tell anyone of Zander’s flight. She was afraid they would ask to see the falcon fly free. And she feared that the next time Zander would not come back. But for the following week she trained the bird with the first real interest she had ever had in everyday routine. She knew now what training could do.
The new training period went on for about two weeks...and then...her mother took her to town on market day. Elizabeth Pritchard went every Saturday morning to buy vegetables and fruits and chickens and eggs in the farmers’ market.
The market was on the square, an old red brick building with stalls around the outside and an enormous three-story cathedral-like room inside. As soon as she stepped inside,
June always bent back to see the vaulting beams and girders and the sparrows high in the eaves. They amused her in their private world at the top of the market, talking and fluttering and scrapping, above the din of the buyers and sellers below.
The Brethren and the Amish of the countryside brought in their foods every week to sell, and their counters were mounds of color. The women in their gray dresses and bonnets offset the red apples and yellow squash. The purple eggplants blended with the black hats and pants of their men.
The Summer of the Falcon Page 3