Blood Ties

by Crane, Ben;

  I scan about with the telemetry, picking up a signal 200 yards further down the bank, back to the stream, back the way we have just come. As the signal gets stronger, I hear the tin-scraping scream of CC’s call somewhere within the trees. The sound is difficult to pinpoint. It seems to drop lower and lower towards the ground. I jump a small gravel bank in the centre of the stream and nearly step on him. His wings are splayed across a branch in the water, the rest of his body submerged up to the chest. The cold current turns and buffets him tight into the curve of the far bank. I walk into the water and feel beneath him, searching for his feet and jesses. My hand brushes wet feathers in scaly feet. The bulge underneath is undeniably his first hen pheasant.

  Feeding him on dry land, it takes half an hour of concentrated gorging before he hits the full mark and starts falling forward with the weight of meat in his crop. I do not have to offer him a reward; he steps off the kill, presumably sick of the sight of pheasant. There is not much left. Etta snuffles about and devilishly sneaks off with the head, crunching it gamely just beyond reach. Flash is sitting next to me, shivering in anticipation, so I give him two chicks to eat. When CC is on the glove I trace the feathers back to the point of contact. He caught it on land and clearly dragged it to the water and drowned it. His father did the same thing countless times.

  We take a satisfied, slow, circuitous route home, down a lane, threading through a graveyard near the church. In the distance, in the middle of a cricket pitch, a small white sphere breaks up the green space surrounding the roped circle of the crease. I head straight towards it. I have been watching the puffball mushroom grow for three days. I noticed it when it was the size of a tennis ball and it has slowly expanded into a giant, foam-filled bubble reminiscent of a football. It needs to be picked before anyone else finds it. With my free hand I gently roll it off its roots. Flash and Etta sniff suspiciously, bat it with their paws and try to chase it like a ball. CC simply glares at it. I have to cut it in half to get it into my jacket.

  When everyone else is fed and settled, using a long-bladed bread knife I cut the mushroom into thick two-inch strips and fry them; they’re the size of a T-bone steak Desperate Dan might eat. It has the texture of marshmallow, and browns to a strange, glowing lemon yellow. When ready, it has the smell and taste of warm air blowing through woodland. I pile threads of cooked rabbit and pheasant on top and, like CC, I gorge myself stupid.

  *

  As we head towards winter all the lessons and misses, the scratches and bumps and the killing have toughened CC. Psychologically, he knows he can kill anything that moves, and his demeanour and muscles are of a different calibre. His aggression, now focused outwards on to the quarry, has tapered off towards me. I no longer need to use the lure. He returns to the glove from hundreds of yards away and lands without threat. His relentless screaming is much reduced. He instead offers up more intimate noises: occasional chupping, slight hissing beeps and tweets arrive in an assortment of volumes and tones. By turns when out in the field, he changes shape, at times folding his wings tight like a thin spear or puffing up, and rouses relaxed when on my fist. He freely preens and cleans on the glove as we walk the fields. His feet express moods also. No longer showing deep anger on the scales, he can be weighed without any problems. When cropped up and fed, he reverts to his juvenile behaviour, delicately nibbles the tips of my fingers, pulling and preening my hair or the fur of the dogs when they’re on the floor.

  The dogs have also changed. Etta and Flash rest more. The muscles on their legs break out in angular mounds when they move. Etta, in particular, has veins bulging across her legs and chest. The coats of both have a sheen and lustre that matches CC’s feathers. They are so motivated I need only touch the telemetry and they begin to whine and vibrate. They can smell the adrenaline and drive to be out; they have an itchy restlessness in much the same way as CC does when moving into yarak.

  I too have undergone physical change. I am not a strong person. I am six feet tall but do not exude any trace of masculine presence. I am thin, feline, feminine in comparison to most men. I drop from eleven stone to around nine. I catch sight of myself naked in the bathroom mirror and immediately think of the shape and smoothness of my son when he swims, or when we have our ‘jazz band’ bath time. I am fascinated by our linked difference. I find it strange to think I was once like him but now have become something else.

  I have two cuts on my eyelids and a slash on my nose from blackthorn. I am weatherbeaten, scarred; my eyes are clear but red rimmed and puffy from tiredness. I have the beginnings of my father’s nose. My lips are chapped and flaky and I have deep crow’s feet on the edges of my eyes. The flesh beneath my collar line is translucent and pale. I see the threading veins beneath the skin, can almost see my heart beating. My chest hair is patchy, has grey hair popping sporadically in colours reminiscent of the mature feathers of the Haiders’ goshawk. Excess fat from my sides and midriff has shrunk. My ribs stick out angularly. Parts of me look old and worn. When I bend, the sinew running in a ‘V’ across my groin is prominent, like thick cable. When I stretch my legs, the muscles are tight and wiry like those of a long-distance runner. I tense my neck and it becomes string-taut but does not snap back. The skin on the right side of my shoulder, where the straps of the telemetry rest has cut and rubbed, is sore and striped in welts. From below my waist and running down around my calves scabs and marks from bramble and blackthorn fight for space with the slashes and dark puncture holes of barbed wire. Bruises, cuts, and scratches on the joints of my hands and feet have split open and have a rough, sore edging. My fingernails have black dirt, black blood and red earth around the cuticles. The heels of my feet are blistered, the base yellow and white with cracked, flaky skin. I see the old nose in wire wool and laugh out loud. I stretch and feel the far edges and deep centrality of my fading body. I see the embodied rough truth of my evolution and life. I know who I am.

  ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ spills out from the radio, which is tuned to Classic FM. My brain snaps back from mapping flesh. In childlike reverie, less Colonel Kurtz, more a dancing amalgam of Charles Hawtrey and Mr Bean, I run through the house, flaunting my nakedness at the dogs.

  The horror. The horror.

  Winter

  Deep winter in the cottage is hard. I feel the extremes of relentless cold. The days are short and there are long, dark hours locked down in the house. I poke my head over the edge of the duvet and look at the window. An old, flaking frame of wood, thin glass. Overnight moisture has condensed to water, from water to ice. The inside pane is frozen, the window a solid sheet of crystals. Flash is at my feet, Etta curled up against my chest and stomach. I am toasty warm and do not want to get out of bed. I watch my breath billow out in front of my face. For a few seconds I try to make steam rings and fail. I remember I went ‘crazy’ and bought firelighters, twigs and a bag of coal. If I am quick enough I can get a fire going in less than five minutes. I skip down the stairs, set the wood alight, run back to bed and wait. The dogs, lazy and cunning, have remained under the blankets. I look at the clock: it is 7.38 a.m. The window starts to glow a chalky, opaque orange, like the skin on a segment of tangerine. From the far end of the garden I hear CC calling from his mews. This is unusual. I worry if the cold snap has dropped him down in weight.

  We have stepped out of synch with a lot of pheasants recently. These are the ones that have been too strong or fly too high to be shot and have left the sanctuary of feeders and the warmth of the wood to strike out on their own. These pheasants have survived, are smart, fit and take flight easily. They move and act almost as if they are a different species. CC has taken his time to recalibrate; he is learning about them all over again. There has also been a long warm spell when it should be cold. I saw butterflies and bluebottles. The unusual temperature has thrown CC out of condition. He has switched off, so I am forced to be patient. With every missed flight I am a step closer to relying on eggs, fish and vegetables. I make porridge in bulk and consume it with wha
t remains of the apples from the trees in the garden. Kindly neighbours start to supply cake, leftovers and other generous treats from early Christmas parties and soirées.

  Some days I lose heart. It begins to feel serious, a bit boring and a grind. As the cold weather returns I count the lumps of coal, ration the small scoops I put on the fire and wear a coat indoors. When we return from the field and have failed, I swing between frustration and then, re-doubling my efforts, force myself to remain focused. The feeling of freedom ebbs and flows and sometimes I suffer psychological exhaustion. I question the validity of my actions, scorn myself for even trying.

  I begin to stop and pick up the carcasses of dead pheasants that litter the small roads and lanes. This does not bother me; I have done it intermittently for most of my life. The kills by cars surpass CC’s by a ratio of roughly two to one. To ignore the free food would be a waste. It is impossible to keep up and consume them fresh, so I butcher the breast and legs, make stews, curries or pies and freeze them. I am grateful for people’s inability to swerve their cars.

  My patience is finally rewarded. CC takes a fluke pheasant against a fence. His success builds incrementally. He takes another near the sandpit, then one near a nature reserve. On each kill I gorge him then do not feed him the following day. He takes another, then another and then a rabbit. A switch flicks as the frost and snow return. The cold triggers a change and we move up to the final level: our hunting bubble truly returns. I increase his weight, a quarter-ounce, half an ounce, one, two, three, four ounces, in a short space of time. I no longer have to weigh him. We are flying on routine, appetite and not hunger. If I did not feed him for a week, he would still be alive. He is as close to his natural counterpart as it is possible to achieve, a fully realized goshawk, what falconers call a ‘made hawk’. Everything outside of CC and our hunting ceases to be of concern. Our success removes the exhaustion; when he flies he moves and behaves with such beauty, form and grace that all else fades and seems trivial by comparison. The normal dimensions and framework of my reality shifts. We step out of time, the names of days disappear, are once again forgotten. All else is defined by his urge to hunt. I feel half formed and fallow until he is ready. In the field we are locked in deep symbiosis and I feel and see myself moving as he flies. The connection is powerful, so much so that, skimming on mid-sleep in the early dawns, I begin to dream in grey, in browns and the caramel colours of a hawk. When I replay the flights of yesterday, they morph into the imagined ones ahead. Abstract feather forms move through the REM of light sleep and the non-linear moments of my unconsciousness conflate with lived reality. For a brief period these two states are only slightly out of synch, the slippage minimal. My dreams have never taken this form before or since. The feeling is formidable.

  *

  To the general population the flight of a hawk chasing quarry looks the same time after time. But every slip, no matter how short, or even if they fail, has its own sense of internal poetry. The canvas and context of sky is different. The lines and movement of predator and prey draw differing shapes and forms, creating an improvised moment that can never be repeated. Against the background of the typical days, the really good flights, those measured in distance and duration, happen unexpectedly. When they arrive, the moment the hawk leaves the fist and the wingbeat is seen, is when the art begins.

  Some paintings are better than others.

  I begin climbing a steep hill near the sandpit. The morning is cold, the ground solid frost. The sun is high, the air thin, the sky brittle and clear. The horse in the field seems to be smoking: steam is rising fast from her flanks and blanket. I leave weaving footprints of green surrounded by a white coating of frost. Next to my boot, the trident-shaped markings of a group of pheasants appear halfway up the steep incline. Flash catches the scent and runs wildly up and down the far fence. It takes another minute of hard walking before I reach the top of the hill. Flash is into the trees and barking. The wings of several pheasants clatter through the pine and larch to my left. CC hears them and bates to be let go then swings back around and regains the fist. I hold him back and wait. I remove a small camera from my inside pocket and begin filming.

  A hundred yards away a hen pheasant breaks out over the field to our right at full speed. Flying at forty or fifty miles an hour, she curves round, mounting fast, climbing high up and out towards us. Even at full tilt it takes her three or four seconds to reach our position, and she passes like a comet overhead and slightly to one side. It is an impossible pheasant. CC leaves the glove, turns right and strides into the sky. The hawk and pheasant melt across a huge silver sun and the ground drops away to the valley below. They are at a height of 150 feet or more. CC closes the gap and tail-chases the pheasant in a straight line across the distance of a football pitch in a matter of seconds. They keep going, streaking high over the firmament. With no containment or control, no fences, no boundaries, the only expression is the expansive, colossal movement of pure, free flight. It is staggeringly beautiful. As they keep moving it develops into easily the biggest, most formidable flight of a goshawk I have seen anywhere in the world. The sensation is like holding light.

  In the very far distance, two small dots slowly descend, curving down to the ground and drop out of sight. I think of Haider, Punhal and Ghulam. I think of Salman. I think of Viktor, Craig and the Hiebelers. They would approve. More than anyone, I wish Steve could have seen what the hawk he bred has just done.

  I know CC has caught the pheasant. I don’t even bother to run. I trot up the crest of the hill, move through a nature reserve, walk down a steep bank, through two gates, across a road and over a bridge. I walk along the hedge of a maize field, tracking the signal on the telemetry. Invisible behind the died-down stubble, I startle a flock of lapwings, well over a hundred birds strong – roughly the same number of kills CC has made. They rise off the land, move from white dots to black bats, ghosting each other in a curving, whip-like motion. The flock bulges and thins, sweeps and dives in silence. Focusing on the head bird, I watch as she moves several inches to the left, the ripple, a knock-on effect like falling dominoes, shift the flock at speed like a shoal of mackerel or a murmuration of starlings. Beyond them, a noisy murder of crows spirals over a ditch next to the road. I head towards them.

  I find CC over a quarter of a mile away from the place where he left my glove. He has eaten nearly all the pheasant. I thank him profusely: ‘Well done, mate.’ There is nothing more I can do. There is nothing more CC can give. I have nothing left to prove. We have made it.

  The next day CC weighs well over two pounds. When I pick him up and move him to his perch he is emitting a strange noise, one that I have not heard before. His head bobs upwards and he speaks with low, soft tuk tuk tuk chupping. I text Steve and ask him what it is.

  ‘He is telling you he is glad to see you. He LOVES you, mate.’

  *

  I love Christmas. I love the time of year. The temperature, the smells, the fact that it is the height of the hawking season. I like the making and swapping of cards and gifts. I like the friendly bonhomie when I pass strangers walking in the countryside. I like the length of the holiday. I love the silly jumpers and log fires. Despite the fact that I am a hardened atheist, ‘Silent Night’ is one of the most captivating religious songs ever written. It moves me deeply. Unfortunately, I do not like shopping.

  I am trying to buy Christmas presents for my son. I have not been into a town or a shopping centre for a long time. Annoyed at bumping into people, I pull my shoulders in and look up. The experience is like being squashed into a cheap striplight designed by Jeff Koons then turned to full power by Philip K. Dick. I am in an alien world, a hyperreal dream, surrounded by the tacky, screaming lights and sounds of a travelling funfair. The Christmas rush around me is immense. I can feel the buzzing tension but not the tension of joyful expectation. There is an underlying aggression, a kind of frustration mingled with the smell of fear. It reminds me of the build-up to a fight in a school playground
.

  Overwhelmed, my anxiety symmetrically escalates to the time I spend walking the aisles. I have no plan other than to drift aimlessly and browse. This proves to be a mistake. I become distracted by a whole section dedicated solely to shampoo. Rows and rows, columns in all sorts of flavours, colours and designs. It looks like a clever situationist sculpture designed by Andy Warhol. Unable to cope, I walk back through the shop, placing each item from my basket in the wrong place, and go home.

  The other main issue with shopping for presents is that my son has a huge array of toys and games. He has books, technology and clothes. He is not spoilt, far from it, he appreciates all the things that he is given and is fun to take to a toyshop. We usually collect his ideas together in a basket then decide which are his favourites and which can be returned to another time. He is patient, considerate and is able to resist instant gratification. He has all he needs. What he wants is another matter. I decide to attack the shopping with logic and quick movements. I write a list, properly plan my route and get on with it. I win. I find most of the things he wants and add a few more that I think he will like. I know he will love all of them the moment he tears off the wrapping paper then, in a few months, they will be half forgotten. I was exactly the same. I can list on one hand the toys and games I remember from my own childhood. But, like all parents, I would like to give him something substantial, something that will last.

  Spring

  There is a warmth in the air that I have not felt for several months, and the hawking season will be over soon. Falconry is inherently tied to natural cycles. After the feast comes rest and regeneration. Before spring truly starts, we stop. The animals we seek need to reproduce, grow strong and repopulate the land with next season’s food and quarry. This time is also a period of regrowth for the hawks. Spring and summer are for the moult and mating. CC will be released into his mews, fed as much food as he can eat, and his damaged feathers will drop out, be replaced by new, adult ones. I am happy that the end is near. I have enough meat in the freezer and I can soon start fishing again.