The Apprentice

by Jana Barkley

  “Yes, the boy’s got ectos—lice.”

  He certainly did. They were beginning to crawl up the sleeve of her shirt. Knowing he’d love to see her squirm, Sam clenched her teeth, taking every bit of energy she had not to react, though she wanted to let go and shake the damned bugs off.

  “They won’t hurt you. They’re not the kind that like humans. We’ll spray him when we get back to your place.”

  Hank reached up under the bird’s breast feathers. “Feel this, Sam.”

  He guided her ungloved hand up to the bird’s crop, the organ that stored its food before it was passed to the stomach. “It’s not full, but he has eaten something. It’s a good sign. He’s been hunting and knows what that’s all about.”

  “You keep calling it a ‘he.’”

  “He’s a male, all right. You need to think about this for a moment, if you want to keep this bird.”

  She was surprised.

  He shrugged. “Yes, you have a choice. We can let this one go and try for that big female again—or some other bird.”

  She had assumed he was tired of trapping and had no idea he’d been willing to go all day if necessary.

  “Think about what kind of prey you’re going to fly this hawk on.” He guided her, his eyes searching her face.

  Sam marveled at the beautiful, golden dragon lying before her and something familiar took hold of her heart. Recognition, for lack of a better word; a sense of rightness consumed her.

  Sam thought for a moment, and then shook her head. “Can a male hunt jackrabbit? We don’t have a lot of cottontail around where I live, in fact, none.”

  “You and most of the falconers in the Bay Area,” he said, but she knew he’d save that rant for another day. She saw him consider for a moment about how to say what he was thinking.

  “Some falconers believe a female is the only hawk capable of taking a six- to eight-pound jackrabbit. The males are smaller and more aerodynamic, but because of their lighter weight, they have less slamming power. Think about it: it’s like asking a grown man to drag down and hold a running quarter horse. There’s always a risk to these birds, maybe more so to a smaller hawk like this one.”

  She thought about Chelsea’s female, Pandora. That red tail was huge, and Sam could envision her slamming into rabbits.

  One look at the fierceness in the bird’s honey-gold eyes moved her.

  “I don’t want to hurt my hawk…” She stumbled, unsure of how to go on.

  Hank continued to stare at her, but offered no help.

  “I keep thinking about the way he flew to the trap.”

  A light went on in Hank’s blue eyes, warming his features and making her catch her breath.

  “Go on,” he said with a hint of a smile.

  “Well, I thought he showed a lot of…attitude, the way he flipped over onto the trap. But if he’s not the right hawk for what I have to hunt…” Her voice trailed off as she began to resign herself to letting him go.

  Hank burst out laughing.

  “It’s all right, Sam.” He spoke when his laughing had subsided. “You can keep him.”

  Sam flushed, and then laughed, too, in spite of herself.

  “Hank, you know what’s best in this situation. If you were trapping a red tail, what would you pick? If you could only hunt jacks?”

  His eyes softened, still amused. “I think this bird’s got grand potential. How he struck that trap from a full-out wingover out of a soar is what a lot of us old timers look for. And there’s more than jacks in your area. Don’t forget about pheasant and quail.”

  It was interesting to hear Hank refer to himself as an old timer. He appeared to be in his mid to late forties, and not much older than she was. Spoken by other falconers, it was an obvious compliment on his many years of experience in falconry. For a moment she was distracted by the longish blond hair falling into his eyes. It was a glimpse of what she had sensed during her first hunt back in the upland desert. Perhaps it was what he had been like as a teenager, handling his own first red tail: the awkward brushing away of hair and shake of the head, the calm and deliberate movements with the bird that covered his excitement over the task at hand. His disposition kept others at bay, but she found herself holding onto this image of him as a young man and feeling an appreciation for what was admittedly an attractive man.

  “Don’t let anyone tell you a male red tail can’t catch jackrabbits. One of the best jack hawks I ever had was a ballsy little red tail who didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to go after the giant rabbits.” His voice snapped her back to reality.

  “Let me ask you this,” he said, holding the wild hawk. “What do you think is more important? Making multiple kills every time you take your bird out, or learning to train and work with this hawk so he gives you impressive flights every time and kills maybe every other time you go hawking?”

  She thought for a moment, remembering the conversations she’d overheard at the mini-meet and the excitement some falconers showed over the high number of catches their birds had made. “I’m not certain but…” She screwed her face up in hesitation before plunging on. “I know successful kills help a bird’s confidence, and that makes it a better hunter, yet…”

  Hank was impassive, focused on the red tail.

  “It would seem to me,” she said, “a well-trained bird making wing-over type flights and chasing is a good thing, whether or not you catch every time. I guess I would be more interested in his interaction with me in the field and happy with him catching game a lot of the time.”

  Hank nodded, leaving her unsteady about her answer, but it had seemed right. Trying to hide the irritation and impatience in her voice, she said, “Well, was that the best answer?”

  He turned his ice-blue eyes on her, which subdued her ire as it always did, and made her drop her gaze to break the connection.

  “You have good instincts, Sam,” he said. “You shouldn’t doubt yourself. You do that a lot.”

  She swallowed the impassioned retort threatening to explode out of her mouth. What to say to such a comment? Yet she realized her nerves were on edge from the morning’s excitement and let it go.

  “Let’s get this boy wrapped up and back to your house. That is…” he threw her a sour expression, “if you’re gonna keep him?”

  The bird’s golden eyes burned like fire, searing into hers. There was no question. “Yes, I’ll keep him.”

  Jesses: The straps fastened to a trained hawk’s legs by which the falconer holds her

  Chapter Twelve

  An hour later they were back at Sam’s house, and he watched as she carried the little red tail. She laid him down on the floor of her family room, where she had set up an area covered with old sheets, in the center of which she had placed an indoor perch. Hank retrieved his gearbox, and together they managed to grommet the soft leather anklets she had made around the hawk’s ankles. His eyes searched her face as he saw her trembling. But as he coaxed her forward, reminding her how to pull the jesses through the anklets and loop them to the swivel and leash, he felt confident she wasn’t going to panic. Sam’s relieved sigh told him she was holding her own.

  After applying a mild delousing spray, Hank looked over at her face as he supported the bound hawk between his hands.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Now the fun begins.” Hank grinned, noticing the instant color that came to her face and realized she didn’t share his humor.

  He noticed her swallow hard and then check to make sure the leash was tied to her glove with a good falconer’s knot.

  Hank was immobile and alert. After a few moments he spoke. “Are you ready?”

  Sam’s nod said yes, but the look on her face screamed no as she searched his deliberately impassive face for support. The worst thing he could do was laugh like he wanted to. He’d been terrified the first time he’d held his wild-caught red tail too, and the memory of that large female hawk tugged at his heart. He’d have done anything for his bird—probably like Sam would for this spitf
ire of a male once she got her legs up under her. He softened his energy to encourage her forward.

  “He’s gonna bate. He doesn’t know how to sit on your glove yet. The first thing he’ll want to do is try to fly away.”

  He could feel her fighting a growing panic.

  Relentless, he pushed her forward. This was no time to fall apart.

  “Pull those jesses short and hold the glove under his feet.”

  The hawk reacted to the touch of the glove on the bottoms of his feet and latched on with a pressure that made her gasp.

  He gave her no time to react further and signaled her to stand. Hank released the hawk and thrashing wings whipped Sam’s hair into her eyes, stinging them. When the flapping stopped, she stood with her gloved arm extended and the hawk hanging upside down, swinging from his leash.

  Then he saw what he had been looking for—the characteristic jump to the challenge he knew Sam was capable of. A flash of grim determination steeled her features and, ignoring the fear of a possible footing, she shook the hair out of her eyes, reached in with her ungloved hand, and placed it on the back of the hanging hawk.

  “Good,” he said with energy, “lift him upright onto the glove.” But again the bird bated and hit her in the head with its wings in its mad dash to freedom. This time Sam turned her face to avoid the feather lashing. When the hawk was hanging again, she repeated the lift with her hand on its back. Again he took off and ended up dangling from her arm. After the fifth time her eyes sought Hank’s to make sure this was normal.

  “You’re doing fine.” He sat on the sofa, watching her. This was a confrontation she would have to weather completely on her own.

  He saw her take another breath and again she lifted the panting raptor up to her glove. This time he clamped on and stayed, swaying from exhaustion.

  “Hold very still,” he said in a hushed tone, and Sam froze.

  After a few tense seconds, he saw the muscles in her arm begin to shake from the strain. It was inevitable. She shifted her weight and the hawk bated.

  He could see the exhaustion seeping out of her as tangible as the air around them, but he wouldn’t have interfered in this moment for the world. He knew the reward lay ahead if she persevered in the face of fear and frustration.

  Sam lifted the hawk back up to the glove, and this time he squatted on it, panting. After a moment, as if to test this new perch, he stood and gripped the glove.

  Hank heaved a silent sigh of relief. This was the turning point.

  “Try moving with him around the room.” He knew Sam’s eyes were on him, looking for reassurance, but he forced himself to focus on loading up his gearbox rather than watching her. This battle she had to win on her own.

  Sam moved to her right, and the bird bated again, but this time he flew back up to her glove and held on with a death grip. It was progress, and he bit down on a grin as he saw her smile in spite of the anxiety she had been battling.

  Moving about the room brought new terrors to the little hawk, but after each bate, Sam stopped until he regained the glove. After ten minutes of this, Hank walked with her to the perch area she had set up.

  Down on her knees in front of the perch, her eyes sought Hank’s, unsure of how to put the bird on the perch without having it bate. He kneeled down next to her and caught the scent of her skin and the sweet tang of perspiration. It reminded him how each hawk or falcon he’d owned had its own unique scent, and he was startled at his desire to breathe her in—all the joy, all the fear, each nuance of emotion would color and change what only someone close to her could smell.

  He shook himself with a rough movement and his voice came out harsher than he’d intended. “Back him up to the perch and let him feel the pressure of it against the backs of his legs.”

  She did so and the bird stepped back and up onto the perch. When Sam reached down to untie the leash from her glove and tie it to the perch, he bated again, and she helped him regain the glove. When he calmed down, she backed him onto the perch. “Please don’t bate,” she breathed, and got her wish, tying him to the perch.

  Arms trembling, she backed away and melted into the side of an armchair, indulging herself in a few seconds of peace.

  Calm descended on her pale face. A wisp of loose blond hair had slipped out of her functional ponytail and he felt an urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.

  He shook himself hard and reached for his gearbox with a bit too much energy. “Well, it’s time for me to go.”

  Her eyes flew open.

  Hank gave a rough laugh. “You’ve got it handled. Get yourself something to eat, and then get him back on the glove. Move him around, get him used to being with you.” He hesitated and frowned. “You have your scale somewhere in here?”

  Sam got up and retrieved it from the kitchen.

  “Get a baseline weight on him tonight. Put the scale on the edge of a surface like this table and back him up onto it, like you did for the perch. Then log the weight into your weight chart.”

  “How long should I hold him on the glove?” She couldn’t keep the weariness from stealing into her voice.

  He studied her face. “As long as you can hold out. The longer you do it, the sooner he’ll tame down.” Gearbox in hand, Hank headed toward the front door.

  “Call me tomorrow morning after you’ve weighed him again, and we’ll pick up from there.” He left without another word.

  It wasn’t until he was seated safely in his truck and headed down the freeway he could breathe easy again.

  ****

  So this was it. She felt hollow when the front door clicked shut. She was alone in her big empty house, except for the terrified dragon in the middle of her family room floor.

  The slightest edge of a headache had been threatening most of the morning. Since they’d first come home and she’d been helpless to get some aspirin, she’d felt the anxious tension in her shoulders spread up her neck. Her head pounded harder.

  Reality hit her full and fierce as she looked over at the wild-eyed dragon glaring up at her from the floor. What had she gotten herself into? Would the world come to an end if she shocked everyone and changed her mind? But she had come too far to abandon it all now. She took a huge, shuddering breath and forced herself to relax.

  He stood on the perch, eyeing her and everything around him. But he was standing, not bating. This was more calming for her nerves than anything else right then. When she stepped toward him, his wings came out, and the hackles at the back of his head flared. Mouth open, tongue extended, he made a grand display to threaten her against coming closer.

  “It’s all right, buddy. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  She dimmed the lights in the family room and flipped on the television. Exposing him to everything up front was the way to go, the other falconers had reassured her, as had Hank. Get all the stress out of the way from the beginning. Dimming the lights seemed to help calm the bird somewhat, but he still watched her wherever she went.

  After downing some aspirin, she ate a sandwich while sitting on the sofa in front of her new housemate. Nothing she did missed his scrutiny.

  Strength seeped back in to her weary limbs and foggy brain, giving her courage to put the glove on for another go. Crouching on the floor in front of him, she braced herself for the bate she knew was coming. After the flurry of feathers and jumping away from the perch ended, she grabbed the jesses between her gloved fingers and lifted the hawk, who was now dangling from her glove upside down. Up he came on his own, sitting upright on the glove with hackles flared and wings outspread. This time he stayed, his golden eyes fierce and proud with challenge.

  Sam sighed and moved to the scale. This was going to be a long night.

  Preen: When a hawk straightens its feathers, oiling them with secretions from its preen gland

  above the tail

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I think the surgery site is healing well, Sam.” Dr. Franco smiled approval as he examined the small scar on the uppe
r left corner of her chest, above her breast. “Any discomfort when I put pressure here?”

  Sam winced, but not in pain. “No. It just still creeps me out. I try not to think about it.”

  Two weeks before, when he had told her what a port-a-cath was and how it was surgically implanted to rest under the skin and feed directly into the heart, she thought he wasn’t serious. Then she felt nauseated by the idea.

  “Like we discussed before, the chemotherapy medicines are too caustic for the veins in your arms. It would destroy them, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want the added stress of scarred arms.”

  Well, she had considered it. And for the first time since she had come to terms with the fact of her illness, she had considered passing on any drugs and calling it quits. After a day or two of trying to wrap her mind around the mechanics of the port-a-cath and the whole chemotherapy experience, she realized these feelings were no reason to give up so soon. She relented and had the minor surgery to implant it. There was another reason at home demanding she try, and she smiled just thinking about him.

  She named him Chance. He was her last chance for any real life, whether or not the miracles of modern medicine came through for her. He was also her way of escaping the day-to-day drudgery of living with this blasted disease.

  Dr. Franco gave her a hand-held mirror so she could see the site of the port-a-cath on her chest. A small, round raised surface on the skin about the size of a quarter was the only telltale sign something was off there. The healing incision would disappear. When she came in for her treatments, the medicines would be run through an IV into the port-a-cath and be virtually painless.

  “If any redness or tenderness develops, do not wait to call me—come in. If this area gets infected, it could necessitate another surgery.”

  “You bet.” With her lips pressed thin, she watched him writing in her chart. “And I’m okay to be active? I don’t have to worry about, say…falling down, or being hit in the chest?”