by Jill Harris
For Neil
Acknowledgements:
A big thank you to family and friends for all your support and expertise during the writing of this book. You were a very great help.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
1. A Visit to Old Sil
2. The Trouble with Tor
I
3. A Game of Floop
4. The Hideout
II
5. Family Singer
6. A Conversation with Bel
7. More Trouble with Tor
8. The Second Attack
III
9. Planning for Trouble
10. Sil Sings in the Lightening
11. Still Friends?
12. The Dead Tree Comes Alive
13. Escape
IV
14. The Blessing
15. The Journey
16. A Brush with Death
17. Settling in at the Sanctuary
V
18. The Competitions Begin
19. The Winner
20. Deadly Foe
21. Island Refuge
22. Sil Alone
VI
23. A Terrible Discovery
24. A Brilliant Idea
25. The Campaign
26. Night Flights
VII
27. The Strike Back
28. A Shot in the Dark
VIII
29. Three’s Company
IX
About the Author
Copyright
Prologue
SIL was trying out new sounds. Drifting, white mist hung in the leaves and branches of his hideout, cutting him off from the outside and muffling his voice. Good thing, he thought. He didn’t want anybody to hear what he was up to. He could just make out the sleepy lapping of the sea. It was one of those still, slow mornings when even the leaves couldn’t be bothered moving.
Not quite, though: a small movement caught his eye — the merest quiver of foliage. He thought he could make out an eye, but the mist shifted and he saw nothing more. A second later another tiny movement stirred the leaves and again an eye glittered through the mist — black, baleful, set close to a beak like a knife blade. Sil’s heart jumped. He was pretty isolated here.
But he must be imagining things. There were never other birds in the hideout — that’s why he came here. Still, he could sense an ominous presence in the tree and a feeling of profound foreboding came over him. He stared intently around, trying to penetrate the shifting fog. Was that a black claw gripping the branch above? Something rustled behind him. He twisted sharply and caught the scalloped edge of a black wing before it, too, faded away.
. . .
The sun laid a warm finger across Sil’s wing. Nearly time to take off for Old Sil’s, he thought, and his stomach tightened. He’d been in the hideout for ages trying out the new sounds so he could persuade Old Sil to go along with his plan. The big tree had been full of mist when he arrived but now the sun was sending it on its way. Something flickered in and out of his mind. It left him with a sense of dread — insubstantial, shadowy, odd… Nothing he could quite pin down. He put it aside — it was time to get a move on.
He hopped to the outside of the tree and looked around carefully. What was worrying him? Get going! he told himself, and launched into the air.
1.
A Visit to Old Sil
SIL flew across the valley to Old Sil’s tree, a beech on the edge of the bush where he lived on his own. Other birds didn’t like having to listen to his pupils singing all day, so they had gradually left the trees in that part of the bush. Old Sil wasn’t at all bothered by living alone. “I’ve been in this valley for at least ten years,” he often said. “I’ve taught generations of singers, I’ve judged many competitions, I’ve survived terrible storms and hungry winters. Why would it worry me to live alone?”
He was respected by tuis from far and wide for his gifts of singing and teaching. He was shrewd and wise about many other things as well, and all sorts of birds, not just tuis, brought their problems to him. “Many a bird has reason to be grateful to Old Sil,” Mem said. “You’re lucky to be his pupil, Sil, and to have his name.”
Sil was early for his lesson — the sun was still above the biggest macrocarpa tree — but he could hardly wait to talk to Old Sil about his plan. He’d spent most of the morning in the hideout thinking furiously about it, and rejecting most of the ideas he had. However, one or two of them kept coming back. He’d tried out various sounds knowing he was unlikely to be overheard. He’d grinned to himself when he thought what he must sound like, making that strange mix of bird and human noises.
As he flew closer to the tree he could see Old Sil was alone. Good, he wouldn’t have to wait. He swooped down and landed next to him. The words came tumbling from his beak. “I’ve worked it out! I know what I’m going to do! I’m not stuck any more!”
Old Sil jerked his head back sharply. “Just a minute, just a minute,” he said, “where are your manners?”
Sil faltered. Old Sil was a stickler for doing things the right way, and he was looking ruffled. Not a good start. Sil should have gone through the proper greeting instead of rushing in like that. He hopped back along the branch almost to the end and bowed his head.
“May I approach, teacher?” he asked, still with his head down. Silently he counted to ten and repeated, “May I approach, teacher?” He waited again, then lifted his head. “I have come for my lesson.”
“Approach,” said Old Sil, “if you are prepared to work hard and honour the singing.”
Sil hopped forward and held his tongue as Old Sil ignored his first rush of words, beginning instead with the usual breathing and posture then singing exercises. They seemed to go on forever and, as if sensing his pupil’s impatience, Old Sil kept him at it longer than usual.
“Your tone is coming on very nicely,” he said, “but your glottal clicks and high notes need more work. The low trills have definitely improved.” He looked at Sil in a kindly way. “You should win the classical song class. You’ve got the voice and you’re doing the work. There are just those few rough edges to smooth out. I want you to concentrate on those this week.”
Sil remained silent, waiting. It had been right to do the other stuff first. It had given him the chance to settle down. He felt calmer and better able to explain his ideas.
“Right, Young Sil,” said Old Sil, “what’s all this about your original song? I’d been wondering when you were going to get on to it.”
Sil took a deep breath. It was important to present his plan properly, especially after his shaky start. He badly wanted Old Sil to like it and help him. “It started with Bel’s idea,” said Sil. “She hid near my practice branch the other day and surprised me by mimicking all these other sounds. She was really quite good — I couldn’t work out who was making them. I had no idea it was another tui. She wondered why we’ve never used sounds like that and it got me thinking. The rules say we can copy anything we like, and I started to imagine what could be woven into our usual songs — like the cry of a gull, or whistling wind, or some of the sounds humans make with their tools.”
He paused, trying to read how his teacher was responding, but Old Sil merely said, “Show me what you mean.”
Sil braced his legs and breathed steadily until all his air sacs were full. He concentrated on the sounds he could hear in his head. He sang part of a traditional song then suddenly switched: “Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep,” he sang. He returned to the song for a few notes then introduced, “Whooee, whooee, whooee, whooee,” the way a human whistled his dog. Smoothly, he picked up the song again and sang it to the end.
Old Sil said nothing at first. He finally ask
ed, “Why those particular sounds in that particular song?”
Sil understood. “I wasn’t doing it just to be different,” he said. “They’ve got to add something to the song. What I sang just now didn’t do that — I was simply showing the kind of thing I had in mind.” He went on: “I’ve been thinking really hard but I haven’t worked it out yet. Humans make lots of sounds like singing — not always using their voices — which I can copy. I feel a kind of link with human singers as though the songs are more important than who sings them.”
“They call their sounds music,” said Old Sil, “and they have many tools to produce them, as well as using their own voices. I agree, some of their music is beautiful.”
He was silent for a while. “Your idea — Bel’s idea — has merit. But there are problems, apart from the challenge of using such sounds in a meaningful way.” He hesitated. “Tuis and humans have a relationship which goes back a long way, even beyond memory. It has usually been harmful to us. Many, many generations ago, humans caught and ate us. They used our feathers because they have none of their own. They put us in cages so we would sing for them all day.”
Sil sensed that Old Sil was weighing up whether to say more. “That’s not the worst of it,” he continued after another silence. “They wanted to teach us to use their language and they did cruel things to our tongues to make that possible.
“Then there were the forest-wasters. They did the most harm. They burnt and cut down the forest and those of us who were not killed were driven out. We lost our homes, our families and, of course, our food. The flowers were destroyed, the berries were gone, the insects died in their thousands. It was a time of terrible suffering. Many kinds of birds died out, although we tuis managed to survive, and a silence fell. The great conversation of the forest was heard no more. At the singing-in we have a glimpse of how it must have been. Imagine the groves and dells filled with such sounds every minute of the light. But alas, those times are no more.
“These stories have been passed down through many generations. We do not want to forget. I’m afraid, if you use human sounds in our songs, you will upset many birds and run into a lot of resistance.”
“I don’t have to use them,” said Sil. “I can use the voices of other birds and animals, of the trees, the water and the sky. I can use these to sing about the place of tuis in the world.”
“There’s something else,” said Old Sil. “Many birds, including the song-judges perhaps, will not approve of such big changes to the way we have always sung. You must expect a lot of criticism and disapproval and I can understand that myself. However, we have been singing the same songs for many generations and I do not think it is good for our singing to stand still, no matter how perfect it is.” He stared out over the tops of the trees. “What you want to try is extremely risky, but it’s important. I think you are the bird to do it and I shall certainly support you.”
Sil swallowed hard. He hadn’t heard any of those things about humans before. If he introduced new songs would he be able to face all that opposition? What if it affected his chance of winning the competitions again? On the other hand, deep down he knew he couldn’t abandon the plan. It seemed to be filling every part of his body with a life of its own.
Old Sil looked at him steadily. “I’ve come to see you’re a bird who thinks differently about things. I can see you’re going to do this, despite my warning. But that’s as it should be.
“Off you go now,” he said briskly. “You’ve got a lot of work to do. Come back when you have something for me to listen to.”
2.
The Trouble with Tor
AS he flew away, Sil’s thoughts scooted all over the place and he couldn’t work out whether he felt excited or scared. He needed to talk to Bron. She might be at the flax hedge — it was the right time of day for snacking and you could always find insects there among the grey stalks of last year’s flowers.
He glided through the crisp air, high enough to look down on all the small birds flitting from tree to tree gathering food. We’re always hungry, he thought. It’s all the flying we do. As he flew lower he noticed a small, black, wild-looking cat stalking two sparrows chatting on a fence. He sent out a warning call on his way past.
Sure enough, Bron was perching on a stalk, probing it with her bill. Good guess. Not so good was who she was with. Tor was perched nearby, also searching for insects.
“Here comes the great singer,” he sneered. “Flown down from on high to visit us lesser birds.”
“Shut up, Tor,” said Bron, good-naturedly. “So he beat you last year. Get over it. You can beat him this year.” She grinned at Sil. “Thought you’d end up here eventually though there’s not a lot of food to be had.”
Tor flexed his wings. “There’s a funny smell all of a sudden,” he said. “Think I’ll take off to somewhere less smelly.”
“That’s fine with us,” said Bron cheerfully. “Bye now.”
“He looks as though he’s got a stick insect jammed in his throat,” said Sil.
“I have tried to get on with him, but you can see it’s hopeless. He’s always looking for ways to make me look stupid. He even knocked me off the practice branch this morning for absolutely no reason.”
“Well, if he wants to sulk, you can’t change it — specially as you’ll probably beat him again this year,” said Bron. “He’s just jealous. He should remember he’s good at other things.”
She went on, “Tor can be pretty mean, though nowhere near as mean as that brother of his. Sep’s plain nasty. He shoved me off the flax hedge last week and told me girls had to wait till boys had finished. I told him he didn’t have to be scared of me, I only picked on birds who could fight as well as me.” She grinned. “He didn’t like that but Bek arrived just then, so I took the chance to fly to a stalk directly above him, and guess what I did then!”
Sil laughed. “At least Tor’s got a decent name,” he said. “Who wants a name like Silver Song? It’s embarrassing and I’m supposed to be proud of inheriting it. I’m not. I hate it!”
“You’re just plain Sil to most people,” said Bron. “Hardly anyone remembers it’s short for something else, but I don’t mind calling you Silly if you prefer that.”
“Very droll,” said Sil. “Maybe you’d like me to call you Bronwing — then people would realise you’re really a girl.”
Bron turned her head away. “That’s mean.”
They were silent for a while. Sil wasn’t quite sure how to say sorry to Bron. She was so touchy about being a girl.
“You know, Sil,” Bron said at last, “your voice is going to take you places most of us will never go. You’ll soon be the most important bird in your family because your song-claims will win you the best nectar and berry trees — just about anything you decide you want. You’ll be out there with all the big-wings every lightening, staking your claim. Your family will never go hungry. And you’ll be able to have any girl you fancy — they’ll come flocking as soon as you open your beak — to say nothing of fame and glory every time you win a competition. You’ll end up being a song judge.”
“You sound just like my father,” Sil said grumpily. “Next you’ll be telling me to go off and do my practice.”
“Well, now you mention it, how is the preparation going, or is it top secret?”
“That’s what I came to tell you. I’m under way!”
“Gee, at last,” said Bron. “What got you started?”
“It was Bel, actually,” said Sil, and he told her what had happened. “She reckoned she’d been trying to tell me for ages but I was never around. I felt a bit mean, actually — I’m always trying to shake her off. I know she’s my twin but, honestly, she acts like my mother sometimes. In fact, she’s worse. Mem is okay about me doing things — mostly — but Bel always wants to know if it’s safe — or sensible — or kind. It’s pathetic.”
“Yeah. That’s what my father’s like. ‘Girls don’t normally do that sort of thing, Bron.’ ‘Is that really a
good idea, Bron?’ ‘Why don’t you fly over and visit Bel for a change, Bron?’ As you say — pathetic!”
“Anyway,” Sil continued, “I’ve got heaps of ideas all of a sudden and I’ve been trying them out. I had a lesson today and told Old Sil about them.”
“What’d he say?”
“That’s really what I want to talk to you about. Hey, did you know all that stuff about humans hurting tuis?”
“These days or in the old days?”
“Oh, a really long time ago.”
“I’ve heard a bit,” said Bron. “It’s quite nasty.”
“Well, Old Sil reckons if I use human sounds in my original composition, I’ll put everyone off because of what happened in the olden days.”
“Don’t, then. Plenty of other sounds to use.”
“But humans do this amazing range of singing, and they don’t just use their voices, they’ve made a whole lot of tools. Old Sil calls it all ‘music’. Some of it is fantastic and I want to use it in my song.” Sil dropped his voice. “Honestly, Bron, it’s a spectacular idea! I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“But can you do that? Aren’t there rules?” asked Bron.
“More like customs. Old Sil says it’s time our songs changed, but that I’ll be running a big risk doing it. He reckons even the song judges mightn’t like it.”
Bron looked thoughtfully at Sil. Finally she said, “you’re going to do it anyway, you know that, but you might lose the competition if you do. How would you feel about that?”
Sil didn’t answer. How would he feel? Bron had put her finger on what was troubling him. What meant more to him — winning the competition or making up an amazing new song?
“Dunno,” he said, and looked down at his claws.
“Hey!” said Bron. “Let’s play floop! Beat you!” and she was off like a black and green arrow, streaking towards the arena.
I
On the side of the range away from the sea, the outcasts gathered. Driven from home after their first moult, each had roosted and snatched food where he could. Each nursed a nameless sense of grievance.