Sil

by Jill Harris

  By now the bush was casting a long shadow in the watery sunlight.

  “Right,” said Jeb. “This is what we’ll do.” He called Tor and Old Sil down to the lower branches to listen. “Mip, Old Sil, Tor and Sil, fly on now to tonight’s stopping place as planned. Tomorrow, you’ll continue with the journey. Wol and I will stay with Bel until she’s well enough to fly and then we’ll return home.

  “It puts a big burden of responsibility on you, Mip,” he said. “We’ve talked about the flight in a lot of detail, and you’ve flown this route before, but you won’t have any backup. How do you feel about that?”

  “It’ll be all right,” said Mip, “as long as what I say goes — without argument,” he added, with a straight look at Sil.

  “You’ll be the leader,” said Jeb firmly. “You’ve got Old Sil for advice, and Tor’s not just a pretty face, either.” He nodded at Tor.

  I’m the problem, thought Sil with a shock. I’m the one who’s got to be managed! He had been about to protest at leaving Bel, but he decided to keep his beak shut.

  By the time they had drunk water off the leaves, found insects to eat, and were ready to leave, Bel was breathing more easily.

  “I just wish I’d seen the wasp nest in time,” Sil whispered to her. “I’m so terribly sorry, Bel. I’d much sooner stay with you, but Jeb says I have to go on. Please get better quickly.”

  Bel still didn’t have enough breath to answer him but she looked at him with dull eyes and nodded her head slightly.

  The four birds flew off, the sun in their eyes. They reached the tree on the edge of the park without further incident and were welcomed by Jeb’s cousins. After telling them what had happened, they ate and drank their fill and soon fell into an exhausted sleep. Sil wondered, as his eyelids closed, if Bel had been able to fly up into the safety of the bush or whether the three of them would have to sleep on the ground.

  . . .

  The singing-in woke Sil the next morning. Old Sil, who had been asked to take part in it, hopped on to Sil’s branch afterwards.

  “Don’t blame yourself too much for what happened yesterday,” he said quietly. “After all, we only landed in the gum tree because I needed a rest. I take some of the responsibility, too.”

  “I wish I could have stayed with her,” said Sil. “Will she be all right?”

  “She was over the worst before we left,” said Old Sil. “I didn’t see her before that — although I could certainly hear her — but death from stings usually occurs in the first hour.”

  “Death!” gasped Sil.

  “Oh, yes,” said Old Sil. “Wasp stings are particularly poisonous. If Bel were ever to be stung again, she would react even more violently. Make sure you tell her that.

  “Try to think forward to the competitions. Jeb has insisted you carry on so that’s your job now.” He gave Sil a kindly nudge with his wing. “I’m sure Jeb and Wol will make sure Bel gets home safely.”

  The other birds went out of their way to jolly Sil along on the next leg of the journey. They flew high over the bush-covered hills. On their left was the sea with a road running alongside. The strange, humming song of cars reached Sil faintly. In the distance were many tall houses close together — like a strange forest of dead trees, he thought.

  They changed direction and flew towards it, landing on a roof high above the road for a brief rest. There was nothing to eat, though there were puddles on the roof. The water had a peculiar taste, Sil thought.

  Tor pulled a face when he drank it. “It gets dirty from smoke and dust and fumes. I don’t know how those red-bills stand living around here.” He had been chatting to two gulls who had swooped down to check the tuis out. “They say there are always good pickings down by the sea, so it’s worth putting up with the water.”

  A sharp gust of wind struck them.

  “Time to get going again,” called Mip. “The gulls say the wind is going to change. We should fly on while it’s at our backs. We can reach the sanctuary before the sun climbs down.”

  17.

  Settling in at the Sanctuary

  SIL could see the fence carving out the sanctuary from the surrounding bush, keeping out the enemies that stalked and pounced on birds. Here the tuis could hold their singing competitions without having to be constantly on guard. Imagine living in such a place, he thought as he followed the others to the big puriri tree in the centre of the sanctuary.

  The spreading tree held its head above the others. Its ample branches were filled with tuis. Visitors were being directed to their roosting and eating areas, competitors were being told where and when their classes would take place, everyone was finding out about the programme for the next two days. A team of six birds was handling all the arrangements with calm and pleasant efficiency. There was an air of excited anticipation. This was the social highlight of the year.

  Sil and the others landed. Almost immediately one of the organisers hopped down to greet them.

  “Welcome to you all,” she said, “and a special welcome to you, Old Silver Song. We heard you had reached this side of the harbour safely. It’s a long flight. We’re very sorry to hear about the incident with the wasps. We’re also most concerned that so many weren’t able to make the trip because of your trouble with the magpies.”

  She explained the arrangements to them. Golly, thought Sil, I’ll never remember all of that. But he held on to the details about the classes because that was the important thing. He could follow the others to their roosting tree and food sources. Old Sil had flown off to the song judges’ tree. They wouldn’t see him again till it was time to fly home.

  They found they were sharing their tree with two other groups. “We’re on the other side of the range from you,” explained one of them. “In fact, your mother, Mem, is a distant cousin,” he told Sil.

  “I hear you’re having trouble with magpies,” he went on. “We had a dreadful winter with a gang of about 20 magpies in the valley attacking birds and other animals. Nobody was safe. They were led by a great brute of a bird — more the size of a falcon.”

  “You say ‘were’,” said Tor. “Have they gone?”

  “One morning before the singing-in they just took off and flew west and that was the last we saw of them.”

  “What did you do about them?” asked Mip.

  “Not a lot,” said the bird. “We never found where they roosted so we could never catch them unprepared. We just tried to look after each other, especially the small birds, but there are hardly any silver-eyes left in the valley. I’ll never forget the sound of families weeping,” he continued, “nor the cruelty of those magpies. You know, we even found magpie remains with the flesh stripped off their bones. Fancy eating one another!”

  They all sat in sombre silence until Mip rallied them and encouraged them to make themselves at home in the thick, glossy foliage of the karaka tree. The green berries had the faintest tinge of orange but were not ready for eating. I’m missing Bel, thought Sil. Tor’s got his brother but I’m on my own. He wished Old Sil could have stayed with them.

  Mip made an effort to be friendly. “Come on you two singers,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s find out what’s to eat — it feels like ages since breakfast. Your first class isn’t too far away and you need a good rest and a good meal beforehand.”

  They flew to a large flax stand beside a small lake. The tall black stalks were swaying to and fro as more than a dozen tuis vigorously tackled the flowers. Sil chose a bush close to the water’s edge, hoping to snap up a dragonfly or two. Ducks paddled through the reeds, sending out silky brown ripples. Breezes came and went, frosting the surface of the water and setting up dry, rustling conversations amongst the reeds and flax leaves.

  Sil was in luck. The dragonflies were plentiful and he ate his fill and drank long draughts of the spicy flax nectar. This was his last chance to be alone and quiet. All the competitors were meeting as soon as the shadows started to turn. Afterwards he would find his practice place and run through h
is exercises for the technical class. Then he would give himself a good grooming before reporting to the dell for the opening.

  The peace was broken by three humans walking along the lakeside.

  “Good heavens, more tuis! Just look at those flax bushes!”

  “This is amazing — I come here quite often and I’ve never seen so many tuis. What’s bringing them, I wonder?”

  “They know what’s best for them. This place is a haven. I guess word gets round — birds are smart.”

  “But surely there’s a limit to how many tuis the place can hold? The sanctuary’s not that big, and I must have seen 30 tuis in the past 30 minutes.”

  Their voices faded away. Sil grinned to himself. Stick around, he thought. Visit the dell this afternoon. You’ll find that truly amazing!

  Peace settled again. Sil gathered his thoughts. He wondered if Bel was safely home. What was happening about the magpies? How was Roz getting on with her flying? Would he win the competition? How would everyone react to his daring new song?

  He realised all over again how much he wanted to win; how much he wanted to sing like Old Sil who had been just incredible at the singing-in that morning. Sil had forgotten what a wonderful singer he was. All the other birds had stopped to listen — it had been like a solo concert. When the last chiming notes died away, they’d clacked their beaks for a long time.

  “Time to go, Sil.” Mip broke in on his thoughts. “Your meeting’s soon and you’ve got to get down to the dell.”

  Sil and Tor joined the other competitors in the large, spreading beech tree where they were to sing. Twenty-five singers twittered nervously. Sil said hello to birds he had met last year, and swapped news. Everyone wanted to hear about the wasp attack, but Sil wanted to protect his voice without appearing unfriendly.

  The chief organiser saved him. “Attention please, everybody,” he called. “There are a number of practical matters I need to bring to your attention.”

  A hush fell instantly and he launched into details of where and when the singers were to assemble, what would happen if it started to rain or the wind blew too strongly, when the judges would deliver their verdicts, where they could get refreshments, and so on. His assistant, a small, dainty tui sitting beside him, would inform them where they could have a final practice.

  He concluded: “I’d like to wish you all the best of luck. Only a few can win, but you wouldn’t be competing at all unless you were accomplished and promising singers. Look on these competitions as valuable experience for next time. Each one of you, I hope, will sing as well as you are able and feel satisfied with your performance — that is the important thing.” He nodded to his assistant and flew away.

  Sil found out where his practice tree was and flew off to warm up and groom himself. The competitions were opening soon and his class was third on the programme.

  When he returned to the singers’ assembly tree, he could see that the trees in the dell were thick with spectators. Caught by the sun, their well-oiled feathers shone green and blue, purple and bronze. Tufts of white fluffed out proudly on every breast. Audience and singers had groomed themselves to the nines. There was a loud hum of conversation. Sil felt his stomach muscles clench. He found a branch, and concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply.

  Suddenly there was a burst of song and Sil noticed a choir in the beech tree. It heralded the appearance of five tuis who swooped through the dell in perfect formation, looping, climbing, and gliding to left and right in a fine display of precision flying. The audience called and clacked their beaks enthusiastically.

  The choir broke into song again and the five song judges flew in and took their places on the judging tree. The five tuis reappeared with sprigs of rata blossom. They landed in the judging tree and one by one presented the flowers to the judges. Each nodded in thanks and dropped the sprigs to the ground, where they would lie, a sprinkle of red, until the end of the competitions. The audience applauded again. The chief organiser hopped forward and waited for silence.

  “I am delighted to welcome you all to the Eleventh Song Competitions,” he called. “We especially welcome our song judges, and the singers. This is our biggest field yet, with 25 competitors, including for the first time, I am pleased to announce, four female entrants. We look forward to two days of excellence, both in the performing and the judging. I declare the Competitions open.”

  It’s started, thought Sil. This is it.

  V

  Early each morning before a hint of the lightening could be sensed, the big bird sent them out with their instructions for the day. They were not to return to the tree till after dark, and each bird was to report back on what he had achieved.

  Day after day the bird with the twisted claw had no attacks or woundings or deaths to report. He could offer useful observations but nothing more. It was noticed by the whole company.

  Even the small bird had become adept at swooping on gulls and seizing their food, before fleeing into the bush where gulls seldom ventured.

  Both birds knew, however, that compared with the others, they were not pulling their weight.

  The small bird took to sharing his spoils with the bird with the twisted claw, who would otherwise have gone hungry. This happened deep in the bush where they believed themselves unobserved. Even so, they dared not speak to one another and their actions were rapid and furtive. But the eyes and ears of the big bird were everywhere and nothing happened which he did not know about.

  He called them before him one night after the reporting-in.

  “The food you share,” he whispered to the small bird, “is food withheld from others. Who permitted you to do that? You know that birds who cannot feed themselves must die.”

  The small bird shook so violently he could barely clutch the branch. His beak and tongue would not let him speak.

  The big bird continued. “You know I have forbidden any of you to fraternise, and yet, not only have you shared food with a particular bird, you roost next to him every night.”

  The bird with the twisted claw could bear it no longer. “May I speak, Leader?”

  “Speak,” said the big bird.

  “This is my fault, not his.”

  The big bird drew in his breath sharply. “Do you presume to question me?” he hissed. “You, the crippled scum of this company!” His eyes were heavy-lidded with scorn and disgust.

  “You see yourselves as ‘friends’ — a pathetic concept — and we all know that friends stick together, don’t we?” he sneered. “So stick together you shall. You shall spend the night together on the ground. It shouldn’t take long for hungry animals to sniff you out. Do not attempt to fly away because you will be returned to your place immediately.”

  Shall I try to escape? thought the bird with the twisted claw. Would death on the wing from another magpie be any worse than death on the ground from an enemy? But he thought of the small bird and he could not bring himself to abandon him.

  So they were forced to sit at the base of the tree where they cowered side by side, ears and eyes straining for furtive sounds and the gleam of eyes from the undergrowth.

  18.

  The Competitions Begin

  THERE were four birds besides Sil and Tor in the intermediate technical competence class. They sat together in the assembly tree eyeing one another. Sil recognised two of the birds from last year and nodded his greetings. The other two were newcomers. He introduced himself. Politely, they all wished each other good luck.

  As soon as the class before theirs had finished, the six birds were waved forward to the waiting branch in the beech tree. Sil was to sing first, and after the Chief Song Judge had announced the results of the previous class, Sil flew down to the performance branch.

  He went through the “ready and steady” drill and the audience faded into the background. Don’t rush it, he told himself. When he was fully in control of his breathing and posture, he began. It was really just routine stuff — what he practised every day — and it went without a
hitch. He finished and bowed, and the audience clacked their beaks.

  The five others sang competently, although two weren’t as good as the others. None of them was a match for Tor or him, though. They all hopped to a higher branch to wait for the results as the birds in the next class took their place.

  The Chief Song Judge finally flew down to a lower branch of the kowhai. “They make it look effortless, don’t they? But it’s not.” He smiled. “The technical standard seems to get better every year. Every one of these birds turned in a competent performance — and we are looking forward to hearing them again tomorrow — but we have to choose a winner for this category. We were unable to separate the two best birds, so we are placing Tor and Sil first equal. Congratulations on a polished and disciplined performance. In third place is …”

  Sil missed the name. He and Tor looked at each other before bowing to acknowledge the applause. The battle had started. They flew off to different trees to join the audience for the rest of the afternoon. By the end of the day, they had listened to tuis at various levels of technical competence execute the full range of tui sounds. The junior duet class, with seven performances ranging from outstanding to uninspired, had shown several promising singers.

  Sil spent a restless night near the top of the karaka tree. A fitful wind blew. Every time he dropped off to sleep, it sallied through the leaves and woke him up. His mind seemed determined to visit every worry, big and small, that bothered him — Bel, the magpies, getting home safely, beating Tor — and back his thoughts would come to his song. He knew it was good — fresh, interesting, original and musical — but he also knew it was risky. The night seemed to last forever. Very early in the morning, while the moon was still moving in and out of the clouds, he heard a tui singing some distance away. So someone else was having trouble sleeping. Somehow the thought comforted him and he fell sleep again.