Sil

by Jill Harris

The singing-in woke him. It swelled around him as guests joined in with local birds. This was often what birds remembered most about the competitions — this celebration of being a bird, of being tui. I don’t have to win to have had a good time, thought Sil, but a little voice replied: Sure, sure, but just the same you’re going out there today to win!

  After breakfast, Sil flew to his practice tree. He got straight into the classical song after his warm-up. It really was a lovely song. That’ll wow them, he thought. Everyone would love the melody and that poignant chorus, and be moved by the tragic story. And they would appreciate what he did with the harmonies in the central section. He had no doubts about doing well in that class.

  He didn’t want to sing his original song right through — he was afraid of being overheard — so he sang each of the mimicked sounds separately and out of sequence. Then he practised the other bits. Done that way, it sounded strange. This is mad, he thought. I haven’t sung it right through since we left the valley. He looked carefully around him but saw no other birds, so he launched into a proper rehearsal of the song. A couple of the bridging passages between tui song and human sounds needed some work. He practised for a long time and felt satisfied.

  After giving himself a good grooming, he flew to the flax stand and snacked until it was time to fly to the dell. His class wasn’t till later in the morning, so he joined the audience. The competitions began with an announcement from the chief organiser.

  “Good morning, everyone, and welcome back. We heard some truly lovely singing yesterday and I think we’re in for more treats today. Surprises, too — we have original composition classes this afternoon and I’m sure you’re looking forward to those as much as I am.

  “I expect you’ve noticed the build-up of cloud and wind overnight. It won’t affect the competitions, but we’ve been advised by the city gulls that a change from the south will reach us later this afternoon, and we can expect gales and heavy rain.”

  He paused as the audience shuffled uneasily and murmured to one another. “Obviously, it would be foolish for those of you from further afield to attempt to leave for home today. The organising committee has asked me to urge you all to stay overnight and see what the weather’s like tomorrow. The red-bills will get a travel advisory to us first thing in the morning. The committee has inspected food sources and thinks there’s enough for another 24 hours. You will roost in the same places, of course. If you have any questions, a committee member will be available over the lunch break and more than happy to help.”

  Sil sighed. He wanted to get home to find out how Bel was. He didn’t want to stay around for another night, especially not in the same tree as Tor. Whoever won, it would be awkward.

  He turned his attention back to the first class of the morning, the junior classical song. That was me last year, he thought as five small tuis hopped up one by one to the performance branch and sang their songs. He was interested in how limited their range was, and how much his own voice had developed in just one year. He couldn’t have sung high notes then, and now they were a major part of his original composition. He liked the composure shown by one of the junior birds. He should win, he thought.

  It was time to join the other competitors in the intermediate classical song class. “There you are, young Sil,” said Mip as Sil flew over to the assembly tree. “I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to. All ready to go? Good luck.”

  Soon after, the six flew across to the beech tree. This time Sil was singing fourth and Tor last. The wind gusted the tops of the trees. Sil realised he’d have to sing louder.

  The three birds before him sang adequately, one better than the others, but the gap between the good and the excellent was already evident. Also, the choice of songs wasn’t always right. One song was far too difficult, one too easy and the third too popular. Sil realised afresh how lucky he was to have Old Sil as his teacher.

  Then it was his turn to hop down on to the performance branch. The dell was packed with birds of all kinds, not just tuis. Sil felt his legs trembling.

  “Young Silver Song will sing My Love has a Collar of Frost,” called the announcer.

  Sil gripped the branch firmly and closed his eyes. He pictured the two birds in the song, desperately in love, but one to die in a winter storm as they fled their families’anger. He breathed deeply and stood erect. He paused. Then the first, quiet notes drifted from his beak with exquisite purity and he felt utterly in command as he sang the story. Reaching the end of each verse, he sang softly:

  The white feathers lay

  on her neck, on her neck,

  but I saw that she wore

  a collar of frost,

  of frost, in the night,

  in the bitter night.

  My love has a collar of frost.

  As the final notes died away, there was total silence in the dell. Sil stood with his head bowed, a feeling of profound happiness welling up in him.

  A storm of applause and calling broke out. It went on and on. Sil bowed, once, twice, then hopped up the tree to join the other five.

  “That was pretty good,” said Tor gruffly. “Nice work.”

  “I’ve never heard such singing,” said another bird generously. “I’ll always remember it.”

  The last two birds sang. Tor had chosen a rollicking travel song, which had the audience laughing, but Sil knew his own performance was in a different class.

  And so it was. He won by a substantial margin.

  “We have heard singing of rare quality from Young Silver Song,” said the Chief Song Judge. “The musicality of his interpretation of this wonderful song lifted the performance well above any I have heard before. I predict an exciting future for this bird.”

  A number of birds flocked around Sil, congratulating him. He laughed and joked with them, enjoying their praise, then, deciding not to stay for the senior classical song, he flew back to the karaka tree. Despite the conversation and the fun, he still felt strangely caught up in the world of the song. How could those two have been silly enough to fly off into a storm like that? Had he really thought the song simply a tear-jerker? He felt shaken, too, by the effect he’d had on the audience. How would that same audience react to his next song, he wondered?

  There were plenty of insects around the tree and he decided to stay away from the flax bushes. He wanted to get ready quietly for the afternoon. The final class would be the biggest challenge of all. A sudden, sharp gust shook the branch and reminded him that he wouldn’t be starting for home later that day. The wind blew harder and the sun came and went through massing clouds. The dancing shadows on the ground slowly lengthened until at last it was time to return to the dell.

  19.

  The Winner

  SIL would never forget that afternoon as long as he lived. His class was second on the programme and he decided to sit in the audience till the last possible moment. He would be more relaxed there than in the assembly tree surrounded by other tense competitors.

  He sat well back, away from curious stares. The ideas and feelings in his song percolated through his mind. I want them to understand that the song is greater than the singer, he thought, even if the original singer is human and we birds can never trust humans. I want them to hear the beautiful sounds humans make, as well as birds, but also to sense the dark history between us. I want them to realise that music can be a bridge between tuis and humans.

  His heart was beating rapidly and he was intensely nervous. He felt himself sinking into the fear as though falling into darkness. He closed his eyes and called up the faces of his family — Pip, Mem, Bek, Bel and Roz, and he recalled the blessing from Old Sil. It comforted and steadied him and he knew he would sing well. As soon as the last bird in the preceding class took her place on the beech branch, he flew quietly to the assembly tree.

  He was to perform last. Tor was singing third. Once again Tor turned in a faultless performance. His song showed off the whole repertoire — every trill, click, bell, chuckle, run, croak and whi
sper in tui memory. He used every musical device available to him to produce a composition which was truly dazzling. But it was predictable. It lacked originality. It is exactly what I worked so hard to avoid in my own piece, thought Sil.

  Tor received long, enthusiastic applause. Every tui in the audience could identify with the skill and beauty of his song. At some stage in their lives they had all struggled to master those wonderful sounds.

  Sil congratulated Tor with genuine warmth, but he knew he would sing far better. When it was his turn, he hopped down to the performance branch and faced the ranks of hushed birds.

  “Young Silver Song will sing Matrix I,” called the announcer.

  Sil went inside himself. He forgot about the audience. He summoned the first burst of notes in his head, then opened his beak and flung them into the air. They were human sounds and coming from the beak of a tui they were shocking. He was into it — a roller-coaster of emotions and technical flourishes, tui song alternating with human music. One minute Sil produced a trill of birdsong, the next a chime of bells. The composition was beautiful and startling, dark and brilliant. A torrent of sound was cut off in an instant, to be followed by silence. High whispers were suddenly interrupted by strange tinkling sounds. Guttural clicks turned into human laughter. The song ended with the eerie whistling of the main melody, higher and higher, softer and softer, until it evaporated into nothing.

  It was a stunning, breathtaking performance. Sil had sung exactly as he wished. My song will change forever how we sing, he thought. Flushed and excited, he waited for the audience to respond.

  Unfathomable silence greeted him. It was nothing like the awed silence following his song that morning. This one was uneasy and sullen. After a few seconds there was muted applause but it was mixed with a buzz of conversation. Sil bowed and left the branch. Tor looked at him strangely but said nothing. The other four birds avoided his eyes.

  What on earth is the matter? thought Sil, but he was puzzled rather than worried. His commanding lead over Tor could only increase after this latest performance.

  The six birds waited. Time stretched out and the audience became restless. Sil sat at one end of the branch, Tor at the other. The other four divided the rivals.

  It grew colder and colder. The southerly had arrived, as the gulls had predicted. Sil shivered and fluffed up his feathers. This long wait in front of everyone felt like a test of good behaviour. He wished he could turn his back and bury his beak under his wing. He glanced quickly along the branch. Tor appeared utterly relaxed and confident — as usual. I wonder what you’ll do when you hear the results, thought Sil.

  A stirring and rustling of feathers announced the arrival of the Chief Song Judge.

  “We apologise for keeping you waiting longer than usual,” he began. “Two performances stood out in this class — dramatically different from one another, and the judging panel has had great difficulty in declaring a winner.”

  They have to say that to make it easier for Tor, thought Sil, eager to hear what the judge would say about his new music.

  “Tor gave us a flawless classical performance,” the judge went on. “I felt proud to be a tui. The skill with which he moved from trill to chuckle, low to high, loud to soft, was masterly. It was a demonstration of the utmost refinement and beauty. The endless versatility of the tui repertoire is amazing — I have never heard exactly the same song twice in all my years as a song judge. We were united in scoring this performance very highly.”

  He paused. “What we heard from Young Silver Song was of a very different order. Some will have found the departure from tradition exciting, others will have been shocked. His incorporation of sounds which are not usually regarded as musical, challenges our conceptions of both music and beauty. It is many years since we have had to adapt our songs to new circumstances and those changes were gradual. Young Silver Song’s bold use of sounds taken largely from the human world represents an abrupt break with the past.”

  He continued: “The judging panel has had some difficulty in reaching a consensus about whether what we have heard is music or mimicry. In view of this uncertainty, we feel we must award the original competition prize to Tor. Although Young Silver Song scored highly in the classical song class, when we added up the scores, we found that Tor is the overall winner of this year’s intermediate title.”

  The sound of the applause reached Sil from far away. He couldn’t seem to move properly. Somehow, he managed to hop over to Tor and congratulate him before moving back in the tree away from the stares of the audience. He sat frozen on the branch until the next class began, then flew blindly out of the dell and found refuge in a thick totara tree. He felt numb.

  20.

  Deadly Foe

  SIL knew he was breaking all the rules when he flew from the sanctuary into the darkening sky. He was ignoring the warning. He had told no one he was leaving. He was flying alone. No one was allowed to fly over the harbour. It was too late to be starting such a long journey. He hadn’t eaten recently and it was a tough flight even in good weather.

  He didn’t care. He couldn’t stay, surrounded by pitying looks and well-meaning attempts to be kind to him. Wherever Sil looked, little knots of birds were talking excitedly — until they noticed him and fell silent. Nobody had approached him, and Old Sil was nowhere to be seen. He felt he had been treated unjustly, and his bitterness was as great as his disappointment and humiliation.

  The air felt thick and resistant as he glided down past the gardens and over the city. Flocks of gulls rested on the ground — a sure sign of bad weather to come. There were no other birds in the air. Sil flapped his wings with defiant vigour and thought: I’ll show them!

  Eddies of wind caught him as he approached the water, turbulent up-draughts from between the tall houses that diverted him from his course. Already the far side of the harbour was disappearing in a purple haze. He would head for the island and shelter there if necessary. His wings beat their strong figures-of-eight as he started to make the height he would need.

  Over the water, the wind came steadily from the south and Sil was able to hold to his course. His left wing had to work to correct the push. It soon began to ache. He resisted the temptation to glide. He had to get higher. He was too close to the chopped-up surface of the water and even caught the occasional drift of sticky spray as the waves grew more agitated.

  He felt strong, fuelled by anger. He continued to thrust upwards against a strengthening wind. The first drops of rain stung his head and he opened his beak to welcome them.

  Although the far shoreline had disappeared completely, the island was still visible. He would take his chances and stop there overnight. He altered course and flew downwind but angled to it still. Whatever happened, he must not allow himself to be driven in front of it. It would push him down into the sea and that would be the end. He’d heard plenty of stories about that. “Head wind down, tail wind up,” was the saying.

  Sil’s wings were aching even more, and he grew steadily colder. The rain had turned into a thin, icy soup and the wind felt like a large hand pushing him sideways. He had certainly gained height, though. The waves were even wilder and threw up spume which misted around him from time to time. At least the rain was washing the salt off his feathers and he was glad of the quick sips.

  The island now lay to his left. He wondered if he’d made enough height to glide towards it and give his wings a rest. As if in answer, the wind whistled around him and the invisible hand pushed harder. He tried to work out the distance to the island and the angle and strength of the wind, but the purple-grey of the sky seemed to be seeping into the air around him, making it hard to see. It would be too risky to glide, even briefly.

  Sil was too tired to go on flying but he couldn’t afford to stop. The island was disappearing into the murk. He was aware of an icy film on his feathers. He felt hollow with hunger. Below, the sea waited. An enormous lassitude stole over him. A conversation started up in his head.

  “You cou
ld glide down gently and just float for a while until you felt rested.”

  “You wouldn’t even settle before the waves swamped you.”

  “Why not go with the flow and glide for a few minutes — give your wings a chance.”

  “Remember your uncle — he never returned from the island. He was caught in a storm.”

  Suddenly Sil saw a massive tree rising out of the sea, waves dashing against its trunk. His father and mother, Bek, Bron, Bel and Roz were sitting along a branch well above the waves, smiling at him. The tree was covered with large, crimson berries.

  “Welcome home and congratulations on your triumph,” they chorused.

  What triumph? he thought, confused.

  The sun shone brilliantly into the tree, glinting on the leaves, burnishing the branches and turning the berries into glowing jewels. A magpie sitting high up beckoned to him. “I am your good friend, your very good friend,” he called, “trust me, trust me, trust me.” He opened his sharp beak and laughed harshly.

  Sil sighed deeply and glided down towards the tree.

  A tremendous bump jolted him upwards. The tree disappeared, the sun went out and the wind and rain were as sharp as magpies’ beaks.

  “Get with it, Sil!” a voice shouted above the noise of the storm.

  Sil felt another hard bump and saw a blur of black beneath him. He forced his exhausted wings into movement.

  “That’s it!” shouted another voice from above him. “And again!”

  More painful bumps forced him upwards. A large shape came alongside him, reducing the force of the wind. Sil found he could breathe more easily. Black wings beat rapidly on his left. He must be imagining it.

  “Tor?” he croaked.

  “Yes,” came the answer. “Do what the gulls tell you or we’ll both die.”

  Sil became aware of two black-backs flying to windward. In the lee of their large bodies he could keep his wings moving. One of them wheeled away and came in beneath the tuis.