We passed some trucks carrying logs – passed very carefully, given the nature of the road – and saw some hillsides that had been stripped bare of trees, but only in small areas.
‘Is fire a big problem?’ I asked.
‘Sadly, yes, and getting worse. Last year was the worst on record. And it wasn’t just the fires themselves, but the smoke. Victoria was virtually shut down for days, the air was so bad. All the warnings! What they amounted to was don’t be young, or old, or ill, and even if you’re none of those things, try not to breathe.’ He laughed, but ruefully. ‘It wasn’t really funny. You honestly couldn’t go outside for any length of time. Amy’s – that is, someone we know rode his bicycle to work, as he always does. He almost didn’t make it.’
There was an odd note in his voice, sounding almost like satisfaction. What had he started to say? Amy’s ‘acquaintance’?
‘Who?’ I began, but John was saying, ‘We’re coming out of the forest now. There’s a pleasant little café in this town where we can have a bite of lunch, and then the raptors are very near.’
Well, okay, if he didn’t want to talk about that man, he didn’t. I looked at Alan and raised my eyebrows, but we didn’t pursue it.
FIVE
It was a nice lunch. Then we pushed on for a few more minutes and arrived at the raptor sanctuary, or The Raptors. I don’t know what I expected, but certainly not such a big facility, or such a variety of birds.
The first cage I saw contained a kookaburra, according to the sign. It was not laughing, to my great disappointment, but I couldn’t get the silly children’s song out of my head for the rest of the day. I learned later that it isn’t a raptor, though a predator, and of course is native to Australia, not British Columbia. The Raptors took it in when a facility in Ontario found itself with too many of them, and the sanctuary offered it a home.
We were just in time to watch the flying demonstration. Passing any number of large room-sized cages, we went to an area where bleachers were set up to face a sort of meadow, with trees and bushes and long grass nearby, and a couple of T-shaped contrivances, about six feet tall, made of small tree branches. They looked a little like rustic telephone poles, with no wires.
We sat, along with a small crowd, and prepared to watch.
It was amazing. Various handlers came out with birds perched on their gauntlets (very heavy leather, given the birds’ talons). The first one was a stunning bald eagle, and my heart soared with the bird as it launched into majestic flight, mounting high and then hovering over the field and homing in on the food that had been hidden in a bush. It – no, ‘he’, name of Manwe – came to rest on one of the wooden things, which I now recognized as perches, and I swear he revelled in the applause that greeted his performance, standing proudly, head held high. He was none too eager to return to his cage; a keeper had to signal several times before Manwe condescended to fly to his glove and be carried away.
Okay, I know it’s stupid to ascribe human emotions to animals. But I couldn’t help it. He did look proud, and he had the right. He was a splendid animal.
He was succeeded by any number of other birds, familiar and not. Owls, hawks of various descriptions, a vulture. I’d never thought of them as raptors, but of course they are, and a very necessary part of the ecosystem, nature’s garbage collectors.
My favourite, after the eagle, was the smallest bird they showed us, an American kestrel. About the size of a blue jay, it had some of the same colouring, a grey breast that looked blue in the bright sunlight, with dappled brown wings. It was just so cute, especially after the big, fierce birds we’d been seeing. The handler explained that it was often used in falconry, because despite its small size it was an efficient hunter.
‘Well!’ I said when the demonstration was done. ‘That was great! I’ve never been so close to any birds before. Wild birds, I mean. Though I guess these aren’t really wild, are they?’
One of the handlers answered me. ‘Not in one sense. They were brought here, some of them, because they were ill or injured, and if in the healing process they became too accustomed to human attention, they could never be released into the wild again. Some of them were hatched here – we do have mated pairs, and nature will take its course. None were captured in the wild and brought here; the organization doesn’t believe in that. Their purpose is to preserve species, and to educate the public about them. Many are working birds.’
‘Umm …?’
‘That’s one reason for the flying demonstrations,’ said John, sounding a bit professorial. ‘The staff fly the birds year-round, not just for the public to see. It keeps their skills sharp, keeps them raptors, not just caged pets. And then they’re taken out to earn their keep, so to speak. You know how great a danger flocks of birds can be to airplanes, right?’
‘They get sucked into the engines, don’t they?’ Alan commented.
‘Yes, and damage the planes in other ways, as well. Gulls, especially, can be a huge problem, dangerous and expensive to deal with. Enter the raptors. They are birds of prey, and their prey is often other birds. Yes, Dorothy, you may wince, but it’s the way of nature. Many of the birds here are trained as hunters, and are then taken to airports and landfills, places where gulls have become a major nuisance. They are turned loose to hunt, and hunt they do. The gulls provide dinner for them, and the ones that manage to avoid becoming prey are sometimes smart enough to go elsewhere, at least for a while. The sites pay the centre, the gull problem is dealt with, and the raptors are happy. Isn’t that better than shooting the gulls, or poisoning them?’
‘I suppose. No, you’re right, it is. It’s just – I hate to think of these beautiful birds being killers.’
‘We’re killers too, Dorothy,’ said Alan gently. ‘At least those of us who eat meat are, but we have the killing done by slaughterhouses, so we never have to see the blood.’
I shuddered. ‘I know, I know. I just prefer not to think about it.’
‘Think of it this way,’ said John. ‘We humans can make the choice not to eat meat, if we become disturbed by the idea of killing other animals. The raptors don’t have that choice. They are what scientists call “obligate carnivores”. Their bodies need meat, and are constructed so as to make them able to get it.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘I don’t know what your religious beliefs may be, and mine are a bit ill-defined, but I do think that God probably knew what he was doing when he created these beautiful birds the way they are.’
Well, that shut me up, because it was unanswerable.
The next treat was getting to know some of the birds up close and personal. One of the handlers brought several birds out for us to see and touch. One little sweetheart was called a spectacled owl, so named because white rings around its eyes make it look very much as if it was wearing glasses. Though a fair-sized bird, it weighed very little, resting on my gloved hand. ‘Owls have very fluffy feathers,’ the handler explained. ‘It’s an important part of their hunting armoury, because it means their flight is virtually silent. And of course they hunt mostly at night, so their prey can neither see nor hear them.’
Again I shuddered a bit at the idea, and then told myself I was being an idiot. Everything has to eat. And owls, I thought, ate mostly rodents, and I’ve never been too fond of mice and voles and so on. Which, of course, has nothing to do with the ethical question. Would it be any worse if some owl swooped down some night and gobbled up a kitten? As of course has been known to happen.
And then they handed me that adorable little kestrel, and I dismissed the subject. It was such a pretty little creature, sitting quite calmly on my gauntlet. Its jesses (I think that’s the word – those slender leather straps on its legs) were tied around a ring on the glove, but that didn’t seem necessary. The little guy made no attempt to fly away, just sitting there, cocking its head from time to time.
But when the handler loosed the jesses and took the kestrel back, it pecked sharply at her gauntlet with that small but efficient beak. We must have looked a
skance, because she laughed. ‘It’s a sign of affection, actually. Kessie likes me the best, and has really chewed up my glove.’
‘I’m glad Sam doesn’t have a beak,’ Alan murmured to me.
Samantha is very fond of Alan, and likes to give him little love-bites from time to time. They don’t do any damage, but if she had a mouth like Kessie’s it would be a different story.
Our last adventure was a ‘Hawk Walk’. One of the handlers (I never did learn their names) took a hawk from its cage and led a small group of us up a wooded path to the top of a gentle hill. Then anyone who wanted was given a glove and instructions about how to stand – straight arm, held out well away from the face. I was perhaps not the only one to find that piece of advice a trifle alarming, but I did as I was told. The hawk, released, flew lazily up to the top of a tall tree and perched there, watching. When I was ready, the handler reached out and put a small piece of meat in the crook of my thumb.
The time could have been measured in seconds, perhaps milliseconds. Before I even knew it was happening, the hawk swooped down, grabbed the food without even lighting on my glove, and took off with it, back to his observation tree.
‘Wow!’ I wasn’t the only one who said it.
Several other people had a go; the show never palled. Our awe at this marvellous bird changed to amusement, though, when he refused to return to the handler’s glove, but stayed up in the tree making harsh noises that sounded extremely irritated. ‘He wants more snacks,’ said the handler with a chuckle. ‘He gets plenty of food, but when there are more visitors on the walk, he gets more handouts, so he’s annoyed with us at the moment.’ She finally persuaded him back to her glove, but he muttered all the way back to his cage.
That brought the official entertainment to an end, and as Alan and I were both tired, and the day had grown warm, we were glad to go back to the car and drink the water that John had thoughtfully brought along in thermoses.
‘That,’ I said when I had slaked my thirst, ‘was amazing. All of it. I’ve loved bald eagles ever since I started watching live-streaming from a nest in America, and now that I’ve learned more about other raptors, I’m even more intrigued. I’ve even adjusted to the idea that they’re predators. Well, sort of.’
‘You said this morning that you had a reason for bringing us here, didn’t you, John?’ said Alan.
‘Yes, and we’re about to see it. It’s on the way back home; we’ll take the quick way this time. Boring, but much better roads. Does anyone want to stop at the washroom before we hit the highway?’
Well, of course I did. One of the joys of age. And then we turned onto a main highway, went through the little town of Duncan and, after about half an hour of nothing much, turned off onto a gravel road. Not only gravel, but bumpy.
‘Looks like we’re getting close to what my family used to call the jumping off place,’ I said, trying to talk with my mouth almost shut so as not to bite my tongue as the car bounced along.
‘You’re not far wrong. There’s nothing at the end of this road, really, except a small … well, farm isn’t quite the right word, but it’s close. And here we are.’
He pulled the car off to the side of the road, almost in some bushes. ‘I’m sorry, Alan, but you’ll have to scoot across and get out on Dorothy’s side. The road is almost never used, but I had to get as far off it as I could. It would be just my luck to have old Silas come roaring out of his drive, and since he drives like a four-year-old in a bumper car …’
‘I take your point,’ said Alan, working his tall frame across the back seat to my side of the car.
John stopped and held out a hand. ‘Now, before we get any closer, I should tell you a few things. First, the man’s name is Silas Varner, and although he resembles the famous fictional miser in many ways, he does not take kindly to jokes about his name. He is in fact a curmudgeonly old cuss who hates people on general principles, and even more so of late. So watch what you say and follow my lead. He tolerates me. Most of the time.’
Well, this visit didn’t sound to me like the end to a perfect day. Alan looked at me and shrugged. If this was somehow important to John’s mission, we’d go along. But reluctantly, at least on my part.
We reached the end of the straggly shrubbery and found ourselves at the foot of a rutted dirt drive leading to—
I stopped and stared. ‘Good grief, that looks like a cross between a storage unit and a jail. What is it?’
We were looking at a small building of peculiar design. Built of plywood painted white, it was a little over twice as wide as it was deep, with a small door, padlocked, on the short side. Its roof had a slight pitch, higher in front, lower at the back. There were no windows, only four tightly barred openings on the long side. It rested on a foundation of pavers, and we could just see some kind of chicken-wire enclosure at the back. Odd noises came from it, a sort of cross between a chicken coop and The Raptors.
‘That’s Silas’s mews, his houses for his hawks. Two houses, joined together. He’s a falconer.’
‘They must be huge birds, if they need birdhouses that size.’
‘Not huge. About the size of the hawk that took the food off your glove earlier. But they need room to fly, at least a little. Of course Silas takes them out every day, or nearly. And that’s part of … ah! Mr Varner, sir.’
The man had appeared with the silence of an owl. There the resemblance ended. He was dressed in patched and filthy overalls and a shirt whose original colour was impossible to discern. His face wore a grey four-day stubble and a fierce scowl. He ignored me and Alan completely and growled at John, ‘You here to give me more grief, then?’
‘Not at all. Just came by to see how you were getting along.’
‘Rotten. No surprise, eh?’
That was the first time I had heard a Canadian use the stereotypical expression, I reflected. I said nothing, however. I had a feeling Mr Varner was not in the mood for light repartee.
John ignored the comment. He nodded at us. ‘I hoped you’d let my friends see your birds. We just got back from a visit to The Raptors, and they’ve fallen in love with—’
The man spat, narrowly missing my shoe. I thought he looked a little disappointed about his aim.
‘In love! Fools! Them birds ain’t no house pets, to stick in a cage and croon to. They’re predators, got that? They got talons and beaks that’re meant to kill, and that’s what they do. A hawk ain’t never gonna love its owner, y’hear? And a falconer don’t go all sentimental over his birds, neither. In love, pah!’
He spat again, and this time his aim was better. I was extremely glad I was wearing tennies rather than sandals.
He moved close to me and shook a dirty, arthritic finger in my face. I took an involuntary step backward. ‘And don’t you believe a frickin’ thing them idiots tell you about hawks! Keepin’ ’em in cages, showin’ ’em off like they was circus elephants! They oughta be jailed, the lot of ’em, for what they do to them poor birds!’
His breath was no cleaner than the rest of him. I couldn’t back away any farther; my back was up against a very prickly bush of some sort.
‘And you!’ He rounded on John. ‘You catch ’em yet?’
John shook his head. ‘The police haven’t stopped working on it, Mr Varner, but there isn’t much to go on.’
‘They don’t frickin’ well care! They think I let ’em loose myself. Look at my mews. Look at the way I take care of my birds. Would I do that to Harry ’n’ Ron?’
‘I believe you, Silas,’ said John quietly. Somehow his use of the man’s first name seemed to convince him.
‘So you come to see my birds. C’mon, then.’ He stomped off toward the door into the mews, and Alan and I followed. I took Alan’s arm, not too sure about this little adventure.
SIX
‘You stay back, then,’ said Silas in the tones of a top sergeant. We obeyed. I admit that I clutched Alan’s arm a little more firmly.
Silas opened the door, closed it again, did som
ething we couldn’t see, and there, flying out into the fenced enclosure, were two large and magnificent hawks. They landed on sturdy perches and preened their feathers in the sunlight. They were very similar, both about two feet tall, both with brown and tan plumage.
‘That un’s Harry,’ he said, pointing. ‘And that’s Ron. They’re brothers.’ He looked at me as if daring me to make some remark.
I said only, ‘They’re beautiful.’
‘They’re red-tails, eh? O’ course they’re beautiful. I feed ’em right, take care of ’em like they was babies. They fly every day when the weather’s right. They got no reason to go lookin’ for nothin’ they ain’t got!’
Since I had no idea what he was talking about, I made no response; neither did Alan. John simply nodded.
‘Right. You seen what you came to see. I got to get me and my boys ready to fly.’
He retrieved the birds, one at a time, on his glove, disappeared inside with them, and then left the mews and stumped off.
I watched him walk up to a structure that I assumed was a shed, and a dilapidated one at that. Paint flaking off, door hanging awry, a window patched together with what looked like masking tape.
‘That’s where he lives,’ said John quietly as we turned to go back to the car.
I looked back at the neat, freshly painted mews, appalled at the contrast.
‘He spends every cent of his pension on his hawks. The neighbours don’t appreciate his neglect of his home – one can hardly call it a house – but he doesn’t care. He can’t be bothered with the house or the grounds. His birds take up all his time.’
Death in the Garden City Page 4