We must hide this candle under a
bushel, Chylus said.
The morning after they brought
Jarrod back from the canyon, they hurried him away from his nest before the sun
rose, before the songs in his throat overflowed and brought sunshine and
happiness to the world.
There are many who say magpies do
not sing.
But every bird sings. Not all may
have the voices of meadowlarks or whippoorwills, but all birds sing.
And it is not mimickry, like the
crows learning to quack like ducks. The songs are in the brain and in the heart
and in the voice and on the air. Whether a magpie graduates beyond croaking or
screeching when humans are near, the song is there.
Jarrod knew it.
Jarrod felt it bubbling in him and knew if he did not sing, he would burst.
So the crows carried him far from
home, far from where the joyful song of a magpie whose burden at long last was
lifted could be enjoyed by his fellow beasts, wasted on those who would hear
the sounds and cry for joy but not know why the tears came nor why the song was
sung.
Jarrod agreed.
For now, he said, it is valuable
to us that I continue to appear miserable. Those who are miserable are indeed
invisible in this world. Those whose joy bursts are the object of awe and scorn
on this farm. At least in the eyes of the marmots.
But that morning, far from the
farm, joy.
Jarrod and Chylus and Magda soared
on a thermal rising from the black of the highway asphalt. The sun shone
through the low clouds like a grey-haired dandelion struck by lightning and lit
the birds’ black wings with iridescence. Jarrod, thin as a whisper, shouted as
the magpie shouts, pumping wings, soaring, soaring. Chylus and Magda swam
through the heavy morning air to keep up with the bird bursting light from the
tip of every feather.
Oh, he screamed. I could fly
‘round the world. I could fly to the moon and the stars. Oh, today of days, I
could fly! He pumped his wings and flew higher still, his exuberance startling
a lone hawk who had been watching the trio, thinking of breakfast. Jarrod saw
the bird and sped towards it, wings pumping, pumping.
Magda cast a worried eye at
Chylus, who shrugged – not an easy feat for a bird in flight. He pumped his
wings as did Magda, hoping to keep up.
The hawk smiled as Jarrod
approached. Good morning, brother of the morning, it said, offering the
traditional greeting of one hawk to another. I see in your eyes a burden
lifted, and my hunger abates. ‘Tis a fair morning for flying high.
God, Jarrod said. God, today, you
let me fly with the hawks. Me, who for so long, flew with the toads.
Yes, Jarrod said, breathlessly.
It is rare to see lowlanders as
yourself, flying so high, the hawk said. But you have reason, and that is
reason enough to fly unmolested.
Yes, Jarrod said. I have reason.
The hawk and the magpie flew
higher until, arching his wings, the hawk darted over the lake where the air
cooled. Jarrod followed and soon the two spiraled down towards the water,
dropping into an invisible hole of cooler air.
Oh, Magda puffed. He flies like a
star.
Yes, Chylus answered. And we his
keepers, stars as well.
They laughed as they followed the
hawk and the magpie, descending toward the lake, calling to each other,
laughing, singing.
The hawk sang, sharp notes like
knives shining in warm sunlight. The magpie sang, water bubbling over smooth
stream stones caressed by the moon. A rare thing, the hawk said, to fly with
such a companion. I do not know what burden you have left behind, but you no
longer have its chains about you.
No, Jarrod said. I do not.
If we all flew with such
exuberance, the skies would be dark and the air a cacophony of song, the hawk
said. Alas, such is the world, nearly silent, baleful. You mind, he said. Fly
high as you like in these parts, and I’ll see to it no hawk causes you harm. I
have marked you with my eyes, and as I am known as a teller of tales among my
own, they will recognize you from afar, and leave you unmolested. The world
needs joy much more than it needs bellies full in the morning. And there are
plenty around here to catch.
Chylus heard the conversation and
wheeled, Magda close at wing.
This talk of full bellies makes me
nervous, he said as they flew over the lake, he above, she below, to protect
her from any predators.
Now you know what the voles feel
like, Magda said.
Yes, yes, Chylus muttered. They
flew to a willow hanging over the lake and perched, watching Jarrod and the
hawk flying to and fro over the lake. The hawk dove to the water, speared a
fish. He and the magpies settled on a shoreside rock to feast.
I would like to hear your story,
the hawk said, between beakfuls of fish.
I would like to tell it, Jarrod
replied.
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