Six

A pink dawn was breaking when George opened his bleary eyes the next day. He took a gulp of fresh air and flapped his wings to exercise their muscles. He spent time preening his feathers and then set off for the pond.

He’d walked just a few paces when he heard light pattering behind him. He feared the ladybird might be following him and spun round.

“Good morning, Thelma,” he said, relief written all over his face. “I’m glad I’ll have the chance to talk to you, if you’re not too busy.”

“I’m never too busy to listen, George, anything wrong? You look apprehensive.”

George hesitated.

“Well?” Thelma prompted, her eyes widening with curiosity.

“Rosa, the ladybird, bumped into me after the gathering. She knew my name before I...”

“Rosa misses very little,” Thelma interrupted, “for she spends a lot of her time watching and earwigging. What did she have to say, anyway?” she asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

George couldn’t bring himself to repeat Rosa’s hateful words and thoughts. “Not much,” he replied, “but her tongue was unkind when she spoke about you and the butterflies.”

Thelma let out a long deep sigh then rested her eyes upon George. “We welcomed Rosa and her daughters a while back. The sob-story she told us touched us all in our community. I now wonder if there was any truth in it. They kept themselves to themselves for a time and we respected that. But as time passed they became jealous of the butterflies for their beauty and the voices they’re gifted with. Amongst other things, Heather, Rosa’s eldest daughter, took a fancy to Prince Orpheo and kept shadowing him. When she was told to stay away, she turned vengeful. With her sisters’ help, she tried to drown Prince Orpheo in the pond. Had Conti not been there, the prince would be dead today. Then they turned against the butterflies, especially Estella. They kept teasing and bullying them in a spiteful manner. I reprimanded them severely, of course I did. It is my job to protect the weak and vulnerable, especially the butterflies who are precious to me and Blossom Valley.”

While Thelma was talking, all sorts of thoughts tumbled inside George’s head. “Why are the butterflies so precious to her? Is she their mother, turned into a spider by the evil force? Did she commit some dreadful deed and was punished or...? Phew! Too many riddles for my brain to guess,” he muttered silently to himself. “I won’t trouble my brain again. The riddle or riddles will be answered one day. I’ll just have to wait.”

Suddenly, swirls of beautiful music drifted across the valley, followed by heavenly singing.

“They’ve started!” Thelma said with a little jump. “It’s the last rehearsal before our celebration. Why don’t you come along with me, George?”

“I will,” George answered, “after I’ve said hello to Conti and asked him to join me.”

***

All morning, Conti had been preparing the story of his life. He went over it time and again to make sure his brain had taken it all in, and would keep it there until George came round. He was so happy that he capered off across the grass, whirling and hopping and croaking until he bumped into George.

“What are you up to, Conti?” George asked.

“I’m happy, that’s all. I hope you’ll spare a little time with me to hear my life story,” said Conti. “I’ve got it ready up here.” He touched his head.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, but after we’ve been to the Music Hall to listen to the rehearsals. We’re both invited.”

“We?” Conti asked, panting.

“Yes, and they’ve already started. Can you not hear the music?”

A host of small birds had lined the tree branches by the Music Hall and were listening to the music, some quietly repeating the flute trills.

“Look who’s here, the sparrow,” Robin Redbreast, chirped. “You know that only song birds are gifted with the chords to trill. Sparrows aren’t. So why are you here?”

The sparrow put his head down and flew away.

“You’ve gone too far, this time Robin,” a wren scolded him.

“He was harsh on me at the gathering,” Robin protested.

“He didn’t criticize your voice. It was your frolicking which can be annoying at times. I believe an apology wouldn’t go amiss. You called him common and that’s cruel.”

“You’re right, wren,” Robin admitted. “I’ll do it straight away.”

The music that flowed from the flute was heavenly and the voices so magical, so pure and beautiful that it brought tears to George’s eyes.

Conti was enchanted. It showed on his face. His mouth fell open and his eyes were glued to the flute Prince Orpheo was playing.

“Call me crazy,” Conti whispered in George’s ear, “but that flute isn’t ordinary. It’s magical. It’s playing on its own. It takes Orpheo’s breath and plays by itself. Didn’t you notice?”

George shook his head.

“He barely touched the stops. You know what I’m talking about?”

George shook his head.

“Stops are the holes in all wind instruments. You blow through the flute and your fingers have to go over the stops to form the notes. My tenor explained it to me. I’ll tell you all about him later. I’m now going to leave quietly. Come when you’re ready.”

***

Conti was making loud gargling noises as if trying to get rid of something stuck in his throat. George thought the old frog was choking. Only when he got closer did he realise that Conti was preparing to sing. His chest was stretched out, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He opened his mouth and let the first notes flow out slow and soft, almost whispering, gradually getting louder. George had never seen a frog with such a gleeful expression on his face, nor heard a frog sing like this. As the song reached its crescendo, Conti flung his arms up in the air. His mouth opened wide and his tongue danced inside it. Then two tears rolled down his face.

“Bravo!” George exclaimed and clapped his wings hard.

“I’ve never put such effort into my singing before. I did it for you, my friend,” Conti panted, his eyes gleaming orange and green in the morning sun. “I hope you liked it.”

“I did, my friend,” said George. “It was brilliant, but why the tears?”

“They are tears of joy, George. The days are long with nothing much to do. I have no mates like most of you creatures and I get lonely, I do. My years are piling up. Singing keeps me going. You know how I came to sing classic tunes?” he asked and immediately set about answering his question.

“Years back I lived in the pond of a grand house. A famous tenor had rented it and a fine human he was. He named me Conti, after an Italian tenor. He was Italian himself. I was allowed to hop inside the house and watch him sing. He’d practised for hours before he left for the Opera House. Then I’d hop into my pond where I would go over the tunes I had heard.

Sadly, the tenor moved away and I lost a good friend. New people bought the house. They filled the pond, and I was lucky I wasn’t buried under the gravel. After that, I wandered for days on end looking for water. A severe drought that year had dried ponds, creeks and dykes. I carried on, dragging my legs behind me under the scorching sun until I collapsed on the parched grass. A bird must have spotted me from high above. I knew it was an owl, for I vaguely heard his hoot in the distant sky. He came down and spoke to me. My eyelids were stuck tight and my limbs almost dead, and guess what? The owl was telling me of a place where there was water and giving me directions to get there. I forced one eyelid open, just a crack and saw him.

“Let me be, Owl,” I muttered with the little breath that was left in me. “Can’t you see I’m dying?”

“Plato is my name,” he snapped, “and no, I can’t see you’re dying, for I won’t let you.” He grabbed me by my back legs and brought me to this pond. I’ve been happy here, I have, and everyone has been good to me. Only, if it weren’t for these terrible things that are happening in my pond.”

“What’s happening in your pond, Conti?” George asked, looking worried.

“It wasn’t this bad in the beginning and with my hearing not being so good, I could barely hear them. It has got worse, much louder, in recent times. When the moon becomes full muffled groans and cries of pain and anger come from deep below the water. Then there’s the eerie shrills of the bats that flitter over the water lilies. Sometimes they come skimming over my head and they scare me out of my skin, they do.”

“Bats are blind and can’t see you. That’s why they bump into you. There’s nothing nasty about the bats. For all you know they come over for a sip of water.”

“Bats are witches,” the frog said, “didn’t you know? Well, I’m telling you, bats are witches and come over to communicate with whatever magic, witches and stuff are buried deep in the pond.”

“You’re talking nonsense now.”

“I’m talking about magic, my friend. There’s a lot of magic in this world of ours, didn’t you know? Well, I’m telling you, there’s magic in the air, the woods, mountains and valleys, in lakes and ponds. You can’t see it cause it’s invisible and secret. Only sometimes you can feel it and sometimes hear it. I’ve heard stories that would make the skin at the back of your neck tingle.”

“You don’t believe in old tales, do you, Conti?”

“I do believe the stories or tales as you call them, my friend,” the frog replied stubbornly.

“From way back in time, witches cast spells on humans turning them into mice, princesses into spiders and princes into...” His eyes rolled round and round, gleaming with excitement and his mouth curved into a smile. “Princes into frogs...” he muttered his mouth moving up and down as if he were silently talking to somebody. Then all of a sudden he started to shake his head violently left and right, up and down like a demented frog.

“What’s the matter, Conti?” George asked worriedly.

“I’ve been trying to ask my brain questions and the matter is, it can’t take them in cause it’s full of other stuff, mainly my life story, and now that you’ve heard it, it can go. I need to shake it empty so it can take my questions and hopefully give me some answers.”

He gave a sudden jerk and as his head dropped over the still water, his reflection, green and remote, glared back at him. Conti went rigid and silent like a frog out of a mould.

Seconds later, he looked at George, the skin round his wet eyes creased into rings of sad wrinkles. “Nah...” He sighed. “All my brain is doing, is showing me images of a frog, a wrinkly old frog. Me. I reckon what it is trying to tell me, is that I’ve always been a plain frog and not one with a crown on his head.”

“Whew!” George puffed. “You had me worried, my friend, and I’m glad you’ve sorted it out. As for me, I know I’ve always been a crow and right now I’m off to Penny Wood.”

“What are you going to Penny Wood for, George?”

But George was already soaring across the sky.

***

Penny Wood was silent that morning. Only the light stirring of the treetops could be heard and a woodpecker’s faint hammering at some distant tree.

Anxiety crept inside George as he circled low over the trees looking for the bluebells. It was some time before he spotted them. His heart pounding in his chest, he came down.

“No!” he gasped. The bluebells lay trodden on one side and there was a footprint on the ground close by. George sat staring in dismay.

He suddenly straightened up. “Hold on,” he said loudly to himself, “the soil hasn’t been disturbed and this is not a fox’s paw. It’s a human’s, a hunter’s boot.” He looked around. The bluebells where he’d left his parents were under a fir tree and the ferns were nearby.

“This is the wrong part of the woods,” he uttered. He breathed a sigh of relief and flew over to the other side.

Penny Wood was at its thickest there, and the haze that still lingered over the tree tops blotted his vision. He flew just above the trees, round and round, in a straight line, then across and always ended up where he’d started. Frustration and despair got the better of him and he broke out in loud carks.

Suddenly, a blinding fork of lightning tore the sky apart and at once the thunder crashed somewhere close by. Black clouds darkened the sky and the trees stood still and silent waiting for the storm. George took shelter in the foliage of a tree, crossed his wings around him and waited for the rain to pour down.

Time passed and neither storm nor even a drop of rain appeared. George looked up. The sun was pushing the black clouds back. The darkness gradually thinned and a bright light spilled out on to the forest floor.

It was then that George realised the tree he’d sheltered in was the young fir tree. Relief and joy overtook him. He now knew exactly where his parents lay.

Tendrils of forest creepers had found their way to the bluebells and had snagged on them. George pushed them to the side, parted the bluebells and saw the tip of a black feather.

“I’ve found you,” he sighed. “I want you to know that I’m missing you terribly. I’ve found a new home and I’ll be happy there. I haven’t been to Crow Lake to see the relatives yet, but...”

“Oi, you’re talking to yourself!” A bird’s sing-song voice cut him short. “That’s the first sign of madness, so my grandfather reckons,” the bird went on and flew down beside him. “You’re a crow, yeah right?”

“And you are an arrogant and rude jackdaw,” George replied reproachfully. “Where did you learn this silly language?”

“I picked it up from young humans who stick around our area. It’s cool, isn’t it? I only use it when I’m away from my parents, if I ever am. That’s why I left. They want to keep me under their guard. They reckon they know best,” he added scornfully.

“Never scorn your parents’ anxiety, young fellow,” George scolded him. “They care about your safety and yes, parents know best.”

“We live in rocks,” said the jackdaw. “I want to see some of the rest of the world - woods, rivers and valleys - and I want to do it by myself.”

“Fine, you’ve done that. Now it’s time you went home. The woods are quiet today but there’re all sorts of dangers in the sky. I mean predators. So be vigilant.”

George straightened the bluebells and placed the creepers over them. He closed his eyes and remained silent as if in prayer.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispered and took off.