Seven

Crow Lake was quite a flight away but George had made his mind up it was time to tell his fellow crows about his parents and his new life in Blossom Valley. He was some few beats away when he halted in mid-air. A huge mushroom of black smoke hung over the lake and beyond, tongues of fierce red fire leapt through the trees of the copse. Crows flew frantically around, passing on cries of danger and alarm.

The warning seemed to have come too late, for through his stinging eyes George saw screaming crows, a wing or tail on fire, plunging into the lake then floating lifeless on the still water. On the far left side of the copse the fire wasn’t at his fiercest yet but the wind was changing and would soon fan it on.

George’s throat was dry and his eyes stung. He brought one of his wings over his mouth to filter the smoky air, took long breaths and dived down.

Choking chicks were squawking wildly in their nests while the mothers, numbed by the horror around them, were doing nothing but wailing.

“Don’t sit like stoned crows. Wake up!” he ordered. “Get on the ground, cup your wings and catch the chicks as I’ll be dropping them. Take them to the heath. The bracken will keep them cool.”

A few burning trees away, a mother had fallen over a nest at the very top, weeping and mourning.

“Mourn for your babies when they’re dead, and they’ll soon be if you don’t pull yourself together.” He lifted her by the neck and dropped her on the ground. “Now catch your babies,” he yelled at her, “and run to the bracken, fast.”

In the meantime, those crows who were still able to help, took the injured to the bracken where the breeze from the lake was cooling the heat of the fire.

“It’s all the humans’ fault,” an old crow said. “Mindless young folk throwing live cigarettes on the forest floor. No respect for nature, no regret for lost life. Don’t they listen to their parents and school teachers who tell them that without nature there won’t be life? Look at what they’ve done to us, the misery they’ve caused.”

A desperate cark suddenly cut through the smoky air and made George jump.

“Don’t go!” the old crow urged. “It’s become too dangerous.”

George ignored him and went off.

Far off on the western bank of the lake, all on its own stood a young tree that had been counting its blessings the fire had spared it. But the fire had shown no real mercy. A spark had now travelled in the wind and set it alight.

On the top branch, sat an old crow, motionless but carking his throat out.

George shook him violently. “Move!” he yelled.

The crow stared at him and carried on carking.

George grabbed him by the neck and brought him to safety. “Fly!” he ordered. “Use your wings!”

The crow didn’t move. The shock had taken his sight, speech and hearing away. The rescue team pulled him to the bracken.

George skirted the lake over and over to make sure no injured had been left behind. The young tree had burnt completely but it still stood smouldering and smoking, refusing to fall. In the end, it yielded to its fate. Its black skeleton crashed down, exploding red hot sparks everywhere.

A whiff of burning reached George’s nostrils. One spark had landed on his chest, scorching his feathers. He felt the heat stinging his flesh and heard it sizzling.

“Aaargh! Aaargh!” he yelped and rushed to the water.

He looked up at the sky. “If only I could see Swift and send a message to Plato,” he mumbled, his breathing slowly trailing off into silence.

***

“Why the downcast face on such a beautiful morning, Conti?” Plato asked as he glided down to the pond.

“George wasn’t at the gathering,” Conti replied broodingly, “and Alfie, his mate, said his roost wasn’t slept in last night. He’s gone back to Crow Lake, where his home was, and he isn’t coming back, I’m telling you. It’s my fault. It’s what I said. I’ve scared him.”

“What are you talking about, creature?” Plato frowned.

“I told him scary things and stuff.”

“What stuff, Conti?” Plato insisted.

Conti broke out in loud sobs. “I don’t know. Stop muddling my brain, asking questions one after another too fast. My brain is loaded with my own questions. It can’t take any more. It is confused and sad, very sad, cause it’s all my fault. That’s what my brain is telling me.”

At that instant, Alphie flew over.

“I’m glad I found you, Plato,” he said, panting. “The copse at Crow Lake has burnt down. Many dead and many injured. Me, and the rest of Blossom Valley crows are heading there to offer help, but it is medical help they need urgently. I thought of Tawny Owl.”

“Did you see George? Is he safe, Alphie?” Conti spluttered.

“Can’t answer that, Conti, cause I flew straight here,” was Alphie’s reply.

The frog let out a deafening croak and plunged into his pond.

Shortly afterwards Tawny Owl and Alphie, a straw first-aid box hanging from their beaks, took to the sky. Plato followed.

Tawny Owl was hard at work straight away, running from the chicks to the injured as fast as she could and in utter silence.

“Is George, alive?” Plato asked an old crow, his voice tense with anxiety.

The old crow blinked, trying to see through the smoke. “I don’t know about that, Owl,” he said. “There’s no one called George here. We’re all crows. Unless you mean the hero -he was a Crow Lake fellow like us. He saved the chicks. He saved others as well. He’s dead now.”

Plato’s heart lurched heavily inside his chest.

“Heroes die first,” the old crow went on in a wheezy voice. “That’s what I said to him when they brought him back from the lake. He didn’t hear me cause he’d passed out, they told me.”

“Passed out?” Plato puffed with relief.

“That’s what I said, Owl, dead, passed out it makes no difference. It means the same thing, doesn’t it?”

“Plato!” Alphie called from the bracken, “George is lying here seriously injured.”

Tawny Owl was beside him in a jiffy.

“See to the others first, Tawny Owl. I can wait,” George said, groaning with pain.

“I know my job,” Tawny Owl replied firmly. “You’ve got a nasty burn, red as the heart of a beetroot. The remedy I’m going to apply will sting and burn horribly for some few seconds. So feel free to jump up and down, or scream your head off, until the pain eases off, then rest.

Plato took Tawny Owl aside. He pulled something from deep inside his left wing and ceremoniously handed it to her.

“This,” he said in a deep, earnest voice, “is a sacred old remedy. My master, the Great Owl of Delphi, left it with me before he flew back to the mountain of Parnassus in Greece. He said, “When I die Plato, and I shall one day, I want to be in the high mountains and hills that surround Delphi, my homeland. You know of course that we owls originate from Greece. My old master told me that one of his very ancient ancestors sat on the shoulder of Athena, the goddess of Athens, guiding her with his wisdom. This remedy has great powers. So use it wisely and consider it precious.”

Tawny Owl looked intrigued and fascinated. “You have never talked about him before, Plato, Why not?”

“Because the opportunity has but now risen, Tawny Owl,” he answered plainly.

After Tawny Owl left the bracken, silence fell, as the crows, exhausted by the horror of the fire and relieved of their pain, nodded off.

It was sometime in late afternoon that George, together with a few others, left the bracken and slowly walked to where a number of crows had gathered around the old crow whose spirit much brighter now, was talking about happenings long in the past. Plato was still there. George trotted over to him and spoke.

“I’m grateful, Plato. All of us at Crow Lake are. Without you and Alphie, our Blossom Valley fellow crows but mostly, without Tawny Owl’s medical assistance, we wouldn’t have coped. I won’t be coming back to Blossom Valley, for as you’ll appreciate I’m needed here. We have to find a new home, and because it’s all farm land around here, we’ll have to travel far to find trees.”

Plato fell silent, stroking his brow, as he did when he was going through his thoughts. “I believe I’ve found a good solution,” he said. “Why travel far in search of a new home when Blossom Valley is already a home to a crow family? There are lots of uninhabited trees in Blossom Valley and many herons in Penny Reeds who are brilliant architects of nest building. They’re good friends of Blossom Valley and will be happy to help us. We’ll transport the chicks, the injured and the frail. Our ambulance cart sits outside the hospital and those creatures who pull it are the fastest and most reliable hares in the region. Talk it over among you and decide. I’ll be back tomorrow,” he concluded and took off.

“What was he talking about? Is he serious?” a crow with a patch on his left eye asked.

“He’s an owl,” the old crow blurted out. “Owls never speak words that aren’t serious and wise. Remember that.”