Chapter 14

As the young magpie flew down to face him, Traska assessed his opponent. He certainly approved of what he saw.

‘What a fine strong son I have,’ he thought. ‘Well built and muscular, yet agile too. From here, his beak looks razor-sharp. All in all, I’d prefer not to take a closer inspection, but it would seem that I have no choice.”

In the tree, and in flying to the ground, Venga had presented only his profile to his enemy. Now, as he turned to face Traska fully, the older magpie felt a mixture of emotions on seeing Venga’s damaged eye. Sadness, that such a fine specimen should, after all, be flawed. Triumph, for now he knew, beyond doubt, that he could defeat the younger bird. And anger. Anger against the world. This feeling, above all, surged through his veins. Anger. For taking away Katya, whom he had loved. For forcing him to fight. To kill his son.

For a brief moment, Traska considered refusing to fight, allowing, instead, his son to dispatch him without opposition. But it went against the very grain of his existence. Traska’s instinct for survival had been paramount since birth. His eyes flitted quickly around, assessing the lay of the land in the fighting zone. There was a large-enough area of open ground, sparse of vegetation and fairly even underfoot. He would keep the fight grounded. In the air, Venga would have superior agility and speed. On the ground, Traska could manoeuvre his foe into positions of disadvantage, because of the younger bird’s visual impairment.

“Are you ready?” asked Venga, in a stern tone.

Hopping slightly sideways to maximise his opponent’s disability, Traska rushed forward, lunging at Venga’s shoulder and striking a telling blow. Retreating just as swiftly, he called out, “Never do that again. If you live to fight another time, strike first, then talk!”

Traska nearly tripped over his own tail as Venga came at him, with startling speed and ferocity. The beak was every bit as sharp and deadly as the older magpie had feared and only desperate evasion allowed Traska to avoid its thrust to his heart. Side-stepping once again, the evil magpie sliced open a gash in Venga’s cheek, drawing blood for the second time, without reply. But, if he had expected his son to become enraged at his initial failure, Traska was to be disappointed. Actually, what he felt was considerable pride, as he watched Venga gather his wits, regroup and begin to probe for weaknesses in the older bird’s defences.

The battle raged back and forth, as beaks flashed and talons ripped. Venga was suddenly aware of an audience. He quailed a little to see the massive hunched backs of the hooded crows, as they crowded around the arena to watch the fight.

“One against one,” he cawed out to Traska.

“Of course, my son. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” The older magpie danced on his toes, never taking his eyes off his opponent, but calling out for all to hear, “He’s mine. No one is to kill him but me! I don’t need any help with this young whelp!”

The crows laughed and jeered in a ragged and raucous chorus of malice. But Venga ignored them all, focusing on the job in hand. Seeing this, Traska felt a frisson of fear. Perhaps he had underestimated his foe. The boy certainly seemed determined enough. But that eye! ‘That’s it,’ he counselled himself. ‘Concentrate on that eye. That weakness will be his downfall. He cannot defeat you with one eye missing.’

Traska’s reverie was savagely interrupted. Once again, he had misjudged the younger magpie’s speed and, this time, a talon tore into his flank. An inch lower and his leg would have been maimed. As it was, the wound merely served to remind Traska of the size of the task that he faced. He began a strategy of constant movement, always in one direction, keeping the battle in circular motion and only changing direction when precipitating a sudden, brutal attack. In and out. Drawing blood. Weakening his enemy by degrees. Never getting close for too long. Blood now covered Venga from head to foot, and Traska marvelled at the strength of his son. “Hell, but the boy has got courage!” he smiled.

But it was the sight of that smile, which Venga misconstrued as mockery, which finally caused that courage to fail. Tears flowed as despair took hold at last, and he rushed clumsily at the evil magpie. “Die!” he screamed, as he put his remaining strength into that last, desperate charge.

It was Traska’s change of direction that undid him. Venga had expected his opponent to dodge once more to the right, keeping him on the younger bird’s vulnerable left flank. But, too late, he realised Traska’s intention. Propelled unstoppably by the force of his headlong charge, Venga was unable to turn away, as the older magpie sidestepped in the opposite direction and lunged with his own, cruelly-sharp beak.

Venga screamed in terrible agony, as total darkness closed in upon him. Blinded, he stumbled around the clearing, groping pathetically for his enemy. Traska stepped back and watched his son’s torment, sickened to the very pit of his stomach. He knew that it would be a kindness to his son to end it there. One blow would be enough, now that Venga was defenceless. He should give him an honourable death. The boy had earned that, at the very least.

Traska turned his back upon the sight of Venga’s stumbling, shambling agony. “Finish it!” he called to his assembled cohorts. Then he took to the air and flapped exhaustedly away.

The reunion between mother and children was a heart-warming sight for the old owl. He had made so many misjudgements and thanked the Creator that no one else had been made to pay too dearly for his mistakes. Merion’s leg would mend quickly enough and neither young robin seemed to be at all traumatised by their experiences. Indeed, like all young children, they competed with each other in the telling of their adventures, their eyes gleaming with excitement as the words flooded out. Portia hugged the pair of them to her breast. Tomar smiled with satisfaction, before withdrawing to allow the family some privacy.

Thus it was from Mickey, the bullfinch, that Tomar learned about his emissaries’ adventures in Wingland, and of the obstinate refusal of the small bird population there to uproot and fly to a new home in Birddom.

“I am saddened by the outcome. But it should not have been wholly unexpected. The attempt had to be made and no two birds could have tried harder than yourselves to make a success of your mission. The sacrifices that you made will not be forgotten, and the whole of Birddom is grateful to you for your unstinting efforts. I will tell Portia so later. For now, she has her children to comfort her and I would not intrude upon their reunion.

But we will wish to honour you both. You are a pair of fine, brave birds, and a credit to your homeland. You are living proof that it is not necessary to be big in size, as long as your heart is large enough. But it must be said that the future is very bleak for Birddom. We needed a massive influx of small birds to redress the natural balance that Slyekin tried, so terribly, to destroy. And it galls me to think that he may, after all, have succeeded in at least one part of his evil plan.” Worry furrowed the owl’s brow, and he looked very old indeed.

Mickey was extremely concerned for his companion. “Tomar, my friend. You must rest. You look absolutely done in! Have you eaten?”

“There’s been too much of importance to be done for me to worry about my stomach!” the old owl laughed.

“Well. It’d be a fine thing for Birddom if it lost its leader, the finest mind in all the land, because he forgot to feed himself!”

“You are right once again, Mickey, and your wisdom shames me.

I will eat, then rest. Tomorrow is soon enough to begin the future of Birddom.”

The venerable members of the Council of the Owls sat once more in the sacred oak trees ringing the clearing of the council chamber. The original eight, who had presided over the proceedings at the inaugural meeting after the troubles, were supplemented by four eager young owls. They had each been inducted with solemnity into the Council of the Owls and had taken their places alongside their elders. The strength of the Council was now complete once more and, judging by the brightness of eye and quickness of mind of this younger generation, its future seemed assured.

Tomar, the Great Owl, looked around the circle, with pride and pleasure. ‘If only the future of Birddom looked so healthy,’ he mused. Then, casting aside these doubts, he began to speak.

“My friends and fellow members of the Council of the Owls. We are met here today with two purposes. The first is to honour the very brave and resolute pair that stand before you.”

Twelve pairs of unblinking eyes focused on the robin and bullfinch in the centre of the ring.

“Portia and Mickey were unable to accomplish the task that we, the Council, set for them. But then we all knew just how difficult to achieve that task would be. Birddom could not have made a better choice for its emissaries, and I am proud of their efforts.”

A chorus of deep, sonorous voices joined the Great Owl’s in voicing their thanks and support for the robin and the bullfinch. Tomar raised his wing for silence, then continued, “But now we have to face the facts. The task remains unfinished. Birddom is in grave danger. Unless a way can be found to entice small birds to our shores in huge numbers, the future is very bleak. The natural order is crucial to continuance of life as we desire it. We have already committed ourselves to one breaking of this natural law, though I maintain that it was crucial to our success against Slyekin, and I refuse to rescind my promise. We will stand by our decision not to take any insect for food, at least while I remain Great Owl, and, I hope, well beyond that, if the Council wishes to retain its honour.

Which brings us to our second purpose. Perhaps our newer members will be able to think of a way for our aims to be achieved. Fresh minds with fresh ideas are always welcome. Do not be afraid to speak up.”

In fact, most of the owls voiced their opinions which were, in turn, discussed with the utmost seriousness by the entire Council. Then, without exception, they were rejected as unworkable. A cloud of depression settled over the Council ring, as the realisation dawned upon everyone there that they had truly only had one shot. One chance of success. And that that attempt had failed.

Then one of the younger owls, who, feeling less sure of himself, had held back, finally found the courage to speak up. “Perhaps we could force small birds to come to Birddom. Our need is desperate and maybe desperate measures are called for!”

“May time teach you the folly of those words!” responded Tomar, angrily. “Yours is an inauspicious start as a member of our Council, if you propose violence against your fellows in the bird world. Would you become like the magpies?”

“Forgive me, Tomar,” answered the young owl, taken aback by the Great Owl’s anger. “My nervousness has made my brain and my tongue clumsy. I would relinquish my position on the Council, newly gained and treasured, before I willingly harmed one of my kin. I meant only that a larger, more imposing entourage might make the attempt at persuasion more effectively. Not meaning any disrespect to our honoured guests, who tried so valiantly, in their turn.”

“Well spoken,” Tomar said. “We may make a Council member out of you yet. I understand your thinking more clearly now and, although I personally would baulk at such an idea, we must open up the discussion to the whole Council. Perhaps the time has come for more forceful measures, if we are to safeguard the future of Birddom as somewhere . . .”

Tomar’s voice trailed off in distracted fashion and every head turned in the direction of his stare. Portia was gazing into the sky and cheeping in excitement. Mickey, by her side, was jumping up and down, crying out, “It’s Swoop! It’s Swoop!”

And, in confirmation, the rapidly approaching dot in the sky transformed into the fast-flying swallow, as she sped towards the clearing. The owls all held their breath, as if aware that the arrival was a portentous one. Indeed, as Swoop dropped among them, she was already calling out her news:

“They are coming!”

The flight south took them over the ancient site where, long ago, a natural disaster had befallen Birddom. A virulent plague brought to the shores of the land by insects. Only the wisdom and swift actions of Eamonn, then the Great Owl, had saved Birddom, by preventing the spread of the plague. Now Nature, it seemed, had taken a hand again, but this time in Wingland. Swoop had regaled the Council with stories of terrible fires, which raged, unchecked, through the countryside there. Whole habitats had been consumed by the flames.

And it seemed that Man had abandoned the rural areas almost entirely to its ferocity. Trenches had been dug and large tracts of land cleared, wherever the fire had threatened urban clusters. But no attempt had been made to quell the flames. Man had merely decided to let the fire burn itself out. And, in doing so, had condemned millions of creatures to death. Birds can fly, however, and fly they did. With the fires at their backs, they flew further north and west until, at last, no other choice remained for them but to abandon their homelands altogether.

Tomar and Portia sat together in a gnarled horse-chestnut tree and watched them come. The horizon from side to side, as far as they could see, was dark, and the cloud approached ever nearer, blotting out the sun and plunging Birddom into the preternatural gloom of evening. The owl’s keen sight began to distinguish between individual birds, whilst the massive flock were still some distance away. So many! Every species imaginable. Birds that had been indigenous to Birddom flying alongside more-exotic varieties. And all coming, as if in answer to his prayers. The Great Owl smiled and turned to Portia, tears in his eyes and momentarily unable to speak through his emotion.

She nodded her comprehension. “Birddom is whole once more, my dear friend. I only wish that Kirrick was here to see this.”

The owl and robin looked to a spot nearby, where they could see the pair of young robins, dancing around with unconfined joy, as the myriad of birds flew overhead. Tomar found his voice once more.

“Perhaps he is, Portia. Perhaps he is.”