Chapter 6

The huge coil of rope reeked of pitch and its strong odour made the two tiny birds hiding within gag at the stench. Portia already felt very sick. The motion of the ferry, as it was rolled from side to side by the waves, turned her stomach as much as the smell. Other things distressed her also. The incessant rain. The noise of the ship and the proximity of so many humans. Portia began to think that Kraken’s idea had not been such a good one, after all.

Mickey cheeped quietly into her ear, trying to comfort her.

“At least we’re safe and sound, and letting someone else do all the hard work.”

“But what if we’re discovered? What if the men catch us?”

“They can’t fly, can they?” was Mickey’s ebullient response. “Stop worrying, Portia. Enjoy the ride!”

Enjoyment was not a word that the beautiful robin would have chosen at that precise moment. But she let it pass. It was no good snapping back at her companion. This was just a necessary, albeit uncomfortable, part of their journey. The crossing to Wingland had to be made, and she was prepared to endure anything that would help to achieve their aim.

The rain finally abated, but no sun penetrated through the cloud cover to ease the chill in their bones, and their slow passage across the sea was a joyless one. The two birds took turns to keep watch, allowing the other to snatch some sleep. It was hard to stay awake – the rolling motion of the ship induced a state of somnolence. More than once it was only the dousing from a sudden cloud of sea spray, as the ship pitched and tossed on the waves, that roused the designated watcher from approaching slumber.

Meanwhile, back in Tanglewood, Merion and Olivia were exploring their new surroundings with renewed vigour and enthusiasm. Tomar’s stories, and their natural resilience, had enabled the pair of young robins to cast off their feelings of doubt and unhappiness and now they played gleefully among the trees, chasing each other in and out of the branches in an exhilarating game of tag.

Tomar watched this strenuous activity from the comfort of his perch. A satisfied smile spread across his beak. He allowed his great mind to turn to matters other than the immediate needs of his charges. Tomar wondered how Portia and Mickey were getting along. He estimated that their journey would now have taken them halfway across the vast stretch of water that separated Birddom from Wingland. Looking about him at the far from perfect weather conditions, he hoped, with all his heart, that things were more favourable for his two friends. Their flight would be one to test them to their limits, in even the mildest weather. And Tomar knew well the vagaries of the coastal climate, from his discussions with Kraken. The old owl offered up a prayer for the continued safety of the robin and the bullfinch, then turned his attention back to the simple pleasure of watching the young at play.

Neither robin was hungry, as Tomar had not long since provided them with a breakfast more than sufficient to fill their bellies. But both Olivia and her brother were entranced by the wriggling caterpillar that made its slow progress along the branch in front of them. It was vividly coloured in green and black, and covered all over with fine hairs.

Both robins salivated without knowing the reason. Neither had ever eaten a caterpillar before. In fact, they had never had any meal that moved! Born into a world where insects were no longer a part of the food chain, the robins did not know the taste of living flesh. But the very movement of the wriggling creature before their eyes triggered a subconscious response. Everything about it said ‘Eat me!’. The pair of robins looked greedily at their prize, and it was Olivia who spoke first. “That’s not an insect, is it?”

“No,” replied Merion with false assurance. “Insects have wings and six legs. This creature has got dozens!”

“Do you think that we can eat it, then?”

“What do you mean ‘we’? I saw it first, and I’m going to eat it.”

Merion’s tone was belligerent. It was the only way with his sister, for Olivia was the larger of the pair and naturally the stronger. But she was gentle of temperament and Merion knew that he could bully her into giving in.

“Can’t we share it? There seems more than enough for both of us.”

“No!” repeated the young cock bird, in a tone that would brook no denial. “It’s mine. I am going to eat it all!”

Merion glared at his sister, defying her to challenge him. It was a risky game to play and he decided to change tack.

“Besides,” he whispered, “It might be dangerous. The creature might be poisonous. Far better that only one of us should be made ill. And I love you too much to let you risk such a fate. Anyway, if I find that it is safe to eat, I promise that I will find another one, especially for you.”

Olivia was somewhat mollified by what her brother said. She had indeed considered the dangers inherent in eating something entirely alien to their diet. And she still wasn’t sure, in spite of Merion’s denial, that they should be thinking of eating this creature at all, whatever it was.

Satisfied that there would be no further argument from his sister, Merion hopped imperiously onto the branch, where the undulating body of the caterpillar beckoned him. The young robin hesitated, unsure of what to do next. He had never killed anything before. How did you do it? Which part should he attack? What if this creature had some way of fighting back? Merion suddenly felt considerably less tempted by his prospective meal, but he did not want to lose face in front of his sister.

Tomar’s timely intervention decided the matter. The old owl cuffed Merion unceremoniously about the head with his wing. It was a restrained blow, but still powerful enough to knock the robin from his perch. Merion landed in an undignified heap on the forest floor, and looked up with fear in his eyes at the owl who was staring angrily down at him.

“What do you think you were doing? Do you not know the law? I personally made a solemn promise that no insect would be taken as food by any bird. Do you want to break that vow? Does the word of the Great Owl mean so little to you?”

“I am sorry, Tomar. We didn’t know what the creature was. It certainly doesn’t look like any insect that I’ve ever seen.” Tears filled Merion’s eyes, from the blow to the head, and from the severity of the old owl’s admonishment.

Tomar shook his head, ashamed now of his own anger. What had he been thinking of? This was the pair’s first spring. It was entirely logical, therefore, that neither robin would have seen a caterpillar. Of course, their mother would have taught them from birth about the ban on eating any insect, and would have shown them many examples of creatures that they were to avoid. But, the seasons being what they were, Portia would not have had the opportunity to teach her children about the larval stages of insect development. And now Tomar had sent their mother away from them, before she had had the chance to complete their education.

The old owl was thoroughly ashamed of himself. “Forgive me, Merion!” he said, in a voice full of contrition.

“I am the one who should be sorry, Tomar.”

“Well then, we are both sorry, and there’s an end to it. Come back up here, and I’ll tell you both a story. And then, if your head has survived its battering, I’ll teach you more about the other creatures that make up this wonderful, bewildering world of ours.”

There were times during the crossing when Portia believed that she would never again see dry land. On several occasions she had begged Mickey to let her simply take to the skies and trust to luck, and to her own instincts and innate skill as a navigator. But the bullfinch had been firm with her.

“I am sorry for you, Portia, and I know that you are unwell. But we have chosen this course and we must stick to it. Unpleasant though the journey may be, it is taking us in the right direction.”

“Well, I’ve had a bellyful of it!” replied Portia petulantly.

“If my memory serves me correctly, you had a bellyful of the sea once before!” was Mickey’s pointed answer.

Portia bridled at the bullfinch’s reminder of her foolishness when they had first met. How dare he try and tell her what to do? He was her companion on this voyage to Wingland, but she was Birddom’s chosen emissary. The robin turned her back on her friend, and would not speak another word. Mickey, realising that he had upset and offended Portia, decided that silence would also be the best policy. So the two birds slumped miserably on the deck, each lost in their own thoughts. Gradually, Portia’s temper cooled and she began to think more rationally. Tomar had once again shown his wisdom in choosing the brash bullfinch to accompany her. She might not like what he had said to her, but she realised the wisdom of his words.

Impatience was their greatest foe when the ferry finally eased into the harbour and began the slow, tortuous process of docking. It took nearly an hour for all of the humans to disembark, and the combination of the fumes from their cars and from the ship itself laid a choking cloud over the immediate area. Again and again Mickey had to counsel caution and Portia chafed against the delay. She was anxious, now that they had made dry land, to be on her way and this forced inactivity was galling.

But, finally, the bullfinch cheeped, “Let’s be off then.” And the disparate pair took to the skies, to begin their first journey over the foreign soil of Wingland.

They had two priorities. The first was to find a safe roost that they could use as a base for their operations in the immediate vicinity. It was entirely possible that they would have to journey much farther afield before their quest was over. But they had to start somewhere. Their second need, as urgent as the first, was to find and befriend a transient – a migratory bird – who would be able to interpret for them in their discourse with the local resident birds. Of the two, this was the far harder proposition. Roosts at least were static. But the very nature of migration meant that the type of bird that they sought spent most of its life on the wing, journeying vast distances from their summer to their winter homes. Tomar had chosen the time of their departure to best match these seasonal odysseys. The old owl had reasoned, without firm proof, that these travellers, who had historically spent their summers in Birddom itself, would now have chosen this part of Wingland as their best alternative. But so much depended upon climate and the availability of food resources.

Now that they were back on dry land, albeit a foreign and frightening one, Portia took the lead in searching for a temporary home. Keeping together they flew far and wide, identifying likely sites only to discard them as too dangerous, or too exposed, or disadvantageous in some other way. It was fortunate that both birds were able to thrive in similar habitats and were gregarious enough, by nature, to benefit from the proximity of humans. They finally chose a thick hedge of thorns bordering a winding but little-used man-made road. There were plenty of human dwellings close by, but none near enough to present any real danger. Adjacent farmland and an apple orchard in early bloom would provide sufficient food.

“This will do very well,” Portia announced, as they alighted, swiftly hiding themselves from view amongst the dense vegetation, and Mickey did not demur.

Life for Venga became an interminable cycle of boredom. At first, he concentrated solely on his own physical recovery. The boy was kind and provided the magpie with a regular supply of food and water. Venga’s wounds healed quickly and, as they did so, his strength returned. It was no longer agony to hop around the base of the cage, but flight was virtually impossible within its cramped confines. A single flap of the wings was all that was required for the magpie to attain the perching pole, which was placed halfway up the side of the cage. Sitting there, Venga’s long and beautiful tail could at least be straightened out, even though the tips of its feathers still touched the floor.

Whenever he flexed his wings, stretching them wide to maintain the circulation of the blood and to exercise his muscles, the wing-tips brushed against the bars, providing Venga with a constant reminder of his captivity. Time passed, the days blurred into one another. The magpie longed for the freedom of the skies. For unrestrained flight. But his home now seemed a million miles away. Venga fretted and worried about his mother. For all of his life, her one obsession had been revenge for the heinous cruelty of the outrage that Traska had perpetrated upon her. Venga had become the symbol and the implement of that retribution. The central core of his life was now being denied to him and Venga feared that Katya might die of old age, bitter, frustrated and let down by her own son. Such heavy sorrow was hard for a magpie to bear. For his circumstances seemed hopeless. There seemed no way out. It occurred to Venga that, in the face of such a futile and depressing existence, Death might as well visit him, before it took his mother to its black breast.

Traska’s black and evil heart beat inside his breast to its own twisted and perverted rhythm. He had led his band of incomers across heather-clad uplands, through dank forests, and over serene lochs. This menacing and brutal legion had wreaked havoc as they journeyed, slaying at will any small bird or animal that they encountered. After the hiatus of peace that Birddom had experienced following the Great Battle, it was a shocking reminder of the corvidae’s rise to power. News of their passage spread like wildfire and ahead of them great tracts of land emptied, as the scant remaining populace fled for their lives.

But this was no band of hunters bent on the systematic destruction of all small bird life. It was merely a whirlwind of violence, which caused great damage then passed by. Something to be avoided, rather than feared. But still word of their coming went ahead of them. These huge crows were alien to Birddom’s shores and news necessarily became exaggerated. They doubled in size. They had beaks that could crack stone. They ate their victims alive.

This was just as Traska had hoped, for it helped to create an aura of invincibility about his troops, which, for now at least, was not borne out by the reality. They lacked numbers. In a battle with the eagles of this region, for example, his own side would be hopelessly outnumbered. But Traska did not plan any such outright confrontation with his enemies. Although it rankled deeply that his personal reversal had come at the wings of those accursed raptors, the evil magpie was not looking for reprisals. Or, at least, not by such direct means as battle. He would engineer their downfall, and, more importantly, that of the leaders of Birddom as well, the Council of the Owls.

Traska was sure that news of his return with his menacing army would make its way south, and finally would reach the ear of the one bird in the land that he hated above all others. Tomar. He wanted the old owl to know that he was back. That Traska wasn’t afraid of the high and mighty Council, or of its lordly supporters. But the magpie also wanted to mislead Tomar as to his intentions. To draw the owl’s mind and eye away from his real plan. Subterfuge would be his weapon, sleight of wing would fool his opponent. And then he would strike. He would hit them where it would hurt the most. And then his revenge would be complete.