Chapter 8

Venga lay motionless at the bottom of the cage. He had superficially soiled his beautiful feathers so that they now appeared matted and dull, and agonised breaths rasped from his throat. He looked near to death. But his one good eye was bright, as he watched and waited. He knew that the little girl would come. She always followed the same ritual each day before leaving for school. She would pass by his cage and pause to talk to him. Although Venga understood nothing of what she said, he responded by emitting a loud caw in answer. This always made the little girl giggle.

Venga could see that she was tempted on occasion to pet him, but was afraid of his sharp beak and claws. Initially, he had made a game out of frightening her by jumping up against the bars of the cage. This made her run off screaming, giving Venga a small measure of satisfaction. But the next day the little girl would return, undaunted, to stare at the magpie in the cage once more. Eventually it dawned on Venga that a different approach was necessary. More docile and friendly now, he encouraged her by his calls and so, cautiously, established the beginnings of a bond between them. And all to one end.

Venga’s field of vision was much restricted following the injury suffered at the beak of the hawk, and so he had positioned himself carefully on the cage floor so that he could use his good eye to its best advantage. He saw the little girl’s face as she looked into the cage. Concern for him spread across her features like a cloud and he could see that she was about to run off to get help from one of the other humans. The pitiful sound that emanated from Venga’s throat stopped her in her tracks. It seemed to the little girl that the magpie was calling out to her. The tenuous bond between girl and bird, so assiduously cultivated by Venga, now bore fruit. She stopped and came back to the cage. Hesitating only for a moment, the little girl unfastened the latch on the cage door, and opened it wide. Putting her arm through the gap, she reached down and touched the stricken magpie. Venga held himself still as she stroked his feathers.

‘Not yet,’ he counselled himself. ‘Wait!’

And then, as he had hoped, the girl reached fully into the cage with both arms and picked up his limp body. Her hands were trembling and she was clearly frightened by what her kindness was impelling her to do. Venga let out another soft cry of pain, to encourage her in her actions. The little girl gripped his body awkwardly, but held on as she drew him out through the cage door.

Now, unconfined by bars, Venga began to struggle in her grip. Freeing one wing, he fluttered and thrashed, and, at the same time, screamed a savage caw into her terrified face. The little girl jumped back in fright and dropped the now not so limp bundle. Immediately, Venga was upon her. His wings beat about her head. His claws caught in her hair, as he scrabbled for purchase. The long period of confinement had wasted some of the muscle in his wings, and he flapped them a few times, building up strength before he could take off and fly. The girl screamed in fear and her arms came up above her head, to brush him off her. In his surprise and anger, Venga lashed out at her hands with his sharp beak, drawing blood. He had had no intention of harming the child, but now the noise of her, and the threat of recapture, made him attack. He flew away from her head, circled, and then dived back towards her. Breaking easily through the barrier that her slender arms created, flung up as they were to ward him off, he struck her small face with a savage blow from his beak. In doing so, he inflicted upon the little girl a wound identical to his own. Blood spurted from the damaged eye socket and the girl dropped to the floor, covering her face with her hands. Aware that the screaming must soon bring other humans rushing to her aid, Venga looked around desperately for a means of escape. His ragged flight took him across the room and through an open door. Seeing a man approaching from one direction, Venga turned away and flapped in panic along a narrow corridor. Fortunately, the kitchen door had also been left open.

There were humans in the room: the boy who had found him and his mother. She had risen to her feet, hearing her daughter’s screams and the roar of anger from her husband. But she was so startled to see the dishevelled magpie flying towards her that she was slow to react. Using all of his speed, Venga fled across the room towards an invitingly open window – and out. He was free!

Not pausing for a second, Venga flew as fast as his wings would carry him. He needed to put some distance between himself and the humans. Fear drove him on and he expected, at any moment, to hear the bang of the shotgun, to feel the deadly pellets thud into his body. But, after he had flown for a mile or so, Venga knew that he was safe. Incredibly, he had escaped. He slowed his flight from the headlong rush into a more measured progress. Even the short distance that he had covered seemed to have required huge labour. His body, used to the confines and limits of his captivity, was exhausted. Venga knew that he would have to find somewhere to alight. He chose a high perch in a solitary pine to allow himself maximum visibility. Caution was paramount. He was still very vulnerable to attack. While he folded his wings to rest, Venga scanned the surrounding countryside for signs of danger. Seeing nothing to cause him immediate concern, he allowed himself to relax and think.

Venga knew that the man would soon begin his hunt. He would gather others too. They would want revenge and would kill him without compunction. He would have to put a great distance between himself and his pursuers. Venga’s thoughts returned once more to his mother, Katya, and to his original mission. It had been his purpose to fly south, seeking for news of Traska, and now he realised that no other course of action was open to him. He must continue his quest without delay. So, in spite of his exhaustion, he launched himself once more into the sky.

Just when it seemed that their quest was hopeless, and that Portia and Mickey were staring certain defeat full in the face, they saw her. She was still a long way off but, even at that great distance, the speed of her flight and the unmistakable curvature of her wings, confirmed her as a swallow. Her flight path was bringing her towards them. Portia almost cried in her relief. Then she and Mickey took to the skies, creating a commotion to attract the swallow’s attention. It was a risky but necessary strategy. For, while their noise might also have attracted the less welcome attentions of a predatory hawk or kestrel, they knew that they could never hope to keep up with the swallow in flight, if she flew by them. Fortunately, however, their efforts were not in vain. Luck had finally chosen to be on their side. The swallow veered from its course, slowed, and alighted on a telegraph wire, folding her wings gracefully behind her back as she did so.

Portia landed on a high branch, at an unthreatening distance from the intrigued swallow, and hailed her.

“Good morning, my dear. I am so glad to see you. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Your language is quite easy to comprehend,” the swallow replied. “But your meaning less so. Why are you glad to see me? Do I know you?”

“Please forgive me. I will explain myself. My name is Portia, and my friend here is Mickey. We come from Birddom.”

At the mere mention of that word, the swallow began to show signs of agitation and started to flap her wings, preparing to flee.

“Please!” exclaimed Portia urgently. “Do not go. We have journeyed so far and have searched for so long to find you.” The swallow appeared intrigued and settled herself on the wire.

“All right. Let me complete the introductions. My name is Swoop. You say that you come from Birddom. That name is very dark in my thoughts and in my heart. My sorrow still weighs heavily upon me. For it was in that fell place that I lost my mate, Bewla. He was ambushed, and murdered by a mob of crows.”

“I share your burden of sorrow,” Portia replied simply. “I too lost my mate to the corvidae.”

“But they have been overthrown!” Mickey chirped, unable to resist joining in. “Birddom is a fair place once more. And free.”

“I find that hard to believe,” answered Swoop. “We have heard no such news.”

“How could you?” asked Mickey. “No migratory birds have dared to venture near our shores since the rise of the magpies and their cousins.”

“It is as my friend says,” continued Portia. “That is why we have come to Wingland, on so perilous a mission. We are emissaries, sent by the Council of the Owls to seek out small birds who will be willing to return with us and make their home in Birddom. But we have failed so far because of our inability to communicate with the birds that are native to this land. Now I hope that you can see why we needed to find you.”

“I understand,” said Swoop. “But I am still much afraid. It could be that you have been sent from Birddom as a trap and that, in aiding you, I would be sending thousands of birds to their doom.”

Mickey bridled, but Portia silenced him with a stern look.

“You are wise not to place your trust in us so readily. Your caution does you credit and you have reason enough, in your personal loss, to be afraid of Birddom. I do not know what I can say that will persuade you. In my naiveté, I had hoped that my face was one that could be trusted.”

“A fair face can often conceal a foul heart,” Swoop began, and once again Mickey bristled in anger. But Swoop smiled at him, as she continued. “There is at least one bird here who has no doubts of you. And I am inclined to take his loyalty as proof enough that you are genuine, Portia. But you ask a great deal of my trust, on such little evidence.”

“I do indeed ask a great deal, and yet I will make no apology for it. We need your help as a translator and without you our mission will fail utterly. But I am convinced that we will only succeed in persuading others to come to Birddom if you can say, with conviction, that our land is a safe one. It is an insoluble dilemma.”

“Portia, forgive me,” Mickey interrupted. “But I may have a solution. We ourselves are ill-equipped for travel. But Swoop here has spent her life on the wing.” He turned to the swallow. “I know that it would be arduous, even for one like yourself. But your great speed will be an asset.” Mickey stumbled over his words, as he tried to explain his thinking.

But Portia caught hold of his idea, and expounded it enthusiastically. “Yes. What a wonderful idea. Do you follow, Swoop? What Mickey is suggesting is that you fly to Birddom to see for yourself. I promise you, my friend, that you will be in no danger. Birddom is free and at peace. The law is upheld by the strength and wisdom of the Council of the Owls. Have no fear.”

“It is not an easy thing that you ask,” replied the swallow, after a long silence. “But I see that it is the only way. I cannot stand face to face with any bird and lie. I need to see the truth for myself. But what will you do while I am gone?”

“We shall have little choice, but to do what we have spent most of our time doing since our arrival,” Portia said, wryly. “We shall wait.”

Waiting was something that Traska was no longer prepared to do. For one thing, his hooded crows were becoming restless. And, more importantly, so was he. Traska was eager to carry out his plan. He wanted power. He craved it. And now he had a queen to rule by his side, in the new order that would follow when he had crushed the Council of the Owls. How he had crowed with pride when he had told Katya about his scheme.

She was appalled by the thought of such violence and slaughter. She had taken no part in the insurgence of the magpie battalions and in the genocide that they had perpetrated. And now, here was her evil tormentor, her most hated foe, boasting of his plans for further murders. But Katya knew that she had little option but to join him. She had to stay by his side, keeping him interested long enough for Venga to return and exact retribution. Entirely satisfied of her complicity, Traska called a council of war. He stood facing the rabble and singled out Finbar from among the expectant crowd.

“Finbar, my friend. Come and join me. For are we not joint leaders in this enterprise? I as king of this land, and you as head of your band of villains here.” Traska paused as a ragged cheer rang out from the throats of the hooded crows. “I see that you like my choice of description. For villains you are, and blacker than any villain seen in Birddom before. Your exploits will ring out across the land and strike fear into the hearts of the Council of the Owls. You see, I have a mind to murder.”

Once again the birds facing him erupted in noisy endorsement.

“My band of blooded brothers, here is what I propose to do.”

It was a most unusual and unnatural sight. The band of hooded crows crept through the undergrowth with the utmost stealth, stalking their prey. Then, at Traska’s signal, they stopped, stock-still, and listened. In the cluster of bushes ahead, a cacophony of bird song could be heard. Hundreds of chaffinches and goldfinches occupied the branches, feeding excitedly in their communal gluttony. The day was warm and languid, and the finches flitted from bush to bush, chattering gaily to their neighbours, entirely unaware of their mortal danger.

Traska’s eyes glittered with bloodlust. At his second signal the crows crept closer, until they had formed a ring surrounding the bird-laden bushes. Traska held them back deliberately, increasing the delicious tension and sharpening their appetite for mayhem. Then, finally, he gave the third signal. A piercing caw that sent a chill into the heart of every small bird, as if each recognised the sound of its own doom. In seconds, the giant crows were among them, tearing and rending, then discarding the dead carcasses in favour of more living flesh. It was a massacre that left the trees red with blood. In a matter of minutes, it was over.

Traska flew up to a branch overlooking the site of the atrocity and grinned in satisfaction. The jubilant crows gathered before him and parted as Finbar came forward, carrying a solitary goldfinch in his beak. The tiny, jewelled bird fluttered in terrified agony and cowered as the hooded crow flew up and placed it before Traska, like an offering to a god. The magpie, however, had no intention of killing this sacrifice.

The goldfinch had been spared for a reason.

“Do not be frightened, my little friend,” Traska began. “I will not harm you. Indeed, I need you to do me a great service.”

The little goldfinch shivered in fear at the tone of Traska’s voice, but looked up at the magpie with a glimmer of hope in his eye.

“I will do whatever you ask, oh Great One.”

“I like that. Yes. I like that very much!” laughed Traska. “A fitting title, don’t you think?”

The hooded crows roared their assent.

“Well, my tiny messenger. It will be your honour to carry my words to the lords of Birddom. Go, and tell the high and mighty Council of the Owls that I, Traska, challenge them. I am back, and there is nothing that they can do to stop me. Inform them of the outcome of our little game here today, and tell them to expect more of the same. Now go!”

The goldfinch sat, stunned momentarily by terror, then shot into the air as if in fear that Traska might change his mind and kill him after all. He flew off, uncertain of where to go, but desperate to be away from that dreadful place of death.

Traska knew that his message would reach the ears of Tomar. The old owl would then have no choice. He was so honourable, so predictable. He would have no option but to come north, to face the threat that Traska posed. And then Traska would deliver his masterstroke and gain his long-sought victory and revenge.