black startled eyes and twisted its head around in frightened jerks.
‘Oh, poor little guy,’ Midge cried sympathetically. ‘Look, Mike, he’s got a broken wing.’
I shuffled closer on my haunches and the distressed bird flapped at the earth with its good wing, desperate to get away. Midge put out a gentle hand and its struggles immediately calmed, although it still eyed me with some alarm. She cooed softly and to my amazement the bird let her finger stroke its spotted chest.
‘He’s a mistle thrush,’ Midge quietly told me. ‘He must have flown into a tree or become tangled in bushes. It doesn’t look like he’s been attacked by any other animal – there’re no signs of blood or wounds anywhere.’
I studied the grey-brown bird for a moment, noticing how Midge’s stroking was having an almost hypnotic effect on it; the dark eyes were becoming lidded as though the thrush were nodding off to sleep. ‘What are we going to do with it?’ I whispered.
‘We can’t leave him here. He’d never last the night with all the predators in the forest.’
‘We can’t take it home.’
‘Why not? We could keep him safe and warm for tonight, then tomorrow I’ll take him into Cantrip or Bunbury, wherever there’s a vet.’
‘Midge, the bird’s wing is too badly broken – you can see how badly twisted it is. Even if the shock doesn’t kill it, that wing’s never gonna mend.’
‘You’d be surprised how tough these little guys are; he can be taken care of, you’ll see.’ She cupped her hands around the thrush’s sides and slowly lifted, the bird protesting only mildly. Midge cradled it against her chest and I think the thrush appreciated the comfort, because the shutters closed down completely and it seemed to fall asleep. She gazed down at the small feathery body snuggled against her with such tenderness that I felt something inside me melting. Soft as I was on her, there was always that capacity for extra lump-in-the-throat softness. Call me a sentimental fool.
We both stood and I put one hand over her shoulder as she led the way back along the path, her movement even more graceful so that the injured thrush would be disturbed as little as possible.
Soon I glimpsed a tiny flash of white ahead, and knew we were approaching the forest edge and Gramarye.
But I also glimpsed something else. At least, I thought I did, because when I tried to focus it was gone.
I thought I’d caught sight of a figure standing some distance away among the trees. Midge’s attention was still on the bird cushioned in her hands, so I knew she wouldn’t have noticed anything. I squinted my eyes again to sharpen my vision, wondering if I’d merely noticed a shadowy bush shifted by a breeze, and scanned that section of woods. Nope, nobody there.
Yet I found it difficult to shake off the impression of someone standing among the trees. A figure dressed in black, perfectly still and watching. Watching us.
A Visitor
We relaxed in the round room that evening, Midge lying on the carpet, her head propped up by cushions, me on the sofa with a guitar – a concert Spanish – tucked into my lap, wine bottle and glass on an occasional table by my side. The hurt thrush was downstairs in the kitchen, resting in a cardboard box lined with soft material, and looking pretty snug if a little mournful. Midge had coaxed a small amount of milk-dipped bread into its beak, and had laid out the broken wing as carefully and as comfortably as she could. Now it was up to the bird itself to pull through.
The sun was almost lost behind the trees and the room was bathed in that rich warm light as before, but this time more mellow, somehow deeply soothing. I touched the soft strings of the guitar, and the notes resonated against the curved walls, filling the room with lovely sounds. Midge didn’t just look impressed as I moved into a piece I’d had difficulty with for some time, Paganini’s Grand Sonata in A (oh yeah, I’m not only a
‘Oh, poor little guy,’ Midge cried sympathetically. ‘Look, Mike, he’s got a broken wing.’
I shuffled closer on my haunches and the distressed bird flapped at the earth with its good wing, desperate to get away. Midge put out a gentle hand and its struggles immediately calmed, although it still eyed me with some alarm. She cooed softly and to my amazement the bird let her finger stroke its spotted chest.
‘He’s a mistle thrush,’ Midge quietly told me. ‘He must have flown into a tree or become tangled in bushes. It doesn’t look like he’s been attacked by any other animal – there’re no signs of blood or wounds anywhere.’
I studied the grey-brown bird for a moment, noticing how Midge’s stroking was having an almost hypnotic effect on it; the dark eyes were becoming lidded as though the thrush were nodding off to sleep. ‘What are we going to do with it?’ I whispered.
‘We can’t leave him here. He’d never last the night with all the predators in the forest.’
‘We can’t take it home.’
‘Why not? We could keep him safe and warm for tonight, then tomorrow I’ll take him into Cantrip or Bunbury, wherever there’s a vet.’
‘Midge, the bird’s wing is too badly broken – you can see how badly twisted it is. Even if the shock doesn’t kill it, that wing’s never gonna mend.’
‘You’d be surprised how tough these little guys are; he can be taken care of, you’ll see.’ She cupped her hands around the thrush’s sides and slowly lifted, the bird protesting only mildly. Midge cradled it against her chest and I think the thrush appreciated the comfort, because the shutters closed down completely and it seemed to fall asleep. She gazed down at the small feathery body snuggled against her with such tenderness that I felt something inside me melting. Soft as I was on her, there was always that capacity for extra lump-in-the-throat softness. Call me a sentimental fool.
We both stood and I put one hand over her shoulder as she led the way back along the path, her movement even more graceful so that the injured thrush would be disturbed as little as possible.
Soon I glimpsed a tiny flash of white ahead, and knew we were approaching the forest edge and Gramarye.
But I also glimpsed something else. At least, I thought I did, because when I tried to focus it was gone.
I thought I’d caught sight of a figure standing some distance away among the trees. Midge’s attention was still on the bird cushioned in her hands, so I knew she wouldn’t have noticed anything. I squinted my eyes again to sharpen my vision, wondering if I’d merely noticed a shadowy bush shifted by a breeze, and scanned that section of woods. Nope, nobody there.
Yet I found it difficult to shake off the impression of someone standing among the trees. A figure dressed in black, perfectly still and watching. Watching us.
A Visitor
We relaxed in the round room that evening, Midge lying on the carpet, her head propped up by cushions, me on the sofa with a guitar – a concert Spanish – tucked into my lap, wine bottle and glass on an occasional table by my side. The hurt thrush was downstairs in the kitchen, resting in a cardboard box lined with soft material, and looking pretty snug if a little mournful. Midge had coaxed a small amount of milk-dipped bread into its beak, and had laid out the broken wing as carefully and as comfortably as she could. Now it was up to the bird itself to pull through.
The sun was almost lost behind the trees and the room was bathed in that rich warm light as before, but this time more mellow, somehow deeply soothing. I touched the soft strings of the guitar, and the notes resonated against the curved walls, filling the room with lovely sounds. Midge didn’t just look impressed as I moved into a piece I’d had difficulty with for some time, Paganini’s Grand Sonata in A (oh yeah, I’m not only a
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