exerts from 'An Eagle's heart', Youtube above, and a different chapter written below
Chapter 5 The Chickadee
The black-capped Chickadee observed furtively from the shadow of a tree. The patch of green held some grass seed, but he had to be careful and quick. The crow family had been keeping watch over the grove for some days, hoping to avenge their kinsman who had died from shock following the attack. The Chickadee had seen the Falcon. To the tiny Chickadee, it was a great bird of prey, sleek and ferocious. It had killed a crow! What bird could kill a crow? Now the small birds paid a price as the crows lingered in the grove, their dark eyes watching all. Some of the birds had left, escaped to other groves in the Stone Forest. The Chickadee would have followed, but when the Wren had tried to leave the crows had fallen upon it, and passed it between themselves for fun, before tearing it to pieces. The Chickadee had seen this too. It was terrible; the crows were vicious murderers. This is why a group of crows is called a murder.
He had decided to stay hidden after that. There was too much open ground between the groves, too big a chance of being caught. The grove was big, if he was careful he could avoid the crows. They could not watch the entire grove at once. He, and all the others who stayed, played the same deadly game of hide and seek.
The Falcon had been strange. It had tried to speak to them, and it was right – this was no way for a bird to live. The Chickadee knew one other thing, he was not sorry that the Falcon had killed a crow. Like many of the other birds, he hated the egg snatchers. They killed everything they could and thought naught of it. If he had to be more careful now, then that was a small price to pay to be rid of one of the black demons.
But the Chickadee had more immediate needs now. It needed food, and food was there in an open patch of ground. It had been feeding during the sunrise, and the sunset when the gloom hid him better, but it wasn’t enough for a small bird who burned so much energy. He needed feed now, but he had to be quick if he wasn’t to be caught. He skipped his way out from the shadows, a jump at a time, carefully inching closer and closer. A dark spectre crossed overhead, and in panic he zipped back to the tree cover... but not fast enough. A black claw grabbed him on the back and pinned him to the ground, hard.
“What have we here? Clack. Could it be? Clack. A chickadee. Nice little chickadee. Oh you tremble, little chickadee. Clack. Do you live here, little one? Clack.”
The chickadee trembled under the grip of the claw, terrified, frozen with fear. The claw squeezed hard.
“Didn’t you hear me, little bird?” the crow hissed threateningly. “Do you live here? Clack.”
The Chickadee was stiff with fear, but he had the where-with-all to answer. He nodded his head. Many birds would die of fright in such a situation, but the chickadee had been raised in the Stone Forest, and had lived with terror, and fear, his entire life.
“Good, little bird; good you answer me. Clack. You have one chance to live now. Answer my question, and I may release you. Clack. Will you answer my question, little bird?”
The Chickadee nodded his head again, seeing a small chance for survival.
“What bird killed my brother?”
The Chickadee tensed under the grip of the claw as it squeezed hard.
“Answer me, little bird,” the crow whispered as it brought its beak down to the Chickadee’s eye. It pecked, and the eye was gone. The Chickadee screamed with pain.
“Answer me now, before I blind you!” the crow shrieked.
“It was a falcon! It was a falcon,” the Chickadee screamed, the blood streaming from his eye socket.
The crow raised its head in surprise. “Brothers, sisters,” it screamed. “We have our answer. Clack. Come here, kinsmen.”
From the shadows and other points of the grove the black silhouettes came. Dark shadows, deadly, and filled with hate. They gathered around the little clearing where their kinsman held the Chickadee pinned beneath its claw.
“Say it again, little chickadee. Clack. Nice and loud, so that my kinsmen can hear.”
“It was a falcon,” the Chickadee screamed. “A falcon, with a great eagle.”
The black birds in the clearing tasted fear. A falcon was one thing, an eagle was quite another. An eagle was not to be trifled with.
“What do you mean, an eagle? Clack.”
“There was an eagle with the falcon, it called down to the falcon warning it of the approach of you and your kinsmen.”
The Chickadee had sensed the change in the crows. He held no illusion that the crows would kill him in the end, but while he was still alive, and while they still wanted something from him, there might be a chance.
“Yes, it was a great eagle, many times the size of the crows.”
“And did this eagle have a white crown and white tail?” the crow hissed, its beak coming threateningly close to the Chickadee’s remaining eye.
“No. No. It was golden,” the Chickadee screamed, “it was brown and gold with white feathers only under the tail.”
A collective gasp emitted from the gang of crows. White-headed bald eagles were bigger than crows, but not by much, and they were generally cowards. A single crow could often scare away a bald eagle. A murder of crows could mob one, taking it down if necessary. A golden eagle was another thing entirely. A gang of crows might be able to chase off a golden eagle, but any true battle between a golden eagle and the crows would see the death of many.
“You lie, little bird. The great eagles do not come to the Stone Forest.” The crows clacked in agreement.
“No, no, I swear it. It was brown and golden.”
“Brother,” a female addressed the crow that held the chickadee pinned. “This Stone Forest has been called by the humans after the Thunder Bird.”
There was pause amongst the crows.
“This is true, my sister.”
“Perhaps the Thunder Bird has returned, or perhaps its cousin, the great eagle, returns in its stead.”
These were ill tidings. The little Chickadee was too terrified to give anything other than the truth; the unease of the crows showed that this was apparent to them.
An older crow, large and ferocious, came forward. It pushed aside the crow that held the Chickadee, batting it to the ground. For an instant the chickadee was free, but it was not fast enough. The bigger crow grabbed it in its bigger claw and held it to the ground again. The other crow scuttled away to the fringe of the little clearing.
“What of the eagle? Our argument is not with him. I am your sire. I lead here. The eagle is of no consequence. I will have blood for the death of my son. It is the falcon that is at fault. It is the falcon that must pay. Tell me, little bird,” the great patriarch squeezed hard until the Chickadee thought he would lose his remaining eye. “What did this falcon look like? Clack. Was it a peregrine?”
The grip eased slightly, but the Chickadee was confused. He had no knowledge of differences in falcons. Falcons were big, and eagles were bigger still. They were birds of prey, they were to be feared and avoided, that was all a chickadee cared for.
“I- I do not know,” he trembled.
The claws squeezed sharply, but then they eased. The big crow cocked its head to the side as though in thought.
“Describe it. Were its eyes black as pitch; its front filled with white plumage, with black strips? Was it as large as I?”
“No, no. Smaller. Brown striped plumage, not black.”
The old crow hesitated. “A merlin? A merlin killed my son? A merlin, we can deal with. Listen to me, little chickadee. Do you have friends and family in this grove? Answer truthfully.”
“Yes, yes I do,” whispered the Chickadee, not knowing what the information would lead to.
“Ah, then you will become my agent, because you have seen this merlin, and have one good eye to spot it with. A bargain with you then. Find me this merlin, and we will not kill every bird in this grove. We will leave it alone. Do not find me the merlin and we will dine here for as long as it takes to silence all of the birds that live here. Do you understand me, chickadee?”
The chickadee was shocked; he could only nod.
“Good, good. You are a small bird, so I will be generous. Clack. You have seven turns of the sun to return with the whereabouts of the merlin. My children and grandchildren will stand guard around the grove until then. No bird will leave. Give me a place to find the merlin or every resident in the grove will die, all your friends, all your kinsmen. Go forth, Little One-Eye. Flee quickly to find the merlin.”
The crow released his grasp, and the chickadee, though half blind, flit away. As disoriented as he was, he flew into the side of a nearby tree, much to the glee and cackles of the murder of crows, before continuing on.
Chapter 5 The Chickadee
The black-capped Chickadee observed furtively from the shadow of a tree. The patch of green held some grass seed, but he had to be careful and quick. The crow family had been keeping watch over the grove for some days, hoping to avenge their kinsman who had died from shock following the attack. The Chickadee had seen the Falcon. To the tiny Chickadee, it was a great bird of prey, sleek and ferocious. It had killed a crow! What bird could kill a crow? Now the small birds paid a price as the crows lingered in the grove, their dark eyes watching all. Some of the birds had left, escaped to other groves in the Stone Forest. The Chickadee would have followed, but when the Wren had tried to leave the crows had fallen upon it, and passed it between themselves for fun, before tearing it to pieces. The Chickadee had seen this too. It was terrible; the crows were vicious murderers. This is why a group of crows is called a murder.
He had decided to stay hidden after that. There was too much open ground between the groves, too big a chance of being caught. The grove was big, if he was careful he could avoid the crows. They could not watch the entire grove at once. He, and all the others who stayed, played the same deadly game of hide and seek.
The Falcon had been strange. It had tried to speak to them, and it was right – this was no way for a bird to live. The Chickadee knew one other thing, he was not sorry that the Falcon had killed a crow. Like many of the other birds, he hated the egg snatchers. They killed everything they could and thought naught of it. If he had to be more careful now, then that was a small price to pay to be rid of one of the black demons.
But the Chickadee had more immediate needs now. It needed food, and food was there in an open patch of ground. It had been feeding during the sunrise, and the sunset when the gloom hid him better, but it wasn’t enough for a small bird who burned so much energy. He needed feed now, but he had to be quick if he wasn’t to be caught. He skipped his way out from the shadows, a jump at a time, carefully inching closer and closer. A dark spectre crossed overhead, and in panic he zipped back to the tree cover... but not fast enough. A black claw grabbed him on the back and pinned him to the ground, hard.
“What have we here? Clack. Could it be? Clack. A chickadee. Nice little chickadee. Oh you tremble, little chickadee. Clack. Do you live here, little one? Clack.”
The chickadee trembled under the grip of the claw, terrified, frozen with fear. The claw squeezed hard.
“Didn’t you hear me, little bird?” the crow hissed threateningly. “Do you live here? Clack.”
The Chickadee was stiff with fear, but he had the where-with-all to answer. He nodded his head. Many birds would die of fright in such a situation, but the chickadee had been raised in the Stone Forest, and had lived with terror, and fear, his entire life.
“Good, little bird; good you answer me. Clack. You have one chance to live now. Answer my question, and I may release you. Clack. Will you answer my question, little bird?”
The Chickadee nodded his head again, seeing a small chance for survival.
“What bird killed my brother?”
The Chickadee tensed under the grip of the claw as it squeezed hard.
“Answer me, little bird,” the crow whispered as it brought its beak down to the Chickadee’s eye. It pecked, and the eye was gone. The Chickadee screamed with pain.
“Answer me now, before I blind you!” the crow shrieked.
“It was a falcon! It was a falcon,” the Chickadee screamed, the blood streaming from his eye socket.
The crow raised its head in surprise. “Brothers, sisters,” it screamed. “We have our answer. Clack. Come here, kinsmen.”
From the shadows and other points of the grove the black silhouettes came. Dark shadows, deadly, and filled with hate. They gathered around the little clearing where their kinsman held the Chickadee pinned beneath its claw.
“Say it again, little chickadee. Clack. Nice and loud, so that my kinsmen can hear.”
“It was a falcon,” the Chickadee screamed. “A falcon, with a great eagle.”
The black birds in the clearing tasted fear. A falcon was one thing, an eagle was quite another. An eagle was not to be trifled with.
“What do you mean, an eagle? Clack.”
“There was an eagle with the falcon, it called down to the falcon warning it of the approach of you and your kinsmen.”
The Chickadee had sensed the change in the crows. He held no illusion that the crows would kill him in the end, but while he was still alive, and while they still wanted something from him, there might be a chance.
“Yes, it was a great eagle, many times the size of the crows.”
“And did this eagle have a white crown and white tail?” the crow hissed, its beak coming threateningly close to the Chickadee’s remaining eye.
“No. No. It was golden,” the Chickadee screamed, “it was brown and gold with white feathers only under the tail.”
A collective gasp emitted from the gang of crows. White-headed bald eagles were bigger than crows, but not by much, and they were generally cowards. A single crow could often scare away a bald eagle. A murder of crows could mob one, taking it down if necessary. A golden eagle was another thing entirely. A gang of crows might be able to chase off a golden eagle, but any true battle between a golden eagle and the crows would see the death of many.
“You lie, little bird. The great eagles do not come to the Stone Forest.” The crows clacked in agreement.
“No, no, I swear it. It was brown and golden.”
“Brother,” a female addressed the crow that held the chickadee pinned. “This Stone Forest has been called by the humans after the Thunder Bird.”
There was pause amongst the crows.
“This is true, my sister.”
“Perhaps the Thunder Bird has returned, or perhaps its cousin, the great eagle, returns in its stead.”
These were ill tidings. The little Chickadee was too terrified to give anything other than the truth; the unease of the crows showed that this was apparent to them.
An older crow, large and ferocious, came forward. It pushed aside the crow that held the Chickadee, batting it to the ground. For an instant the chickadee was free, but it was not fast enough. The bigger crow grabbed it in its bigger claw and held it to the ground again. The other crow scuttled away to the fringe of the little clearing.
“What of the eagle? Our argument is not with him. I am your sire. I lead here. The eagle is of no consequence. I will have blood for the death of my son. It is the falcon that is at fault. It is the falcon that must pay. Tell me, little bird,” the great patriarch squeezed hard until the Chickadee thought he would lose his remaining eye. “What did this falcon look like? Clack. Was it a peregrine?”
The grip eased slightly, but the Chickadee was confused. He had no knowledge of differences in falcons. Falcons were big, and eagles were bigger still. They were birds of prey, they were to be feared and avoided, that was all a chickadee cared for.
“I- I do not know,” he trembled.
The claws squeezed sharply, but then they eased. The big crow cocked its head to the side as though in thought.
“Describe it. Were its eyes black as pitch; its front filled with white plumage, with black strips? Was it as large as I?”
“No, no. Smaller. Brown striped plumage, not black.”
The old crow hesitated. “A merlin? A merlin killed my son? A merlin, we can deal with. Listen to me, little chickadee. Do you have friends and family in this grove? Answer truthfully.”
“Yes, yes I do,” whispered the Chickadee, not knowing what the information would lead to.
“Ah, then you will become my agent, because you have seen this merlin, and have one good eye to spot it with. A bargain with you then. Find me this merlin, and we will not kill every bird in this grove. We will leave it alone. Do not find me the merlin and we will dine here for as long as it takes to silence all of the birds that live here. Do you understand me, chickadee?”
The chickadee was shocked; he could only nod.
“Good, good. You are a small bird, so I will be generous. Clack. You have seven turns of the sun to return with the whereabouts of the merlin. My children and grandchildren will stand guard around the grove until then. No bird will leave. Give me a place to find the merlin or every resident in the grove will die, all your friends, all your kinsmen. Go forth, Little One-Eye. Flee quickly to find the merlin.”
The crow released his grasp, and the chickadee, though half blind, flit away. As disoriented as he was, he flew into the side of a nearby tree, much to the glee and cackles of the murder of crows, before continuing on.
