Skyward (38 page)

Migration.
In the fall, when the seasons and sunlight change and food availability grows scarce, raptors adapt by changing geographic location. They migrate from their breeding range, soaring great distances in thermals. The gathering of hundreds, sometimes thousands of birds swirling and crisscrossing overhead in spirals is called a boil or kettle. No one can witness the spectacle and not be filled with awe and hope.

Epilogue

HARRIS STOOD ALONE IN THE CENTER OF THE flying field. He turned slowly in a circle, breathing in the fragrant air that was as yet balmy but held the hint of cooler nights to come. The grass beneath his feet was browning, deciduous leaves were tipped in gold and scarlet and, beyond, the wet lands were in the process of changing costume for Halloween. The wind gusted and he heard a frenzied calling. Lifting his chin, he saw the sky filled with birds with wings flapping, chattering, weaving in and out of exuberant flight patterns overhead.

Songbirds had been migrating through the Lowcountry for weeks and clustered noisily in the trees and along power lines. The hawks were passing through, as well, but they traveled at such high altitudes most people didn’t see them. Kestrels, ospreys and falcons were among them, soaring southward along the coast. Some would survive the long journey and return again come spring. Others would not. Such was the way of nature, he realized. He could not save them all.

Harris brought his hands to his hips and looked around once again at the Coastal Carolina Center for Birds of Prey. His legs felt rooted to the soil and he knew with a soul-stirring satisfaction that he would not be journeying to a new location. This was his home. He was staying put.

Summer had been too long and too filled with burning issues and heated passions. He was tired and looked forward to the shortening of sunlight hours and long nights around the fire, nestled close beside his loved ones. Fall was a time of change; winter an introspective season. He had much to reflect upon, he thought. Much to be grateful for.

He turned again to look past the field toward the fifty or so people who had congregated for a good, old-fashioned barn-raising. Donations had poured in after the news stations reported the disastrous fire that had destroyed the clinic building. People had shown they cared and they’d collected enough not only to construct a new clinic, but to complete the flight pens, as well. It had been gratifying for him to see the outpouring of support from the community he served. The new clinic building was better equipped and the number of volunteers continued to swell. Harris was renewed with hope.

He squinted and made out the form of Ella in the group of people milling about the new clinic. She was laughing, and her long braid was flopping against her back as she served plates of barbecue to the guests. His heart swelled at the sight of his wife. Ella was the heart of the place; he knew that with out a flinch of envy. She had the ability to give and give, then give a little more.

He didn’t even want to think about what his life would have been like if she hadn’t come back and agreed to marry him. He’d likely be some grouchy, crippled coot, old before his time, and Marion might have been traumatized for life. They were a sorry pair after the fire, but Ella wouldn’t give up on either of them. She gently, firmly, coaxed them back to health. They’d both bear scars for life—his physical and Marion’s mental. That couldn’t be helped. But Ella made them easier to bear. She had been his eyes when he could not see, and now that the bandages had been removed and his sight restored, she was his heart. He thought again of how much he had to be grateful for. Not many men had a second chance in life.

He spotted Marion running across the field with Maggie’s daughter, Annie, in hot pursuit of the springer spaniel puppy he’d brought home with him when he returned from the hospital. His injured eyes were as yet sensitive to the light, but that wasn’t the reason they’d filled with tears when he saw Marion’s first smile since the fire. That had been in Au gust, and she’d started school a few weeks later. Since then, Marion had made lots of new friends. A bittersweet smile crossed his lips as he realized that his little girl was a “brancher,” climbing farther and farther out on the limb, away from the nest. His smile broadened as he thought of the small coterie that walked her down the dirt road to the high way to catch the bus for school each morning: himself walking the puppy, Cinnamon, following in the trees, and the Tweedles.

He shook his head and his smile burst into a chuckle at the memory of those crazy vultures waddling down the road behind them. Even a fire couldn’t convince them that they were better off in the wild. As soon as the ashes had cooled, those two birds walked in their rollicking gait to the back door of the house and roosted. The Tweedles were his failure, he had to admit. Just as he had to admit that he liked the silly birds almost as much as Maggie did. They were residents now and being trained in education programs.

Brady’s voice calling his name broke through his reverie. Looking up, he saw the group of people advancing toward him across the field. Brady was in the forefront carrying a hooded bald eagle in his heavy gloves. Lijah had been right about the young man, he thought, watching with admiration the confidence in his straight-backed stride. Brady was a natural-born falconer. While Harris was recuperating, Brady had come to the hospital to visit and told him the truth about that fateful Christmas Eve when Santee had been shot. Harris had not been entirely surprised. He’d known that one gun had been a rifle and the other a shotgun. And Roy Simmons’s reputation as a marksman was well known. Still, Brady’s honesty brought them one step closer as mentor and student.

Lijah had set the example, and Harris would try to be a wise and giving teacher to Brady. In this way, he would leave his mark on the future, as Harris felt the old man had left his mark on him. Like Lijah said, That the finest mark a man can leave behind.

Lijah…
The old man was sorely missed. Soon after the fire, he’d disappeared, leaving only an eagle’s feather on the pillow in the cabin. A lone eagle’s feather was believed to hold great power, and they liked to think he left part of himself behind. He’d always told them that he’d leave when Santee did, but his unannounced departure caught them all off guard, nonetheless. Marion had claimed the feather as her own and it replaced Gaudy Lulu as her favorite item. She wore the feather on a strip of leather around her neck.

Ella missed Lijah most of all. For the few months after the fire, Ella never lost hope that she’d see him again. She’d stop short whenever she spied a slim black man walking along the road or standing in a crowd. Her breath would hitch when she thought she’d spotted him in an open field, or in the forest, or standing along the shoreline. It was never Lijah. But every time they saw an eagle soar overhead they’d turn to each other and smile as they thought about The Watcher who’d come to a remote outpost in the middle of nowhere to help injured creatures heal.

Brady drew near and his tension from carrying the powerful bird was palpable. Their eyes met—student and teacher—and Harris nodded his readiness. Then he reached out to carefully secure the eagle’s powerful feet into his gloved hands. The eagle flinched at the transition, stretching out its immense talons and jerking back its gleaming wings. Harris maintained a firm hold and soon brought the massive bird under control. He remained still, gentling the bird, waiting until the cluster of people spread out to form a circle around him.

When the group settled and quiet was restored, he signaled Brady. The boy stepped closer to reach out and remove the leather hood from the eagle’s head. Instantly, the bald eagle reared back against his chest. Her yellow eyes shone from the ponderous white head like fierce beacons over her mighty yellow beak. She’d come to the clinic near death and covered with maggots, the victim of barbiturate poisoning. They’d worked long hours with her and she was one of their successes. Now look at her, he thought, his own eyes shining. Her black feathers were gleaming over a substantial body. She was a fine specimen, strong and fierce. She was able and eager to fly, to fight the good fight once again.

Looking at her, Harris felt again the old, familiar urge to blend spirits with the bird in these final few moments before flight. For so long he’d despaired of ever making the link. The dark, murky shadows of his past had impaired his vision, allowing him limited sight of himself and the world around him. He’d believed that only a rare shaman held the secret to a true connection with birds of prey.

It was Lijah who had taught him that all living creatures were connected. There wasn’t some great secret to divine, no mystery to ferret out. The lesson was not learned cognitively but intuitively. It wasn’t reasoned with the brain, but felt in the heart. The Garden of Eden was here on earth if only we might open our eyes to see. Harris had tried to communicate only with the birds, but Lijah taught him that he couldn’t separate one creature from another. To communicate with birds was to communicate with all other animals, plants and, most especially, humans. We were all in this together.

Only when he understood this did he open himself at last to love—and compassion, humility, understanding and forgiveness. And ultimately to the sweetest joy and contentment he’d ever known.

A brisk breeze whistled through the trees, bending the tall grasses. Ella turned the collar up along her neck. Brady reached out to smooth back the hair that whisked to his face. Marion grabbed hold of the eagle feather that lifted in the wind. The eagle lifted her snowy head, catching the scent of freedom in the air. Harris breathed deep the communal air and felt the soul-stirring connection.

It was time to send her home.

An expectant hush settled on the group. Harris turned to face the wind. The air was crisp, gusting, challenging. The eagle tensed in his arms, her eyes fierce.

“Godspeed,” he murmured.

Then, with a mighty lift, he opened his arms.

The eagle arched her head forward, stretched out her long, massive wings and sliced the opposing air with the finesse and strength of a master swordsman. Onward, upward, she traveled on her slanted path to freedom. When at last she caught a thermal, the eagle held her black wings in a uniformly straight line. Neither drooping nor flapping, she seemed to defy gravity. Harris’s throat tightened and his chest rose in exhilaration as his spirit flew with her. Together, they soared.

Harris stepped back from the center to join the circle. He wrapped one arm around his wife, the other around his daughter, and holding them close, he lifted his face and kept his eyes skyward.

Author’s Note

How many of us have looked into a brilliant sky and felt our emotions stir at the sight of a hawk, falcon or eagle riding a thermal? Yet few of us know much about them. Birds of prey are found everywhere on earth and have evolved to adapt to a wide range of environments. It is their sensitivity to the environment, however, that makes them the most vulnerable of all bird species. Human interference through loss of habitat, toxins and trauma is by far the greatest cause of their death.

Rehabilitation centers seek to restore injured birds of prey to the wild. Experienced volunteers transport injured or threatened birds to rehabilitation centers where licensed staff members and volunteers work miracles, acting as surgeons, technicians, dietitians, therapists and cleanup committees. The goal of rehabilitation is to heal, then release raptors to the natural environment. Not all of them make it, but those that do will hopefully flourish and breed future generations.

Education and rehabilitation work hand in hand. Grassroots efforts across the country—and the world—are working to preserve habitats and to compensate for the damage done to birds of prey and all wildlife. If you’re interested in supporting these efforts with either your time or a donation, there are rehabilitation centers located in states throughout the country. Or you can contact the SCCBOP at the address below. Your support is greatly appreciated!

South Carolina Center for Birds of Prey

P.O. Box 1247

Awendaw, SC 29402

Acknowledgments

During the writing of SKYWARD I met many devoted, impressive individuals and groups that work tirelessly for the protection and care of our important and threatened natural resource—birds of prey. I am indebted to all. In particular, I would like to thank:

James Elliott, founder and director of the Center for Birds of Prey and indefatigable teacher to us all, and to Franci Krawcke, Grace Gaspar, Stacey Hughes, and Laura Buchta, and Stephen Schabel. A special thank-you to my dear friend Mary Pringle, for serving as my mentor at the center and for sharing countless duties, including the dread mute scrubbing.

I am indebted to Marquetta Goodwine, “Queen Quet,” of the Gullah/Geechee Nation, for graciously offering consultation regarding the Gullah culture and the character Lijah.

The character of Lijah in this story was inspired by the Gullah tradition of the African-American oral historians (griots). The Gullah language is as rich and complex as the culture, and I was fortunate to have the guidance of Queen Quet of the Gullah/Geechee Nation in writing Lijah’s dialogue. However, I have taken the liberty of making substitutions so that the reader will more readily understand the text. Thus, while the dialogue is not pure Gullah, I’ve done my best to convey the unique qualities and rhythm of this significant Lowcountry language.

Several outstanding nurses shared their expertise. I’m grateful to Janet Grossman, Gail Stuart, Therese Killeen, Alexandra Koch, and Eileen Dreyer. Thank you also to Dr. Timothy Assey and Vanessa Ward for assistance with the issue of diabetes. I am well aware of the advances made in juvenile diabetes, and hope the reader takes into account the date of when the book was written and the circumstances of the characters. I made my choices carefully with the assistance of medical professionals.

Heartfelt thanks to SC poet laureate Marjory Wentworth, for allowing me to use her magnificent poem,
Contretemps,
and to bestselling author and fellow osprey lover, Anne Rivers Siddons, for her endorsement. A big thank you to Angela May for her editing.