Read Online Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) by Megan Tayte - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Megan Tayte
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cottage I rummaged in my bag for the
keys, and it was only when I was on the doorstep that I realised two surprises
awaited me there. The first was a cardboard box with my name and the cottage’s
address printed neatly on the front; Mother’s package, I guessed. The second
was a dying bird.
I dropped to my knees, horrified. It was a magpie and it was
deeply distressed, feebly thrashing against the stone of the step, its beady eyes
staring up at me in terror. Instinctively, I reached out and touched it on the
wing, desperate to soothe it. The bird calmed a little. I slipped my hand under
its stomach and brought it onto my lap. I turned it over slowly, searching for
a wound, and found it at once – chest feathers clogged with blood around a
small tear. A predator attack, I thought; perhaps the ginger wildcat I’d seen
stalking through the weeds in the garden.
The bird was shuddering now. I’d seen the look in its eyes
before in the dying. As a child I’d spent many summers roaming the headland and
in that time I’d encountered at least a dozen injured animals – birds and
rabbits, mostly. With each I had sat as I was now, cradling the animal and
stroking it until its eyes clouded and it stilled. It was not enough, of
course, but what else could I do but be with the poor creature in its last,
pain-filled moments?
It was my grandfather who’d taught me – and Sienna too – how
to soothe the passing. One balmy summer’s evening Sienna and I came across a
dying bat outside Grandad’s tool shed. I couldn’t have been more than five,
Sienna would have been six, and our limited life experience to that point had
not equipped us to deal with a wild, wheeling bat, frantic in its pain, veering
in crazy spirals that nearly brought it into collision with us. How we’d
screamed! The fuss we made, you’d have thought we were being attacked by
Satan’s minion. Grandad came running, of course, and he sent Sienna to grab one
of our fishing nets leaning against the house after an afternoon’s rock
pooling. We’d huddled behind him as he expertly captured the beast. But to our
astonishment, no sooner had he caught it than he released it into his lap, and
the bat calmed and stayed there as Grandad stroked it. There were tears on his
face when the bat finally stopped moving. It was the only time I ever saw my
grandfather cry.
My thoughts had drifted, I realised, and I had been gazing
down the garden at Grandad’s shed and stroking the magpie. The bird, meanwhile,
had quietened. I looked down. The magpie was limp and staring. I sighed, and
slid my hand under it – I would take it into the house for now, until I could
dig a hole in which to bury it. But as I moved the bird, I froze.
The eye twitched. I was sure it twitched.
I leaned forward and watched.
Twitch.
And then the bird was twisting in a quick, fluid movement,
and it was up on its feet, and it was hopping away from me, and then stopping
and turning and looking at me, head cocked. It stood tall and proud, and I
searched for the wound on its chest, but I saw nothing – no gash, no blood. The
bird ran a few steps and took off, soaring up and then swooping down, up and
then down, and then away, out of sight beyond the village.
I sat back on my heels for a minute, processing the event.
Dying bird. Dead bird. Flying bird. Shock, I decided. It must have been in
shock – not helped by me, a human, handling it. And as for the wound; well, it
must have been lower down on the bird’s chest than I’d thought, and so out of
sight once it stood.
Still, as I stared at the empty sky, a shiver ran through
me. The magpie had been granted a reprieve today, but it was only a matter of
time before it plummeted from the heavens to the earth or the sea. As had my
sister. As would I, someday.
9: ONE FOR SORROW
A scattering of breadcrumbs on a frosty lawn.
A siege of birds squabbling and squawking.
Two little girls looking on from a stone bench.
‘Loads of magpies today!
keys, and it was only when I was on the doorstep that I realised two surprises
awaited me there. The first was a cardboard box with my name and the cottage’s
address printed neatly on the front; Mother’s package, I guessed. The second
was a dying bird.
I dropped to my knees, horrified. It was a magpie and it was
deeply distressed, feebly thrashing against the stone of the step, its beady eyes
staring up at me in terror. Instinctively, I reached out and touched it on the
wing, desperate to soothe it. The bird calmed a little. I slipped my hand under
its stomach and brought it onto my lap. I turned it over slowly, searching for
a wound, and found it at once – chest feathers clogged with blood around a
small tear. A predator attack, I thought; perhaps the ginger wildcat I’d seen
stalking through the weeds in the garden.
The bird was shuddering now. I’d seen the look in its eyes
before in the dying. As a child I’d spent many summers roaming the headland and
in that time I’d encountered at least a dozen injured animals – birds and
rabbits, mostly. With each I had sat as I was now, cradling the animal and
stroking it until its eyes clouded and it stilled. It was not enough, of
course, but what else could I do but be with the poor creature in its last,
pain-filled moments?
It was my grandfather who’d taught me – and Sienna too – how
to soothe the passing. One balmy summer’s evening Sienna and I came across a
dying bat outside Grandad’s tool shed. I couldn’t have been more than five,
Sienna would have been six, and our limited life experience to that point had
not equipped us to deal with a wild, wheeling bat, frantic in its pain, veering
in crazy spirals that nearly brought it into collision with us. How we’d
screamed! The fuss we made, you’d have thought we were being attacked by
Satan’s minion. Grandad came running, of course, and he sent Sienna to grab one
of our fishing nets leaning against the house after an afternoon’s rock
pooling. We’d huddled behind him as he expertly captured the beast. But to our
astonishment, no sooner had he caught it than he released it into his lap, and
the bat calmed and stayed there as Grandad stroked it. There were tears on his
face when the bat finally stopped moving. It was the only time I ever saw my
grandfather cry.
My thoughts had drifted, I realised, and I had been gazing
down the garden at Grandad’s shed and stroking the magpie. The bird, meanwhile,
had quietened. I looked down. The magpie was limp and staring. I sighed, and
slid my hand under it – I would take it into the house for now, until I could
dig a hole in which to bury it. But as I moved the bird, I froze.
The eye twitched. I was sure it twitched.
I leaned forward and watched.
Twitch.
And then the bird was twisting in a quick, fluid movement,
and it was up on its feet, and it was hopping away from me, and then stopping
and turning and looking at me, head cocked. It stood tall and proud, and I
searched for the wound on its chest, but I saw nothing – no gash, no blood. The
bird ran a few steps and took off, soaring up and then swooping down, up and
then down, and then away, out of sight beyond the village.
I sat back on my heels for a minute, processing the event.
Dying bird. Dead bird. Flying bird. Shock, I decided. It must have been in
shock – not helped by me, a human, handling it. And as for the wound; well, it
must have been lower down on the bird’s chest than I’d thought, and so out of
sight once it stood.
Still, as I stared at the empty sky, a shiver ran through
me. The magpie had been granted a reprieve today, but it was only a matter of
time before it plummeted from the heavens to the earth or the sea. As had my
sister. As would I, someday.
9: ONE FOR SORROW
A scattering of breadcrumbs on a frosty lawn.
A siege of birds squabbling and squawking.
Two little girls looking on from a stone bench.
‘Loads of magpies today!
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