tiptoed to the door and went out, easing the door closed behind him. He heard a croak and the beating of wings. As a black raven bore down on him, he scratched at his cut and drew a drop of blood. In a flash of black-and-white, the magpie darted into the path of the raven. He watched, terrified, as the two birds tore into one another in a storm of feathers.
ââGo!â screeched the magpie.
âBack at the house, the youngest boy awoke with the dawn. He felt a small sticky patch on the blanket. He lifted his finger and saw in the pale light that it was blood. As he looked at the stain on his finger he heard snatches of wings beating, birds screeching, footsteps running. Somehow he knew it was his friend; he wanted desperately to go with him. He shook his sister awake and told her of the birds and the empty space beside them.
ââDonât be stupid. Go back to sleep or Grandmother will hear you.â
âHe dozed for a while and by the time it was fully light he hardly remembered the dream of the birds. The old woman gave them their breakfast porridge by the fire and the two of them set about their chores. The younger boy went out to fetch firewood â hadnât that always been his job? Who else had ever been there to do it? â and as he reached the edge of the garden he saw a black-and-white shape motionless on the ground. He rubbed a red patch that had appeared on his finger overnight and as he reached out to touch the dead magpie he thought he caught a glimpse of a boy running through the trees. At the same time he felt a hand on his shoulder and started in fear.
ââCome back to the house, little one,â said the old woman. âYou need your coat or youâll catch your death of cold.â
âBy the time he went out again there was nothing there. The youngest boy never lost the red patch on his finger where the drop of blood had stained it. If he rubbed it heâd catch a glimpse of a magpie in another place that somehow felt like home, and see the face of a half-remembered friend in his mindâs eye. He didnât understand these images, and they felt like the saddest things he knew, but he was glad he had that red patch on his finger.â
A candle sputtered and flickered rapidly before settling again to a steady flame. Jay moved to put a log on the fire, raising a shower of tiny sparks.
âWhat a sad story,â Marilyn said. âWhere did he go, the older boy? He must have been so lonely.â
âBrought it on himself. Imagine refusing a gift like that. The chance to forget all your troubles.â
âGift? She had them imprisoned.â
âWasnât it better than sadness and loneliness? I tell you, it was a gift. Crafty things, magpies. Theyâll steal anything, even when it means nothing to them.â
âThat magpie sacrificed its life to help the boy remember who he really was.â
âPerhaps heâd have been better off if it hadnât. Perhaps the magpie was simply jealous. I would be⦠The gift of forgetting all the bad stuff in your life.â He rubbed his index finger absently with the tip of his other; shrugged. âPerhaps not. Perhaps youâd just end up making the same mistakes over and over again.â
âAnything in particular?â
He looked away and busied himself firing up new life in his pipe bowl. His silence suggested sheâd gone too far.
âI like the way you told it.â
It was an over-obvious olive branch but he glanced up, clearly willing to accept it. He relaxed visibly, smiled.
âThe odd jobs pay better when I can get them, but the stories â busking â are way more fun. Itâs a question of balance.â
He blew a smoke ring, let it hover and speared it with a thin stream of smoke.
âYour turn.â
âYouâre joking? Youâre the performer; Iâm happy to listen.â
âEveryoneâs got performance in them
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