nest
of dry leaves close to the fire and covered it with more leaves and
earth. Then he sat back, wondering how long it took a seagull's egg
to hatch. Not that he knew when it had been laid, or the incubation
period for that matter. But at least it gave him something hopeful
to look forward to.
The egg stayed warm, and three days later it
started cracking. By the evening a baby seagull had hatched out,
and the Bosun was fussing around like an old grandmother. The
fluffy little chick crouched in its nest and yowled for food. But
the Bosun was ready.
On the offchance of the hatching being
successful, he had kept the head of the mother seagull, and he now
used it to feed the baby. The red spot on the beak, he knew from
past study, was a trigger that made the baby open its mouth for
food. The mother would then regurgitate half-digested fish into the
baby's open mouth. The Bosun did the same; chewing fish until it
was like paste, then poking it through the beak into the chick's
mouth with a little stick. And it worked.
The baby thrived; and it grew. The old Bosun
seemed to spend the better part of every day stuffing food down
that gaping, clamouring mouth. But he was happy; glad to have saved
the baby whose mother had died for it, and glad to have something
to do other than morosely watch for ships that never came. And
Charlie, as he had named it, was good company. He grew very fond of
him.
When Charlie was a little bigger the Bosun
began taking him round the island on his foraging expeditions. The
young gull would perch on his shoulder, peering avidly about it,
yelling at the other passing gulls, and occasionally falling off.
But he made no attempt to join the others. The Bosun was his mum;
and he showed his devotion by pecking constantly at the old man's
ears.
But the affection was mutual. What was a
sore ear, thought the Bosun, compared to friendship?
In the evenings they would sit round the
fire together eating their supper. The Bosun had carved some wooden
bowls now that Charlie was old enough to feed himself, and they
each had their own. Charlie's was filled with chopped up fish,
while the Bosun's would vary. Sometimes he had rabbit, sometimes
fish; occasionally just seaweed and fruit. But he never had
seagulls’ eggs again. And he didn't bother any more to look for
ships; his life on the island now seemed quite sufficiently
meaningful. With Charlie's company the Bosun was content.
Even when Charlie began to fly and went off
fishing by himself, he would still return to the old Bosun's hut of
an evening to share a little of his supper, and perhaps his
company. But they spent less and less time together now that
Charlie was independent of his mum. And before long, the Bosun
knew, Charlie would be away to a new life as an adult seagull. He
was already spending most of his days flying with the other mottled
young gulls; swooping along the wind currents that were drawn up
over the cliffs, and scouring the beaches for food.
The Bosun began to think again of rescue. He
spent more and more days wandering the cliffs and, where at one
time he would just have watched Charlie, he now scanned the distant
horizon for ships. And he rebuilt his old signal fire, long since
pillaged to feed the fire in his hut.
At night he would dream of the sea and
ships, even of land and the civilisation of the Snow Queen's
kingdom. He dreamed of the family and friends who now presumably
thought him dead. And one night he dreamt of his old Captain: the
man he had last seen standing calmly on the poop watching his ship
break up and sink beneath him.
Only it wasn't the Captain he saw in his
dream, it was Charlie - Charlie speaking with the Captain's voice.
It was Charlie stood on the poopdeck in the screaming wind and
spray, as the Bosun and his men fought with the frozen halyards,
each crashing sea filling the deck and rising to their necks. And
Charlie spoke to the Bosun, the voice of the Captain rising clearly
above the howling gale.
“Do not
of dry leaves close to the fire and covered it with more leaves and
earth. Then he sat back, wondering how long it took a seagull's egg
to hatch. Not that he knew when it had been laid, or the incubation
period for that matter. But at least it gave him something hopeful
to look forward to.
The egg stayed warm, and three days later it
started cracking. By the evening a baby seagull had hatched out,
and the Bosun was fussing around like an old grandmother. The
fluffy little chick crouched in its nest and yowled for food. But
the Bosun was ready.
On the offchance of the hatching being
successful, he had kept the head of the mother seagull, and he now
used it to feed the baby. The red spot on the beak, he knew from
past study, was a trigger that made the baby open its mouth for
food. The mother would then regurgitate half-digested fish into the
baby's open mouth. The Bosun did the same; chewing fish until it
was like paste, then poking it through the beak into the chick's
mouth with a little stick. And it worked.
The baby thrived; and it grew. The old Bosun
seemed to spend the better part of every day stuffing food down
that gaping, clamouring mouth. But he was happy; glad to have saved
the baby whose mother had died for it, and glad to have something
to do other than morosely watch for ships that never came. And
Charlie, as he had named it, was good company. He grew very fond of
him.
When Charlie was a little bigger the Bosun
began taking him round the island on his foraging expeditions. The
young gull would perch on his shoulder, peering avidly about it,
yelling at the other passing gulls, and occasionally falling off.
But he made no attempt to join the others. The Bosun was his mum;
and he showed his devotion by pecking constantly at the old man's
ears.
But the affection was mutual. What was a
sore ear, thought the Bosun, compared to friendship?
In the evenings they would sit round the
fire together eating their supper. The Bosun had carved some wooden
bowls now that Charlie was old enough to feed himself, and they
each had their own. Charlie's was filled with chopped up fish,
while the Bosun's would vary. Sometimes he had rabbit, sometimes
fish; occasionally just seaweed and fruit. But he never had
seagulls’ eggs again. And he didn't bother any more to look for
ships; his life on the island now seemed quite sufficiently
meaningful. With Charlie's company the Bosun was content.
Even when Charlie began to fly and went off
fishing by himself, he would still return to the old Bosun's hut of
an evening to share a little of his supper, and perhaps his
company. But they spent less and less time together now that
Charlie was independent of his mum. And before long, the Bosun
knew, Charlie would be away to a new life as an adult seagull. He
was already spending most of his days flying with the other mottled
young gulls; swooping along the wind currents that were drawn up
over the cliffs, and scouring the beaches for food.
The Bosun began to think again of rescue. He
spent more and more days wandering the cliffs and, where at one
time he would just have watched Charlie, he now scanned the distant
horizon for ships. And he rebuilt his old signal fire, long since
pillaged to feed the fire in his hut.
At night he would dream of the sea and
ships, even of land and the civilisation of the Snow Queen's
kingdom. He dreamed of the family and friends who now presumably
thought him dead. And one night he dreamt of his old Captain: the
man he had last seen standing calmly on the poop watching his ship
break up and sink beneath him.
Only it wasn't the Captain he saw in his
dream, it was Charlie - Charlie speaking with the Captain's voice.
It was Charlie stood on the poopdeck in the screaming wind and
spray, as the Bosun and his men fought with the frozen halyards,
each crashing sea filling the deck and rising to their necks. And
Charlie spoke to the Bosun, the voice of the Captain rising clearly
above the howling gale.
“Do not
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