Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(57)

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Anyone else around? See, we believe now that somebody took him. That he was abducted.”

“Nothing,” I said, trying to recall exactly what it was I’d seen among the trees after the kids had gone.

“What happened up at the caravan park yesterday? A man claims you assaulted him.”

I stared at the ground and scratched my arm. “He attacked me. I was defending myself.”

“Well, lucky for you there’s a witness confirms that.”

“Owens?”

“Edward Owens, yes. Said he fixed this place up before you moved back.”

I told him that was the case, that my sister had arranged it. He nodded again and something I couldn’t read crossed his face. “He said your sister had asked him to watch out for you.”

“I don’t know about that. I don’t know him well.”

“Why’d you go there, Wil? What business did you have there?”

“I don’t know. I thought I could help.”

“Are you holding something back, Wil?”

“The search,” I said, in desperation. “I know the woods. I just wanted to help.”

“So you spoke to Ellie Lewis.”

“The girl, the one with the red hair? She recognised me. Asked after Blyth.”

“That’d be the jackdaw, I’m guessing? You trained him?”

“Befriended.”

“I never knew you could do that with ordinary birds. Parrots and budgies, but not them.”

“He’s not ordinary.”

“You trap those dead birds you showed her, Wil?”

“I don’t trap birds.”

“What about that dead kite at Llyn y Fan Fach four days ago?”

“I didn’t kill it,” I said, seeing the trees black and heavy with birds. “It was still alive when I found it. I tried to help her but she was too far gone.”

“What is it with dead birds? What is it you do with them?”

I felt light-headed and queasy. Sweat ran down my face. I doubted he’d understand. “I preserve them,” I said. “Their bones.”

I saw the puzzled look on his face. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s like taxidermy. It’s no big deal.”

“Show me.”

The air around us vibrated with the slow steady thrum of wings. He stared at me, waiting. I raised a hand to still the rooks and led him to the workshop. I switched on the light, told him to cover his mouth, and pointed out the articulated bones suspended from the roof beam, the skeletal magpie and crow perched on a shelf. He gagged and made no move to step inside. “That smell, Jesus,” he managed to say.

“Rotting tissue,” I said. “First you remove as much tissue and organs as you can. Then section the bird, suspend the pieces in a solution of water and biological washing powder heated to thirty five degrees. It’s called maceration—accelerated decomposition. When the process is complete you’re left with a complete set of bones. Then it’s a matter of cleaning them, and assembling the skeleton.”

He shook his head and turned away. “For what purpose?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I probably wouldn’t.” He glanced back inside the workshop and shook his head. I followed him back to his car. “This is part of your research?”

“No,” I admitted. “Not really. My work is trying to understand how birds communicate. Not with one another, but with us.”

“They do that?”

“I believe so.”

“Do you know what they think of us?”

“No. Not yet.”

He got into his car and spoke through the open window. “Look, Wil. I know what you’ve been through and maybe you don’t look at the world the way others do. But it’s the others in charge. You have to abide by their rules. This stuff”—he gestured at the workshop—“it’s not normal. You can’t talk about rotting birds like you’re talking rugby. It unsettles people. And you especially can’t go talking to kids about it. It’s best you don’t talk to kids at all. You understand what I’m saying?”

I told him I did.

“Good.” He started the car. “Just, for your own sake, try to stay out of trouble, okay?”


I didn’t see Blyth until the next day. More and more he kept his distance from me, as though dissatisfied at something I’d done. If I had done anything to slight him I would gladly have made amends. I found him the next day in his usual place at the car. I sat on the rusted bonnet and showed him the red cap. He looked at it, ruffled his feathers, but made no comment.

“Did it belong to the boy?” I asked him. “Was that why you brought it here?” He leaned forward and gave a muted kaaarrr.

I asked if he knew what had happened, if he knew where the boy was. He turned and looked directly at me. I searched his eyes for some clue as to what he was trying to communicate. After a while I turned away. I had seen nothing there, nothing at all.

And yet, I knew there must be something. I had felt it before—an urgency, a need to get through, to communicate his perspective. It was just a matter of translation.

Later that evening my sister called. She’d heard from Owens. She was concerned. “Is everything okay?” she asked.