It was in the
first of March, when winter had begun her annual retreat, that the
Adairs discovered that the pair of jackdaws that regularly rapped
their window for sundry bits of leftovers, had gone. The jackdaws, a
jealously devoted pair, had constructed a small nest in the grand oak
a little ways from the Adair house several years ago, and it was not
rare to see one or the other strutting imperiously along the window
sill, the sun glinting off its iridescent wings.
This clear
morning, however, as Etty Adair peered out of the window, half of a
fresh roll in one hand, she found that the nest was empty of
inhabitants. All that remained were several scattered feathers and
bits of straw and tattered rags; it was a most depressing sight,
particularly when she'd only just been discussing the possibility of
chicks that spring with her husband.
"Bernard?"
She called, still leaning out of the kitchen window. Bernard, who was
muttering inaudibly to himself over the morning paper and taking
intermittent sips of his tea, glanced up irritatedly.
"What
is it, dear?"
"I
don't see the jackdaws in their nest - and you know that the male
always comes for his roll. He," at this she sniffed, "seems
to enjoy them well, unlike a certain someone who always persists in
breakfasting on buttered toast."
Bernard,
ignoring her palavering, stood, folded his paper twice and laid it on
the table, then joined her by the window side. He stood scrutinizing
the barren nest before taking his cane, which was hung on a knob
beside the door, and making his way out to the garden. As he
approached the tree, the slanting sunlight struck something black
that lay palpitating on the ground. Alarmed, the dark haired man
knelt down, fearing the worst.
There, in
a small patch of moss, was the jackdaw couple, the male, who was a
handsome sable, tenderly grooming the feathers of the trembling
female, the chest of whom bore a vermilion gash, pulsating and
clotted with blood. It cannot be said that Bernard was at all a
feeling fellow, for the war of '45 had immured him, but at the sight
of the injured female, who lay rasping on the cold earth, and her
impotent mate, brought to his throat a choking sensation.
With a
gentle hand, he lifted the prostrate creature from where she lay and
sat stroking her dulled plumage. He found that his eyes had clouded
over his a wet, stinging substance – tears. Bernard could not
understand it, could not understand why these wracking sobs afflicted
his body now, when he'd not even wept since that nightmarish day half
a decade past. He'd returned from the war a cynic, a caustic veteran
who'd sit dry-eyed through the most lachrymose scenes.
And then, as he
clutched that barely living being in his hands, he recalled that
crisp, wintry morning. No breeze that day – the pale sun piercing
his eyes when it reflected off the sheet of brittle snow that
blanketed the field. No sounds either, no birdsong nor brotherly
camaraderie at the base. Silence. Because who was there but he left?
Bernard had stumbled feverishly out of the base, repulsed by his
inability to join them – wherever they had gone. A brother, a
childhood neighbor, a cousin. All gone – still – their lips
parted but devoid of breath.
He'd wandered out
of the ruination that was their base, gazing dazedly at all that
remained from the air bombing, then turned and trudged into the
frosty woods, seeking sanity in nature. Nothing stirred, for all that
he saw was trees – hoary gray in their winter nudity, their
branches laden with fresh snow. But then, as he sank ashen into the
snow, a jackdaw sprang from a branch onto the snow, and croaking
softly, came bounding over.
At that moment,
Bernard despised that bird – despised him for seeming so merry when
he, too, was separated from his flock. What right had he? Behold
the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor
gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not
much better than they? He
ruminated over that verse as he stood there, unconsciously grappling
the handle of his rifle. A brief, baleful bark of a laugh rang from
his throat, “And what of these men? Are they not better than this
fowl?”
Now,
as Bernard kneeled in the receding snow, his eyes clenched shut, he
murmured inaudibly, “But I did not kill that bird. No. I let him
live.” He'd not had the heart then to do it, for there was no use.
The travesty of war, for a travesty it was, needn't enlist the
innocent, mute beasts that had no part in its making.
Moments
later, Etty discovered Bernard sitting alone on the stone bench by
the oak, gazing wistfully at the sky. The jackdaws had left.
