Wild Wings: Chapters 11–23

As the Land Rover lurched over the rough ground, Iona told Hamish about the pine martens’ den she’d found in a hollowed tree and about the golden plovers that nested on the moorlands and the herd of red deer that grazed the high slopes above the farm.

We could hear his high, piercing alarm calls.

Hamish sat astride the branch, pulling the osprey upward.

Hamish pushed his hands into long leather gauntlets, and then slowly and carefully unfurled the canvas.

The feathers weren’t just plain brown, but all the colors from dark, furrowed fields to pale golden wheat.

“That’s her tendon in there. If the line had cut the tendon, she wouldn’t be able to grasp with her foot. She’d never be able to fish again.”

"You put it into your computer and it plots her journey on Google Earth. You might even be able to see which tree she roosts in.”

Iona probed around in the tin, sifting through the colored rings.

She even managed a huge bowl of Mum’s best treacle pudding and custard.

The fibers of the tree creaked and groaned as the gale thrashed against it.

They had touched her and unfurled her wings.

The boy had looked deep into her eyes and she had stared back, mapping the strange contours of his face.

The acrid breath of their machine had long blown away across the hillside.

There were big drafty gaps we stuffed with sacking and tied with baler twine.

Its feathers were still a mottled cream and brown, and its eyes were deep amber, not yellow.

Its long, gangly legs were outstretched, and it wobbled in the air like a helicopter on a really windy day.

He handed Iona a parcel wrapped in shiny paper.

Iona nodded, prodding at the sticky crumbs on her plate with a finger.

It was a small, squat cottage, painted in whitewash that had turned gray over the years.

An old crofter’s cottage lay derelict beside it.

I had to squeeze past piles and piles of boxes and old newspapers. The room smelled damp and musty, like spoiled grain.

I could see Iona’s granddad, the white bristles on his face, a reddened eye, and the sleeve of his dressing gown.

She was hunkered down on the sheltered side of her nesting tree.

I couldn’t see the fledgling chick, but knew it must be huddled in there somewhere, trying to keep dry.

Her mate was preening his feathers, oiling them after the heavy rains.

She banked away from the aerie they had built from sticks and grasses, and away from the insistent calls of the full-grown chick they had reared that summer.

Feet scraped on the stone floor and voices rose up into the eaves.

Reverend Parsons helped them into their seats and climbed up into his eagle-winged pulpit.

Euan just glowered at him.

“You’ll be pleased to know we’re starting the term with a project on castles and fortified towns,” she said.

Instead there was an article on the most amazing castle I had ever seen. It had turrets and high walls and was perched on the very edge of high mountains, like the edge of the world itself.

She stayed near a reservoir there for nearly a week before heading off across the Strait of Gibraltar.

Hamish told me he’d been to Gibraltar before and seen loads of different migrating birds waiting for the right conditions to cross the stretch of water. He said it was like an airport lounge for different birds, squabbling for space until the right wind direction or clear skies carried them over the sea.

On the map the huge expanse of the Sahara Desert stretched across Northern Africa. Pictures showed endless seas of sand dunes.

“Maybe she’s dipping her toes in a green oasis right now, a long, cool drink by her side.”