Broken Wing Read online

  He drove east to the town next to his town, a bigger town than his little village, the town where you turned left onto the West Running River Road, a town with a feed store in it. He pulled into the feed store parking lot, got out of his car and went into the store. He bought twenty-five pounds of a mixture of cracked corn, cracked wheat and millet, and headed home. Surely, one of these milled and smaller seeds would be easier for Broken Wing to get down his throat.

  When he got back home, he poured a little pile of the mixed seeds on one corner of the platform feeder, scattered some of the grains on the ground in various places, then went inside and waited. It wasn’t long until Broken Wing reappeared. At first, he went to the sunflower seeds and began choking them down, as he had done before. Then—and how it happened, The Man didn’t observe—but suddenly, he saw Broken Wing pecking at the crushed and milled seed scattered on the ground, and he noticed that Broken Wing didn’t tilt his head back as much anymore, nor did he make those ridiculous straining motions with his head and neck to get the seeds down his throat. Now, he kept his head down most of the time and foraged among the seeds on the ground, continuously pecking, pecking, pecking, pecking, pecking, pecking, filling up his crop with this new food which was so much easier for him to eat.

  The Man realized that not only was Broken Wing stranded, abandoned in this northern place, the only one of his kind among so many strangers—and not only did he know nothing about winter—he was also alone in this unfriendly place, without any of his kind of food to eat, for all the insects he liked best were dead.

  As happens every year, as fall comes on, whole species of insects lay their eggs in the ground, in the cracks and hollows of trees, wrap them up in a chrysalis woven onto the branches, burrow them into a weed stem and make a gall, and then all the living members of that race die and trust the future of their species to those eggs buried and hidden until the winter passes and spring comes again.

  Except for the occasional hatch of cluster flies or ladybugs or some other insect on a warm November or later winter day, Broken Wing would be without his favorite food during the entire winter to come. The crushed, milled grains of corn and wheat and millet would have to do until spring, which meant that Broken Wing was dependent on The Man for his life. Without The Man’s help, Broken Wing would surely die.

  Every day, The Man woke up and began his day long before the sun came up, especially now that the dark time of the year had come and the sun was slow to rise and quick to set. He rose long before the sun and long, long before the birds. The birds preferred to wait until daylight had washed away the last traces of the night before they pulled their heads from under their wings and emerged from their roosting places in the deep softwoods on the leeward side of a hill somewhere—where, even when the wind blew the hardest, it hardly penetrated into the dense center of the softwood trees. For Broken Wing, there were plenty of protected, dense and quiet places in the bog above the house where he could roost each night.

  In the summer, it was different. In the summer, the birds were awake and singing, often before the dawn. In the summer, by the time daylight came, the air was filled with their cheering, joyful song; but now, in the winter, no bird sang his or her summer song, no bird came awake and began to feed before daylight was certainly upon the earth. In the dark time, there was only time to eat and sleep and try to stay warm, only time to survive, to hang on, until the spring.

  One morning, a few days after The Man Who Lives Alone in the Mountains first put out the new, crushed, milled seeds for Broken Wing to eat, after The Man had been up for awhile and after the birds had arrived at the feeders, The Man glanced out the window and saw Broken Wing on top of one of the platform feeders, a feeder which was nothing but a board nailed to a post and a post sunk into the ground. The post and platform were about five feet off the ground, and The Man wondered how Broken Wing had gotten up there. Had he jumped? Could he—could any bird—jump that high? If he couldn’t fly, how did he get up there?

  A few days later, as the birds fed in and among and under the apple trees in the dooryard, the blue jays suddenly set up a terrible squawking, and all the birds instantly flew away and hid in the protective branches of the nearby balsam fir trees. This sounding of the alarm from the blue jays usually meant that there was a predator near; and sure enough, as The Man scanned the sky, he saw a hawk circling above the yard. It was not a shrike, but a larger hawk of some kind, and a late-migrating one—for usually, by this time in November, the hawks had also gone south for the winter.

  Broken Wing! Save Broken Wing! The Man scanned the ground under the apple trees to find his wounded friend, but he was nowhere to be found. Then, there he was, up in an apple tree, safely hidden beneath the tracery of branches that separated Broken Wing from the hawk above. There was no way the hawk could maneuver through that complication of branches and get to Broken Wing, and when the hawk realized that, she tilted her body sideways and soared, banking away on her steady wings into the invisible distance.

  But how did Broken Wing get onto the platform feeder? How did he get up into the apple tree?

  Later that day, as The Man watched the birds out his window, the birds startled again and flew away; and much to The Man’s surprise, he saw Broken Wing flutter awkwardly up into the apple tree. He could fly—poorly, ineptly, but he could fly! Just enough to get himself up into a tree and out of harm’s way. And what was even more amazing, he flew with only one wing. This time, The Man saw Broken Wing actually jump into the air, and then, beating his good wing frantically, rise up until he got himself into the apple tree. There was nothing very pretty or graceful about how Broken Wing flew, but he flew nonetheless.

  Every day now, as November slid toward December, the days got shorter, the nights longer, and both the days and the nights got colder. Winter was coming; yet The Man felt cheered and hopeful. Having found something Broken Wing could eat and having discovered that he could actually fly, if only just a little, there seemed a chance, just a chance, that Broken Wing might make it. With The Man Who Lives Alone in the Mountains helping, Broken Wing might make it.

  4. INTO THE CENTER OF WINTER

  The days passed uneventfully. Thanksgiving approached, arrived, and left. Then it was December and getting colder, and the thermometer dipped down into the single numbers, dangerously close to zero, almost every night. The Man Who Lives Alone in the Mountains knew that birds must eat huge amounts of food daily just to stay alive, and now, in cold weather, they needed even more. And as if that weren’t difficulty enough, Broken Wing, being a migratory bird, couldn’t add an additional layer of downy feathers close to his body just for the winter, as the chickadees and blue jays and other northern birds did. Broken Wing would have to make it through the cold without his favorite food, without a down jacket for the winter, and, worst of all, with only one wing. The Man knew that it was going to be hard, maybe impossible, for Broken Wing to survive, and he wondered if Broken Wing, down deep in his instincts somewhere, knew that, too.

  But, in spite of all the dangers and difficulties, as the days progressed deeper and deeper into the center of winter, Broken Wing actually seemed to improve. Perhaps it was the nourishment he was getting from the cracked corn, wheat and millet, or perhaps only the healing that time can bring. Whatever it was, The Man couldn’t say, but Broken Wing most definitely seemed to be improving. He was a permanent fixture now among the birds at the dooryard feeders; he seemed at home and comfortable, less skittish and on the lookout all the time. The little birds, and the blue jays too, were now used to Broken Wing; he’d become a regular in this wintertime community of feathers and wings. And often, now, The Man would see Broken Wing hop into the air, flap a few flaps with his good wing, and make his way up to the platform feeder or up into the apple tree.

  The Man began to realize that although Broken Wing was slowly regaining his ability to fly, like all rusty blackbirds, Broken Wing was a bird who preferred to walk or run, like the ring-necked pheasants and bobwhite quail
who lived in the country where The Man, as a boy, had grown up. Both the pheasants and the quail were strong flyers, yet they preferred to stay on the ground and walk or run to where they wanted to go; they flew only when they absolutely had to, to escape danger—or, in the rusty blackbird’s case, to migrate. Well, that was fine on bare ground, and with two good wings—but here in the north, and now, as December wore on, with it snowing more and more every day, the snow piling up deeper and deeper with every storm—here and now, what would Broken Wing do? How would he get through all that snow?

  And so, just when things seemed to be improving for Broken Wing, along came another difficulty, this ever-deepening snow, to make his life that much harder. And this particular December was unusually bad, for it snowed almost every day, and the snow was dry and fluffy, making it even harder to get through. Yet each morning, about the same time every day, The Man would see Broken Wing come fluttering and thrashing through the new snow, his one good wing flapping out to one side like an outrigger on a canoe, there to stabilize himself as he plowed, flapped, swam, and flew through that fluffy, light and airy white sea, down out of the bog above the house, down the hill, down toward the door-yard and the feeders.

  The Man thought about the time, a long time ago in the city where he came from, when he had seen a legless man on a low, little cart, pushing himself down the sidewalk with his hands. He thought about the young boy he’d seen, not long ago, with a withered leg and foot—who, with the aid of his crutches, dragged his useless leg and foot along. Both the man and the boy, like Broken Wing, went determinedly about the days of their lives, crippled as they were, yet nonetheless coping, going on, dealing, making it from day to day. He thought about the legless man in the city from long ago, and the boy he’d seen just recently. As he looked out the window at Broken Wing, The Man was full of admiration and respect for these three cripples, and for their tenacity, courage and perseverance.

  Then, as sometimes happened with The Man, a little explosion went off inside his brain, and again he banged himself on his forehead with an open palm. He had gotten an idea how he could help Broken Wing—how he might make Broken Wing’s life a little easier.

  That afternoon after lunch, The Man went into the woodshed, took down the snowshoes that were hanging on the wall, and went out into the snow. He put the snowshoes on, strapping his boots into the snowshoe harnesses and tightening them down well so they would not come off as he tromped through the deep, soft snow.

  The Man went back and forth under the dooryard apple trees, packing down the snow. Then he started up the hill behind the house, up into the woods and high bog, following Broken Wing’s fluttering, thrashing trail in the snow, up to where he knew Broken Wing stayed at night. Carefully, he made a trail up into the bog and back down to the house again. He packed the snow down into a smooth, broad roadway so that it would be easier for Broken Wing to get down from the bog to the house, the apple trees and feeders.

  The next morning, The Man watched intently so as not to miss seeing Broken Wing amble down the smooth, broad path he had made for the wounded bird. He waited. And waited and waited. And waited.

  Then, finally, from a direction Broken Wing had never approached from before, here he came thrashing and flapping through the loose and deep unpacked snow, ignoring the broad, smooth, packed path The Man had made.

  First, The Man was baffled. Then he was hurt. Then one of those little explosions went off in his brain again, and he said out loud, to himself, “How could I be so stupid?” As he was wont to do, he banged his forehead with his open palm.

  What The Man had done in his effort to be helpful and kind had made Broken Wing’s life even more difficult. He had put Broken Wing more in harm’s way than ever before. All that those nicely-packed trails had done was to announce to every predator around exactly where Broken Wing went each night—and not only that, the nicely packed, firm trail gave the predators a convenient road to travel on to hunt down and kill the wounded bird The Man most wanted to protect.

  This incident got The Man to thinking about his urge to be helpful. The Man realized that he had begun to interfere too much in Broken Wing’s life, and that he needed to think harder about what being helpful really meant and about how he might back away from sticking his nose, and his snowshoes, too far into Broken Wing’s business, which was his independent, private, and personal struggle to survive.

  That afternoon, The Man went out on his snowshoes and packed some false trails, trails that led away from the bog in the woods above the house where Broken Wing lived, trails that led to nowhere but a deep snowdrift off in the wrong direction, trails that would deceive would-be predators and lead them away from Broken Wing. The Man tried to undo the harm he’d done.

  As he headed home that afternoon, The Man spoke out loud to himself. He often talked to himself, as many people do who live their lives alone. “On the other hand, never jumping in to help isn’t right, either.”

  And The Man began thinking about his birdcage in the house. It was a thing of beauty, four feet high, tall and spacious and wide, made of bamboo, and empty. The Man kept no domestic household birds, but had the cage for a temporary residence, a kind of bird hospital, for those birds who, on occasion, might fly into a window of his house.

  On certain days, when the quality of light was just right—or, better said, dangerously wrong—on certain days when the glass in the windows of the house reflected the trees in front of them so perfectly that they became deceptive, treacherous, and sometimes deadly mirrors, the birds flitting about the house became confused when looking in the direction of the windows, for they could not see the window, but rather, only more woods and trees. Even though the woods and trees they saw were false, reflected woods and trees, these birds, on occasion, flew into the woods that were not there, crashing headlong and full-speed into the window glass.

  Sometimes, sadly, they were killed outright, their necks broken by the impact; but most often, they’d hit the window obliquely or at a slow enough speed so they were only stunned, knocked unconscious momentarily. It was at these times, when The Man heard a bird hit the window, that he would rush outside, pick up the bird, and, cradling it gently in his hands, bring it into the house. He had discovered over the years that if he stood by the wood stove and let the warmth of his hands and the heat from the stove work its way into the body of the unconscious bird, that the bird would revive more quickly than if it were left outside in the cold and wind. Besides, here in the house, the bird was safe from predators who were always on the lookout for an opportunity to take a meal with little effort, such as an unconscious bird upon the snow.

  After a time of cupping the wounded bird in his hands and standing next to the warming stove, the bird would begin to revive. The Man could see this by the way in which the bird would open its eyes and begin to blink; and then, after a little more time, begin to move its head from side to side. It was at this moment that the man would take the bird to the beautiful and empty bamboo birdcage, open the door, and set the still-woozy bird inside on a perch. The Man referred to the beautiful bamboo cage as the Recovery Room, which is what it was, for after a time—the length of which varied with each bird and the extent of its injury—of the bird sitting, dozing and nodding on the perch, slowly, the wild bird would revive, look around, and realize to its terror that it was in a cage. The bird would begin to fly madly at the sides of the helpful and beautiful cage which was, of course, from the bird’s perspective, an ugly and evil enclosure. It was then that The Man would leave off whatever he had turned his hand to and come to the frantic bird, open the cage door, reach in, capture the bird in his hands, and take it out to the porch where, after a few kind words of admonition, caution and farewell, he would release the winged creature.

  As The Man and his snowshoes headed for the house that afternoon, he again spoke out loud to himself: “This is tricky business. How to help, yet not get in the way. Now, that’s not so easy.”

  Just then, he thought he saw a c
at print in the snow on the old trail that led up the hill and into the woods, toward the bog where Broken Wing spent the night. He paused, knelt down, and examined the track. Yes. A cat print for sure, a small one, the print of a housecat, not a bobcat or a lynx, and, no doubt, the print of the cat The Man hated most: the Bap Brothers’ cat, Arnold.

  Danger, The Man understood clearly, was always all around.

  And so it was that afternoon that The Man Who Lives Alone in the Mountains learned to back off a little, become less involved in Broken Wing’s struggle to survive; yet he began also to realize how complex and difficult it was to understand what “helping out” really meant. More and more, he stood attentively and watchfully to one side, but remained prepared and ready to do what he could for his wounded friend.

  The next morning, The Man sat down at his desk to write a letter. The Man liked to write letters, especially these days. He liked to write letters to an old friend with whom he had just recently been back in touch after many years of silence, an old friend who still lived in the city from which The Man had come those many years ago.

  Dear Howard,

  A little intro to what I want to tell you: Yesterday afternoon I noticed that the barometer was unusually high, and had been that way all day. I knew we were in for an early cold snap. I guessed it would probably get down well below zero. This is not unusual in January or early February around here, but it doesn’t very often happen here in the middle of December. I figured it would be an excellent night to defrost my freezer.