Chapter 4 #2
Panic burned through me, the healing in my blood igniting like fire.
My hands sought damage, and I felt her neckbones knit back together before I could stop it.
Repairing bones in a bird hours dead was futile, but her heartsong soared at the golden force.
Visions flashed through my mind: of the beech tree’s boughs; Belle Garde’s landscape from on high; even of me, back and forth on the balcony—traces of a life scored deep beneath her feathers.
In answer, a flock of magpies flew in, generation upon generation, and landed on the worktable, the rafters, my bookshelves, tilting inquisitive blue-black heads at me.
Their message was clear—it was not her time, did not have to be, if I could just make myself mistress of the skill I thought I possessed.
“You don’t understand,” I told them. “I can’t.”
As I stood in denial, another magpie flew in through the balcony door—the matriarch’s mate and companion, who she had chosen and paired with for life.
As usual, he landed upon one of the carved peregrine falcons on my chair back, the opposite side bare in comparison.
She had always perched there, beside him.
“All right,” I relented. “I’ll try.”
I grasped for my father’s knife, pushing my thumb against its edge.
I felt a quick, hot pain and pressed the cut against the magpie’s breast before any blood could escape, then closed my eyes, taking up the formula’s chant.
My rational mind wondered why I was even trying, but I could not stop intoning, hope building, unbearable in my chest.
Pressure expanded within my veins, bracing against my skin until I thought I could take no more. In the same instant, a force broke free of my body with a scream. I opened my eyes to see the magpie bursting out of my hands and up into the turret, alive and victorious.
“By the goddess,” I whispered. “She lives.”
The matriarch circled the study twice on effortless wings, then alighted on my open hands.
On her alabaster breast, where the red stain of my blood should have been, was a coin-sized circle of gold.
It glowed slightly, as if with the force of new life.
What was causing it, I did not know, but just then it didn’t seem to matter. I had succeeded at last.
Before I could study her closer, the magpie flew off, landing beside her mate on the back of my chair.
They hopped to one another, chattering joyously, as the flock took up calling, a cacophony of celebration from the worktable, the mantelpiece, the gallery banisters.
If anyone came up to the turret now, they would assume I had lost my mind.
“I’ve done what you came for,” I called above the noise. “You can all leave.”
My order was in jest, but to my astonishment, the birds spread their wings in unison and took flight, streaming out of the balcony door. Within moments, the room was empty, aside from the resurrected magpie, watching them go.
The shock sat me down in my chair. “What on earth was that?” I said to myself.
The matriarch flew down to my desk and hopped across my scattered papers, the gold mark on her chest still glowing.
You told them to go, she seemed to say. And they went.
I stared at her. “Did you just…?” I said, then shook my head. “No, of course not.”
She met my scrutiny with a beady eye. Call them back rippled through my mind.
“This is not happening.” I rubbed my forehead; I was tired, overworked, maybe even mad—perhaps all three at once. “I don’t need any more voices in my head.”
The magpie gave me a long, significant look that did nothing to alleviate the idea she was communicating with me. Inevitably, I could not resist the challenge; in the same way I requested the elements to answer my call, I silently summoned the departed flock.
In an instant, a barrage of dark and light filled the study, as every inhabitant of the beech tree streamed inside again in a flurry of caws, scattering parchment and feathers all over the room, immediately overwhelming.
Enough! my mind ordered. Leave again. The birds circled the turret and flew back out of the balcony door. I looked at the matriarch on my desk.
Now do you see? she said. Then watch.
Spreading her night-coloured wings, she took flight and followed the rest. The beech tree hove into view in my mind as the bird spied her home again, welcoming the joyous calls of the others. I could see and hear exactly as she could.
Later, I would discover there was much more to this wonder.
Through the magpie matriarch, I could understand the mood of her flock and attune my ear to their tidings.
I could close my eyes and let her take my mind to fly all over the valley, feel the skim of wind and taste the pure cold air on my tongue.
From on high, we could espy the animals and people on the land and roads, living their lives below our collective wings.
Now, as she flew back to my desk, I was far from understanding. No other bird I had raised from death offered me access to its senses, though this had clearly not been an ordinary resurrection.
“But why?” I asked, a hundred questions in one.
For my life, the magpie replied. We are yours to command.