The Hunchbeak - (II)

Some days I feel very old, but not today. I’ve just seen something I’ve never seen before. A wild bird, Gymnorhina tibicens, the Australian Magpie, the only true Magpies in the world, not a pied crow, is asleep on the steps. The tibicens comes from the Latin word for piper or flute-player. If you’ve ever heard an Australian Magpie you’ll get the reference.

It’s the Beak, and he’s sleeping on the second-top step to the house, beak tucked under his wing, blind-eye to the world. In daylight, at three in the afternoon. He’s been there for hours. He was there when I opened the door this morning at eleven, hopped to the top step, asking for food, for meat in particular. I filled the cheese bowl, but he ignored it. I found the minced beef in the fridge and fed him, four or five good-sized pieces until he was full, until he couldn’t fit any more in.

And then he did something I’ve never seen before. He wiped his bill on the steps, and stayed. Picked a step, one from the top and got comfortable. Then settled in. He’s in pain, I know. Today it’s hard on him, and he’s tired, very tired. I made coffee and started my day, came out to watch the noon news bulletin, and he was there. I fed him again an hour or so later, and then again later still. What he doesn’t eat the ants clean up. But I’ve never seen a bird sleeping like that, and particularly not on the ground.

He feels safe here. Knows I’m thinking about him, that there’s no danger from this quarter, that I have his back. The occasional noise from the builders down the road wakes him, but I talk to him softly, tell him it’s safe, that he’s safe here. I drop my mind into my chest and open my heart, open the heart chakra, and reach out to contain him, to give him warmth and protection. And he relaxes, tucks his head under his wing again, and sleeps. It seems I’m finally getting the hang of it, the Green Ray that is. Attracting what you want and need by staying open to being called on, being part of the world. My beloved would be pleased. It’s taken years.

We live with the front door open, always have. When Cath and I met we both had the habit, a working class thing, English. We’ve always had birds, possums, the odd stray cat and on one occasion a huge black cockerel that had escaped from a neighbours yard, coming into the house. In part it’s about living with an open heart, although that sounds incredibly pompous. But it’s hard to explain any better than that.

A bird in the house can mean an impending death, but not here, they’re just part of the extended family, and since Cath died they’re more important than ever. I don’t have pets, and I stopped acquiring familiars years ago. Too many of them died as a result of my untidy process. Which is what familiars are for, it’s true, as insurance against magic rebounding on you. But it’s hardly fair to them. You befriend them, invite them in, make them part of your personal world, give them a name. When they respond, get close to you, become familiar, they become a familiar. Then, when your magic goes wrong and you overreach yourself they take the hit when it rebounds on you. And they die, if they’re lucky. So I don’t do that any more. I have friends with wings instead, which is much better all round. And the door stays open.

We don’t live in fear of wandering malice, of random robbery and criminal malcontents. We don’t attract them, and I always maintain an awareness of the immediate neighbourhood, keep a weather eye on the mood, the season, the prevailing wind. And I still follow her old maxim: Nothing to be scared of if you’re the scariest thing out there.

We did it together.
I’m doing it for both of us now.

He’s down in the garden now, after four hours just standing, hanging out, sleeping in fits and starts. The three o’clock crocodile of Catholic schoolgirls is streaming down from Lourdes Hill School, which brings a lot of high-pitched chatter and clumping of school shoes that he can’t ignore. But he hasn’t gone far. Just down the stairs. Which means I can collect the mail without disturbing him.

I know he’s struggling. I’ve thought of ringing a vet, getting advice, but I know I can’t end it for him. I’m not the type, and I’ll always favour hope over death as a solution, or even just a stop-gap. So I’ll stay awake, keep an eye on him, do some laundry and drink some coffee. It’s what there is to do.