Read the book: «Skyward»

Praise for the novels of
MARY ALICE MONROE
THE BEACH HOUSE

“With its evocative, often beautiful prose and keen insights into family relationships, Monroe’s latest is an exceptional and heartwarming work of fiction.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review

“Whether you are one of the hundreds of sea turtle volunteers in the southeast or just wish you were, this beautifully written story brings us a glimpse of their dedication and commitment to the conservation of the loggerhead sea turtle.”

—Sally Murphy, Sea Turtle Coordinator for the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources

THE FOUR SEASONS

“Monroe writes with a crisp precision and narrative energy that will keep readers turning the pages. Her talent for infusing her characters with warmth and vitality and her ability to spin a tale with emotional depth will earn her a broad spectrum of readers, particularly fans of Barbara Delinsky and Nora Roberts.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Mary Alice Monroe writes from her heart to the hearts of her readers. It is a quality of emotional honesty together with lyrical, descriptive passages that draw her audience to books like The Four Seasons.”

—Charleston Post and Courier

“With novels like this one and The Book Club, Mary Alice Monroe continues to be one of the leaders of complex female relationship dramas that hit home to the audience.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Moving, touching and beautifully drawn, the characters in this wonderful novel are compelling and true. Ms. Monroe’s skills as a teller of women’s fiction are becoming quite exceptional.”

—Romantic Times

THE BOOK CLUB

“Monroe offers up believable characters in a well-crafted story.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The Book Club skillfully weaves the individual story threads into a warm, unified whole that will appeal to readers who enjoy multifaceted relationship novels with strong women protagonists.”

—Library Journal

GIRL IN THE MIRROR

“What price beauty? Mary Alice Monroe’s Girl in the Mirror reflects the shadows and shapes of a woman’s painful and illuminating journey of self-discovery, of choice, of loves.”

—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts

“What would you do if the career you cherished threatened to cost you your life? Mary Alice Monroe draws you into an absorbing tale of hard-won success, devastating choices and the triumphant power of love.”

—bestselling author Diane Chamberlain

Skyward
Mary Alice Monroe

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to

Jim Elliott, Jemima Parry-Jones, Grace Gaspar,

Stacy Hughes, Franci Krawcke, Mary Pringle

and to all my fellow volunteers at the

South Carolina Center for Birds of Prey

And to dedicated professionals and volunteers

across the country—and the world—who

dedicate their time to help preserve and protect

the magnificent birds of prey.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I have many people to thank for their assistance and support as I wrote this book. First and foremost is the founder and director of the South Carolina Center for Birds of Prey, James Elliott, for providing insights, information and corrections on the text. He is an inspiration to us all. Thanks to Franci Krawcke of SCCBOP for answering my questions and for teaching me how to handle raptors. Thanks also to Jemima Parry-Jones for sharing her extensive history and experience with raptors. And as always, heartfelt thanks to my dear friend Mary Pringle, who not only served as my mentor at the SCCBOP, but has shared countless mute-scrubbing duties with me.

Thank you to Marjory Wentworth for generously offering her magnificent poem “Contretemps,” (Nightjars, Laurel Publishing), and for her savvy and indefatigable support as publicist. Heartfelt thanks as well to fellow osprey lover Anne Rivers Siddons.

I am indebted to Queen Quet, Chieftess of the Gullah/Geechee Nation, for graciously offering translation and consultation regarding the character of Lijah and the Gullah/Geechee culture in this book. Your contribution was invaluable. I am also grateful to Gerald Mackey.

Several outstanding nurses shared their knowledge of the issues facing their profession, as well as the commitment and dedication of nurses today. Thank you, Janet Grossman, Gail Stuart, Therese Killeen, Alexandra Koch and Eileen Dreyer. I’m also grateful to Dr. Timothy Assey and Vanessa Ward for answering my questions concerning diabetes.

For an education on eagles, I’m grateful to Tom Murphy of the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources. Thank you to Coastal Carolina Expeditions, Carolina Heritage Outfitters and the Bull Island Ferry for consultations about expeditions on South Carolina’s incredible rivers. A special thank-you to Jerry and Jenny Reves for sharing articles and books, and for a memorable boat trip that expanded my appreciation for this beautiful region. And for a tour in which we stopped for every raptor we spotted, I am grateful to Ruth Cryns Rutledge.

I’m beholden to Buzzy Porter for his incredible support, expertise and friendship, to Patti Morrison for always being there for events with that megawatt smile, and to all the staff at Barnes & Noble, Mt. Pleasant. Likewise, heartfelt thanks to Marge Irizarry and the staff at Waldenbooks, Charleston.

My sincere appreciation goes to my divine editor, Martha Keenan, and to Dianne Moggy, Amy Moore-Benson, Donna Hayes, Craig Swinwood, Isabel Swift, Randall Toye, Tania Charzewski, Stacy Widdrington, Katherine Orr and everyone at MIRA. And, as always, special thanks to Karen Solem. Thank you, Barbara L. Bergwerf, for the photos and for so many other kindnesses you give so freely.

I have the privilege of working with dedicated volunteers at the South Carolina Center for Birds of Prey. These are remarkable individuals who give their time freely. Thank you Robert Allen, Tara Bailey, Beverly Ballow, Susan Bogart, Desiree Boulware, Laura Buchta, Susan Burnet, Simone Castiller, Vicki and Ashley Causey, Jeff and Cari Cone, Linda Flanagan, Sheena Forte, George Gardner, Dave Gunnells, Randy Hausenfluck, Nedra Hecker, Carolyn Hodo, Nadara Hoffmann, Lara Hopkins, Jennifer Jolly, Joline Kennedy, Meghan Lee, Monique Leveille, Michelle Lewis, Gail Lucas, Susan Maguire, Heather Marlowe, Mary Catherine Martin, Angela McClelland, Kelly Moore, Cynthia Murphy, Murray Neale, Marty North, Kay O’Mara, Marjorie Rath, Joe Regan, Joanne Remington, Bill Robertson, Mary Ellen Rogers, Linnea Rogers-Notton, Diane Rountree, Ted Rucker, Paul Rushton, Mary Ellen and Jim Sharman, Audrey South, Stacy Spence, Amy Sprouse, Donna Totten, Michael and Dede Vergot, Mary Whaley, Mima Wicker, Andrea Wilbanks, Linda Zinnika—and to those intrepid souls who travel across the state to pick up and deliver injured birds. I thank you all!

Finally, for much more than I can write here, my love and heartfelt thanks go to my family: to Markus for grace under pressure, Claire, Gretta and, especially, Zachary for patiently being my dialogue coach for teenaged characters.

CONTRETEMPS

Though the world’s dark heart

brought me here,

where time was hiding

in the unleashed sea,

I will stay in this fragile place

of broken trees and wounded birds

that teach me patience as I watch

them fill the bared branches

like clusters of singing leaves.

I will follow

a passing flock of plovers,

who think faster than we can see

when they suddenly turn

and flash their snowy undersides

in one bright act

of collected caring consciousness.

They must have heard a warning

in the lost language

of the river wind.

But the silent merlin—

in pursuit

disarmed, confused, and angry—

cackles at his lazy gods.

I see the breath

of another god, moving

beneath still wings

of the osprey and the eagle

in flight. I see

countless angels, rising from the river

with open hands

and upturned palms

to hold the wings in place

as the animals glide over

this sanctuary

and pull the sky

back into the universe.

—Marjory Wentworth

“Fa ebeeting wha dey een wi, hunnuh kin tun Skyward an’ kno’.” (For everything that’s in us, you can turn Skyward and know.)

—Queen Quet, Chieftess of the Gullah/Geechee Nation

The character of Lijah in this story was inspired by the Gullah tradition of the African-American oral historians (griots). The Gullah language is as rich and complex as the culture, and I was fortunate to have the guidance of Queen Quet of the Gullah/Geechee Nation in writing Lijah’s dialogue. However, I have taken the liberty of making substitutions so that the reader would more readily understand the text. Thus, while the dialogue is not pure Gullah, I've done my best to convey the unique qualities and rhythm of this significant Lowcountry language.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Birds of Prey(also known as raptors) have characteristics that distinguish them from other birds. A bird of prey has a sharp, hooked beak for tearing food, sharp, curved talons, powerful feet for killing its prey and binocular vision. Thirty-eight species of raptors are found in the geographic limits of the United States and Canada. These species are divided into categories: buteos, accipiters, falcons, harriers, kites, eagles, ospreys and owls.

1

A brisk, wintry wind whistled along the South Carolina coast. It rattled the ice-tipped, yellowed spartina grass and rolled a thick, steely gray fog in from the sea. The old black man paused in his walk and cocked his ear toward the sky. He heard the whispers of change in the wind. Hunching his shoulders, he turned the collar of his threadbare woolen jacket high up to the brim of his fedora, then dug his hands deep into his pockets. He resumed walking, but he kept his eyes skyward.

The old man had walked nearly half a mile when he heard a high, plaintive whistle over the wind’s song. He stopped abruptly, rigid with expectation, staring out at the heavy shroud that hovered over the wetlands. It was a still morning; the pale night moon lingered in the dusty sky. Suddenly, a magnificent white-crested eagle broke through the mist. Its broad, plank-straight wings stretched wide as it soared over the water.

“There you be!” he muttered with deep satisfaction. Bringing his large, gnarled hands to cup his mouth, he whistled sharp and clear, mimicking the birdcall.

The bald eagle circled wide, flapping its powerful wings with a majesty reserved for royalty. The great bird took a lap around the marsh before deigning to return the call.

The effect was not lost on the old man. Heartened, he rushed his hands to his mouth and whistled again, louder and more insistently. This time, the eagle banked, then flew unwaveringly toward him.

This was the moment Harris Henderson relished. He squinted and let his gaze slowly traverse the wide, open meadow encircled by tall, leggy pines. The grasses were crisp and the ground was hard with the early morning frost. In only one day’s time, winter had blustered into the Lowcountry, plummeting temperatures from balmy to freezing. He took a long, deep breath, feeling the moist chill go straight to his lungs. The morning air carried the scent of burning wood—cedar, he thought—so strong he could almost taste it.

Turning his head, he gazed upon the sleek red-tailed hawk held firm against his chest by his thick leather gloves. Maggie Mims, a robust woman with hair almost the same color red as the hawk’s tail, looked up at him with eyes sparkling with excitement.

She gave a curt nod.

Harris moved his gloved hands so that his left wrapped around the hawk’s wings and the right maintained a firm hold of the hawk’s feet. Instantly, the hawk’s dark gaze sharpened, her mouth opened and she jerked her wings hard for freedom.

“So, you’re eager to be off,” he said in a low voice.

He waited patiently for the bird to calm itself, all the while looking on with admiration. She was a beautiful specimen, creamy breasted with a dark bellyband and the brick-red tail feathers that gave the species its name. Red-taileds were superb hunters, “the black warriors” J.J. Audubon had called them. It was hard to believe, looking at her sleek, healthy form, that she’d been brought into the clinic with gunshot wounds a mere two months earlier. “Well, it won’t be long now.”

The bird cocked its head at the sound of his voice, glaring, ferocious—the right attitude for survival. Every instinct in its body was on alert for flight. Harris could feel the bird’s anticipation in his own veins.

In this brief moment before flight, Harris sought to merge spirits with the bird. He’d read stories of shamans who practiced this ancient art, myths of Indians whose spirits soared with eagles, tales that he’d heard spoken of only in passing or in jest. Though he’d tell this to no one, deep down he’d always believed that at the core of legends and myths lay a kernel of truth. There were individuals who communicated at some visceral level with birds. He knew it. Witnessed it.

And it was his private pain that he was not one of them. Although highly skilled, he didn’t possess the rare instinct—the gift—of connection. The art of truly flying the birds.

The closest he came to it was at liftoff. The seconds when the bird’s wings stretched out and he heard the whup-whup of their flapping and felt the quick fluttering of air against his cheek as the bird flew fearlessly into the wind. At that stolen moment in time he caught an exhilarating glimpse of what it might be like to fly, to feel the lift, then the air glide over him like water.

“Ready?” asked Maggie.

Sensing freedom at hand, the red-tailed tightened its talons on his arm. The brisk wind gusted, riffling the feathers on its head. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes were focused. A faint stream of breath clouded the air like steam as her chest rose and fell. The moment had come.

“Okay, my beauty,” he said softly to the hawk. “Let’s send you home.”

With a lift of his arm, he let his hands go. Instantly the talons released their grip. Wings fluttered, stirring the air. Harris released a sigh as the hawk took flight.

Up, up, the red-tailed climbed. Harris tracked the bird, assessing her strength and looking for any tipping, which would indicate the broken wing hadn’t completely healed. The margin for survival was very slim in the wild. A raptor had to be one hundred percent to successfully hunt. There was nothing tentative about this bird’s flying, however, and Harris felt a bone-deep satisfaction that their work at the rehabilitation center had been successful.

This bird, number 1985, was successfully released to the wild.

“We’re not s’posed to hunt in there.”

Brady Simmons pointed the business end of his .22 caliber rifle toward the No Hunting sign posted on the gnarled bark of a bare-leafed live oak. “It says right here, see?” he said, careful to make it more question than statement.

His father rubbed his bristled jaw and drawled, “I don’t see no sign.”

“Billy Trumplin’s dad says we could get in big trouble if we hunt in there. ‘Specially birds. It ain’t even the season.”

Roy Simmons slowly turned his head, narrowing his eyes as he focused on his eldest son. His voice was low but lethal. “You tellin’ me what to do now, boy?”

Brady took a step back. “N-no, sir.”

The spark in his father’s eyes banked as he acknowledged the respect. “Our family’s been huntin’ this here land longer than anyone can remember. There ain’t nothing wrong with takin’ a little of what’s there for the takin’.” He hoisted his rifle. “Besides, we ain’t here for sport. We’re here to put food on the table. And I’ll be dog damned if some tree hugger’s gonna up and tell me I can’t.”

Brady gave a curt nod and kept an eye on his father’s balled fists. The stench of stale whiskey on his father’s breath kept the boy mute with fear and contempt.

His father reached out to rip the sign from the tree bark and throw it on the ground.

Brady’s face was a portrait of teenage apathy as he watched his father ground the muddy heel of his boot on the federal sign. What a jerk, he thought. He was sick of hearing his father grouse about land that had been “stolen” from the people. How could someone steal what wasn’t theirs in the first place? Besides, what did he care about the land and who owned it? All he wanted was to get as far away from this hellhole as he could.

Satisfied, his father turned and pushed into the federally protected land. “Well, come on, then,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t lag behind.”

The woods were still dark in the dank hush of early morning. The crush of Brady’s boots in the layers of frosted, composting leaves sounded violent in the quiet forest. There were lots of loblolly pines, growing thin and so close together it would be easy to get lost if one didn’t know the territory. Brady always preferred the longleaf pine and the way its long needles stirred in the breeze. There was something regal about them, the way they stood ten stories tall, six feet around and straight-backed—the kings of the pine forest. He liked them even if his father hated them, calling them nothing better than wood weeds on account of the fact that the fire-resistant bark was no good for firewood. He’d heard tell of a time when longleafs used to dominate the woods, back before the buzzsaws did their work. Brady would like to have seen that.

As he walked around the clustered trunks, he noticed how the light of the rising sun dappled through the leaves, making the melting frost sparkle like diamonds. In the thick branches over his head, he could hear fox squirrels chattering and, farther off, a red-cockaded woodpecker hammering into the sapwood.

“Quit draggin’ your feet back there! If you didn’t stay up all night with that rowdy bunch of no-counts you call friends you wouldn’t be so damned worthless in the mornin’. Took a bomb to get you outta that bed this morning. I told you we was goin’ huntin’ this mornin’.”

Brady spit out the sour taste of his breakfast of cold biscuits and jerky, then picked up his pace behind the bulky, wide-shouldered man in the camouflage jacket. At least it would be the last thing he’d hear from the old man for a while, he thought. From here on in, he’d be telling him what to do in hissed whispers and jabs with his index finger so as not to spook the game.

Roy Simmons never asked his son where he might think was a good place to hunt or even what game he’d like to go after. Brady felt little more than a lackey behind the skilled huntsman who knew better than most where to find the first buck of the season, or a fertile oyster bed, or where to flush out birds. That’s what they were after this morning. Some pheasant, or maybe quail…something special to put on the Christmas dinner table tomorrow.

Most of the food on their table came from what his daddy hunted or fished. It was pretty much a hand-to-mouth existence for the family of seven. His mama did all she could with whatever his father brought home, but he never seemed satisfied. And lately, with the neighboring land just made into a national preserve, places to hunt were hard to come by. More and more folks were after what little game was left. Roy Simmons had to hunt longer and smarter to bring less to the table, even as his young were growing bigger and eating more.

He preferred hunting alone, but for the past few days since school was out for the holiday he’d dragged Brady, the eldest son, along on his early-morning hunting trips. They’d come up empty-handed each time. It being the holiday, the stakes were higher. Every day Brady saw his father’s desperation turn to anger. As he followed the pounding footfall of his father, Brady hoped he wouldn’t take that anger out on him.

Brady and his father walked without luck for more than an hour into the Marion National Forest, miles from the small spread of ramshackle house and barn that his family called home. The scrap of land was deeded to his great-grandfather back when this place on earth was considered nowhere. Now the sprawl from Charleston was spreading its tentacles their way, causing environmentalists to scoop up whatever they could as protected land. Their scrubby bit of earth was a small speck of private land bordered by thousands of acres of national forest, what his daddy smugly called “the thorn in the ass of the feds.”

“You think maybe we should head back?” he asked, foot weary.

“We’re not going back without we get somethin’ for dinner.”

Brady silently groaned. His eyelids were drooping and his toes were cold in his boots as he silently kept up. He hated being forced to get up early in the morning. He hated being stuck in these godforsaken woods, hungry and tired, when all he wanted to do was go back to his warm bed, even if he did have to share the room with his brother and the dog. And though he’d never admit it to his father, he hated hunting. It was boring and pointless, like most things in his life.

At last they came to where the flat woodlands opened up to a wide expanse of open marshland. His father stopped here, his shotgun hanging from his arm, to survey the landscape with an eagle eye.

A brisk wind was blowing in from the ocean, stinging Brady’s cheeks with crisp freshness and waking him to the beauty of the eastern sky. He lowered his rifle in quiet awe. The dawn had already declared itself. Pink streaks softly shadowed a pearly blue sky, but an approaching armada of low-lying gray clouds and fog stretched threatening fingers across the horizon.

“Look! There!” His father jabbed his side and pointed.

“Where?”

“There. Over that stretch of marsh. At nine o’clock.”

Brady turned his head to see an enormous black bird soaring on a great expanse of wing. The beauty of the sight was awesome.

“Go on, son. Take the shot!”

Frozen with shock that his father was actually offering him the rare opportunity to take the shot, Brady fumbled as he raised the barrel, losing precious seconds.

“Hurry up! You’ll lose it.”

I ain’t gonna lose it, he thought to himself, aware that actually speaking the words could cause him to lose his train on the bird. He could hear the blood roar in his ears, and excitement thrummed in his veins as he brought his eye to the scope.

“It’s bankin’,” his father said. “Comin’ right for you.”

“I can’t see it!”

“It went back into the fog. Don’t matter. Wait for him. Be cocked and ready.”

Brady eased off the safety, put his right forefinger on the trigger and placed his site squarely on the spot he figured the bird would emerge. He tried to calm himself, to take slow breaths and make certain he got the shot. His father wouldn’t give him a second chance.

Okay, where are you? One…two…three…Suddenly, out from the fog, the bird emerged—right where Brady figured it would. Oh, yeah, it was a big bird. A real big bird. He told himself to take it slow and careful as he trailed the soaring bird and focused. His finger applied pressure. He held his breath.

Brady released his breath with the curse, lowering his rifle. “I can’t shoot. It’s an eagle.”

“A what? Goddamn…That’s all that’s left in these goddamn government woods.” Roy shook his head and mumbled a curse. “They won’t let us hunt nowhere or shoot nothin’ no more. Look up there! It’s comin’ straight for us. Bold as can be, knowin’ we can’t shoot. Probably gonna steal some decent farmer’s chickens. Well, hell. Go on, son. Take it.”

“What? I can’t. It’s against the law.”

“What’s the law got to do with my god-given right to hunt like my father and my father before him? I’m tellin’ you, that bird is the enemy, you hear me?”

“That bird ain’t done nothing.”

“I’m not playin’ with you, boy.” He looked his son in the eyes with steely rage and said in a low, threatening voice, “You’re either with me on this or against me.”

Brady hesitated.

His father muttered with disgust that he was as weak as a woman, bringing his own shotgun to his shoulder.

Brady felt his chest constrict and brought his eye back to the scope of his rifle and his finger to the trigger. Life with his father had always been an endless, agonizing series of tests.

Was he with his father, or against him? In that moment, one that seemed to linger in the air without regard for time or judgment, Brady knew that, whatever action he took, his life was going to change forever.

The old man smiled from ear to ear in elation at the magnificent sight of seven feet of wingspan riding a thermal. The Good Lord sure knew what he was doing when he made the eagle, he thought to himself. Powerful wings, a razor-sharp beak and talons as long and sharp as tiger claws. And the way she flew…It was like she knew she was queen of the skies. There weren’t no creature more beautiful in the whole world, he thought.

He whistled again and reached into the pouch hanging from his side to pull out a wide-mouth bass he’d brought just for this bird. He knew she was busy with her nest, knew she was hungry.

“Well, come on and get yourself some bittle,” he told the bird as he raised the fish high into the air. He whistled again, loud and clear, wiggled the outstretched fish and began walking through the field. She saw it. He could tell by the way she was circling.

Suddenly, the unmistakable thundering of gunshot shattered the morning’s peace. The old man stumbled. His arms jerked outstretched, dropping the fish to the field. He watched with helpless horror as the eagle’s great wings fluttered against the bruise-colored sky. His breath choked in his throat as the bird seemed to hang in the air. Then the wings crumpled and the eagle dropped like a stone to the earth.

His cry of anguish mingled with the shrieking wind that streaked across the wetlands, whisking away the old man’s hat to reveal a head of snowy white hair. Spurred forward, he took off at a stiff-legged gait across the frosted fields straight for the fallen bird.

Buteos: The Soaring Hawks.Buteos are medium-to-large hawks with broad wings and a short tail. Although slow flyers, they excel in soaring and hunt on the wing. They are a diverse group with a wide range of habitats and prey. Buteos include red-tailed hawks, red-shouldered hawks, broad-winged hawks, Swainson’s hawks, rough-legged hawks and ferruginous hawks.

2

Harris stood in the brisk wind watching the sky until the tiny speck of brown that was the hawk disappeared from view. Scanning the horizon, there wasn’t another hawk in sight; only a broad-winged vulture coasted over the treetops.

He could remember his grandfather telling him of the days when he could walk a mile through a country field like this one and see every kind of hawk: sharp-shinned, Cooper’s, red-tailed and red-shouldered, kestrel and harrier—though his grandfather called those small but quick birds “marsh hawks.” Harris was no older than five when his grandfather began walking the fields with him. His grandfather would pause, point to the sky and ask, “What’s that?” Harris would shout out an answer with boyish confidence and never feel rebuked when his grandfather, more often than not, gently corrected him. Those walks were some of the most memorable in his life and fired a lifelong devotion to birds of prey. His grandfather had loved raptors, hawks especially, and taught him that identifying a hawk in the air was not as much a skill as it was an art. Color of plumage wasn’t a key, as it was in smaller birds. He was a shrewd and patient teacher, instructing Harris to take his time to read the subtle signs—the cant of a wing, the speed of the flap—and to trust his intuitive sense of how a bird appeared in flight before making his call. By the time his grandfather passed away Harris was only twelve years of age, but he could unerringly spot and name a raptor from a distance.

Harris was born in the early 1960s, a decade that recognized the devastation DDT brought to the environment. Since his boyhood he’d worked to help rebuild the birds of prey population from near extinction. They still had a long way to go before the skies would be as filled with raptors as his grandfather remembered, but they were on the right track. Each time he released a bird back to the wild he felt his entire being stir with hope.

“Harris!”

He reluctantly turned from the sky to see a young, black, teenage girl neatly dressed in jeans and fleece trotting toward him from the edge of the open meadow. He waved an arm in silent acknowledgment, then cast a final glance toward the sky. The hawk was long gone. Beyond the circle of meadow, the fog was closing in.

“Mr. Henderson?” the girl called again, breathless from her run. “I’m supposed to tell you that Sherry needs you back at the clinic right away. Someone’s brought in a bird what’s been shot.”

Harris cursed softly.

“I’ll take this one,” Maggie said, bending to pick up the gear. “Aren’t you supposed to take Marion Christmas shopping? That little darling’s been talking about nothing else all week.”

He nodded with acknowledgment as he helped gather the gear. His five-year-old daughter had woken him at dawn that morning, already dressed in her best pants and sweater, her hair haphazardly pulled back with a pink plastic headband. She was so excited about their holiday outing that she only nibbled at her breakfast, preferring to drink several glasses of orange juice that kept her running back and forth from the bathroom. He chuckled quietly as he walked, recalling how he’d asked if she had a valve open in her plumbing. His last view before leaving the house was of Marion’s forlorn face staring back at him from the front window. He’d waved and called out that he’d be back soon, but she hadn’t smiled. He’d had to go to release the hawk, but the memory still tugged at his heartstrings.

“You haven’t bought a thing for that child yet, have you?” Maggie asked in response to his long silence. They’d walked across the field to the truck and she was regarding him skeptically. When he didn’t reply she added, “Good Lord, Harris. Do you even have a Christmas tree up?”

“Yep. The tree’s up and it’s even got lights on it, so don’t you worry, Mother Maggie,” he said with a teasing grin, and was pleased to see her face soften in response. Once Maggie got going, it was hard to derail her. “Marion and I amble into town every Christmas Eve, just the two of us, and she gets to pick out something special. It’s kind of our ritual.”

“Ritual?” Maggie looked at him disbelievingly. “Come on, Henderson, you can’t fool me. I’ve known you too long. You’re a hermit who’d never leave the woods if you didn’t have to, and this so-called ritual is your excuse for not having to face going into stores more than you absolutely have to.” She was nearly as tall as he was and her green eyes were fiery as they bore into his. “No more excuses today. You go on and leave that bird to me and give that poor child a Merry Christmas.”

Harris held up his hands in mock defeat. “All right, all right, I’ll go. You can take this one.”

“But Sherry said she needs you, Harris,” the young girl interrupted. “It’s an eagle. She said for you to hurry.” The cold wind puckered the volunteer’s lips but her brown eyes were soft with worry.

Harris gave Maggie a knowing look and took off at a trot for his truck parked at the edge of the field. He treated all kinds of raptors at the center: hawks, owls, ospreys and falcons. But it was the eagle that he had the greatest affinity for. In his opinion, no other raptor could compare with the eagle’s grace and power. And it was that very power that made them so dangerous to handle. Unlike substantial Maggie, Sherry was older and as small and delicate as a peregrine falcon. And though just as clever and quick, she didn’t have the physical strength to handle eagles. When an injured one was brought in, Harris took the call.

Silenced by duty, Maggie jumped into the cab beside him. The gravel flew as his wheels dug in and he took off down the dirt road. The bird-flying field was only a short drive down the main road from the Coastal Carolina Center for Birds of Prey. He parked his truck at the house and trotted through the small tangle of trees straight toward the small white frame house mounted on cinder blocks that was the clinic. Immediately, he spotted Sherry Dodds, his senior volunteer, in full leather protective gear hovering uncertainly near a tall, slender black man with snowy white hair. Harris’s eyes fell to the man’s arms and his step faltered.

Maggie grasped his arm tight. “Oh, my God…”

Harris swallowed hard. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The old man carried a full-size bald eagle in his bare arms. That eagle’s talons could rip apart the man’s thin coat and arms, and its razor-sharp beak could slash his face with the speed of a bullet.

“Slow down,” Harris said to Maggie as they approached. They didn’t want to startle the eagle. It seemed to be in shock, not moving a muscle save for its glaring yellow eyes that followed their approach with typical intensity.

“Thank God you’re here,” Sherry exclaimed, straining to keep her voice down. It was rare to see her flustered. “This man…he just walked in here with the eagle…in his arms! I got the gloves out, but with him holding it like that, unprotected…I didn’t know what to do!”

Harris nodded curtly. He understood too well the dangers. The old man was holding on to the eagle’s feet with one hand, which was good, but he cradled the bird too damn close to his chest and face.

Sherry slipped out of the leather chest protector and long gloves and handed them to Harris, keeping her eyes on the bird all the while. As he stuck his arms into the protective gear, Harris assessed the bird with an experienced eye. It was a very large eagle, with shiny plumage, obviously healthy before the gunshot wounds. The white head feathers marked it as an adult, at least five years of age.

“Excuse me, sir. But you the doctor?” the old man asked. His long, weathered face was heavily creased with age and worry. He had a distinguished bearing, dressed almost entirely in faded black, yet he cradled the bird in his arms and large, gnarled hands as tenderly as a nursemaid with a baby. Harris figured he was either a fearless old coot or just plain ignorant to the danger he’d put himself into. At least he had the sense to keep a firm grip on the talons.

“Yes, but don’t talk. The sound of human voices is distressing to wild birds, and right now we don’t want to do anything unnecessary to rile this ol’ boy.”

“Girl.”

Harris narrowed his eyes. From the size of the bird, the old man was likely right. “I’ve got to get that eagle out of your arms. Now, I want you to listen carefully. I’m going to approach the bird and get a firm grip on its talons with these gloves. When I say go, I mean just that. You let go of the bird and get away as fast as you can. Understand?”

“You think Santee’s gonna hurt me?” he asked. The old man shook his head slightly. “No, she ain’t. She knows me.”

“Knows you?”

He nodded solemnly. “I be the one that called her. She was coming straight to me when someone shot her from the sky. I tracked her and found her lying on the ground. Alive, praise Jesus! I heard about you folks here. How you help the birds. I’m grateful you were somewheres I could walk to.”

“You walked the bird here?”

“Came down the big road, straight as the crow flies.”

“How far did you come?”

“Not far. That way, back yonder a few miles, maybe. But it was slow going through the marsh.”

He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. “How long have you been carrying that eagle?”

“Since after sunup.”

It was already almost nine. That meant the eagle had been wounded for hours. Harris shifted his gaze to the eagle. The large bird continued to stare at him, not lethargically or with head dangling, as one would expect from a bird in shock, but with an unnerving calm. Yet only shock could explain its nonresponsiveness—and shock was a killer. He had to act quickly to save the eagle’s life. He cast a worried glance at Sherry, who had returned wearing another set of long leather gloves. She was waiting, hands in the ready.

“The bird’s in shock,” he told her.

“I figured. I’ve got the body wrap and dex ready.”

He took a deep breath to squelch the flicker of anxiety in his chest. He met the old man’s steady gaze. He seemed to have no fear at all. “Okay, then…ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

With slow, deliberate movements, Harris moved his gloved hands to get a secure grip on the feather-coated legs. “I’ve got her. Let go.”

When the old man retracted his hands, the bird flinched its enormous talons and squirmed in Harris’s grip. In a flash, Harris cupped his free hand under and around the wings, then lifted the bird from the old man’s arms. Even with shot in its wings, the eagle had surprising strength as it flexed its talons and jerked to escape during the transfer. Harris’s experience quickly brought the bird under control.

Once stilled, however, its breathing grew more labored and its mouth gaped with stress. Sherry moved to place a light towel over the eagle’s head.

“What for you did that?” the old man asked.

“It helps reduce stress,” she replied.

“You’re a lucky man,” Harris said, exhaling with relief. “If this bird wasn’t in shock, you could be in the hospital yourself. Never forget these are wild creatures. Don’t make the mistake of trusting them.”

“Trust ain’t never a mistake,” the old man replied.

The man’s gaze held him with the same unnerving intensity of the eagle’s. Harris abruptly turned to the two women standing close by. “Can you get the intake information from this gentleman?”

“Will do,” Maggie replied, stepping forward.

Harris turned again to the old man. “We’re grateful you brought the eagle to us. I’m taking it into surgery now. You can give your name and phone number to Maggie and we’ll call you once we know how things turn out. Thanks again for taking the trouble to bring the bird in.” He moved toward the treatment room, dismissing him.

“I’ll wait.”

“We don’t have a waiting area,” Maggie replied kindly. “Don’t worry. We’ll call you right after surgery. It could take hours.”

“No matter. I’ll just wait outside.”

Maggie looked questioningly at Harris. His eyes flashed with annoyance, but he didn’t have time to argue the point. “He can wait in my office,” he said briskly, then turned and carried the eagle indoors.

The sun was beginning its descent by the time Harris’s duties in surgery were completed. It had been an unusually busy day. Two barred owls and a black vulture had also been admitted, all with head traumas from being hit by cars—a result of the heavy holiday traffic. After surgery, the birds were placed in the critical-care unit, a small, narrow room off the treatment room comprised of two long shelves holding two rows of kennels. Each kennel was draped with a cloth for darkness and quiet. Stress in captivity was a killer for wild birds, and at the center they did everything possible to minimize it.

Before closing up, Harris went to check the eagle one more time. In the darkness of her large kennel, she lay on her side, groggy from the anesthesia. She was hurt pretty badly with pellet wounds, some of them lodged where they could still cause trouble. There was also head trauma from the fall. Whether she’d be able to hunt again remained to be seen.

He ran his hands through his hair as he stepped from the treatment room, then let them slip down to rub the small of his back. His muscles ached from the hours of standing bent over the treatment table. He wanted nothing more than to strip from his dirty flannel shirt and jeans, kick off his hiking boots, shower, grab a bite to eat and collapse. The phone was blissfully silent and he was ready to call it a day. Yawning, he stopped short when he spotted the old black man still sitting in his office, elbows on his knees and his long, gnarled fingers worrying the brim of his hat. The man leapt to his feet when Harris walked in.

“How is she?”

“Amazingly good for a bird that just had a bucket of buckshot taken from its wings. It was slow, tedious work.” He shook his head. “But I’ve got to tell you, despite several punctures of lead shot, not a bone was broken. It’s pretty damn unbelievable. I’d have thought there’d be at least one break. This was one lucky bird.”

“Praise Jesus!” the man replied.

“I think Dr. Henderson had a little to do with it, too,” Sherry chimed in good-naturedly as she followed Harris into the office. She’d tucked her salt-and-pepper hair into a knit cap and was stuffing her arms into her parka en route to the sign-out sheet.

“No doubt, no doubt. And I’m grateful. Don’t know exactly how to repay you for your kindness. While I was sitting here, I was thinking…I might could do some work around the place. I saw a few spots that could use a good carpenter. And I’m a good carpenter.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Sherry blurted out as she rushed by. “That’s what we’re here for, you know. To help injured birds.”

“But this ain’t just any bird. This be my bird.”

Sherry paused her hurried exit to look at Harris. He read in her eyes the same question running through his own mind. Eagles were a threatened species protected by the United States government. No one could own an eagle or possess it in any way. Even at the birds of prey center they were restricted to keep an eagle for only ninety days without federal permission for an extension.

“Excuse me, but I didn’t catch your name,” Harris said.

“The name’s Elijah. Elijah Cooper,” he said, straightening and extending his hand with an almost courtly manner. “But most folks call me Lijah.”

Harris shook the offered hand. It was surprisingly large and strong.

“Well, Lijah, a Merry Christmas to you,” Sherry interrupted as she swept by them. Her eyes were sparkling behind her glasses with anticipation of the holidays. “You too, you ol’ humbug,” she said to Harris with a brief but heartfelt hug. Then with a softer tone, “I left a little something for you and Marion under your tree.”

“You didn’t have to.” He was always surprised and deeply touched by the many kindnesses the women at the center showed to him and his daughter. It was as though they had some silent pact between them to keep a close eye on the motherless home.

“Of course I did. I won’t be in tomorrow at all, remember. Neither will Maggie. But I’ll be here all the earlier on the twenty-sixth.”

“We’ll be fine. You just have a wonderful Christmas with your family. And drive carefully. The snow’s still coming down.”

“Don’t worry about me. You just make sure you give that little girl of yours some time tomorrow. The birds will be fine for one day,” she called as she hurried down the hall, eager to be home.

Harris turned back to Elijah, who stood waiting with a patient smile on his face as though he had nowhere to hurry off to on this snowy Christmas Eve. Harris usually didn’t like talking to strangers or engaging in social chitchat, but there was something compelling about the man’s serenity.

“Lijah, I don’t mean to keep you any longer, but there’s something I don’t understand.”

He cocked his head and his dark eyes glowed with interest.

“How is the eagle your bird?” Harris asked. “Do you keep it somewhere?”

“Keep it? You mean like in a cage?” Long lines crinkled the edges of his eyes, joining the multitude of others as he shook his head and chuckled. “No, sir. Nobody can keep an eagle. First off, it ain’t legal. Second most, it ain’t right. They noble creatures, meant to be free.”

“Then how is it that this bird is yours?”

“I figure you can say she adopted me.” When Harris’s brows knit in confusion, Lijah explained, “See, years back, when she was still in her black feathers, she flew low, right by me. You know how they be…She just glided in, curious like, then she perched on a low branch not ten yards in front of me. She sat there watching me. I reckon it was only for a few minutes or so, but it seemed like a long time we stayed there, studying each other.” He shook his head and smiled at some thought he meant to keep private because he simply shrugged. “Ever since, we just sort of looked out for each other. I call her Santee, after the river where I first seen her.”

Harris stared at the old man, unsure of what to make of the story. He’d never heard such a fantastical tale before, but he couldn’t discredit what he’d seen with his own eyes. Lijah had, after all, walked to the birds of prey center with the eagle held in his bare arms.

“Tell me what happened this morning.”

“Well, sir, I was walking along the big road early this morning, looking for her. I’d parked my car a ways back, knowing she has a nest not too far from here. I knew she’d be showing up to hunt sooner or later. And then, there she was. So I called her.”

“You called her?”

“Mmm-hmm. Like this.” He raised his hands to his mouth, then stopped and shook his head with a rueful smile. “No, best not. She’d hear it and try to come.”

Harris could barely restrain the wonder from his face. “You call and the eagle comes to you?”

“That’s right. Like I said, we look out for each other. And she knows I’d brung her something good to eat. Anyway, this morning I called to her like I always do. She was banking in a nice loop, coming for me.” His expression darkened. “Then them gunshots rang out. They shot her down.” His cheeks stiffened in anguish. “What kind of man would do something like that? Why would anybody shoot such a fine creature of God?”

“I don’t know,” he replied soberly. It was a question he’d asked himself every time he pulled pellets from a bird. “Did you happen to see who shot the bird?”

Lijah paused while his face clouded with mixed emotions. “Yes, sir, I did. Leastways, I caught sight of two men with guns back in the woods when I went to fetch Santee. They were standing right where the sound of the gunshot came from so it was most likely them. But I didn’t approach them or ask them nothing. Things being the way they were.” He shook his head and his eyes flashed. “But it was them, most likely.”

“You should report it to the police.”

“I called them already. The woman let me use the phone and they came by while you was in surgery. We talked a bit, I told them what I know, then they left.”

“Good. I hope they catch the bastards.”

Lijah’s lips pursed in thought. “You did say you pulled buckshot out of Santee? Not a bullet?”

“That’s right. A mother lode of it. Why?”

“No reason. Just curious.”

“Another thing. This eagle—” He paused and smiled briefly, conceding the name. “Santee. She has a brood patch. Did you say she had a nest somewhere near here?”

“Yes, sir. Not too far away. They’re good parents, Santee and Pee Dee—I named ’em after the rivers. It’s the second year they bred in that nest. Had two babies last time. That’s what brings me this far north, you see. I be from St. Helena, but I been following them to check out the nest. Sometimes I camp, sometimes I stay with friends. It’s a hike, but I don’t stay long. Santee likes to nest up here. I figure it most likely be where she was born.”

“Most likely. It’s still early in the season. She may not have laid her eggs yet.”

“Can’t tell you that. Only just arrived myself. I been watching them, though. They been busy up there.”

Harris weighed the lecture building in his mind about how humans needed to keep away from raptor nests so as not to disturb them, but decided against it. This man seemed pretty knowledgeable, and at the moment, he needed his help.

“Could you show me where this nest is?”

Lijah rubbed his jaw with his brow creased, then said with hesitation, “I suppose I could.”

“Lijah, it’s going to be hard for that male to incubate any young that may have hatched. Damn near impossible, in fact. We’ll have to watch the nest carefully, in case he abandons it.”

“I intend to.”

“Maybe if we…”

Harris’s attention was diverted by a gentle tug on his trousers. Looking down, he saw the sweet, pale face of his five-year-old daughter. Marion’s hair was pulled back into an elastic that was slipping off center. The clothes he’d seen her in that morning were now slightly soiled and a smudge of grape jelly lingered at the corner of her pouting lips.

“Daddy?”

His face softened at the sight of her. “Yes, baby?”

“Are we gonna go shopping yet?” she asked in a soft whine.

Shopping. Christmas Eve. Dusk. All these realities hit him like a bucket of cold water dumped down his back. How could he have forgotten the outing? It was always this way with him. He’d get so caught up in his work he’d lose track of time and anything else that was on his calendar.

His daughter’s eyes were filled with childish expectation and longing and Maggie’s admonitions played again in his mind. He swung his head around to look out the window. It was only four o’clock but already the sky was dark. A few flakes floated in the dim light outside the door, but nothing to be worried about. He had to make good on his promise. If he hurried, they’d be in town and back before too late.

“Why, sure, honey,” he replied, jostling her hair, sending the elastic flying. “Just give me a minute to close things up here.” He looked again at the old man, who had already reached out to grab his hat.

“I best be going,” he told Harris. “It’s Christmas and looks like you’ve got an evening planned.”

“We do. Heck of a night to hit the roads, though, isn’t it. Can I drop you somewhere?”

“No, sir. Thank you but I’ll find my own way.”

“But didn’t you say you walked here?”

“I did. But don’t pay me mind. My friends live a short way down the road.”

“But the closest house is a long walk through the woods. I insist. Let me drive you.”

Lijah shook his head and began heading toward the door. “I been sitting here all day. My legs’ll enjoy the stretch. Thanks again for tending to my bird. I’ll stop by tomorrow, if you don’t mind. Just to see how she is.” Before leaving, he bent his snowy white head and smiled warmly at Marion. “Merry Christmas to you, little missy.”

Marion smiled shyly and ducked behind her father’s legs.

“We’ll talk again. I’d like to go to that nest,” Harris said.

Lijah nodded, then left, quietly closing the door behind him.

Harris stared after him a moment. The man left a lingering impression. With a sigh, he peeked out the window at the smattering of faint snowflakes dancing in the gray-blue afternoon. Placing his arm around his daughter’s slim shoulders, he bent close to her ear.

“Will you look at that?” he asked. “It’s been a long time since I last saw snow for Christmas right here in South Carolina. In fact,” he said, squeezing her close, “I’ll bet this is the first time you’ve seen snow at all. Guess it’ll help ol’ Santa.”

“You told me there’s no such thing as Santa.”

His brows rose. “I did, huh?”

She nodded her head.

Even though he never encouraged belief in such things as fairies, Santa and the Easter Bunny, he believed firmly in the magic and beauty found in the wilds of nature and human nature alike. Life was full of hard realities, like people putting buckshot into an eagle for sport. And though he was dog-tired and hungry, at least for tonight he’d do what he could to keep the magic alive.

Harris felt blinded by the fluorescent lights as he strolled into the Wal-Mart store with Marion in tow. There was so much stuff everywhere. Who could need so many things? Bright red bows, gold tinsel and moving Santas seemed to jump out at him from the shelves. Compared to the silence of the woods, the loud and persistent Christmas music was grating to his ears. He squeezed his daughter’s hand and fought the urge to walk faster through the aisles. Other shoppers racing through the store brushed clumsily as they passed in a buying frenzy. He couldn’t wait to get back outdoors.

“Daddy, I’m thirsty.” Marion’s face peeked out from the hood of her pink parka, a hand-me-down from one of Maggie’s girls. It was too small; Marion’s shoulders were squeezed and the cuffs were inching up her forearms. He thought of buying her a new coat, since they were already here, then thought again. Money was tight and it wasn’t cold for that long in South Carolina. He figured this parka would make do awhile longer.

“You had a drink before we left the house and another at the gas station. You can’t be thirsty again.”

“But I am. Can I have some of that?” she asked, pointing to some icy blue swirling mixture for sale at the snack bar.

“Maybe later.”

Marion dragged tiredly on his arm and whined, “I’m thirsty now, Daddy.”

Her tone was insistent, drawing his attention from the aisles of toys. On closer inspection her face appeared flushed and her eyes glassy. Come to think of it, she’d downed those glasses of juice this morning as if she were dying of thirst. He wondered if she could be coming down with something.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, bending over to speak gently. “Let’s pick out your present first and then, if you feel up to it, we’ll go someplace real special for our Christmas Eve dinner. You can get anything you want then. How’s that sound?”

“Okay,” she replied with lackluster, casting a final longing glance at the drink machine.

It was his fault they’d had such a late start, but he couldn’t help feeling disappointed. He’d hoped she might be a little excited by their special outing instead of dragging her feet and complaining. When they reached the doll section, he spread out his arm grandly and said with the enthusiasm of a carnival barker, “Look, Marion! Have you ever seen so many dolls in one place? And you can pick any which one you want for Christmas. Go on! Any one at all.”

Marion let go of his hand and shuffled close to the row of dolls, staring dully at them with her arms dropped to her sides. There was no squeal of delight or so much as an ooh of anticipation.

He sighed and lowered himself to her level. “What’s wrong, honey?”

She shrugged.

“But you said you wanted a doll for Christmas.”

She shook her head no.

“Oh,” he replied, perplexed. Then, regrouping, “Well, that’s okay. You don’t have to get one.”

At least he hadn’t gone out and bought one, he thought to himself. Kids changed their minds all the time, didn’t they? “There are lots of toys here. Games, stuffed animals, sports stuff…Hey, how about a bike?”

She turned to look at him, her eyes forlorn. “Daddy, you know what I want for Christmas.”

On her pale, thin face he saw the yearning of a lonely child. It near broke his heart. Marion wasn’t by nature a whiner or a complainer. In fact, she rarely asked for anything for herself. He wrapped his arm around her and rested her against his knee as he racked his brain for what to say.

“Honey, you know I can’t get you your mama for Christmas. We talked about this. That’s just silly.”

“No, it isn’t silly.” Her lower lip shot out in a pout.

“I know, I’m sorry. Why don’t you pick out a doll that looks like Mama? Won’t that be fine? Look at those over there. They’re very pretty, just like her.”

When she looked up at him with those large, trusting blue eyes, she looked so much like her mother that his heart wrenched. He kissed her tender cheek. “Go on, now.”