Firstborn (2 page)

“Bigger,” Jackson said. “The Triple Bar T's just a ranch. Wyoming's a state. We're in the state of Montana.”

“Is Montana bigger than Wyoming?”

“Yes.”

“What's that way?” I asked, pointing my beak to the west.

“Idaho.”

“Is Montana bigger?”

“Yes.”

“And that way?” I said, pointing north.

“Canada.”

“Montana's bigger?”

“No. But Canada's not a state, it's a country.”

The discomfiting truth was sinking in: I
was
empty-headed.

The cupola became my school. I learned a lot about geography—and other things too. One day, for example, I asked Jackson why cattle were so dull, and he explained that they have no souls.

“How come?”

“Only winged creatures have souls.”

This made perfect sense. “What about chickens?” I said. “They have wings, but they can barely fly.”

“A question I grappled with, myself,” he said, giving me an almost appreciative look. “After conversing with a few, I concluded they don't.”

“How do you know so much, Jackson?”

“I don't. At least compared to my friend.”

I was surprised to hear he had one. Most crows are sociable and hang out in gangs, but Jackson seemed very solitary. I'd heard other crows cawing to him, but he never answered.

“Who's your friend?” I said.

“Miranda,” he said.

Miranda! If only my parents had had a little imagination, I could have had a beautiful name like that. “She's a crow?” I said.

“A parrot.”

“What's a parrot?”

“A tropical bird—stunningly beautiful. Humans keep them in cages. But hers was by the window, and in the summertime, when the window was open, we talked up a storm. I picked up a lot, especially about humans. She even taught me their language.”

This was astounding. Their language was very tricky. “She's not in a cage anymore?”

“She's free now.”

“But you still see her?”

“We talk every day.”

Though I couldn't help being jealous of the parrot's name and abilities, I hoped to meet her, but I sensed Jackson might be stingy with her company. I decided to keep my eye out for places he went other than the weather vane and the food cache. If Miranda was a tropical bird, she might well live in the barn, out of the cold. But in the winter the barn was shut up tight.

Eventually the snow began to melt. One day the doors to the hayloft swung open. But when I flew in, all I saw were a couple of bats, a gang of swallows, and hundreds of smelly steers.

The cattle soon came out to graze in the fields. Chicks started bumbling around on the coop's chicken-wired porch. Humans started doing all sorts of noisy things around the place. They shouted at one another a lot, and thanks to Jackson's coaching, I began to decipher some of their words. As spring progressed, they set up a big scale to weigh livestock for the market. They shouted out the weights, and little by little I deciphered the differences. By summer I was a whiz at numbers.

Even noisier than their shouting was their target practice. Earflaps set up a target and showed a smaller human in a red cap how to fire the rifle at it. The silhouette on the target was a lot bigger than a fox, more like a large dog.

“I thought humans were fond of those fiends,” I said.

“I believe it's a wolf,” Jackson said. “Miranda told me they're worried about them.”

“What's a wolf?”

“They're like dogs, only wilder and more ferocious. They kill cattle and sheep. The ranchers hate them.”

“Do they kill birds?”

“If they could catch us, they probably would.”

“Do they live around here?” I asked uneasily.

“The ranchers wiped them out a long time ago.”

“Then why are they worried?”

“Because of Yellowstone,” Jackson said.

Yellowstone, I learned next, was a national park just south of the Beartooth Mountains, mostly in Wyoming. Certain humans wanted to reintroduce wolves there—to restore the “balance of nature,” whatever that meant. The ranchers were dead set against it, but according to Miranda, the wolf lovers had prevailed, and now the ranchers were afraid the reintroduced wolves might venture out of the park and attack their livestock.

But I had more pressing concerns than creatures I'd never laid eyes on. Of my brood, four of us had made it through our first winter. A hawk had picked off Mack last summer, and not long afterward Mark had ended up flattened against the radiator of one of the humans' vehicles. But now, as the leaves unfurled on the cottonwood tree, Matt and Mandy each paired off, and the two new couples started building nests of their own. Though I liked to think of myself as different from my siblings, I'd always been first at everything and disliked suddenly slipping behind. A handsome young magpie named Dan kept pestering me, saying how pretty my tail feathers were. I gave in.

The nest Dan built in my favorite ponderosa pine had a waterproof hood of interwoven twigs. It put my parents' nest to shame. But he no sooner finished it than he started filling it with useless odds and ends collected from around the ranch: wadded-up gum wrappers, screws, washers, pennies, bottle caps. When I asked what the trash was for, he said, “It's pretty!” This totally undermined his compliments on my tail feathers. I got the queasy feeling that he fit the “thieving hoarder” profile. Every time I chucked something out, he retrieved it, so when the eggs came there was barely room for them.

Dan refused to do any egg sitting. I was stuck in the nest night and day with all his bric-a-brac. He did bring me food, but my ordeal went on for weeks. With the melting snow the lovely ribbon of blue reappeared, but I couldn't even go down for a drink. Interesting bird species whizzed by, but I couldn't find out if they were flying up from the south or down from Canada. Meanwhile I had to watch my single sister, Marge, doing loop-di-loops between the silos. Worst of all, I didn't get to chat with Jackson.

I was looking forward to naming the baby girls—Dan had dibs on naming the boys—but when the eggs hatched there was only one girl. Dan named the boys Danny, Denny, Dash, Del, and Dave. I named the girl Anastasia. I was run ragged foraging for the six of them. And then I had to help teach them to fly. What a relief when they finally left the nest for good!

“We did a pretty good job, don't you think?” I said.

“Want to double down?” said Dan.

“Double down?”

“Get started on another clutch.”

“Another clutch!” I cried. “Are you crazy?”

“Lots of magpies do two clutches a year,” he said with a defensive flick of his tail. “But if you insist we can wait till next spring.”

His assumption that we'd still be together in the spring shouldn't have surprised me. A lot of magpies mate for life. My parents had always been inseparable. But the thought of spending my whole life with Dan and his junk made me shudder.

The next day I flew over to the cupola.

“Been a while,” Jackson said.

“Hatchlings,” I explained.

“How are they?”

“Gone, thank goodness. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Um, I was wondering . . . have you always been single?”

“Depends how you define single. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Dan was talking about having more kids next spring—and it's sent me into a tailspin. Is something the matter with me?”

“For most magpies that would be a bit odd. But, of course, if you were an ordinary magpie, I wouldn't be talking to you.”

This cheered me up some.

“The thing is, it's hard to be different and the same at once,” he said, reading my mind. “You generally have to opt for one.”

I suppose I'd wanted to be both. But trying to be like my siblings had just made me miserable. “Would it be disloyal of me not to stick with Dan?” I said.

“Well, if I've learned anything over the years, it's this: you can't be loyal to others if you're not loyal to your own nature first.”

I was touched by his sharing his wisdom with me. I almost felt like hopping up and giving him a peck on the cheek, but of course he would have been appalled by a display like that, so I decided to get him something nice to eat instead. I flew over to the cattle pen and settled on one of the steers.

As I was storing ticks in the pouch under my tongue, a flash of brilliant blue fell from the sky and landed on a nearby wire fence. The fence was electric, but I swear the current hopped over and shivered through me.

IT WAS A BRIGHT SPRING
day, but the blue sky was lackluster compared to the bird on the fence. He was the most gorgeous thing I'd ever seen. However, the electricity may have bothered him, for he soon took wing and headed out over the open range. I sat on the steer gawking after him till he disappeared.

When I got back to the cupola, Jackson accepted the ticks politely, but I could tell he wasn't thrilled with them.

“I just saw the most amazing bird,” I said.

“Mountain bluebird?” Jackson guessed. “I saw him this morning. He likes the flies and gnats the cattle attract.”

I didn't see the mountain bluebird again that day, but the next morning I spotted him on the farmhouse chimney. I wanted to fly over and introduce myself but knew I wouldn't be able to utter a sound. He was just that dazzling.

I couldn't eat the rest of the day. That night I barely slept.

“You don't look so hot,” Dan said in the morning.

It was as if I had a sickness. But I couldn't very well discuss it with him, so I flew over to the cupola and waited for Jackson. While he was off visiting his food cache or the mysterious Miranda, the skies opened. I took shelter in the hayloft. A minute later the bluebird shot in out of the rain and landed a few feet away.

“A real snorter,” he said, shaking droplets off his gorgeous plumage.

I swallowed. “Do you . . .”

“Do I?”

“Do you l-like it around here?” I stammered. “I mean, when it's not pouring.”

He plucked a bug from the loose hay and gobbled it down. “It's not bad,” he said.

I was dying to know his name. But if I asked, he would ask mine.

“Been around here long?” he said.

“All my life.”

“Ah. Then you wouldn't have seen the ocean.”

“What's that?”

“They say it's the biggest thing on earth. Very blue.”

“As blue as you?” I said, wide-eyed.

“I haven't seen it yet.”

“It sounds worth a visit.”

“I'm glad you think so.”

My heart raced at the thought that he might like me to see it with him. “Which way is it?” I asked.

He pointed his beak out of the hayloft, which faced west.

“Have you traveled a lot?” I asked.

“A fair amount,” he said.

He'd flown above the tree line, tasted a salty lake, and seen a city that was bright as noon at midnight. While he was relating his adventures, the rain let up.

“Well, I better get going,” he said, shaking a fleck of straw off his right wing. “What's your name, anyway?”

“Maggie,” I mumbled.

“Maggie the magpie.”

“It wasn't my choice. How about you?”

“Trilby.”

Trilby! After he'd gone, all I could think about was using this radiant new word. That night I practiced saying it under my breath: “Morning, Trilby.” “Hi, Trilby.” “What's up, Trilby?” But the next day I never got to use it. He was nowhere to be found. When I didn't see him again the following morning, I was frantic. Once Jackson landed on his weather vane, I flew straight to the cupola.

“I don't suppose you've seen that bluebird?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“The barn swallows chased him away yesterday,” Jackson said. “Didn't like him horning in on their bugs.”

I gasped. Jackson gave me a look before pointing his beak to the west. “He went that way.”

I didn't go chasing after Trilby right away. First I swooped down onto the hay bailer and pretended to peck seeds on the conveyor belt. But after a decent interval had passed, I flew off to the west.