The Summer of the Falcon (3 page)

The next morning June awoke in a bleak mood. She sought the twins on the sleeping porch. “Do we really have to jesse Zander?” she asked before they were awake enough to think.

“Of course!” came two voices. Don carried on, “It’s only a falcon, not a person...you’re always putting your feelings into the dogs and raccoons and birds. And that’s not right.”

Charles continued, “It’s this simple. If you want a falcon, you jesse and train him. It never hurt a bird to be trained, so don’t be silly about it. They’re cared for. They like it!”

After drying the breakfast dishes June met the falconers on the canoe landing. She felt better.

“Training makes life easier,” her mother had told her as they did the dishes. “Women learn this earlier than men because their work is all around them. Even so, it was years before my hands cooked and made beds without my mind laboring to help them.” Elizabeth Pritchard lifted her hands and turned them slowly. “Now they go one way and my head another. I can even worry and work.”

June was still rebellious, “Why can’t women be trained to do something else? Beds and dishes are so horribly dull.”

“They can,” her mother answered, “but someday you will want to do these dull things for the husband and children you love.” June dropped a dish. It shattered.

Her lip went out, her brows puckered as her resentment grew. “It’s horrible to be a woman! Boys have all the freedom and fun.”

She felt her mother’s hand on her curls. “June, dear,” her mother whispered, “some day, some year soon, you’ll begin to learn how wonderful it is to be just what you are. It’s not whether you are a boy or a girl, but how all the parts of you come together in one warm human being—and—” she gave a curl a light-hearted twist, “without us women there wouldn’t be any boys!”

June tried not to hear, for she dreaded being cozy with her mother. When the dish towels were rinsed and hung in the sun, her mother said, “Go train your falcon, you’ll learn a lot about birds...and yourself.”

June carried the screaming sparrow hawk to the canoe landing, where the twins were making a hood for Ulysses. Their falconer’s bag was opened. Leather and swivels, and leashes and knives decorated the landing.

Charles had already cut two thin strips of leather. Now, with head low and hands firm, he was putting three slits in them. Two at one end about an inch apart, the third at the far end.

“I like to make jesses,” he said. “I think of the thirteenth century. And of Chaucer, and King Richard the Lion-hearted, and the people who lived when falconry flowered.

They used this same knot. It’s that old, because it’s so good. It will neither bind, nor slip off the bird’s foot. Now hold him, June.”

As she turned her bird over, his feet were in the air. This was the position in which he fought. He was surprised to be in it. But once there he had to fight, even against his will. His talons tensed, his feet shot out, his beak clamped onto June’s thumb. She held on with a wince while Charles got the jesse around the foot. With a twist Zander bit so hard she let go. He flopped to the landing and backed up to take on all three giants.

June grabbed him and held him again. He fought harder. Finally he burst loose and flew over the landing toward the creek. But Don caught him under the breast just as the tips of wings and breast touched water. He held the dripping, screaming, angry bird, while Charles deftly jessed the other foot. He put the short end of the jesse around the leg and through the second hole, pulling until the first hole came out. Then he took the long end of the jesse and put it through the first hole. As he pulled, the strap tightened but did not bind, for the knot was perfect for its job.

Now holding the straps in his left fingers, Don placed his right hand under Zander’s breast and pushed him up on his forefinger. The bird had one impulse when he felt the pressure of the jesses—to fly! With a plunge he was on his wings...and then he hung, head down, tripped by the jesses.

June gasped. Zander looked as if he were hurting himself. He “killied,” the sparrow hawk distress cry. Then Don slipped his hand under his wet breast and righted the bird.

Zander flopped his head down again but this time twisted around and bit the boy.

“Man, he’s got spunk!” Charles said with pleasure.

As he gathered Zander up for a third time, Don ran a swivel into the lower slits to hold the jesses to the leash. The swivel, which looked like a safety pin, had been bought at a fishing store. At the end of the leash the brothers tied a ring and put it over a pole. They put a round block of wood on the pole. And this ended the ritual of tethering the falcon.

“Now watch him!” Don said.

Zander stepped onto the soft leather-covered perch; he stood high, tail lifted. He drew himself up, pressed down his feathers and...flew. At the end of the leash he crashed to earth, then pulled and pulled and pulled. He screamed, “killie-killie.” He fought.

The robins in the tree heard the devil cry of the bird of prey. They were nesting and they cried “cheet, cheet,” their alarm cry of fear. The male robin boldly dove at Zander and struck him with a wing. But Zander, furious at his jesses, did not even notice. He flapped and pulled. The robins cried, the sparrow hawk fluttered and screamed.

June clenched her fists as the robin struck Zander, knocking him on his side. She started toward him.

“I must set him free so he can fight back,” she cried.

Don and Charles laughed. “Oh, when the robins learn he’s tied they’ll stop hitting him. Just leave them alone to work out their problems.” And the twins packed up their falconer’s bag and ran to the house.

June waited until the screen door banged behind them.

Then she crouched low and, hands cupped, crept toward the terrified bird. She knew how to unsnap the swivel.

“I’m coming,” she said. The robin screamed, raised its feathers in fright, then dove again at Zander. He struck June instead, a windy slap, and she fell toward her falcon. Zander, angry, terrified, turned on his back and slashed her hand with his talons. The pain was piercing. She drew into a ball and waited. Presently the robin stopped screaming and the falcon lay panting on his breast, wings spread. She picked him up and gently placed him on his perch. He shook, pecked his jesse, and fluffed in contentment.

June sat down on the sycamore roots and stared at her bird. He was sitting quietly, as if he could no longer feel the jesses.

A quiet hour later June wandered to the house to find her brothers. They were on the front porch talking to Uncle Paul and Will Bunker, a friend whose family had lived in the Cumberland valley for almost as long as the Pritchards. Will Bunker was a robust man. He laughed hard, and moved swiftly; he was full of energy and ideas. His face was round and impish, for Will Bunker was still part boy. The Pritchards all loved him dearly.

Obviously a complicated kind of male-play was afoot. Last year it had been a rattlesnake hunt in the mountains, with the dead snakes ending up in a box in her mother’s living room marked “To Elizabeth, Flowers from the men-folks.” When Mrs. Pritchard had said joyfully, “Oh, how lovely! Flowers for me!” and opened the box—they all had laughed, including Elizabeth. June, whenever she remembered her mother’s laughter, was filled with admiration, and hoped that she would always be able to laugh at jokes played on her. Now, when teased, she could only cry or get angry.

As she listened to the men she wondered what would come of the game this year—laughter or tears. Will Bunker was saying, “And that cave is changing. Have you been in it this year, Paul?”

“No,” her uncle answered. He ran his hand through his sparse blond hair and touched his toes together. He was easy and natural with children and adults. But boys were his joy, and to them he usually addressed his adventurous ideas, leaving June to needles and pots. He repeated, “No,” then added, “but it’s time to explore it again, I’m sure. I’ve loved that old cave ever since I was a boy.”

“Well,” said Will, “since the highway went over it, some of the boulders have sagged, and in one place they’ve dropped clean out of sight and opened a new passage. It goes down. I went in last week, and could see a huge new cavern with my flash. It looks like fun.”

“Well, gee, let’s go see it!” the twins said in one voice. “A new cavern in Bear Cave!”

Bear Cave was up the creek at the second bend. Once a year the Pritchard children, carrying picnic baskets, wedged themselves into it and explored its darkness. To June these were good, spooky adventures, for the old cave was cold and bat-filled and voices echoed back and forth. But the plans to go into a new and deeper room were leaving her out. And she wanted to go. She sat very close to Uncle Paul, hoping he would notice her. Nothing was said. She was a girl. Jim was not invited either. He was too young.

Rod was invited, because, as his father explained, “he’s good on a rope.” Wide-eyed, he accepted, though not because he loved Bear Cave—he didn’t!—but because the big boys and tall men had invited him.

They departed that afternoon in the red canoe, with sandwiches, hot chocolate and root beer, a rope, flashlights and extra batteries. They took matches to test the air in the cave, and boots, in case of water.

June watched them go, standing on the creek bank holding her falcon on her fist. Don had just told her to “carry him until he stops fighting the jesses and leash,” so she had picked him up as she walked toward the creek. The bird was comforting as she watched the canoe pull out, Will Bunker in the stern and Uncle Paul in the bow. The three boys sat on the bottom. As they swished off she lifted the leafy-smelling bird to her face, held his wings so he would not beat them, and whispered, “I’m good on a rope, too.”

She jumped one-handed on the rope that swung out over the creek and looked up its length. Last year she had been able to climb to the top of the rope, much to her brothers’ pride and pleasure. Now, she could only get halfway. Her arms weren’t strong enough. Her legs and hips were too round. Growing up was filled with lonely changes.

The falcon on her wrist flapped in fright as he was carried out over the creek. The rope swung back over the land and June jumped off, holding Zander high. “You are tethered, pretty fellow, and so am I,” she said to him. “I used to tag along behind when there were dangerous things to see. Now I’m not asked. I’m a girl, I must stay at home.” Her soft whispering soothed him. Instead of sitting tense and skinny on her fist, Zander lifted his feathers. He was content.

June walked carefully to the edge of the landing, sat down and dangled her feet in the water. She whispered over and over to the bird on her wrist, “Please don’t fight me. Please be happy, please, please.”

Zander sat still. June touched her forehead against his warm beak—and as she did she smiled, for her world was now as peaceful as a summer day.

W
HEN THE MEN
were not home at suppertime Elizabeth Pritchard was angry. When they did not appear at sundown she was worried. At dusk she was deeply concerned.

She called Mary Bunker on the phone and learned that Will had come home hours ago, dressed, and gone to a meeting. “That’s odd,” she said as she hung up. “Junie, let’s get the green canoe and paddle up there. Maybe something’s happened.”

June’s mother usually stayed out of the male world; the feminine arts were enough for her. But when her inner timing told her the male world was out of rhythm, she could paddle a canoe or shoot a gun or get angry. June knew when her mother’s troubles were big—she lifted her chin and made decisions with determination.

She found a kerosene lamp, elaborately Victorian, which she filled and lit, for the men had taken the flashlights. Then June and her mother started up the creek as the shadows darkened in the willows and the lightning bugs stepped off the tips of grass blades to show their lights.

At the second bend they found the red canoe on the bank. They hopped out and pulled theirs beside. Her mother handed June the lamp, sat on a rock, and put the paddle across her knees. “All right, June,” she said with firmness, “go in there and call. See if they’re safe.”

June felt her mother’s courage pass on into her. She hesitated only long enough to say, “Oh, they’re all right. This is silly.”

“We’ll see!” her mother said with finality. “Never whine when there’s an important job to do. Whining’s for children—and cats!”

June walked slowly toward the entrance of Bear Cave, staring at the black and gray limestones that framed the opening. She dropped to her knees. Bear Cave had to be entered on the stomach, wiggling through five feet of narrow stoneway. Her fear of the tight darkness seized her as she entered, but her mother’s voice was so confident she pushed the lamp ahead of her and wedged in.

When she reached the big room beyond the passageway she stood up. The light from the lamp made eerie patterns over the vaulted walls. Water rushed somewhere in the dark. In a loud voice she called, “Hey, where are you?” And “...
are you?...are you?...are you?
” answered back. The wind rushed out of the passageway. Stones dripped. Bats circled swift and quiet. June could feel her flesh go goose pimples. She stood still and called again.