Skyward

Feathersare marvels of evolutionary adaptation. They are some of the strongest and lightest structures formed of living tissue and do more than merely help birds fly. When fluffed up, feathers form dead air spaces that act as insulators against the bitter cold. When pressed tightly against the body, they help to expel excessive heat. All birds periodically shed their old feathers and replace them with new. This is known as a molt.

5

Ella awoke as the pink light of dawn heralded a cacophony of bird chirping outside her window. Not the melancholy love songs of owls or the piercing cry of raptors, but the squabbling and squawking of jays and mockingbirds in the surrounding woods. She brought the edge of her comforter closer to her chin and cuddled deeper in its warmth. Suddenly, her eyes sprang open. With a burst of clarity, she recalled where she was.

My Lord, what time was it? She pushed back the covers and the chilly, dank air hit her like a cold shower.

Grabbing for her watch, she saw that it was not even half past six. The air had that bitter, dank cold that told her the fire had gone out. She shivered and reached for her robe from the bottom of the bed where she’d tossed it the night before. While slipping her arms through the sleeves she crossed the icy floor on bare feet and peeked through a small opening in the window curtains.

Outside, the morning sky held that rosy, misty softness of an awakening day. Enchanted, she pulled back the curtain for a better view. The pastoral scene of a small black-bottomed pond tucked away by vivid green pinewoods was one she hadn’t noticed on her arrival. A small smile tugged at her lips. She was pleased at the prospect of such a charming view each morning. A one-room cabin with a tin roof perched on a small rise beside the pond. It was probably the very cabin Harris had offered to sleep in, once the weather turned warm. Very sweet-looking, she thought as she let the curtain fall from her fingers. She began to turn away when, from the corner of her eye, she saw a blur of movement by the cabin.

She yanked back the curtain again and bent close to the glass to peer out. It wasn’t her imagination…. A lean black man carrying a small bundle under his arm slipped from the cabin in a furtive manner, then hurried out of sight.

Her mouth slipped open in surprise. Could anyone be sleeping in that cold cabin? she wondered. In this weather? There wasn’t any telltale sign of smoke from a chimney and icicles formed at the corners of the roof. It had to be freezing in there, she thought, shivering at the nippiness in the house. It was all very suspicious, and she decided she’d best mention it to Mr. Henderson at breakfast.

“A man in the cabin? Are you sure?” Harris asked her as he studied the plate of bacon before him. Three thick strips of bacon, blackened at the edges and pink in the middle, were drowning in a puddle of grease.

“Of course I’m sure,” Ella replied, standing at his side, refilling his coffee. “You don’t think I’m making this up, do you?”

“No, no of course not. It’s just that…” He returned the bacon to the plate and reached for the toast. This, too, was burnt to a crisp at the edges. “A tall man, you say? Slender? Black?”

Ella cringed inwardly at seeing him scrape the burnt edges from the toast. He had a sleepy look about him with his tousled hair and heavy-lidded eyes. He looked so boyish she had to stop herself from calling out “Eat up!” the way her aunts had when she was growing up and fiddling with the food on her plate.

“That’ll be him,” she replied.

Harris set his elbows on the table. “Lijah,” he concluded before slathering the blackened toast with jam.

Ella felt another swift flush of embarrassment at the sorry breakfast and quickly returned to the kitchen and poured herself a fortifying second cup of coffee. She’d already been up for hours. The first one up, she’d showered quickly in the single bathroom, then dressed in jeans and a thick navy sweater in record time. The house felt strange to her and she’d fought off a sudden attack of homesickness and doubt as to why she’d ever left home in the first place. But she marshaled her will, focused on the task at hand, then went in search of a broom and dustpan. She’d found a butcher’s-style apron hanging on a hook in the kitchen and the broom behind the kitchen door. Tools in hand, she went directly to the woodstove. As she’d suspected, the stove had long since gone cold to the touch.

Woodburning stoves were commonplace in Vermont and in no time she’d swept the ashes, dumped them outdoors and revved up a good fire with wood she found in a basket on the front porch. Then, after washing her hands, she thought it high time to make better acquaintance with the kitchen. The north was in her blood, after all, and a chill in the morning air energized her.

Now, looking around the kitchen, Ella thought again how it really was a pathetic little room. Everything was out of proportion. The miniature Roper stove was so small she’d bet it had been pulled into service from a camper. In contrast, the porcelain farm sink was deliciously enormous. It stuck far out from the narrow, dark green Formica counter like a full-term belly on a thin woman. It would be fine for washing big pots and produce, and she wondered if Marion hadn’t bathed in it a few times over the years. There was also the tiny refrigerator—sans mice—an ancient toaster with a dangerously frayed cord and beautiful hand-hewn wood cabinets that looked so heavy she hoped the wall wouldn’t collapse under their weight. All in all, a challenge to even the most capable cook—which she was not.

Ella sighed, hoping she’d find a few good cookbooks in the bookshelves to steer her through the ordeal. She was about to add a dollop of milk to her coffee but stopped, seeing how little was left in the jug. She thought Marion would likely want some when she awoke, and with a resigned sigh she put the remaining milk in the fridge. Frowning at her cup of jet-black coffee, she joined Harris at the table.

“We need milk,” she said, taking a seat.

“I’ll go shopping today.”

“No need. I can go, once you tell me where the nearest grocer is. I’m good at directions, as you can tell,” she added with a slight smile. “We’ll need to work out some kind of system for shopping. A budget and all. I expect you’ll give me a weekly allowance?”

“If that works best for you.”

He wasn’t much of a talker, but he was trying to be amenable. “I got up early and took a look around. I made out a list of things we need,” she said, pulling a sheet of paper from her apron pocket. In two tidy columns, she’d started to list all manner of groceries, sundries and cleaning supplies she’d need to get the job started. In fact, she could feel the caffeine racing through her veins and couldn’t wait to roll up her sleeves. She very much wanted to make a good start.

“Of course, I want to ask you what kind of meals you and Marion prefer, and what kind of things you hate, like onions, peppers, that sort of thing. You’re not allergic to anything?”

“No, but Marion’s not great with vegetables. Especially not okra.”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t know an okra from a collard green, anyway.”

“Oh.”

Ella thought it sounded more of a groan than a comment. She tapped her fingers on the rim of her cup before setting it down and folding her hands on the table. “Mr. Henderson, I suppose now’s the time to tell you I’m not the best cook.”

He looked up with a worried expression.

“It’s just that I grew up with my aunts, you see,” she hurried to explain. “They own an inn and they just love to cook. My aunt Eudora is a master chef. She can make a béarnaise sauce that would send you swooning. And her desserts!” Ella rolled her eyes. “Not to be believed, all made with fresh Vermont cream and butter.

“Aunt Rhoda is a baker. She has no interest in anything but breads, rolls, cakes, pies and the most delicate pastries. She always smells of sweet flour and has these big strong hands that can knead out a kink in your shoulders as readily as a glob of dough. They received a four-star rating from Fodor’s,” she added with pride.

Harris was now looking at her with an air of hopefulness. Realizing what he was thinking, Ella shook her head and smiled sheepishly. “So, you see, there was nothing left for me to do but clean up after them. That’s what I’m good at. Cleaning. Really, I know more household hints than Heloise and my specialty is getting rid of germs. I’m organized, too. Even as a little girl I could take charge of the pantry, and let me tell you, I ran a tight ship at the hospital.” She glanced around the room, narrowing her eyes in speculation. “And I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

“But, you do know how to cook?” Concern deepened the creases in his long forehead.

“Sort of,” she confessed. “After all, I’ve lived on my own for years.” She refrained from telling him that, other than the hospital cafeteria, she existed mainly on food that came out of boxes, the freezer or from care packages from the aunts. “My aunts taught me the rudiments, of course. I mean, I can boil water and I know what bake and fry mean. I figure with a good cookbook, how hard can it be?”

Harris looked at the congealed, undercooked bacon on the plate like a condemned man.

“This Lijah,” she asked, eager to go back to the earlier subject. “Does he work here?”

“He’s the fellow I was telling you about. The one who carried that eagle in his bare arms? Had to be him coming out of the cabin, that cagey old coot,” he added, the affection in his eyes belying the scold in his tone.

“You didn’t know he was there?”

Harris shook his head. “He’s a strange man, decent and hardworking, but it’s an unusual situation. He lives in St. Helena, but he followed this eagle north to its nesting area. They have this…relationship, I guess you’d call it.” He paused, recollecting the night he came upon Lijah standing outside Santee’s pen, anxiously peering in. “It’s a rare and beautiful thing to witness, actually. He says he’ll stay only as long as his eagle does. I doubt he expected to stay this long. Then again, he didn’t expect for his eagle to get shot, either. I’m not sure where he’s staying, or even how to reach him, for that matter. When I asked him about it, he just said, ‘I do all right.’ I accepted that and let him be. He’s Gullah.”

Ella shook her head, not understanding what that meant.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching long legs in jeans under the table. “Gullah is both a local culture and a language descended from enslaved Africans. I guess you could say it’s a legacy that was born during the slave trade, flourished on the plantations and, because of the isolation of the Sea Islands, survives to today. You see evidence of the culture all throughout the Lowcountry. The sweet-grass baskets, hoppin’ John, music.” He smiled with recollection. “Every once in a while I hear Lijah slip into Gullah when he’s talking to the birds—especially that eagle he likes to think is his. I can’t understand most of what he’s saying, but I’ll be damned if the birds don’t.” He shook his head, chuckling softly at the memory. “They sit and listen like children with a bedtime story.”

“Does he come around often?”

“Ever since he brought that eagle in he’s been volunteering his time here at the clinic most every day. He does odd jobs—carpentry, fixing perches, general maintenance. There doesn’t seem to be anything he can’t build or fix. We’re damn lucky to have him, truth be known.” He frowned at his plate. “But I can’t have him sleeping in the cabin.”

“Why not? It’s a perfectly nice living space.”

“For one thing, there’s no heat. It’s freezing out there.”

“Couldn’t we get a heat source for him?”

“Probably,” he allowed. “But that’s not the point. The cabin was constructed for fair weather only. We often have students and interns come in the summer, and the cabin is where we put them up. I can’t be having the volunteers sleeping here.”

“And you have no idea where he’s staying while he’s here?”

“No. And quite frankly, I don’t think it’s really any of my business to look into the private lives of my volunteers. They come here to give their time and energy to help these birds. I don’t pay them. Some stick around for a long time, others get bored, or figure it wasn’t what they’d thought it would be, or just get busy and drop away.” He paused. “But Lijah, he’s one of the dedicated ones. At first I had to point out where the supplies were and what had to be done, but pretty soon he just seemed to find out for himself what needed to be done and did it. People like that are hard to find. I’ll hate to lose him.”

“So don’t lose him.”

“You don’t understand. He’s made it clear, he’s only temporary.”

“But if he’s as good as you say, surely you can find an agreeable arrangement? Perhaps you can offer him a job?”

He steepled his fingers and stared at them. “Miss Majors, I have my own way of doing things.”

“Well, you really should find out if he needs a place to stay. There’s not a hotel or motel for miles. Does he even have enough food?”

“I’ll handle it,” he said, effectively cutting off her questions. He reached for his coffee, taking a long sip as he ruminated the problem.

Ella picked up her own coffee cup and debated in her mind whether or not she was overstepping her bounds by pursuing this. She felt certain that she was starting to antagonize him again, even though she’d promised herself she’d start off on the right foot this morning. She looked at him through the rising steam of her coffee. He was staring into the distance, the rigid set to his jaw giving clue to his personality.

“I realize my job is to tend to Marion in this house. And I don’t mean to interfere with what goes on at the clinic next door.” She took a deep breath. “But you simply can’t turn your back and pretend we didn’t see anything. What if that poor man hasn’t anywhere to go? He can’t sleep in that cabin another night without heat, that’s for sure and certain. It’s just not right. Why, it was so cold in here this morning I could see my breath. Imagine what it must’ve been like in there last night?”

“Sorry about the fire,” he said quickly. “I don’t usually let it go out.”

“No matter. I’m accustomed to woodburning stoves. I’ll check it at night before bed from now on. And sweep the ashes in the morning.” She saw him about to object and added with finality, “It’s my job, Mr. Henderson.”

He studied her face for several moments and she felt he was taking her full measure. “You like to have things your way, don’t you, Miss Majors?”

“And you don’t?”

He set down his cup and looked at her with an expression of exasperation. He didn’t reply. Instead, he tucked in his legs and rose from the table. Ella remained sitting straight-shouldered in her chair, looking at him and wondering how the two of them were ever going to abide being in the same house for a year.

“Thanks for breakfast,” he said without a hint of sarcasm. “It’s been a real long time since I woke up to the smell of coffee I didn’t make myself.”

Her shoulders softened. “You’re welcome.”

He walked to the door, where he grabbed a thick navy-blue peacoat from the wall hook. “Marion likes to sleep late sometimes,” he said, pulling his arms through the sleeves. Then, pulling up his collar close to his ears, he added, “I’ll be back in a few hours to settle the budget with you.”

He spoke in declarative sentences and she worried that she’d annoyed him. She thought back to the morning long ago when she’d told the local pastor of her church—after his stirring sermon about original sin—that she couldn’t believe in a God that would send poor little unbaptized children to a horrid nowhere place called Limbo. So either the pastor was wrong or she was giving up coming to his church. She was nine at the time and distinctly remembered wagging her finger at the pastor as she spoke. Her aunt Eudora had studied her with pale gray eyes more sad than critical behind wire-rimmed glasses and said, “Child, when will you learn to curb your tongue?” Ella never had learned, and this facet of her personality was both her strength and a curse.

“I’ll be ready to discuss the budget whenever you are,” she replied. “Oh, and Mr. Henderson…” she said, catching him before he turned away.

He stood with one hand on the door and a look of uncertainty on his face.

She looked at the untouched plate of bacon. “I’ll try to do better with the cooking.”

His smile came reluctantly, but when it blossomed, it transformed his face, lighting up his pale blue eyes like a sunny blue sky against white clouds.

“Miss Majors,” he said, seemingly moved enough to venture a small confidence.

Ella waited expectantly. The words seemed pried from his mouth.

“I care about my volunteers. They’re good people, just private individuals going out of their way to help. All I can offer them in return for all the work they do here is to work as hard or harder than they do and to respect their reasons for being here. We come from different places but we’re all bound together by our common love of raptors. We count on one another.” He opened the door, paused, then added before leaving, “And right now, I’m off to find out what’s what with Elijah Cooper.”

Harris found Elijah in the weighing room, bent over the worktable. It hadn’t occurred to him until now how often he found the old man in this room, hard at work, so early in the morning. Now, stepping in the cozy warmth of the handsome one-room building, he understood. It was a fine little room. Neat rows of hanging leather bird-handling gloves and hoods hung on hooks beside organized charts on the walls, a weigh scale and spare perches. A long wooden table sat under a wide plate-glass window overlooking the resident bird mews, and in its deep drawers he knew he’d find the bells, swivels, leashes and other equipment of falconry. It made perfect sense that a man who loved raptors as he did would feel at home in this space.

The old man turned to look over his shoulder when Harris entered. “Morning, Harris. Sleep well?”

“Well enough,” he replied, closing the door behind him. “What’s that you’re busy with?”

Lijah returned to his work. “Oh, just cutting jesses. Thought I’d start off slow this morning, since I’m fixing to stretch Astro Turf on the perches later. That’s one mean job, but someone’s got to do it. And looks like that someone be me.” His chuckle seemed to rumble low in his chest.

“Much appreciated,” Harris said, drawing closer. He watched as Lijah cut a few strips of light, tough leather to make into jesses, the slender straps that were secured to the birds’ legs. These looked to be about the right size for a peregrine.

“Here, let me show you how to slice those,” he said, moving to take hold of the sheath of leather. “You want to take care not to weaken the leather when cutting the slits,” he said, his hands moving expertly in demonstration. “Jesses are only good if they’re secure. What’s the point of a steel swivel that can hold an elephant if the jesses are so weak it couldn’t hold back a sparrow? There. How’s that?” he said, holding up a perfectly slitted pair.

“Looks good.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been doing this for years. Now you try.”

He watched as Lijah worked the leather. As with most things in bird care, attention had to be paid to the details. Once, he’d found a hawk hanging by one leg so high up in a tree Harris couldn’t get to him, all because of bad jesses. But the old man’s enormous hands worked as daintily as a seamstress’s making French knots, he thought, looking on with admiration.

“You’re good with your hands.”

“Yes, I am. They been good to me over the years. I can build just about anything with some wood and nails. Done some ironwork, too. And I’m handy with a net, if you ever need help there.” He held his hands up and looked at them with more respect than admiration. “Always wanted to try these fingers on a piano, but we never hooked up. I like to think we’d make pretty good music.”

Harris took a breath, rubbing his palms together, knowing that the next conversation would determine if this particular versatile man would stay on at the center.

“A bit cold today, don’t you think?”

“Cold? Nah, it’s not that cold. ‘Posed to warm up to the forties by midday.”

“Really? That’s good. Good. We can put the birds out to weather.” He cleared his throat and tried again. “But the nights are cold, aren’t they?”

Lijah chuckled softly as he worked the leather, nodding his head. “Oh, yes. The nights sure are cold.”

Harris waited a moment or two before saying, “I imagine it’s cold, even in that cabin.”

Lijah’s hand stilled and he lowered the hand tools. He sat for a moment, not moving, then he sighed heavily and turned to face Harris with an open expression.

“I don’t mean no disrespect,” he said somberly. “I keep it clean and I’m careful not to disturb nothing.”

“I know,” Harris replied. He paused. “Lijah, do you not have any place to stay?”

“No, no. I’m staying with friends—just down the road a piece. But getting back and forth to see Santee every day got to be troublesome. See, I need to be close. I need to sit with my bird a while to see her through this. I reckon like you did for your child back when she was in the hospital.”

Harris felt a strong sympathy for the man’s situation. Lijah loved that bird as any father loved a child. “I understand,” he replied. “But damn, Lijah, there’s no heat in there.”

“I do all right.” A sly smile slipped across his face. “It’s a sight better than sleeping in the car.”

“Lijah, it’s not right, you sleeping out there in the cold. We’ll have to figure something else out.”

“You don’t have to worry none. I’ll just clear out of that cabin and find somewhere else. It ain’t no problem for you.”

“But where will you go?”

He shrugged. “Don’t matter. Like I said, I have friends. And it’s only temporary.” His expression altered to worry. “I hope this don’t change your thinking on letting me keep coming here. Leastways, till Santee be well. I like working near these birds. And I daresay I’m doing a good enough job here?”