Navigation:
About The Book
This section of the website provides some information about the book, with a Synopsis (i.e. explanation of what the book is about), a complete sample chapter from the book (the "Introduction" chapter), and some photos of the magpie.
Synopsis
This unusual and unique tale is based upon a true story about a certain
magpie named Maggie (the main character in the book) and also about the
author's own account of the story relating to how Maggie came into the
family's life, along with flashbacks of her own early childhood during
the 1950's and 60's and up to the present time. At the beginning, the
author rescued Maggie from the viscious beaks of the two very
determined crows, who had designs on turning him into a feast for their
own youngsters.
He survived his life-threatening ordeal, after the tender loving care of his human rescuer saved him from the brink of death, and he eventually turned into a very dapper, fully fledged, magpie, ready to make his own way into the world. The magpie 'talked' his way into telling his own version of his story, in his own very quirky 'bird language' or 'birds words!' as he insists in calling them, and was given his own section at the end of each of the author's chapters. He tells some rollicking good yarns, along with his whacky stories, filled with myths and legends in the bird world. You will meet such characters as Forked Tongue and Silver Cloud, the two marauding killer crows, and later he meets Eelandii, the female blackbird with 'The Seeing Eye' who tells him his future. Then he is confronted by the mistle thrush, Thorn Stormcock, who sends him out on a mission to "duff up" two local cats who killed his mate Sweetpea, and many more incredible characters he meets on his life's journey. There is a big upheaval for him, when he is taken on a long journey from urban life in the South of England, to the beautiful countryside of rural West Wales, with its soft rolling hills and majestic red kites (back from near extinction), where he meets other birds (including magpies, a regiment of amusing starlings, and migrating swallows), and his adventures into the realms of Merlin and the Red Dragon, and into the legendary land of Mabinogion, really begin.
Sample Chapter from the book
Introduction
In the Beginning
In the Beginning
“Do you think he will return?” asked Doreen as she sipped her favourite sherry. She raised the question as we both sat opposite one another at the large, beautifully polished oak table, which was situated in the kitchen.
The kitchen was always regarded as “the conference room” when friends called in to discuss their latest projects or holiday arrangements or to air their views, and more often than not, problems were solved over endless mugs of coffee or cups of tea; but whenever Doreen came to visit, it usually meant a glass or two of sherry.
Looking intently into my face, Doreen continued with the inquisition. “And what if he decides to stay away for good? You may never see him again!” she said, peering at me over the top of her glass. “When did you last see him?” she asked, looking very concerned. “I mean, you’ve done everything you can for him. You’ve given him a comfortable home, he’s had a good life with you, and you’ve always fed him well, not to mention all the freedom to go almost everywhere he wants to.”
The kitchen was always regarded as “the conference room” when friends called in to discuss their latest projects or holiday arrangements or to air their views, and more often than not, problems were solved over endless mugs of coffee or cups of tea; but whenever Doreen came to visit, it usually meant a glass or two of sherry.
Looking intently into my face, Doreen continued with the inquisition. “And what if he decides to stay away for good? You may never see him again!” she said, peering at me over the top of her glass. “When did you last see him?” she asked, looking very concerned. “I mean, you’ve done everything you can for him. You’ve given him a comfortable home, he’s had a good life with you, and you’ve always fed him well, not to mention all the freedom to go almost everywhere he wants to.”
“Yes, I know,” I sighed, looking down into my empty glass.
“So how long has he been living with you now?”
“Well, let me see now, in this house it’s about a year, or a bit over I suppose,” I said, reaching for the bottle of sherry, which was by now almost as empty as my glass. I made a mental note to replace it with another one before Doreen’s next visit.
“So how long has he been living with you now?”
“Well, let me see now, in this house it’s about a year, or a bit over I suppose,” I said, reaching for the bottle of sherry, which was by now almost as empty as my glass. I made a mental note to replace it with another one before Doreen’s next visit.
“He was with me for at least a year before that in
Sussex, so that makes it about two years in all,” I said. Doreen
extended out her glass for me to top it up for her, and as she held the
thin stem between her slender fingers, I could see that she was about
to dish up one of her wild ideas or make a hugely impossible
suggestion. It was the look on her face that told me so.
“Why don’t you write about his extraordinary life, and about all those mischievous things he did?” she asked with a hint of a glint in her eye as she waited for my reaction.
I leaned forward in my chair and almost choked on my drink at the very thought of even taking on such an awesome task. I gave her a quizzical look as I shakily topped up my own glass. “You can’t be serious! Now what purpose would I want to do that for?” I asked her. “And another thing…not only where am I going to find the time to do such a thing, but who on earth would be interested in reading about him anyway?” There was a slight pause before she answered me.
“Well, you could do a little each day, bit by bit. And yes, I agree that it might take you some time to complete it, but I really do think it would be well worth having a go. I’m sure lots of people would love to read about him because he was so unusual and the things he got up to were almost unreal. You could say that he was quite a loveable rogue in a way, I mean, he could make you laugh when he was acting up funny and being quite comical, now couldn’t he?”
“Yes, I know!” I said brightly, remembering the happier times.
“And then he could make you cry when he was in one of his evil moods…and he could really hurt if he decided to attack you!” said Doreen on a more sinister note.
“Yes, I know!” I groaned, remembering the darker side of him, but before I could give my excuses for why I shouldn’t take on this mammoth project, she carried on with her final list of reasons of why I should do it.
“He was definitely a one-off sort of character that you just couldn’t forget or dismiss in a hurry, and because so many people talked about him and his exploits, and got to know about him, that many of their friends also wanted to come just to see him for themselves…didn’t they? So I think personally that this is a good enough reason to write about him.”
I laughed at her last comment, as I could visualize droves of people lining up at the front door demanding to see the great performer himself, and I smiled inwardly at her audacious suggestion to me that I should put down on paper his life story and the impact he made on the family and friends.
“Yes,” I said, “I suppose you are right in some ways, and I can’t fault your description of him, but he leaves such a trail of destruction behind him,” I said, “and lots of angry people too. They might think I’ve got a bit of a nerve if I portray him as a hero or something.”
I could see that Doreen wasn’t going to back down, so I tried to
humour her.
“Okay!” I said, “I might just think about it, but it would take me an awfully long time.”
We carried on talking for a while about the possibility of the story, sifting through details and exchanging anecdotes until the bottle of sherry was finally emptied, and as if right on cue, Doreen’s husband Wilf arrived back from his trip to the local library. He came in and joined us at the table, but he had no idea about our topic of conversation, and after a mug of steaming hot coffee, followed by a large wedge of Victoria sponge filled with fresh strawberries and thick cream, they both left. I waved them off from the front porch, and watched as their car sped up the drive and out of sight.
Returning to the kitchen and in deep thought after listening to Doreen’s words of wisdom, I picked up the empty sherry bottle and placed it in the waste bottle bin. Before discarding it, however, I had managed to squeeze out a few drops from the remainder of the intoxicating liquid into my glass. Clutching it tightly, I made my way back into the hall towards the stairs. Reaching the staircase, I clasped the bannister and stumbled awkwardly on the first step, almost losing my footing. Steadying myself, I made my way upstairs to my bedroom, taking great care not to spill the drink, even though it barely covered the bottom of my glass.
My intention was to find a certain photo album and to look for a particular photograph of the “amusing character” who was the object of my earlier discussion with Doreen.
Throwing off the very old flower-patterned cover to the equally very old tin trunk where I stored the photo albums, I carefully lifted the hinged lid and took out each album. Right at the bottom of the trunk I found the volume I was searching for. As I opened it up, a single photo slipped out and fell to the floor, and when I picked it up and turned it over, there, staring back at me, was the culprit in question!
Now you might well be forgiven for thinking that my good friend Doreen and I had just been discussing the whereabouts of an unfaithful husband (or even a two-timing boyfriend), but that wasn’t the case. We were actually talking about a very remarkable, and also a very talented (in his own special way) black and white bird, which may sound a bit insignificant, but the impact that he made on myself, the family, and other “humans” was really quite extraordinary and unforgettable.
This particular bird ended up in the realm of “humans,” instead of his own kind, through a near brush with death, and I happened to be there at the right time to rescue him. Now I was gazing at just one of the few photographs I was able to take of him, due to the fact that he was not just camera shy, but had an aversion of them, bordering on hatred, and would attack any type of camera if he saw one pointed in his direction. It was almost impossible to take photos of him. But now I was concentrating on this one particular picture I held in my hand. I was not to know that in just a very short while, a very strange and inexplicable event in my life was about to take place.
“Why don’t you write about his extraordinary life, and about all those mischievous things he did?” she asked with a hint of a glint in her eye as she waited for my reaction.
I leaned forward in my chair and almost choked on my drink at the very thought of even taking on such an awesome task. I gave her a quizzical look as I shakily topped up my own glass. “You can’t be serious! Now what purpose would I want to do that for?” I asked her. “And another thing…not only where am I going to find the time to do such a thing, but who on earth would be interested in reading about him anyway?” There was a slight pause before she answered me.
“Well, you could do a little each day, bit by bit. And yes, I agree that it might take you some time to complete it, but I really do think it would be well worth having a go. I’m sure lots of people would love to read about him because he was so unusual and the things he got up to were almost unreal. You could say that he was quite a loveable rogue in a way, I mean, he could make you laugh when he was acting up funny and being quite comical, now couldn’t he?”
“Yes, I know!” I said brightly, remembering the happier times.
“And then he could make you cry when he was in one of his evil moods…and he could really hurt if he decided to attack you!” said Doreen on a more sinister note.
“Yes, I know!” I groaned, remembering the darker side of him, but before I could give my excuses for why I shouldn’t take on this mammoth project, she carried on with her final list of reasons of why I should do it.
“He was definitely a one-off sort of character that you just couldn’t forget or dismiss in a hurry, and because so many people talked about him and his exploits, and got to know about him, that many of their friends also wanted to come just to see him for themselves…didn’t they? So I think personally that this is a good enough reason to write about him.”
I laughed at her last comment, as I could visualize droves of people lining up at the front door demanding to see the great performer himself, and I smiled inwardly at her audacious suggestion to me that I should put down on paper his life story and the impact he made on the family and friends.
“Yes,” I said, “I suppose you are right in some ways, and I can’t fault your description of him, but he leaves such a trail of destruction behind him,” I said, “and lots of angry people too. They might think I’ve got a bit of a nerve if I portray him as a hero or something.”
I could see that Doreen wasn’t going to back down, so I tried to
humour her.
“Okay!” I said, “I might just think about it, but it would take me an awfully long time.”
We carried on talking for a while about the possibility of the story, sifting through details and exchanging anecdotes until the bottle of sherry was finally emptied, and as if right on cue, Doreen’s husband Wilf arrived back from his trip to the local library. He came in and joined us at the table, but he had no idea about our topic of conversation, and after a mug of steaming hot coffee, followed by a large wedge of Victoria sponge filled with fresh strawberries and thick cream, they both left. I waved them off from the front porch, and watched as their car sped up the drive and out of sight.
Returning to the kitchen and in deep thought after listening to Doreen’s words of wisdom, I picked up the empty sherry bottle and placed it in the waste bottle bin. Before discarding it, however, I had managed to squeeze out a few drops from the remainder of the intoxicating liquid into my glass. Clutching it tightly, I made my way back into the hall towards the stairs. Reaching the staircase, I clasped the bannister and stumbled awkwardly on the first step, almost losing my footing. Steadying myself, I made my way upstairs to my bedroom, taking great care not to spill the drink, even though it barely covered the bottom of my glass.
My intention was to find a certain photo album and to look for a particular photograph of the “amusing character” who was the object of my earlier discussion with Doreen.
Throwing off the very old flower-patterned cover to the equally very old tin trunk where I stored the photo albums, I carefully lifted the hinged lid and took out each album. Right at the bottom of the trunk I found the volume I was searching for. As I opened it up, a single photo slipped out and fell to the floor, and when I picked it up and turned it over, there, staring back at me, was the culprit in question!
Now you might well be forgiven for thinking that my good friend Doreen and I had just been discussing the whereabouts of an unfaithful husband (or even a two-timing boyfriend), but that wasn’t the case. We were actually talking about a very remarkable, and also a very talented (in his own special way) black and white bird, which may sound a bit insignificant, but the impact that he made on myself, the family, and other “humans” was really quite extraordinary and unforgettable.
This particular bird ended up in the realm of “humans,” instead of his own kind, through a near brush with death, and I happened to be there at the right time to rescue him. Now I was gazing at just one of the few photographs I was able to take of him, due to the fact that he was not just camera shy, but had an aversion of them, bordering on hatred, and would attack any type of camera if he saw one pointed in his direction. It was almost impossible to take photos of him. But now I was concentrating on this one particular picture I held in my hand. I was not to know that in just a very short while, a very strange and inexplicable event in my life was about to take place.
***
Taking the photo with me with a certain amount of trepidation, coupled with an impending hangover threatening to appear at any moment, like an unwanted party pooper, I sat myself down in my comfortable bedroom chair and waited for inspiration to flow and gush over me like a glorious waterfall.
This particular chair was situated in a quiet, peaceful corner, where I was able to sit and contemplate about nice, or even serious, things. I gradually drifted into a sort of daydream, with the photo in one hand and the last precious dregs of the sherry in the other.
These odd moments of relaxation were quite rare these days, what with so much work to be done indoors and outdoors. I always kept myself pretty busy, but on this particular day, I was able to snatch the whole afternoon to myself. The rest of the family had taken themselves off for a pleasure trip to go sight-seeing and to explore fresh new territories through the Welsh hills, probably to end up at one of our favourite local coves along the coast.
As I sat in the chair, just blissfully meditating, memories started to flood over me. At first, they started to form as colourful pictures in my subconscious state, and events started to flow like a slow-moving glacier, and then gradually getting stronger and breathtakingly fresher, like the sudden coolness of a peppermint. A peppermint dream I call it, and a dream which appears to you as clear and sharp as a quartz crystal.
Whilst past events appeared in my mind like a motion picture, I decided that now was the time to make a few notes, before all the images that were hurtling about inside my head finally disappeared in a puff of smoke, making it almost impossible to grasp them again.
I moved from my comfortable chair over to the small desk by the window, where my computer, along with various bits of paper, envelopes pens, paper clips, stapler, sellotape, and files were kept.
Taking one more sip from my glass with my head now in an almost permanent fuzzy haze, I placed the photograph of the bird on my paper stand, which is positioned on the right-hand side of my computer, with its large, chunky, bulldog-type clip at the top (which I can fix my worksheets or other bits and bobs to), and set it alongside pictures brought back by my brother (on one of his many visits to the United States and Canada) of Native Americans.
I lodged the photo between an enlarged copy of a printed picture of Curly, who was a very handsome, very famous, Crow Indian scout, wearing the magnificent White Swan buffalo robe and on the other side of the stand, but just in front of Curly’s picture, is a postcardsized photo of a Spokane tribesman, by the appropriate name of Bird Rattle. His weather-worn granite features and his piercing dark eyes seemed to look straight at you, as if he was trying to convey his own spiritual message from a bygone age. I sometimes wonder what these great mystics and shamans of the past would think of our lifestyle of today. Do we not appreciate what we once had? Or are we expecting too much for what we could have in the future? And at what cost? Anyway, my picture of the bird, (which showed him perched at the top and on the left-hand side of his cage) was now sandwiched between a Crow, a White Swan, and a Bird Rattle—so he stood in very good company.
Bringing my thoughts sharply back to the present and grabbing a biro from the brass stand, where I kept a variety of pens and pencils, and opening up my jotting pad, I started to scribble some notes. At the top of the page, I wrote the words in big bold letters: MAGGIE THE MAGPIE! because unless it wasn’t already obvious, that’s what this black and white bird happened to be. He was a common, everyday magpie, and Maggie was the name which was given to him by myself and the family. In fact, he turned out to be a very remarkable, and at times quite a talented, magpie.
After about an hour of intense writing, I laid the biro down and scrutinized the short piece I had already written.
“Hey, not bad at all!” I said out loud to myself rather smugly.
“Rubbish!…complete rubbish!” croaked a harsh, ear jangling voice that sounded chillingly inhuman.
Alarmed, my body jerked into action, and my arms flew up into the air at the suddenness of this unnatural sound. As I swung round in my chair to see where the voice was coming from, I knocked the thin-stemmed sherry glass off the desk and onto the carpet, and although it had a soft landing, the stem broke in two. I bent down to retrieve it, being thankful that at least it was empty and I wouldn’t have to do any mopping up.
Oh dear!…I must have had one too many, and now I was hearing things!
Staggering awkwardly over to the window, I looked out across the valley and noted that the hills did look rather misty and rolling, and the trees did look as though they were moving across the landscape, and the fields did look as though they swaying up and down, as though they were dancing a waltz! Yes, that was it! It must have been that last top-up I had! Serves me right!
Then it was as though a whole symphony of bird
sounds suddenly surrounded me about the room, mingling into all sorts
of strange and weird noises, and they were getting louder and louder
and almost driving me mad, until gradually they were transformed from
what I can only describe as a concoction of “bird language” and into a
strange, jumbled up composition of human speech, or at least some sort
of an attempt at it!
"Utter nonsense! … completely boring! … lacking colour! … oh so very twee! … and a pack of lies!” hissed that menacing voice again.
Dumbfounded at this sudden outburst, I spun round to look towards the door to see if somebody was there after all and purely out to make fun of me. It couldn’t be a member of the family, because they were not due back home yet, and besides, none of them would speak in this strange unnatural weird voice or in such a crude and coarse manner anyway.
The truth of the matter was that there was nobody
there at all, and I was beginning to feel more than just a little
uneasy, and not only that, I was now hearing things as well."Utter nonsense! … completely boring! … lacking colour! … oh so very twee! … and a pack of lies!” hissed that menacing voice again.
Dumbfounded at this sudden outburst, I spun round to look towards the door to see if somebody was there after all and purely out to make fun of me. It couldn’t be a member of the family, because they were not due back home yet, and besides, none of them would speak in this strange unnatural weird voice or in such a crude and coarse manner anyway.
I promised myself faithfully; “I shall never touch a drop of sherry again!…never, ever, ever…or at least…not in the early afternoon!”
I slumped down again into my chair, then leaning forward over my desk, I stared hard at the photo of Maggie, and at first glance it didn’t appear to be any different. Then, squinting hard at the photo, I did a double-take as the hazy image of the bird cleared. Did I detect a slight movement of his head?…a quick blink of an eye?…and didn’t his beak look just a little bit odd, as though stretched into almost a grin? (or was it a grimace?) And to cap it all he was now perched on the right-hand side of the cage instead of the left!
“Were you speaking to me?” I asked, stupidly and in a very shaky, slightly high-pitched voice, which sounded more like a squeaky mouse caught in a trap.
“But of course, ducky!” came the reply. “Who else could it be?…my little chickadee!”
“But how on earth can that possibly be?…am I going nutty or something?” I asked, in a slightly lower, more confident tone of voice. “After all,” I added, surprised that my speech was now beginning to lose its slur, “you’re just a photo, and I’ve never heard you speak in real life before, even though I tried to teach you to speak a few simple words…. So why are you bothering to talk to me now?”
Before the image of Maggie could answer me, I thought I heard a sound behind me. I turned round, half expecting to see someone appear unexpectedly at the door and catch me out talking to myself, in which case if they did, then they would undoubtedly think that I’d strayed well off course from the path of sanity, and had slipped over the edge, straight into the “wonky-tonky land of happy talk.” But thank goodness, apart from the talking picture, I was completely alone.
“Well now, nutty you may be, but if you are, then all I can say is this; just watch out for them squirrels, or any other nut fanciers, but let me tell you another all-important thing, since you have slapped me picture beside those ‘wise boys’ (otherwise known to us with feathers as ‘The Guardians of All Natural Things’) it’s created a bit o’ magic, no less,” he said. “An’ whilst we’re on the subject of truth tellin’, you’ve told a bit of an ol’ porky pie when you says about me in your very own words: ‘you managed to turn our lives upside down and inside out!’ Now if the truth be known, ’tis t’other ways around and about, and not only that,” he continued, “you even admit that you took me all the ways from the South of England to end up here, in a strange place called West Wales, and that, to me, is a very topsy turvy thing to be doin’ to anyone as delicate and precious as me!”
“What an odd way of talking,” I said, “and you can’t even spell properly, let alone your grammar.”
“I think I speaks very well,” he said, “an’ me spellin’ ain’t that bad, an’ considerin’ I was able to speak the language of ‘bird’ only just a few suns and moons after breakin’ out of me shell, an’ I bet it took you a whole lot longer to learn your funny way of speech after you’d hatched out. An’ then to top it all, and as if I hadn’t had enough to be puttin’ up with, then blow me down an’ stick me up again, I ’ad to begin learnin’ the ways and speakin’ the speech of the Pinkies, which I think is pretty damn impressive! An’ talkin’ of grammar an’ all that higgledy-piggledy stuff, you ain’t so hot on it either!” he said with a scoff.
“Well, I have to admit that I’m not the most eloquent of writers in the world; but….!”
“Wot’s ‘elyqwint’ mean?” he interrupted, holding his head on one side.
“Oh never mind about that, you wouldn’t understand if I told you anyway!” I said.
“An’ another thing!” he said, dismissing my last comment; “does that mean that every little word I utters, an’ every little comment I makes, you’re going to hold to ransom an’ stoppin’ me in me tracks before I can even start?”
“You talk too much, Maggie, once you get going!” I laughed, not expecting this last comment and question; so I answered, “Maybe I will hold some of your words to ransom, but I won’t stop you in your tracks. And as to your comment about me being hatched out, I will have you know that I wasn’t hatched out; I was born! And what on earth are ‘Pinkies?’”
“Pinkies is wot I calls you humans,” he answered crossly.
“So now that you’ve made your point, what do you want to do then?” I asked him.
“You do your bits of story,” he said, “an’ then I’ll do mine, so then everyone will know what the real truth is all about!”
I could tell by the tone of his harsh croaking voice that I would have to choose my words very carefully. “So you want to tell me your own story whilst I write it down for you and then to add it to mine?…is that what you are trying to tell me?” I asked.
“I’m not trying to tell you,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “I am tellin’ you!”
At this point, I was beginning to wonder if Maggie wasn’t smarter than the average magpie after all! “As long as you agree that I will begin with my part of the story first, and then you can tell me everything you want to about your own story,” I said guardedly.
“Why can’t we start with mine first?” he whined as he drooped his head and tried to put on a pitiful look for my benefit; so I chose my answer with a different approach.
“Well, to begin with,” I said, “I was born many years before you were even a twinkle in your dad’s eye and hatched out of an egg, and if it wasn’t for me saving you from being killed by two hungry crows, then you wouldn’t be here at all, so I’ve got to begin with how things started; or to put it another way; haven’t you heard of ‘putting the cart before the horse’?” I asked him.
“Haven’t you heard of ‘the chicken before the egg’?” he replied tersely, snapping his beak with sharp clicks.
“Touché!”
“Which one of us said that?” I asked, confused and taken off guard.
“I did!” said the bird in a sing-songy voice.
After a few moments of silence, I said, “Right then, Maggie, I will now continue with my part of the story, starting right back to when I was young, and then how I found you, and you will have to let me know what you want to say for your part, and relating as far back as you can remember about yourself. Do you agree to this?”
“But of course!” he said on a happier note. “And not only that, I can tell you all about my ancient ancestors, which is more than you can say, seein’ as you humans don’t even go as far back in the world like wot us birds do!…an’ have I got some goodly surprises for you in store!”
I was beginning to feel I was under a bit of pressure with my coauthor.
“I can’t wait!” I said sarcastically. “So let’s get started…shall we? But before we do, how are you going to dictate, or tell me your story?”
“Ah, well!” he said, “I will tell you everything through thought transference from either my picture (wot you’re talking with now, incidentally) or through these ancient guardians wot are wearin’ the sacred feathers about their persons. An’ just one other thing whilst we’re about it, this will be the last time wot you will be able to converse with me by talk sounds; the rest of it will be put into your ’ead all silent like!”
“Just as long as you watch your language, because if you don’t, and you say something really bad, then there’s one thing I can do to stop you,” I said.
“Oh yeh!” he said, “how’s you goin’ to do that then?”
“You see this?” I said, pointing to the delete button on the computer; “any nonsense from you, then all I have to do is to press this button, and it will delete everything you have said, so you’d better behave!”
“Wot’s delete?” Maggie asked, nearly falling out of the picture as he craned his neck to see the button.
“Just a minute!” I said as I leafed through the large dictionary next to the computer. “Ah!…here we are!…it actually means ‘to remove or erase,’ or in other words, ‘to get rid of.’”
He cocked his head on one side and said, “Wot’s erase?”
“Perhaps you’d better invest in your own dictionary,” I said.
“Wot’s invest?” asked this increasingly irritating bird.
“Oh now you’re just being awkward!” I said and snapped the book shut, making him jerk back into the picture again.
So this was to be our mutual agreement. As long as Maggie was reasonable with his rather quaint language, I would write both of our stories down, and there would be no further communication verbally between us, but because he is so unpredictable, I have no idea in advance of what he going to say, which should be interesting, if not a little unnerving!
“So now that you’ve made your point, what do you want to do then?” I asked him.
“You do your bits of story,” he said, “an’ then I’ll do mine, so then everyone will know what the real truth is all about!”
I could tell by the tone of his harsh croaking voice that I would have to choose my words very carefully. “So you want to tell me your own story whilst I write it down for you and then to add it to mine?…is that what you are trying to tell me?” I asked.
“I’m not trying to tell you,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “I am tellin’ you!”
At this point, I was beginning to wonder if Maggie wasn’t smarter than the average magpie after all! “As long as you agree that I will begin with my part of the story first, and then you can tell me everything you want to about your own story,” I said guardedly.
“Why can’t we start with mine first?” he whined as he drooped his head and tried to put on a pitiful look for my benefit; so I chose my answer with a different approach.
“Well, to begin with,” I said, “I was born many years before you were even a twinkle in your dad’s eye and hatched out of an egg, and if it wasn’t for me saving you from being killed by two hungry crows, then you wouldn’t be here at all, so I’ve got to begin with how things started; or to put it another way; haven’t you heard of ‘putting the cart before the horse’?” I asked him.
“Haven’t you heard of ‘the chicken before the egg’?” he replied tersely, snapping his beak with sharp clicks.
“Touché!”
“Which one of us said that?” I asked, confused and taken off guard.
“I did!” said the bird in a sing-songy voice.
After a few moments of silence, I said, “Right then, Maggie, I will now continue with my part of the story, starting right back to when I was young, and then how I found you, and you will have to let me know what you want to say for your part, and relating as far back as you can remember about yourself. Do you agree to this?”
“But of course!” he said on a happier note. “And not only that, I can tell you all about my ancient ancestors, which is more than you can say, seein’ as you humans don’t even go as far back in the world like wot us birds do!…an’ have I got some goodly surprises for you in store!”
I was beginning to feel I was under a bit of pressure with my coauthor.
“I can’t wait!” I said sarcastically. “So let’s get started…shall we? But before we do, how are you going to dictate, or tell me your story?”
“Ah, well!” he said, “I will tell you everything through thought transference from either my picture (wot you’re talking with now, incidentally) or through these ancient guardians wot are wearin’ the sacred feathers about their persons. An’ just one other thing whilst we’re about it, this will be the last time wot you will be able to converse with me by talk sounds; the rest of it will be put into your ’ead all silent like!”
“Just as long as you watch your language, because if you don’t, and you say something really bad, then there’s one thing I can do to stop you,” I said.
“Oh yeh!” he said, “how’s you goin’ to do that then?”
“You see this?” I said, pointing to the delete button on the computer; “any nonsense from you, then all I have to do is to press this button, and it will delete everything you have said, so you’d better behave!”
“Wot’s delete?” Maggie asked, nearly falling out of the picture as he craned his neck to see the button.
“Just a minute!” I said as I leafed through the large dictionary next to the computer. “Ah!…here we are!…it actually means ‘to remove or erase,’ or in other words, ‘to get rid of.’”
He cocked his head on one side and said, “Wot’s erase?”
“Perhaps you’d better invest in your own dictionary,” I said.
“Wot’s invest?” asked this increasingly irritating bird.
“Oh now you’re just being awkward!” I said and snapped the book shut, making him jerk back into the picture again.
So this was to be our mutual agreement. As long as Maggie was reasonable with his rather quaint language, I would write both of our stories down, and there would be no further communication verbally between us, but because he is so unpredictable, I have no idea in advance of what he going to say, which should be interesting, if not a little unnerving!
***
This is how we began our tale (or tail, in Maggie’s case), but before I
sat at the computer with my notes to start my typing, I decided to turn
Maggie’s photo the other way round, so that he couldn’t see exactly how
I was going to start the story.
“Drat and botheration!” I said to myself. Why on earth had I forgotten to ask him where he was right now—in the flesh, that is (or should I say, in the feathers and wings?)—and I should have asked him the rather delicate question as to whether he was “male or a female,” or perhaps I could have asked him in his own manner “if he laid eggs…or did he make them?”
Oh well, it’s too late now!
Never mind, no doubt I shall find out later on—perhaps!
“Drat and botheration!” I said to myself. Why on earth had I forgotten to ask him where he was right now—in the flesh, that is (or should I say, in the feathers and wings?)—and I should have asked him the rather delicate question as to whether he was “male or a female,” or perhaps I could have asked him in his own manner “if he laid eggs…or did he make them?”
Oh well, it’s too late now!
Never mind, no doubt I shall find out later on—perhaps!
***
For
those who are not too familiar with magpies, I will give you a short
description of them so that you have some idea about their looks and
their behaviour.
When on the ground, they look like posh gentlemen, strutting and swaggering about in their dapper black suit’n’tails and their snowy white shirt fronts, with their smart fitted waistcoats. I think a pair of spats and a top hat would definitely compliment their outfit.
They certainly suffer from a personality disorder. One minute they are quite charming (on a good day, if you’re lucky!); and the next minute alarming (on a bad day, when there’s nothing better to do!); also very clever (most of the time!); deceitful (often!); bold (nearly always!); cunning (all of the time!); loving (sparingly!); and hateful (excessively and indulgently!); hot and cold (frequently!); playful (occasionally and in very small doses!); and clowning (sometimes, when in the mood!).
They could be described as the “jokers in the pack,” blissfully ignorant of their comical image.
They are the “Scrooge” or “arch villain” of the bird world. I am pretty sure that the Ten Commandments were made for magpies to break—in no uncertain terms—and one of Maggie’s very own favourite pastimes is to bend as many rules as possible. But to give them their due, magpies do possess at least one endearing feature, as they are very devoted to their spouses and children, and usually they stick to one mate for life, and they can be quite affectionate towards their partners by preening them gently with their beaks, and they are sometimes seen cuddling up closely to them.
The magpies were also thought to be linked with witchcraft and magicians, and this was because they build their nests, usually with the branches from thorn bushes, with one guarded entrance which is dome shaped, and it was a popular belief that the thorn bushes protected doorways to the spirit world and led to the secret realm of the faerie.
Another interesting story told about the magpies, and maybe the reason why they are regarded as unlucky, is because the magpie was the only bird that stubbornly refused to enter inside of Noah’s Ark and ended up by perching on the roof! Trust a magpie to talk its way out of obeying a command! This description bears a strong resemblance to Maggie’s own stubborn, and excruciatingly contrary, nature.
So that’s putting their description in a nutshell!
I do believe the environment Maggie was hatched in has something to do with his split personality.
The gorse, which grows thickly on the common, gives him his prickly sense of humour and sometimes his bad temper. The sweetscented thyme gives him his more gentle and loving nature—very rare of course! The basking adder inspires his slippery evil ways, whilst the grand old windmill presiding in it’s glory, now silent and still, and overlooking the trees where he was first rescued, probably influences his “this way…that way’ mood swings.
When on the ground, they look like posh gentlemen, strutting and swaggering about in their dapper black suit’n’tails and their snowy white shirt fronts, with their smart fitted waistcoats. I think a pair of spats and a top hat would definitely compliment their outfit.
They certainly suffer from a personality disorder. One minute they are quite charming (on a good day, if you’re lucky!); and the next minute alarming (on a bad day, when there’s nothing better to do!); also very clever (most of the time!); deceitful (often!); bold (nearly always!); cunning (all of the time!); loving (sparingly!); and hateful (excessively and indulgently!); hot and cold (frequently!); playful (occasionally and in very small doses!); and clowning (sometimes, when in the mood!).
They could be described as the “jokers in the pack,” blissfully ignorant of their comical image.
They are the “Scrooge” or “arch villain” of the bird world. I am pretty sure that the Ten Commandments were made for magpies to break—in no uncertain terms—and one of Maggie’s very own favourite pastimes is to bend as many rules as possible. But to give them their due, magpies do possess at least one endearing feature, as they are very devoted to their spouses and children, and usually they stick to one mate for life, and they can be quite affectionate towards their partners by preening them gently with their beaks, and they are sometimes seen cuddling up closely to them.
The magpies were also thought to be linked with witchcraft and magicians, and this was because they build their nests, usually with the branches from thorn bushes, with one guarded entrance which is dome shaped, and it was a popular belief that the thorn bushes protected doorways to the spirit world and led to the secret realm of the faerie.
Another interesting story told about the magpies, and maybe the reason why they are regarded as unlucky, is because the magpie was the only bird that stubbornly refused to enter inside of Noah’s Ark and ended up by perching on the roof! Trust a magpie to talk its way out of obeying a command! This description bears a strong resemblance to Maggie’s own stubborn, and excruciatingly contrary, nature.
So that’s putting their description in a nutshell!
I do believe the environment Maggie was hatched in has something to do with his split personality.
The gorse, which grows thickly on the common, gives him his prickly sense of humour and sometimes his bad temper. The sweetscented thyme gives him his more gentle and loving nature—very rare of course! The basking adder inspires his slippery evil ways, whilst the grand old windmill presiding in it’s glory, now silent and still, and overlooking the trees where he was first rescued, probably influences his “this way…that way’ mood swings.
***
It
was this very same windmill which was almost destroyed many years ago,
and it happened on one memorable stormy day.
As Mother was riding home on her bicycle, trying desperately to battle against the furious gale and lashing rain, she was just passing the common where the windmill stood. She was suddenly aware of a strange sound, and on looking up towards the windmill, she was horrified to see the sails whirling round at an alarming rate. Then as she watched, dumbfounded, she saw the great sails spin off in all directions.
Several years passed before the sails were finally repaired.
As Mother was riding home on her bicycle, trying desperately to battle against the furious gale and lashing rain, she was just passing the common where the windmill stood. She was suddenly aware of a strange sound, and on looking up towards the windmill, she was horrified to see the sails whirling round at an alarming rate. Then as she watched, dumbfounded, she saw the great sails spin off in all directions.
Several years passed before the sails were finally repaired.
***
Just like the windmill, Maggie too would find himself struggling against the “elements of life.”
At the end of each chapter, I have allowed Maggie to write his own account of his life with us, in his own words (as agreed by me), which can sometimes be very rude, and his language can be exasperatingly coarse, for which I do apologise, but it is only fair to let him tell his own story, in his own way. His vocabulary (with grammatical errors pouring off his tongue like water from a tap) and his comical way of talking can be very confusing—somewhat weird at times. You will learn how he calls humans Pinkies, whilst nests and houses are referred to as Klakkies, and dogs are known as earth runners, and cats are called earth whisperers, along with many more strange and wonderful words. To make things a bit easier, I do sometimes revert back to our human language.
Maggie also recalls some of the Magpie Folklore (or Bird Lore, to be precise) and little stories told to Maggie and his brothers and sisters by his parents and other birds he meets on his journeys, which sometimes includes their very own songs and verses.
As he glides and swoops through the first year of his life, he learns more about the ancestry of birds, and about gods, goddesses, and the evolution of a certain kind of fairies (yes….I did say fairies!). An important point to remember is that both fairies and birds possess wings! And another thing—do we not put a “fairy” on the top of the Christmas tree along with the “fairy” lights?…and what about those nice little “fairy” cakes?
Earlier on, Maggie did tell me that these creatures were actually called faerlingers in the bird world and not fairies, but these faerlingers (who were creatures of the “other world,” as he put it) were probably related quite closely to fairies of the human realm.
Eventually, after much argument and many tantrums, he allowed me to call them fairies!
You will share his great courage, and of his aspirations to conquer and control every situation and almost everything and everyone he came across, and how he tries to blend in with his new environment, with a few mishaps along the way, until he finally arrives with us in Wales, and how he really did “turn our lives upside down and inside out!”
After reading Maggie’s story, I doubt that you will ever look at a magpie (or any other bird) in the same way again….ever!
So here we have a colourful mix…a cup full of facts—as told by me—gently stirred with a basin full of fiction—as told by Maggie!
Some photos of the Magpie in question:
Apologies for the poor quality of the photos: they were taken many years before digital cameras became available, on a small cheap camera, and are some of the very few pictures we have of Maggie.
These photos are also included within the book (in black and white).
1. Maggie on the shoulder of the author's father:
3. Maggie perched on a stone cat on the patio in the author's garden:
4. Maggie perched on a statue of Romeo & Juliet in the author's garden:
5. The Grandson of the author's neighbour spoon-feeding Maggie:
6. The author's neighbour with Maggie:
Maybe more to follow later...
The following extract is the second half of Chapter One, written in Maggie's own words and style!
(In the book, different chapter heading pictures - the image below is for Chapter One and a Half - appear at the start of each of Maggie's own chapters. These were designed and drawn by my brother Derek).
Chapter One and a Half
Over to Maggie ...
Over to Maggie ...
…for a bird of the air shall carry the voice,
and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.
You could have struck me down with a feather (pardon the pun!)—there I woz, waitin’ for me next nosh to arrive with me brothers and sisters, all nestled up snug and warm in the comfy little klakki (“nest” to you pinkies, as we wot lives on the wing call you wot is known as “human beans”), when these two big black beakies blotted out the sun, hollerin’ out in gravely gruff voices:
Yum!… Yum!… Yum!…
You little fat scums!…
We’ll carry you off,
To fill our skillies’ tum tums!
This meant that us lot were potentially on their very own nursery’s “menu of the day.”
Now “skillies” means “fledglings” to the beakies, and beakies means “crows,” as that’s wot these black beasties are called in these parts of Mother Earth.
Look!… I was only hatched out not so long ago, an’ I almost remember it quite vividly!… Yes!… Really! Well, at least I remember a bit about it all, when I did eventually crack myself out of that stuffy ol’ shell of mine an’ managed to shake those splinterin’ fragments off me delicate little bum! Although I couldn’t see for a good long time, I knew there were six or seven others, an’ all of ’em just like me, sittin’ tight as a snipe in our klakki.
We were all quite happy, being stuffed full of grub the whole sunlight-time long, by our egg maker (Pa) and egg layer (Ma), until one sunrise, everything changed.
There I was, enjoying myself with all the others, when suddenly these two big nasty black beakies arrived on the scene and started to yank me brothers and sisters out of the klakki, one by one, and in no time at all, it was almost empty!… Except for little ol’ me. Then, when they returned for their last visit, they both looked hard and pointed their beaks in my direction, and when they spoke in turn, sayin’, “Yes!… Yes!… Yes, little snitchy snack!… You’re next!” I think that meant me!
I woz rather hoping that they were going to take me on a holiday, but oh dear me no, their idea woz that they were going to split me three ways and then to feed me in handy little strips to their own precious little hatchlings!
I thought it best to try and humour them, so I starts off with saying to them, “Who, in the name of the Grand Eagle, do you think you’re feather dusting here? Well, let me tell you right now, buzzard buster!… I’m a one-hundred-per-cent recycled Bird o’ Paradise!… That’s what I am! And as for you!… Why!… You’re just a couple of Lyrebirds!… Get it?… Couple of liar birds?!—Oh well!… Please yerselves then!”
If looks could kill, then I’m not here anymore.
I tries another soothing approach. So I sez to them, “Listen, me lovely black gladiators, good kind sirs, give us a break! You’ve just got to face facts, now at the end of the sundown, you wouldn’t get much loose change after pluckin’ an’ scatterin’ my miserable little feathers, an’ not only that, there wouldn’t even be enough meat on me poor twiggy little bones to make you a decent ‘canary soup’, my effervescently bubbly lieges! I mean to say, why don’t you just wait a few more suns and moons, your worshipfulnesseses, and then you’d be pleasantly surprised, ’coz I’d be a bit bigger, and a bit more tastyful, me old mates!… An’ another thing I’d like to point out to you, just look over there!… In that tree over yonder!… There’s a substantial batch of lovely, scrummy, fat, juicy, grey, furry, tender, baby nut gatherers (squirrels), full of vitamins and minerals!”
“Shut your beak, you little creep!” sez they to me.
Then the big egg maker took a step nearer to me!… Then he inched closer!… Then he hopped nearer still!… And then when he came too close!… I could hear him give a croaky chortle, which came deep down in his throat, and his breath stunk of rotting flesh and bad egg yolks, an’ me quills quivered when I saw little feathers still sticking to his beak! And then he spoke again.
“Listen, you little ‘Darwin’s delight,’ it’s not your scraggy skin we want, it’s those steamy, juicy little bits underneath, like that little bit that goes boo-boom…boo-boom…boo-boom! And that squidgy liver-shaped bit, next to that delicately flavoured kidney bit, which goes nicely with a round, shiny, sheep’s eyes!… So just keep still, you blubbering bag of bones…like a good little feathery feasty!”
So I sez to them both, “Oh yes…but!…but!…I might just taste of chicken’s waste! An’ wot if I don’t have these aforementioned…er!…bits!…as you call ’em! I haven’t heard or seen them. You could be just guessing I have them! So you’re wasting your time!… My luscious lord and lady…beggin’ your pardon, your highnesses.”
After giving me a look that would explode the nuts off a squirrel, they then sez to me, “Hold still…you B.C. breakfast, so’s we can just top and tail you!”
I then sez to them, “What’s B.C.?”
They sez to me, “Before crows!”
So I sez to them, “Bye bye, A.D.’s!”
And they sez to me, “What’s A.D.’s?”
So I sez to them, “After dodos!… You dodos!” I then tried one more, too-good-to-miss offer. “Tell you what, boys, what if I sell you some timeshares in a group of very classy klakkies?… Beautifully situated in a lovely little rookery not too far from here…commanding lovely views, very much sought after (but I didn’t add ‘by small pinkies with catapults’) and then you have hedge-to-hedge robins’ roosts, easy access for robbin’! There’s another added luxury which you might like to consider! How about an abundance of reconditioned woollies’ wool? Makes ideal lining for your klakkies! Deposits accepted! References not essential! Sounds okay to you!… Doesn’t it?… I guess?”
Then I had another unbeatable offer, so I sez to them, “I can order you some nice stir-fry grasshopper legs, if I can catch them, and they’re so…deee-licious…and so…deee-lectable!… So just let me go for a tiny minute or two, and I promise you, my honourable holinesseses, I’ll just see what I can do! Oh!… An’ one other superb service I could give you; I could do a spot of egg snitch…er!…I mean sitting!…for you…if you like?” I offered convincingly.
Then, before they could answer me, I added quickly, “If you would like me to, that is?… You know, when you lay your next batch? I could keep them nice and warm when you goes off a’huntin’… Oh!… I take it your silence means my absolutely genuine once-in-a-lifetime offer’s not an option?”
Their answer to me unique proffering was not what I expected. The big black egg maker said in a gaggy-type voice that sounded as though he’d just swallowed a witchetty grub and it’d got stuck in his throat, “You speak with Forked Tongue, and I am the first hatchling of Troylon the Great, my little pie filling!”
I looked quizzically at him, an’ thinking to meself, What’s he on about? There ain’t nothin’ wrong with me tongue…and it’s not even forked!
He then continued, “It is my given name, and this is my mate, Silver Cloud, first hatchling of Empress Crowdalicka. Silver Cloud is the light of my life, and we have our hungry fledglings to feed!”
The light of his life? I said to meself. More like his ‘feathery fondant fancy!’ Not only that, but it looked as though she could have done with a bit of a beak-lift job, from wot I could see.
I crouched down as tight as I could into the klakki, trying not to look at them, hoping they would fly off and leave me alone.
“Grovel no more, my sweet and sour giblet!” croaked one of the big, black-beaked, baby-bird bashers.
I had to think quickly and cunningly, so I threw out another line of defence, as time was runnin’ out fast, and I was gettin’ mighty hungry myself. So I then said to ’em, thinking faster than the speed of light, “Did you know that I’m a member of the local branch (another pun coming up!) of the F.B.I.?”
“What’s that?” enquired Forked Tongue, glaring menacingly at me.
“Free Bird Immediately!” I frantically replied.
By this time they were looking really livid and truly menacing.
I then tried to hide me head under me wing so that they couldn’t carry out their outrageous threat. Did they listen to me? Fat chance, so to speak, and before I could come up with another plan of exit from me fast-looming extermination, all of a sudden, there I woz, picked up by these two big flapping nerds like I was just a rotten old apple, and my last desperate appeal, so as to play for some extra time, went something like this:
“Ooohh!….Aaahh!” I gurgled and croaked, and then seein’ that at last I’d managed to grab their attention, in a squeaky thin voice I said, “I’m ill!… Desperately ill!… I’m fading fast!… What a damn shame!… Such a waste!… Do you know wot?” I added pathetically, “It must’ve been that last meal I had pushed down me throat not long ago!… I think I’ve been fed with a piece of poisoned, big-eared floppity, hoppity, rabbity bunny!”
And then at this point, as if by magic, they suddenly dropped me like a red-hot turd, which sent me hurtling through the air (doing me little stumpy wings no good at all, I can tell you) when I hit something very, very hard, which nearly knocked me gizzard through me beak and back again. I could hardly breathe, and I came all over fainty.
This is it! I thought to meself. I was about to be sent to that Great Eggshell Place in the Universe!
Then, all of a sudden like, something really way out happened to me.
As I lay there thinking to meself, Am I really going to end up as a beaky’s takeaway? these two big, pink, scoop-type things (I learnt later on that they were called “handses”) which belonged to a tall, long-haired pinky, picked me up and whisked me away.
I pretended to be dead, which is something we were all taught to do by our egg layer and egg maker whenever there woz any danger about. Little good it woz to us lot, I must say! Anyway, I was placed ever so gently, I must admit, into this huge big metal klakki (car) with these two big hairy earth runners (dogs), and the next minute there woz this awful growling sound coming from beneath me, and then we were sort of flying along at the speed of a Merlin after its prey.
I started to chant our sacred prayer, thinking this surely will save me!
Our feathers, which start in heaven,
Sparrows be our game,
Mine is the kingdom,
The plunder and the glory,
Give us the egg collectors,
And those that collect our hatchlings,
Lead us into temptation,
And deliver us those that tempt against us,
And deliver us evil,
Give us all each sunrise your daily bread.
Save us your bacon.
For ever and ever.
SQUAWK.
Eventually we arrived at this, what I can only describe as, HUGE…big…terrifically…frighteningly…gigantic klakki!
I then sez to them, “What’s B.C.?”
They sez to me, “Before crows!”
So I sez to them, “Bye bye, A.D.’s!”
And they sez to me, “What’s A.D.’s?”
So I sez to them, “After dodos!… You dodos!” I then tried one more, too-good-to-miss offer. “Tell you what, boys, what if I sell you some timeshares in a group of very classy klakkies?… Beautifully situated in a lovely little rookery not too far from here…commanding lovely views, very much sought after (but I didn’t add ‘by small pinkies with catapults’) and then you have hedge-to-hedge robins’ roosts, easy access for robbin’! There’s another added luxury which you might like to consider! How about an abundance of reconditioned woollies’ wool? Makes ideal lining for your klakkies! Deposits accepted! References not essential! Sounds okay to you!… Doesn’t it?… I guess?”
Then I had another unbeatable offer, so I sez to them, “I can order you some nice stir-fry grasshopper legs, if I can catch them, and they’re so…deee-licious…and so…deee-lectable!… So just let me go for a tiny minute or two, and I promise you, my honourable holinesseses, I’ll just see what I can do! Oh!… An’ one other superb service I could give you; I could do a spot of egg snitch…er!…I mean sitting!…for you…if you like?” I offered convincingly.
Then, before they could answer me, I added quickly, “If you would like me to, that is?… You know, when you lay your next batch? I could keep them nice and warm when you goes off a’huntin’… Oh!… I take it your silence means my absolutely genuine once-in-a-lifetime offer’s not an option?”
Their answer to me unique proffering was not what I expected. The big black egg maker said in a gaggy-type voice that sounded as though he’d just swallowed a witchetty grub and it’d got stuck in his throat, “You speak with Forked Tongue, and I am the first hatchling of Troylon the Great, my little pie filling!”
I looked quizzically at him, an’ thinking to meself, What’s he on about? There ain’t nothin’ wrong with me tongue…and it’s not even forked!
He then continued, “It is my given name, and this is my mate, Silver Cloud, first hatchling of Empress Crowdalicka. Silver Cloud is the light of my life, and we have our hungry fledglings to feed!”
The light of his life? I said to meself. More like his ‘feathery fondant fancy!’ Not only that, but it looked as though she could have done with a bit of a beak-lift job, from wot I could see.
I crouched down as tight as I could into the klakki, trying not to look at them, hoping they would fly off and leave me alone.
“Grovel no more, my sweet and sour giblet!” croaked one of the big, black-beaked, baby-bird bashers.
I had to think quickly and cunningly, so I threw out another line of defence, as time was runnin’ out fast, and I was gettin’ mighty hungry myself. So I then said to ’em, thinking faster than the speed of light, “Did you know that I’m a member of the local branch (another pun coming up!) of the F.B.I.?”
“What’s that?” enquired Forked Tongue, glaring menacingly at me.
“Free Bird Immediately!” I frantically replied.
By this time they were looking really livid and truly menacing.
I then tried to hide me head under me wing so that they couldn’t carry out their outrageous threat. Did they listen to me? Fat chance, so to speak, and before I could come up with another plan of exit from me fast-looming extermination, all of a sudden, there I woz, picked up by these two big flapping nerds like I was just a rotten old apple, and my last desperate appeal, so as to play for some extra time, went something like this:
“Ooohh!….Aaahh!” I gurgled and croaked, and then seein’ that at last I’d managed to grab their attention, in a squeaky thin voice I said, “I’m ill!… Desperately ill!… I’m fading fast!… What a damn shame!… Such a waste!… Do you know wot?” I added pathetically, “It must’ve been that last meal I had pushed down me throat not long ago!… I think I’ve been fed with a piece of poisoned, big-eared floppity, hoppity, rabbity bunny!”
And then at this point, as if by magic, they suddenly dropped me like a red-hot turd, which sent me hurtling through the air (doing me little stumpy wings no good at all, I can tell you) when I hit something very, very hard, which nearly knocked me gizzard through me beak and back again. I could hardly breathe, and I came all over fainty.
This is it! I thought to meself. I was about to be sent to that Great Eggshell Place in the Universe!
Then, all of a sudden like, something really way out happened to me.
As I lay there thinking to meself, Am I really going to end up as a beaky’s takeaway? these two big, pink, scoop-type things (I learnt later on that they were called “handses”) which belonged to a tall, long-haired pinky, picked me up and whisked me away.
I pretended to be dead, which is something we were all taught to do by our egg layer and egg maker whenever there woz any danger about. Little good it woz to us lot, I must say! Anyway, I was placed ever so gently, I must admit, into this huge big metal klakki (car) with these two big hairy earth runners (dogs), and the next minute there woz this awful growling sound coming from beneath me, and then we were sort of flying along at the speed of a Merlin after its prey.
I started to chant our sacred prayer, thinking this surely will save me!
Our feathers, which start in heaven,
Sparrows be our game,
Mine is the kingdom,
The plunder and the glory,
Give us the egg collectors,
And those that collect our hatchlings,
Lead us into temptation,
And deliver us those that tempt against us,
And deliver us evil,
Give us all each sunrise your daily bread.
Save us your bacon.
For ever and ever.
SQUAWK.
Eventually we arrived at this, what I can only describe as, HUGE…big…terrifically…frighteningly…gigantic klakki!