House of Wings (3 page)

“Then let me alone. I don’t want you following me. You ain’t got any right.”

His grandfather looked back down at his feet, as if he was thinking over the matter. Then he ducked his head and started coming up the hill again. Sammy felt tears in his eyes. As he spun around and started running, they sprayed out onto his face.

He left the shelter of the shed and ran up the hill. Halfway to the top he stumbled, went down on one knee, and stopped. He rested and then got up and turned around. He said, “You’ll never catch me. Never!”

He staggered to the top of the hill, turned around, and stood there for a moment. The colors began to blur. The weeds and brush, the old cornfield, the forest all ran together. He blinked his eyes. He meant to stand there just long enough for his grandfather to get one last look at him. Then he planned to run down the other side of the hill and be gone forever.

Sammy waited. He had lost sight of his grandfather. He thought maybe he was behind the shed, resting in secret, so Sammy remained where he was, legs planted apart. Then he called, “You’ll never see me again. Did you hear that?”

Still there was no sign of his grandfather. Sammy glanced over his shoulder. The other side of the hill sloped to a stream, and Sammy decided he would stop there long enough to get a cool drink and soak his feet. Then he would go. Quickly he turned back to see if his grandfather was in sight yet. He was not.

Sammy looked around uneasily. He thought suddenly that there might be some trick involved in the disappearance of his grandfather. He thought perhaps his grandfather was creeping up through the forest, circling behind him, planning to catch him unaware.

There were some rocks to the right and Sammy went over and crouched behind them. He waited. There was not a sound anywhere. Leaning on one knee, he glanced around the largest rock. His grandfather was still not in sight.

Suddenly Sammy wanted very much to know where his grandfather was. He began to glance around. Suspiciously, he watched the trees, the shed, the brush for any sign of movement. His grandfather could be crawling up the hill on his belly like a snake for all Sammy knew.

Two white butterflies were fluttering over Sammy’s head, and he hit at them and hissed, “Get away, you!” They flew in a small circle as if caught in a miniature tornado. “Get away!” He thought that all his grandfather would have to do would be to look up and see the two butterflies. Then he would come running up the hill. “Aha!” And there Sammy would be, squatting under the butterflies, scowling. He hit at the butterflies again. “Get away.”

Suddenly there was a noise in the trees just down the hill. It was a shrill trumpeting cry. Sammy thought of a wild goose, but he knew it could not have been that. The noise was too loud. He waited, bent over behind the rock. The sun on his back was hot. The weeds scratched his legs. The butterflies moved away unnoticed, still going around in a small circle.

Sammy waited a moment longer. Then he stood up and looked directly down the hill, not worrying now about his grandfather seeing him. He was puzzled. As he stood there the sound came again from the woods. It rolled through the air, and then Sammy heard the sound of someone running.

Sammy hesitated. He did not know what to do. He began to walk slowly down the hill and toward the woods. When he was in the shade he stopped and stood behind a tree.

He waited motionless in the shadows. Then he heard his grandfather’s cry. “Boy!” His grandfather’s voice was so high with excitement that Sammy almost did not recognize it.

He did not answer because he thought again it was a trick. If he went running down the hill, drawn by curiosity, then at some point his grandfather would pounce out from a hiding place and cry, “Got you!” Sammy used to catch an old cat named Albert that way, so he knew the trick well.

He heard the strange trumpeting sound again. And then his grandfather called, “Boy, quick! Come here if you want to see something.”

That was the oldest trick in the world. More suspicious than ever, Sammy glanced over his shoulder at the top of the hill. He thought about the stream, and he was tempted to start the long journey to Detroit right then. Still, there had been something in his grandfather’s voice that stopped him. Slowly he started walking down the hill. Anyway, he thought, if it is a trick I can always get away later.

Kicking at the weeds, he walked toward his grandfather’s voice. “Boy!” Sammy hesitated. Then he answered with a sigh, “I’m coming.”

“Over here.”

Sammy started loping along. He began to run. He called, “Where are you?”

“Over here.
Here.”

Sammy went into the woods. He began to move with more caution now because a trick would be easier here. He stopped altogether after a moment and said, “I don’t see you.” He glanced around quickly. He could almost feel his grandfather’s grip, hear the triumphant, “Got you!” He tried to look in every direction at once.

“Over here!” His grandfather had lowered his voice to a hush now, and this gave it a new urgency.

“I’m coming as fast as I can.” Sammy picked his way through the underbrush. He could see his grandfather’s broad back ahead in the trees. There was something about the set of his body, the way he was standing perfectly still with one hand stretched to the side like a patrol guard, that made Sammy move cautiously. His grandfather’s bull neck was thrust forward. His whole body seemed to be leaning.

“What is it?” Sammy asked. His grandfather did not answer but continued to stand without moving. “What is it?” Sammy asked. “What’s wrong?” He was uneasy and he hung back. There was something wild about his grandfather. Sammy said, “I’m not coming any farther until you tell me what it is.”

With one hand his grandfather beckoned him forward. Sammy could see his grandfather’s face now, sharp with intent. The thrust of his brow gave him the look of an old lion made young by the excitement of the hunt.

Sammy took another step. He hesitated. His eyes tried to look through his grandfather and see what was holding him.

“Look,” his grandfather said. He jabbed at the air with his outstretched hand.

Sammy kept taking one slow step after another. He was almost by his grandfather’s side before he saw what his grandfather was seeing. Then he stopped and let his breath out in a long low whistle.

A
GAINST THE BRUSH IN
the slight clearing ahead stood the biggest bird Sammy had ever seen. It was over three feet tall with long stiltlike legs, awkward body, curved neck. Its feathers appeared to be gray, the wings and back washed with brown, and there was a bald red crest on top of its head. The bird was ruffled and dirty as if it had been battered about, but it still had the bearing of a warrior.

“What is it?” Sammy asked. He tried to move closer but his grandfather put out one arm and held him back. Sammy could easily have ducked under his grandfather’s arm; he had done that dozens of times at parades and crowds, but for some reason he remained where he was. Without looking up at his grandfather, he said again, “What is it?”

“Crane,” his grandfather said.

Sammy had never seen such a bird. He had never heard of one either, and he did not trust his grandfather’s knowledge. “A what?” he asked. A faintly scornful smile pulled down the corners of his mouth. A crane.

Sammy was awed by the size of the bird and by the way it stood, its head held high on its long neck. He did not speak for a moment. Then he shook his head and said stubbornly, “It don’t look like any crane I ever saw.”

The crane took one step to the right, and Sammy saw that its left wing was hanging lower than the other. The S-shaped neck straightened as the crane raised its head.

His grandfather said, “Yes, it’s a crane all right.”

“When did you ever see a crane before anyway?” Sammy asked.

His grandfather lowered his arm as he thought. “Last crane I seen was in Florida, I reckon, when I was a boy. A man down the road from us had four of them—they were like pets. And I remember that one of them cranes used to come around the neighborhood during horsefly season, and that crane would stand at the door and call out—kind of a chirping noise—and people would open up their front doors, and this crane would come right on in the house and eat the horseflies off the screens. I wasn’t any bigger than you when that happened, only I never have forgotten it.”

Sammy was listening to his grandfather so intently that his mouth was hanging open. “Is that the truth?” he asked. Then, as if he had been caught off guard, he wet his lips and with a touch of scorn said, “That don’t sound like any crane I ever knew.”

Sammy’s grandfather’s hearing was good, but people thought it wasn’t, because he didn’t pay attention to anything he didn’t want to hear. He continued now as if Sammy had not spoken. “And that crane knew which people would let him in and which people wouldn’t, and he would only go to the houses that wanted him.”

“Did he come into your house?” Sammy asked.

“We was always glad to see him, as I remember it. We welcomed him. We kept pigs and cows then and the flies would get fierce.” His grandfather had not looked at Sammy while he was talking, just kept watching the crane, and he was speaking in such a soft easy way that the crane was still standing there. “That crane I’m speaking of lived to be twenty-one years of age.”

“Twenty-one?”

“Yes, twenty-one.”

“I never heard of any crane getting to be twenty-one,” Sammy said. His grandfather shifted his weight but did not move toward the crane. “Fourteen maybe, or fifteen,” Sammy added, yielding a little on this one point, “but no crane that I knew ever got to be—”

His grandfather took a step forward while Sammy was speaking, and a dry stick cracked beneath his foot. Abruptly the crane moved to the side. He walked with quick, jerking steps, and his head moved forward, held a little to the left. Then the crane turned his head around as if he were peering to see what had caused the noise. He hesitated. His head snapped higher. Then he began preening the feathers of his wing and back. He ran the feathers between his beak again and again in a quick nervous movement.

“What’s he doing that for?” Sammy asked.

“He’s trying to decide whether to run or fight. He’s scared.” Sammy’s grandfather was standing with one foot ahead of the other, waiting for the crane to settle down. “Some birds do like this—act funny when they get scared. You ever had a rooster?”

“No,” Sammy said. He added quickly, “I
could
have had one if I’d wanted it but—”

“If a rooster don’t know what to do in a bad situation—say, a strange animal shows up—well, the rooster won’t run, he’ll start going through the motions of eating. There won’t be a piece of food in sight and yet that old rooster will be pecking and eating as if his life depended on it. Some birds will start building a nest when they’re upset. Some birds will go to sleep.”

“If it was me I’d run.”

Sammy’s grandfather took a step forward. He said, “Just keep moving easy and talking quiet and don’t startle him.”

“Why don’t he run
now?
You’re getting closer and closer. He must know you’re going to grab him.”

“I don’t know for sure. There’s something wrong with him.” He hesitated, then added, “Anyway I hope he don’t run, because once he gets going he can outrun both of us, I can tell you that. My brother and I used to chase them cranes I was telling you about. We’d about kill ourselves running after them, and they would just keep striding along. They never even worked up a sweat.” He resettled his hat on his head. He took another silent step. “Still,” he added in a low voice, “there’s something wrong here.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m going to catch him and maybe we’ll find out.”

“You going to eat him?” Sammy asked.

His grandfather turned around and looked at Sammy. His brows were pulled low. He said, “I’m going to catch him because he can’t fly with that wing and it’s just a matter of time till he dies out here in the woods.”

“What could get him though? Foxes couldn’t, or dogs. I bet nothing could. He could stab you all the way through the hand with that beak if he wanted to. Nothing could happen to that bird.”

“He could starve to death or die of thirst. He could freeze if he lasts till winter.” His grandfather was still looking at Sammy. “If he gets weak, anything roaming the woods could get him.”

“Huh!” Sammy said. “I’d like to see that.”

“Listen, boy—”

Sammy turned his head away with one sharp movement. When his grandfather called him “boy” the anger rose in him again. The memory of the chase washed over him. He looked down at the ground and then right into his grandfather’s eyes. “Anyway, I don’t care if he does die.”

His grandfather seemed ready to add something about the dangers of life in the woods, but he stopped. For the first time he looked as if he had been hit by what Sammy had said. “You what?”

“I don’t care if he does die,” Sammy repeated, glad to have hurt his grandfather at last. “He’s nothing but a bird.”

His grandfather looked hard at him. “I’ll tell you something. Maybe you’re not worth telling nothing to, but I’m telling you this anyway.”

“You don’t have to tell me nothing,” Sammy said. “I’m not interested.”

“When I was about your size, I was good at one thing and that was rock throwing. It was the only talent I ever had. I could throw a rock.”

“Anybody can do that. That’s nothing.” They faced each other and glared.

“It was something, the way
I
done it,” his grandfather said. “I could throw and I could
hit.
I could hit anything I could see. I’m telling you it was a
talent!”
Angrily he wiped the ends of his mustache. He glanced at the crane and then said in a lower voice, “Well, there was a redbird that roosted under the eaves of our house that particular year, and every day I would watch her. To get to her nest, this bird would have to hover beside it for a second. Well, one day I got a rock—I don’t know to this day what made me do it—I got a rock and I waited by the corner of the house and when the bird came to her nest I aimed and I threw.” He looked at Sammy. “And the bird fell down to the ground.”