Hawkmaiden (11 page)

She only fell a few inches, but it was enough to dislodge her from the mountain.  Her hands and feet fell away from the stone and for four terrifying seconds she was swinging hundreds of feet in the air over the rocks below with absolutely no control of her body.  She was a helpless victim of gravity and momentum.  Only the stout rope and her knotwork had saved her from death.

Dara swung out in a lazy arc far, far off her chosen path up the cliffside, before the rope slammed her back into the rock.  Her bloody hands scrambled again, but found no purchase.  She arced back across the mountain like some terrified pendulum and found her body twisting in the air.  With horror she realized that her landing would likely put the basket between her and the mountain, so she frantically twisted around, taking the brunt of the impact on her bleeding shoulder.  This time her left hand found just enough rock to grab on to,
to keep her from being flung back out into the void.

Her right hand padded the side of the mountain until it, too, discovered a small depression, and she was steady for the moment.  It took some searching, but her left toe eventually found another spot, and one that suggested enough resistance to lift herself up a few more inches.

That’s when she heard the mother falcon’s defiant call.  Dara frantically glanced over both shoulders, peering into the sky to try to find the angry bird.  She spotted it, almost too late, out of the corner of her eye.  She was coming around for another attack, Dara realized.  One that might just dislodge her entirely from the mountain.

Dara twisted at the last second, avoiding most of the impact and all of the beak.  She merely had to suffer a few seconds of psychotically enraged feathers scrambling against her armpit and neck before it flew off again. 

Realizing she didn’t have long until she returned for another run, fear inspired Dara to grasp the rope and pull with all her might while pushing with her leg.  It was hard . . . but it was enough to allow her to get one knee up on the next tiny ledge.  And from there the grade started getting slightly better.

When Dara made it to the gentle knob, and pulled herself over its lip with her elbows, she realized that the absolute worst parts of her adventure were behind her.  She crawled five or six more feet up the rope, not even bothering to tie off anymore, until she was no longer dependent on its resistance to hold her.

She was on solid ground now.  Unless that falcon knocked her off the mountain, she was safe.

Pulling herself back up to the hogshead-sized knob at the peak was easy, after that ordeal.  Still, she did not untie her line from the rock until she was safely on the other side, with her second line secured.  Coming down seemed as easy as descending a tree, she laughed at herself, and when she had finally arrived at the little clearing where she had stowed her gear, she felt both exhausted and jubilant. 

She had done it.  She had captured a falcon.

With exaggerated care she opened the basket and gazed at her new little charge.  The bird seemed to be still angry at her – powerfully angry. 

“You really are Frightful!” she said, laughing as the pitiful-looking thing glared at her.  “I guess I just named you!”  She laughed a bit more, but that was a mistake.  It pulled on her shoulder where the mother falcon
had shredded her tunic.  The wound was still bleeding, she realized.  She touched it gingerly.  Long, but not deep, she decided.  It could wait until she got back to the cot.

“Are you hungry, Frightful?” Dara asked, realizing that her abduction had likely interrupted the bird’s breakfast.

Frightful didn’t respond – but then she hadn’t expected it to.  Dara closed the basket with a contented sigh and tied it back up.  Then she thirstily drank the rest of her water bottle before gathering her things and starting back down the mountain.

It wasn’t even midmorning yet.

*                            *                            *

As soon as she got back to the nutwoods cot, Dara fed Frightful with tiny shaved scraps of raw meat she’d stolen from the Hall’s kitchen.  The little falcon ate it greedily, but did not seem grateful to her for supplying it.  Indeed, it kept eating until it couldn’t eat any more, then tucked its beak under its wing and fell asleep.

Dara waited a little longer, enough time to peel off her bloody tunic with her mangled hands and try to take a closer look at her wounds.  They were bad – worse than she’d thought – but they would heal.  She would heal.  She had survived, she realized . . . not just survived, Dara had succeeded.  She had climbed Rundeval’s peak and returned with a falcon.  Not even her Uncle Keram or her father had done that.

Weakly she drank some water from the cistern, tiredly chewed a small loaf, and fell asleep in the hut.

Young Kalen returned that afternoon, and Dara woke up enough to direct him in the placement of the stout posts, but she felt sick with weariness and pain.  She hid her mangled hands under her gloves, and “allowed” the boy the privilege of moving the heavy posts into place.  When the dirt was replaced and the poles were reasonably plumb, Dara dismissed the boy early with praise, and told him to return in a few days when the posts had settled to help with the ridgepole. 

Then she went back into the cot and collapsed again on her bedroll. 

The next few days were hectic.  Dara’s body was a mess after her struggle, and while her hands had scabbed up fairly quickly, the wound on her bruised shoulder was still painful and seeping blood.  It pained her every time she rolled over at night, and she awoke in the morning to find her bedding had adhered to the dried blood on her shoulder.  With a sick feeling in her stomach, Dara pulled the cloth out of the wound.  It hurt like fire when she did so.  She washed out the wound as best she could, then prepared a little food for herself and her new avian charge.

Frightful had stayed in her basket all night long.  In the morning, Dara tried to move her to the perching block she had cobbled together out of the old bedframe.  While the little bird could perch on the wooden frame, she was clearly uncomfortable and uneasy about the idea, protesting loudly every few moments.  In fact, Frightful seemed to chide her nonstop, from the moment Dara awoke until she finally had to close her eyes for a nap in the afternoon.

That evening Dara went hunting.  She was not particularly good at it, nor particularly eager to do so, but while she still had a few days’ food in her cupboard, it was mostly bread and vegetables and sausage – not fare fit for a growing bird.  Falcons needed meat, her Uncle was fond of saying on the subject, the fresher the better.  Uncooked meat.

While Dara did not relish the prospect, she knew she had to have some, if she wanted Frightful to survive.  Not all fledglings did, once they were captured.  Even the best-cared-for nestlings could stop eating or refuse food.  So Dara took her small crossbow into the forest and hunted, that afternoon.

It didn’t take her long to find a family of squirrels nearby.  The nutwood was infested with them, of course; the nut harvest in the autumn was often a race against the nimble creatures for the nuts.  Dara patiently took position behind a pine tree and waited for a good shot.  Once she found the squirrel she wanted she took aim, held her breath, and pulled on the lever.  A moment later the dead squirrel fell out of the tree.

Dara didn’t bother with a second.  Frightful would make a few days’ meals out of this one, she knew, and by that time it would be preferable to find a fresh one.  It didn’t take her long to skin the corpse outside of the cottage and then slice the raw, tough meat into tiny strips.  One by one she fed them to the bird until she was stuffed and lethargic.

“Oh, thank the
Flame
,” Dara whispered, as the tiny falcon finally fell asleep.  “I’m exhausted again!”

She was actually worse than that.  In the middle of the night, Dara awoke with a strange sensation in her head, with the air around her lamentably difficult to breath.  She felt hot and cold at the same time.  She was sick, she realized.  She felt dreadful.

As bad as she felt, she forced herself to get up the next morning and spend an hour just holding Frightful on her chest, staring into her dark little eyes and murmuring to her in a quiet voice.  The bird seemed over her anger, at this point – Dara was feeding her, after all – but she was still far from friendly.  After an hour of staring at her, however, the little bird was at least not antagonistic.  That was a hopeful sign.

Dara felt bad the rest of the day.  Her scabby hands were hard to use, and the pain in her shoulder was sharp and regular.  Her arms and legs still ached from her efforts and she could barely walk outside to pee in the morning, so stiff were they.   But she forced herself to keep going.  She trimmed the temporary jesses she’d made for her new bird, two soft leather thongs six inches long that she secured with a gentle knot around Frightful’s talons.  The falcon was not pleased with her new finery, and spent the rest of the day desperately attacking her own feet.  A luncheon of squirrel seemed to mollify her for awhile, but she was back at it again afterwards.

Dara slept all day that day, waking in the afternoon with an overpowering thirst.  She drank from the cistern until the craving went away, then lurched painfully over to check on Frightful.  The little bird seemed fine.  Except for glaring hungrily at her.  The squirrel was gone, by that point, so Dara wearily picked up her little arbalest and went back out hunting.

The cool breeze felt good on her face, she realized.  She’d been so hot in the cottage.  She returned to her earlier hunting spot and waited for another foolish squirrel, or perhaps something larger, to wander by.  As she watched, her crossbow cocked, her eyes slowly closed, and sleep overtook her as she sat crammed between two trees.

Time passed – how much, Dara didn’t realize until she came suddenly awake . . . and twilight was quickly falling.  Her arms and legs were stiff from being in that cramped position, and she was amazed that her arbalest hadn’t discharged while she slept.  Dara pulled herself achingly to her feet, stumbled as her head swam dangerously, and then walked back to the cottage in the dark, empty-handed.

She could see the fire was still lit, by the smoke still coming out of the squat little chimney over the cottage, which she was grateful for.  The air was getting colder with each step, and her hands were almost numb.  Considering their sad state that was nearly a relief, but she looked forward to the tiny stove’s heat as she stumbled through the door.

“Well, Little Bird,” came a familiar voice.  “It looks as if you’ve finally come back to your nest.”

Dara was startled by her Uncle Keram, who was seated on the one little stool in the room.  Next to her stood young Kalen, who looked at her with eyes downcast in guilt.

“Un-uncle?” Dara asked, confused.  “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he replied, clearing his throat.  “And about eighty feet of good rope that’s missing from the harness shed.  I hadn’t associated the two missing things until your friend Kalen came to me.  It seems he was worried about you, too.”

“I’m sorry, Dara!” Kalen said, bitterly.  “I just saw you in bed like that, all bloody, and—”

“Enough, lad,” Keram said, gently.  “You did the right thing.  See, I thought she was running off to see a boy, which was reasonable enough.  You’re at that age,” he conceded.  “But when you didn’t show up for two days straight, your father got worried.  I was already trying to figure out where all our rope went when Kalen came to tell me about you being in the nutwood.  That was . . . troubling, but at least I knew you hadn’t run off with a boy, or some other foolishness.”

“Uncle, no!” she protested.

“Well, clearly you didn’t,” he agreed.  “Instead I come down here and find your work nearly complete . . . and all of my rope.  And then I spied this precious little creature,” he said, nodding to the tiny ball of feathers sitting on the broken bedframe, “and I knew at once what had happened.  All of those questions.  All of that time you spent asking me about falconry.  All of those little errands you started doing.  I can’t believe it, but . . . Dara, you went and caught yourself a raptor!”

“I’m sorry!” Dara said, tears in her eyes.  “I . . . I just . . .”

“Don’t apologize, lass,” Keram said, affectionately.  “She’s a fine eyas, no doubt.  Kestral?  No, too small . . . redtail?”

Dara swallowed dizzily.  “Silver Headed Raptor,” she whispered, closing her eyes.  Her heart was sinking.  This was too soon.  She watched her uncle’s eyes grow wide as he realized just where she had been to collect her prize.”

“Dara, you . . . you climbed . . .”

“Rundeval,” she nodded.  “I went up the south side and lowered myself down from the top.  That’s why I needed so much rope,” she added.  “Uh, I’m done with it now, if you need it.”

Uncle Keram looked at her in disbelief.  “You . . . climbed . . . Rundeval.  And then went halfway down the other side.  Flame guided you, girl,” he said, his face pale with fear.  “I thought maybe you’d found a redtail, or maybe a goshawk, here – a really big one – but this eyas is . . . a raptor.  A falcon.  That you risked your life for!” he finished angrily.

“I came back,” Dara pointed out, weakly.  “But now I have to . . . train her . . .”

“Yes,” sighed Uncle Keram.  “Yes, I suppose you do.  You realize it’s likely she won’t survive the end of the week, away from her mother?  Do you know how many times a falconer loses an eyas?  Do you realized what an awesome responsibility this is?  It’s like having a baby of your own, only one that can peck your eyes out.  Hawks are hard enough to train, Dara, but a falcon?  A good falconer has to know how to train both, but they usually start with the easy ones!”