Mortal Ghost | Page 3

-- as if he could
take the animal's trust and squeeze it between his fingers like a lump of
wet clay.
He almost stumbled over the bird. It lay askew near a tree stump, but as
soon as Jesse approached, began to scrabble with its legs, bent wing
dragging and sound one flapping. A kestrel, Jesse saw straight off -- an
adult male with dove-grey tail. It flopped about, trying to escape when
he knelt at its side. The dog came over to investigate, thrusting its

muzzle at the bird, who reacted by raking the dog with its sharp talons.
The dog yowled more in surprise than real injury and skittered away.
'Leave it be,' Jesse snapped at the dog.
The dog understood when it was time to ignore a boy, when to obey. It
kept its distance.
Jesse looked round. There was no one in sight. With enormous care --
he knew just how sharp those talons could be, how strong the beak --
he reached for the bird, making a good if quiet imitation of a kestrel's
cry: 'kee kee kee.' It no longer struggled to get away, watched instead
with an alert tilt of its head, its eyes clear and focused. It was not ready
to relinquish its hunter's fierce proud spirit. But before long another
animal would maul it, or a passing kid drown it -- or worse.
'Come, Windhover,' Jesse said. 'You can trust me. Let's see if we can
help you fly.'
Head tilted and ears cocked, the dog waited with frank curiosity to see
if a meal or a miracle would be forthcoming.
Jesse grasped the kestrel in both hands, firmly pinioning its wings. He
rose, brought the bird to chest level, and closed his eyes. The bird's
heart fluttered beneath his fingers, and Jesse waited until the warmth of
his palms, the timbre of his thoughts calmed the frightened creature.
There is no healing through subjugation. Then Jesse moves like a line
of melody through its body, lingering longest over the broken bones in
its wing. Cells resonate as note called out to note. The air is still: the
stir of wind has died away, leaving only the scent of pine in its wake.
The dog raised its head and sniffed. It could identify the peppery
richness of new-mown grass, the hot iron bite of fresh pitch, the oily
slick of riverbird, the fruity tang of another dog's urine -- all the
manifold but familiar odours of river and city. And then this new thing:
the boy, suddenly different. The dog would have liked to bark but
contented itself with a low rumble in its throat, hardly a growl. Jesse
opened his eyes for a moment and flicked a look of reproach at the dog,

who hung its head.
Ten minutes, twenty, an hour; or no time at all. As always, the
whentide ebbs till the creature begins to struggle. Then it was done --
bones healed, and the kestrel released to flight. Jesse smiled as it met
the air with vigorous wingstrokes, skimming the water until it reached
the middle of the river. There it hovered into the rising wind, then
banked and flew in a steep climb. The higher it flew, the bigger it
seemed to grow -- the stronger its wings. Jesse followed its path with a
hand shading his eyes, for the clouds had parted and he was staring
almost directly into the sun, which tipped the kestrel with redgold. A
single wild cry split the air: no elegy's minor key. Engulfed in flame,
the bird passed from sight.
Jesse watched for a while longer. The kingfishers were chasing each
other over the river. Their small, brilliantly-coloured bodies darted and
flashed, embroidering the rippling length of greygreen silk. There was a
moment in their flight, just before they dived, when they
paused, suspended -- the wave at cresting, the pendulum at the top of
its arc -- and then with a shiver, as if time itself had hesitated, resumed
their plunge.
Eventually hunger intruded. Jesse sighed, flipped his hair out of his
eyes, and forced himself to turn away. The river would wait. He
shouldered his rucksack and continued in the direction of the city centre.
Tired and dispirited, he trudged along the narrow footpath. The kestrel
had drained whatever energy his short, troubled night and inadequate
supper had provided. His usual craving for chocolate nagged at him.
After McDonald's, he decided, he'd spend the morning in the library,
then try to find some work, maybe in one of the posh residential
neighbourhoods -- mowing, weeding, painting, window cleaning,
anything.
The dog had waited before following the boy. Gradually it crept closer,
but not too close. When the boy stopped to lean on the back of