(First published in Fair Lady Magazine)
Where the sea crept with a soft swish-swish between the tumble of rocks and seaweed at the far end of the beach, Greg found the storm bird. It was shivering in a deep shadowed crevice. When it moved he saw how one wing hung from its shoulder like a limp rag.
The bird had come over many lonely and windy sea miles, but last night’s storm had been too much for him.
The cruel wind had flung him against a cliff. He had fallen and crept, unable to fly, but not beaten, into this narrow shelter He had huddled here shivering through the long hours of the night. The storm had settled, the sun slid up over the sea’s edge and began its long climb into the sky. All these things the bird knew of. He had known all his life.
But when the boy came he was afraid. He watched the boy put out his hand, and only crept further back under his rock.
Then the boy was gone.
‘Granpa, Granpa,’ called Greg, as he tumbled into the kitchen. ‘I found a bird. It’s hurt.’
His grandfather lowered his paper and looked at his grandson over the top of his glasses. ‘A bird you say, boy? Where?
‘Down by the rocks, at the end of the beach. Oh come, Grandpa, please,’ begged Greg, frantic with impatience, pulling at his grandfather’s sleeve.
“Hold on a minute boy,’ Said the old man, “Could you see what was wrong’?”_
Well, I think it had a broken wing. Its wing was hanging all funny.’
Well, that’s probably it then. We’ll take a box to put him in, and I think a bit of fish He will be hungry by now if he’s been stuck all night
The storm bird opened his glass-black eyes and the fear returned. The boy was back, with a man walking behind him.
‘Here he is, Grandpa, in the same place. Here.’ Greg pointed to where the storm bird lay.
The old man bent forward, and put a piece of fish down where the bird could reach it. For a long time the bird did not stir, then with a sudden darting movement it caught up the fish in its beak It froze once more, fish in beak, and sat glaring at them.
When it saw nothing was going to happen, it swallowed the fish with another convulsive movement. Greg put another piece of fish before the bird, which it ate in the same way. After many pieces of fish, and many gentle words they got the bird into the box.
At home, the old man and the boy bound the broken wing and made a fine cage for the bird. Every day Greg brought the storm bird food and water, and cleaned its cage. He felt good when he woke up each morning and remembered the bird.
He rushed to it straight after breakfast. One morning his grandfather came out to where Greg sat beside the cage.
‘It’s time to let him go, I think, boy,’ he said The wing has healed now, and he must return to where he came from. He belongs with the sea and the high winds, and you must let him go.’
Greg felt a great sadness. He loved his bird. Together the old man and the boy took the cage down onto the rocks. With a heavy heart Greg lifted the door of the cage, and they waited.
The storm bird sat still as a stone at first, afraid to leave the safe place he had grown accustomed to. Then he caught the tang of the sea and the sound of the crashing surf.
He heard the call of other wild things, and a memory older than time itself stirred in him. A force stronger than the wind drew him out on to the rock. He faltered once or twice, then took to the cold air with a great whirr of strong wings.
Greg watched as the bird circled once, twice, three times above him, then it flew off into the great blue of the sky.
“W-why did we have to let him go, Granddad?“ he asked, close to tears.
The Old man was quiet for a moment, silenced by distant memories, then he said ‘If you love something, or someone, my boy, if you really love them, then you have to let them go, let them fly as free as your storm bird there, to be whatever it is in their hearts to be.” He fell silent again as his old eyes scanned the distant horizon. “You never know, maybe one day the bird will come back to you.”
Then the old man and the boy walked back to the house, carrying the empty cage.