Free The Summer of the Falcon by Jean Craighead George Page A

his head, and said to the neighbors in the field, “I’ve been asked to announce the flight of Ulysses, the duck hawk, falcon of the kings. Ulysses will fly in honor of...” and he looked down to the gray-brown woman in the grass...“the lady who shared Will Bunker with children and friends and animals and birds...Mrs. William Bunker!” His voice dropped, and he continued, “One day Will said ‘there is something all life has in common, and when I know what it is I shall know myself. ’” Then he sat down beside Mrs. Bunker.
    Don and Charles walked into the yellow grass. Ulysses was to catch wild prey and the younger boys were called to be “beaters.” They stood in a serious line at the far end of the field.
    Don untethered Ulysses and threw the bird into the air, then held his pose, base wide, hands open, arms bent, as he watched the kings’ bird swing up into the sky. A few neighbors arose and moved slowly into the field, for the flight of the peregrine falcon is one of the earth’s most beautiful spectacles. It is perfect.
    The shape of the bird against the blue sky—the long tapered wings, the streamlined body, the fanning rudder tail—was more than esthetic, it was flight, the essence of freedom to all mankind. For those in the field it was a moment of splendor. The older men, the tired middle-aged women, let themselves fly with the falcon into the unlimited sky.
    The line of dusty boys moved forward. Then Don, watching the tiercel, decided he was high enough...some two hundred feet in the air. The bird plowed the air with his wings and “waited on.” Before they had gone far a pheasant bounced from the stubble and flew up the hill.
    Then, singing, singing, singing, using the earth, the air, the wind, the light—all of the world—down out of the sky came Ulysses. For an instant the sun flashed off his bending, braking feathers.
    The field was still.
    It was so still it was as if nothing had happened. The wind blew over the grass, the clouds flew high...and Mrs. Bunker arose. She said very softly but clearly, “There is no beginning or end. Life goes on and on and circling on. One life, the pheasant, sustains another life, the falcon, that sustains another life—in a mysterious, marvelous circle.” She was smiling.
    There was a long silence. Then Rod said, “And now let’s have the spunky, fighting Zander.” He flung his arm to June.
    The neighbors clapped, the children jumped and bounced and called “Hooray!”
    June stepped into the yellow stubble. She ran very hard up the hill to Don and handed him the motionless, hooded sparrow hawk. Then she took the lure.
    Don walked bouncily down the field toward the visitors.
    He unleashed the falcon. As she watched him June felt her lips go dry. She could not whistle. “I’ll lose him! He’ll surely go,” she murmured. She started down the hill to take back Zander in her hands, when Don suddenly threw him into the air. Briefly she glanced at the green and yellow and blue world...and she thought of Will Bunker and endings and no endings, and her thoughts went to the bird on his wings, “Either way it’s all right, little fellow.”
    Her whistle sounded sharp and clear. Zander came on and on. He dove with shining wings in a deep dip that swept him to her lifted hand.
    “Bravo!” the crowd shouted.
    “Bravo!” June said to her falcon. “And now you’ll learn to hunt like Ulysses. You’ll be as excellent as he is. I shall work night and day to make you perfect. This I promise you.”
    And she walked proudly down the field.
    Mrs. Bunker met her and took her hand. But June was frightened of Mrs. Bunker’s tears. “It was nothing at all,” she said. And she laughed. But she laughed to hide her fright. Mrs. Bunker tried to put her arm around the firm, vigorous girl. June felt the warmth and the understanding, but it was more than she could accept. She ran away, the falcon flapping to balance himself.
    The services for Will Bunker were held the