Free Hawksmaid by Kathryn Lasky Page B

“Unbelievable!”

Chapter 12
FIFTH TREE HOUSE
    A hunting bird that attempts to fly off the fist before its jesses are loosened should never be helped back on. It must learn to pull itself up on its own.
    I T WAS M ONDAY, THE day after the mysterious reappearance of the chalice. It had disturbed them all, of course, for without theft there could be no thieves. Rich declared that it most likely had been taken to a silversmith for repair. Matty reflected on all this as she sat in her tree house, the one she had built by herself. The long slender branches of the willow hung like a veil against the day. She peered out through the lovely strands of ivy that she had woven into the tendrils of willow. She often came to the tree house tothink, bringing her birds, for it was quiet and afforded a good vantage point for spotting game.
    On this day she had brought Moss along with Ulysses and Marigold. Moss fascinated Matty. The peregrine had aged significantly, and she was now nearly blind. Matty had not taken her out often of late. Her flight feathers had grown brittle and her molts had become less frequent, the regrowth thinner each time. And just as an old person often shrinks in stature, Moss’s talons had shortened so much they looked more like chicken claws than the talons of a bird that was once the scourge of large hares. But while the faculties upon which a bird is so dependent seemed to have weakened, other aspects of Moss’s being seemed to have grown stronger. She had become even more sensitive, almost intuitive. She could anticipate what Matty was about to do, as well as the other birds’ behaviors. With stalwart Ulysses, Moss and her powers of intuition, and Marigold, so bold and aggressive, Matty felt that she could not be in better company or with stronger allies.
    Moss now perched on her left shoulder, Marigold on her right, and Ulysses in his watch position high over the roof of the tree house. Matty looked up through thecanopy at the immense goshawk. His broad shoulders were squared and he had a keen look in his red eyes. She turned to Moss and spoke softly in the strange language that she shared with her hawks. “Four birds we are,” Matty whispered, “all perched in a tree. Moss and Marigold on my shoulders and me on a limb and Ulysses on the roof of my lovely little house.”
    She no longer attached their jesses when they went out. It was her own version of the golden rule. They would never tether her, and she would never tether them.
    It began to rain softly, and the tree house seemed cozier than ever. Once again she began to experience the sensation she had after Marigold’s first flight. It began with the stirring in her shoulders. Except now that stirring did not seem so odd. She blinked and looked down at a leaf. What she thought was a small green bump or blister began to quake and a tiny worm no bigger than a pinhead squirmed out. I am seeing like a bird. She felt Moss turn to her, and with her beak gently begin to stroke her bare skin. She’s preening me! Have I grown feathers?
    Her skin still looked like skin and yet it felt very different. Odd? But not odd! That was perhaps themost astounding part. None of this felt peculiar or strange but so natural, as if two elements of Matty’s being, of her spirit, were magically being woven together into a new living thing. But the sensation was fleeting. She felt a soft jolt and the mysterious fabric was softly torn asunder as Marigold suddenly puffed up and shivered.
    Matty knew immediately that Marigold’s reaction was not to the chill breeze that accompanied the rain. She could almost sense the danger herself, but not quite as her hawks were sensing it. From the top of the tree there was a kak-kak sound of alarm from Ulysses. Moss roused herself. Marigold seemed ready to fly off, but Moss shot her a severe glance.
    Soft gurgling vocalizations drifted down from Ulysses. “Gyruch garrrgh tosch, stasik malpee