Fidelia In Flight

For eight-hundred twenty-four evenings, the woman had researched the capture. For the same number of days, she trained according to protocol. They called her a master. She half-grinned as the dropping sun highlighted the thin metal wires of the weighted cage, light shooting off its silver simple squares. Forty wire nooses hooked around the outside of the cage, covering top and sides. Inside the two foot squared cage, a white rat struggled to escape, clinging upside down, so fattened, gravity seemed determined to yank its mass back to the floor of the trap.

The woman ambled away from the cage that sat on a crusty brown patch of asymmetrically dried earth. As she walked, she dodged the divots left behind from the floodwaters that had ravaged the ground. Confident in her plan, she strutted over the spindly sprigs of field grass that had tried to grow in this area for months. It wasn’t going well for the grass. A crow called in the distance. The sun slid lower behind the bleak mountain that hadn’t yet exposed its spring greenery in fullness. The faint scent of pine wafted in the breeze. She noticed the forsythia was late to bloom this year. She approached her ground perch, snapping out flat the blanket she had brought along, and sat to wait, indefinitely. She craved to catch something before darkness stole her hope. Though she knew her odds of success were slim, today being the first day to set her trap, she couldn’t help but imagine the swoop of the bird as it spotted the mouse, landing to catch its prey, only to be snagged by the hanging nooses looped to catch a talon. She already had a name in mind depending on which gender showed itself to her.

She knew the bird would be angry at first. But with patient determination, she believed the animal would come to forgive her. The blanket upon which she sat was the very wrap that would trap the wings into a bundle so that she could disentangle the talons from the noose. As she sat, she focused on the spaces of nothing between bursts of trees, powerlines, mountains, clouds and ground. The sights of nature were beautiful but she had learned that true vulnerability lived inside the moments when one could focus on the empty, invisible particles where form did not exist. Her stomach rumbled. Glad she had remembered to grab a salted caramel bar before she left, she unfolded the foil packet and bit into the sweet chocolate that cracked apart between her teeth. Her mouth instantly filled with saliva that melted the chocolate into a gooey delight. She washed it down with a glug of ice cold water. A strand of the woman’s feathered red hair tickled her cheek, reminding her of the feather in her jacket pocket. She reached in to stroke the silky strands that always stayed smooth if she followed its up and outward growth. She was certain this feather belonged to the one she was hoping to catch. The one she hoped would learn to trust her. Her friend. The Red-Tailed Hawk.

Last spring, when she heard the tell-tale shriek of the baby bird, she watched for it daily. The hawk flew through her yard multiple times a day, landing on a large dead pine as a perch. It watched her chickens. Surveying the land though it was far too small and young to conquer such an animal as the feisty hens prancing on her land.

She swore on multiple occasions the bird caught her eye through the window or on the porch stoop, staring back, unflinching. So strong was the pull to approach the creature that she sometimes walked barefoot outside in the freezing sleet to see if it would allow her to greet it. Forty feet, thirty feet, twenty feet, ten. Only then, a mere ten steps from a possible stroke of the breast feathers would the bird flap its wings and disappear, leaving only the sound of a few muffled slaps and the shower of dried pine needles before they dove spinning to the ground.

This happened on three different occasions. She had considered it fate and decided the bird had chosen her, just as she had been drawn to the ancient practice of falconry a few years prior. So she began her research. She had gone to the library to check out as many master falconry books as she could find. She researched the laws around capturing birds of prey, talking at length to her mentors over the months as she slurped the regurgitated information as quickly as she could so as to be ready as soon as she was certified as master.

The aviary she built three months ago, four by four feet and eight feet tall, held perches primed to hold her bird in comfort. Her aging, stooped father had helped her build the bird house though he couldn’t fathom why his little girl was so fascinated by a creature prone to lice, carrying diseases, and eating raw organs for dinner. She had been raised refined, proper, and never gave him any indication that she herself wouldn’t adhere to such standards.

Now, she was smack in the middle of the joy, waiting. All the preparation, late nights reading, phone calls and countless aviary visits to her mentors had led her to this moment where she, herself, could finally win over her bird. With binoculars trained on the trap thirty yards away, she held her breath. She saw the mouse in the cage go from jerky movements that made it appear fuzzy in the lens, to crystal clear stillness. She could see the fast, frantic breaths of the mouse as it froze. Its legs spread wide, clutching the side of the crate-motionless. She moved her binoculars in a slow circle above the trap. Left. Right. There! A flash of tan slashed across the sky. The hawk. Circling. Debating. Deciding. For twenty-five minutes, the woman’s heart pounded. She had to keep wiping the slick of her hands onto her jeans as she held the binoculars tight. The bird was hesitant to dive. It circled, watched as it passed around, around, around. Her arms shook, perhaps from holding the binoculars to her eyes, perhaps from adrenaline, she couldn’t tell which. When she lowered them for a fraction of a second to shake her numbing pinky and ring fingers, she saw the bird slice through the air. Down, down, down. Her breath hitched as she steadied her binoculars again, now certain that it was adrenaline causing her to tremble. She forced her hands steady as she stretched her eyes as wide as they would go, taking in the beautiful beast, the binoculars doing its job, showing the feathers boring toward the cage in full, glorious force. Just when she thought the hawk would smash into the cage, speed crushing it to smithereens, in the last second, turned its body so that it was bottom first, tilting its wings to slow its careening descent. Though the red-tail was still faster than anything she had ever seen, the hawk gracefully placed its feet beneath itself to catch onto the wire crate that was holding what it hoped to be its next meal. Sucking another gulp of air and holding it tight inside her lungs, she watched the bird cock its head sideways, staring motionless. The hawk was calculating how to grab the mouse, she was sure of it. As it stood proud and steady, she could see the broad wings that edged to a point. Though still too young to host the rusty colored tail that she so loved, she knew by the streaks on its underparts and the cottony ivory of its chest that its colors would develop into magnificent hues of reds and rich browns.

Timing is everything in the life of a hawk. They spend their first year learning the hardships of misjudging the capture of a meal. At a year old, they are finally smart enough to survive on their own, impressionable enough to be trained. This red-tail had already proven its intelligence with its daily visits to her house, memorizing the prey it could one day catch, once it was big enough to wrap its talons around her chicken's necks. To act now would save her chickens. And gain her another friend of the animal kingdom for which to care.

From the cage, she saw a flurry of flapping. The jagged wrench of neck diving, beak reaching, trying to grab the mouse in the trap to no avail. The bird looked up, shook its head, feathers slightly ruffled. It took another dive at the mouse, who jumped safely away. The hawk shuffled its feet to reset its positioning when it began to beat its wings ferociously. Jerking itself back and forth, flopping into a puddle of feathers on its side, she realized. She GOT IT! The noose had done its job. She had no time to ruminate on her beginner's luck. She jumped toward the trap, reaching mid-stride to scoop the blanket on which she had been sitting.

Twenty-seconds later, she reached the homemade bal-chatri trip. The bird strained against the crate, contorting its powerful body to break free- stiffening more when it sensed her rushing toward it. She tossed the blanket over the bird, head and all. Cradling the edges of the cover, she scooped them together to wrap the blanket around the bird's wings. Once it was bundled tight enough to keep the bird still, she moved her attention to the foot in the noose. She was unprepared for the sense of danger that shuddered through her when she noticed the hawk's claws. Carefully, she untwisted the noose that had wrapped around a talon of the bird as it flipped and fought. By untwisting the nylon string, the noose was loose enough to slip the foot out, tucking it into the folds of the blanket that had nestled the hawk into begrudging submission. Up close, it was easy to see the hawk was female. With a smile, the woman knew. Her name would be Fidelia.

-

Three months of training had not gone as planned. Fidelia was more docile than expected but stubborn when it came to following the command to cast off and fly. Once the initial fear of the aviary wore off, the hawk began to happily partake in feedings, jumping off its perch and onto the woman’s gloved hand after only a few weeks of proper training and reinforcement. Six weeks after the woman spent hours every day manning her, teaching calls using only tsks of her mouth or high and low whistles of command, Fedelia now approached the woman’s arm without hesitation. She nestled onto her glove. Though the bird was not one to make eye contact since the capture, on this day, she leaned in sideways, just a bit closer to the woman’s face, did a fancy little wiggle and began to preen while the woman stared, shocked that this beautiful bird felt comfortable enough to bathe perched on the limb of her arm. Though she could never touch the soft feathers calling out to her, just the simple sweetness of the moment toppled any reservations she had about this commitment. Her heart shattered open, spreading warm splashes of joy that wouldn’t stay contained in her chest. Her typical half-smile lifted into giddiness. She vowed to protect this bird with everything she had.

-

One evening the woman covered the bird’s head and eyes with its custom designed leather hood, connected the field jesses to the birds feet and leash, and walked to the wide-open clearing where she first caught Fidelia. A light breeze and a few clouds covered the haze of the sun. She took the hawk to the highest point, hoping that today would be the day it cooperated with her on the call to cast off. She unhooked the leash, careful to hold the jesses in case the bird decided to bate and jump off her glove early, which would keep it suspended upside down in the air until she could push it upright on her glove again. She removed Fidelia’s hood and tucked it into her jacket pocket. Fidelia shook and fluffed her feathers, jerking her head to take in the sight of the meadow, instinctually looking for prey. She reared back and before the woman had a chance to brace herself, the hawk sucked in a lung full of air and screamed with all its might. The fury that echoed through the woman’s ears made her wince and flinch, dropping her arm. Sensing the drop of her arm, the bird bated and jumped. Luckily, the jesses held, and though the poor creature was stuck with its rump in the air, it tried to maintain some dignity by not flapping its wings in an attempt to get itself upright. With her free hand, the woman managed to guide the bird back onto the rightful place of her glove. She took a moment to calm herself before licking her lips, puckering, and blowing the low, long whistle that commanded the bird to fly. She released the jesses, grimaced and closed one eye, hoping her hawk would take off. Fidelia didn’t move. She watched the meadow with a keen intensity but did not seem willing to jump. Why, the woman had no idea. The bird had to have been hungry. She clutched the jesses again and decided to try moving to another area, a little closer to the river where the grass was finally starting to cover the barren wasteland of water-damaged earth. Maybe field mice were running in the cover of the grass. She strode to the place that caught her eye, feeling a frustrated sense of urgency for this bird to get off her arm and hunt. She gripped the jesses as she stepped over a rotting limb that had fallen on the path to where she was going and picked up her pace. She could hear the water rushing as she approached the new cast off spot. Excitement pounded with each step she took. Suddenly, her right foot found a hole that had been hidden by the newly growing grass. The full weight of her body was shoved unevenly onto that foot and it crumpled, pitching sideways into the hole. She threw out her arms to catch herself, but it was no use. The woman felt herself falling, knees bending, arms flapping wildly. At that moment, Fidelia took flight. The release of the jesses from the flailing gloved hand plus the momentum of the sudden fall woke the hawk from whatever trance she had been in since captivity. From the ground, groaning in pain, realizing what had just happened, the woman frantically searched the sky for her bird. She made a few quick tsk calls to get the bird back. She saw above her, Fidelia, arching through the clouds, soaring and swooping once, twice, three times in the field, covering more and more air space every second that ticked by. The woman raised her gloved hand from the ground in feeble hope that her hawk would see her hand and come back to land. Fidelia did no such thing.

The woman sat on the grass, unsure of how long she had been sitting, staring at the blank spaces of the sky, willing the form of her hawk to appear. As her hips and rear-end ached from both the fall and the fact that she hadn’t moved for some time, she replayed the scene over and over in her mind. She kept feeling herself fall, almost in slow motion, and couldn’t stop berating herself for not reattaching the leash while she walked to the new spot near the river. A sinking sickness hardened in her stomach when she thought of the hours and energy and love that she had poured into Fidelia, her first bird love, her first catch. Her eyes filled with tears and a few dejected drops slid down her cheeks while she wiped them angrily away with her ungloved hand. She stared at the other hand wrapped in thick leather. Slowly, she pulled her fingers out of the glove and stared blankly at her bare skin. She shoved and hoisted herself back into an upright position. The sun had disappeared behind the looming mountain and before the evening melted into the night, she limped her way back home. Along the way, she tried to convince herself that the bird would return home to her. Once she made it home, she averted her gaze from the aviary on her way to the chicken coop to close them up for the night. It was then, she noticed. One of her largest yellow chickens was gone. Another quick head count and it was clear that fourteen of fifteen chickens had been accounted for. The woman straightened, still favoring her aching ankle, and turned slowly three hundred sixty degrees in a circle, scanning the tree-line. There, perched on the dead topped pine, Fidelia stared. The woman nodded toward the bird in resignation. With a long, low whistle, she gave the final call to cast off as the beat of Fidelia’s rapturous wings whisked away into the darkening skyline.