Читать книгу Gods of the Morning - John Lister-Kaye - Страница 10

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Blackcap

Sitting calmly, embowered in thick foliage, he pours forth, without effort, a delightful flow of soft and pleasing melody; then suddenly elevating his voice, he warbles aloud a cheering, liquid strain, which, at least in these islands, is unrivalled.

The British Cyclopaedia of Arts, Sciences, History, Geography,Literature, Natural History and Biography, Charles F. Partington (ed.), 1838

Autumn already! So why dismiss the everlasting sun, if we are sworn to search for divine brightness – far from those who die as seasons spin . . .

‘Farewell’, Arthur Rimbaud

Yesterday a small bird flew into my study window and died instantly. The soft thud, barely audible, lifted my head as I sat at my desk in the afternoon sunshine. It was loud enough for me to know that it was a bird and that it had meant almost certain death. I tried to return to my work, but couldn’t. My spirit plunged.

These deaths occur far too often. We have tried hanging CDs in front of the windows, sticking hawk silhouettes to the panes, moving bird tables and feeders away from windows, but to little avail. Every year a toll of winged victims falls to window strike: tits, sparrows, chaffinches, siskins, greenfinches – even, occasionally, the heavier dunt of a blackbird or a thrush shatters my concentration and brings me, sighing, to my feet.

A few years ago a collared dove powered into the glass. Its neck snapped instantly, and the force of the strike flattened the whole bird against the pane, head, breast, wings outstretched, so that a pale ghost was left imprinted on the window in the oily bloom from its feathers. I left it there for weeks, hoping it might deter others.

They see the sky reflected in the glass and fly joyously at its illusion of freedom. They’re heading out: that’s why they’re flying so fast, so purposefully and so fatally. Occasionally, after a spell of dazed concussion, a bird recovers and flies uncertainly away to a bush or a tree, but all too often I have held them in the palm of my hand and felt the tiny heart flutter to a halt; far too often, I’ve watched the eyes mist in a slow, final eclipse.

So, yesterday I rose from my desk and went outside. The tiny form lay directly below the window, like a small grey leaf. I bent to pick it up and found that it was a blackcap, a male blackcap, the little Sylviid warbler that graces our gardens every spring and summer with a cascade of song, haunting in its tender melancholy, as melodious as a flute and as rich as plum cake.

It shouldn’t have mattered what it was. Is not a sparrow’s life equal to that of a blackcap? (‘Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing . . .?’) A siskin equal to a blue tit, a greenfinch to a chaffinch? But it did. I have revered that song ever since blackcaps first arrived here in our northern Highland glen some twenty-five years ago. Back then they were exciting new arrivals, southern birds we didn’t expect to see or hear in the Highlands at all. But something was permitting them to colonise new ground; some shift in climate or food supply gave them a new niche they were quick to grab. We came to know them as summer visitors slowly edging their way north, year on year, until finally they were no longer unusual.

They became a seasonal norm, belonging here, warbling ecstatically from every clump of brambles or willow thicket, a virtuoso exhortation to the songscape that awards passion to our spring and splashes musical glamour on the dull face of our summer. And they changed me. I came to long for their arrival every May and mourned their sudden absence every autumn. Without my realising it, blackcaps had warbled their way through my auditory meatus like a drug, imprinting on my subconscious so that I dreamed of them at night and awoke to their song in the dawn.

Sometimes if I stood still in the garden I would catch sight of one flitting nervously from branch to branch, hawking invisible insects high in a sycamore canopy or deep in a thicket. Through binoculars I could tell the sexes apart: the male with his little black kippah and the female’s in rusty red. They became real companions, like trusted neighbours you would always cross the garden to chat to. And always that refrain brought a smile to my face; sun or rain they made me happy to be out there, sharing my life with such exuberant songsters.

To hold this one dead in my hand, limp and still hot, summarily silenced, its eyes shut and slender bill clenched, seemed to me yesterday to be a tragedy greater than normal – if one can detach sufficiently to accept the death of garden birds as normal. I felt empty, hollowed out by an overpowering sense of injustice.

Then I realised it was September. I’d thought they had gone. The song had stopped a few weeks back. For several mornings I had stood at my open bedroom window staring out at the dawn, waiting for the blessed refrain to burst. All I’d got was a robin, ‘the first god of the morning’. I love robins too – and, for heaven’s sake, they do their best. They stay with us all year and keep going, always first at dawn and last at night, come frost or snow, driving sleet or bright blue sky. I do not mean to slight them. But for me they are outclassed by this little warbler – a morning deity if ever there was one – that some consider a rival for the nightingale.

I looked closer at the tiny corpse in my hand. Was it adult, or a youngster? A late fledgling that never made it to migration? I opened a fawn wing, blew gently up the breast feathers to see if there was the slightest hint of down. No clue. I knew only that it appeared to be a fully grown male, its cap as dark and glossy as liquorice. Yet in its death it had taught me something new. Blackcaps stop singing some weeks before they depart. And, as is the coda for all natural-history study, its death posed more questions than answers.

Was it young or old? Had it done its work? Had it mated and raised a brood, multiplied itself, fired the blackcap future with its warbling genes? If so, would its offspring return to our patch, snatch aphids from our aspens, bugs from our brambles, sip sugars from our wild fruits? Questions I couldn’t answer. I could only hope that this tiny, untimely death was not entirely in vain, that good would somehow come of it.

When we were children, with an irony wholly unimagined, we buried such corpses with ponderous funereal ceremony and erected little crosses to mark the passing of our pet mice or guinea pigs, birds like this one or fledgling orphans we had failed to raise. We were sublimely unaware that we were completing the cycle of all living things, of returning nutrients to the earth whence they came. I took the blackcap to a spiky and impenetrable Pyracantha thicket and tossed it gently in. Just the sort of place it might have chosen for itself.

* * *

That was yesterday. Today it dawned on me that the blackcaps had been one of the few normalities of our year so far. They had arrived, played out their particular summer pageant and now, as the first mists wafted over the river and the loch, and the first frosts crisped my footprints on the lawn, they were about to depart again, to slip away in the dawn, to chase the dwindling bug swarm south to England, over the Channel to Belgium, on to Germany, whispering unseen through the high passes of the Alps and down into Spain and Italy, all far more productive climes for the bugs, seeds and nectar they need.

This autumn departure is one of the very few normalities of our seasonal Highland story, a standard by which to measure what has otherwise made 2013 an extraordinary year. That little warbler had fired something in my brain and caused me to write this down, and that departure, as the season wafted silently away from summer, was where I needed to start. Perhaps, after all, its death was not entirely in vain.