A Cast of Falcons by Steve Burrows Page A

their backs on the grass, looking up into the sky. Domenic saw the woman’s look of alarm. “It’s fine,” he said, “he’s just showing him the Ravens.”
    As they approached, they could hear Damian’s voice speaking to the boy as if to an adult. “Watch this now,” he was saying, “the male will come alongside the female and then do a barrel roll, just like a fighter pilot.”
    The black bird executed a perfectly controlled dive out over the headland, twirling to fly upside down for a moment before swooping in at the last moment to fly alongside its partner again.
    At his mother’s approach, the boy stood up. The woman gathered him to her in a reassuring hug, smoothing the hair back from his brow delicately. The boy’s cheeks were smudged with dried tears, but he managed a brave smile for his mother. She looked across at Damian, who had also stood up. “You’ve a nasty wound on your arm,” said the woman. “Are you sure I can’t do anything? Get you a bandage, perhaps?”
    Damian looked down at the long bloody gash on his forearm, as if noticing it for the first time.
    â€œHe’ll be fine,” said Domenic quickly. He turned to Damian. “There’s a first-aid kit in the car if you want to go and clean up.”
    Damian picked up on the cue. “Remember, ‘ caw ’: crow, ‘ craaaw ’: Raven,” he said by way of a goodbye to the boy. He headed off quickly, barely stopping to acknowledge the woman’s thanks as he passed. She hefted the other child up on her hip again.
    â€œThank you doesn’t seem enough,” she said, watching Damian leave. “But what else can you say to someone who has …” The thought of what might have been seemed to overwhelm her and she fell silent.
    â€œReally, it’s fine,” Domenic assured her. “We’re just happy everything turned out okay.”
    He was almost at the Range Rover when the woman called after him. “Excuse me, sir. His name. I should at least know his name.”
    â€œJejeune,” he said. “Domenic Jejeune.”

12
    T he two men emerged from the thatched hide and stood on the dirt path, surveying the land around them. Senior snapped up his bins, but by the time Eric had started to follow suit, Senior was already lowering them again. He smiled. “Unwritten rule of north Norfolk birding, Eric. If you’re not sure what it is, it’s a Wood Pigeon.”
    The two men turned at the sound of gravel crunching beneath a measured military gait, and Senior’s face broke into a guarded smile. “My, my, dear old Cley does seem to be attracting its share of non-birders these days.” He turned to Eric. “Forgive me, Sergeant Maik. This is Eric Chappell, Miss Hey’s editor at the magazine. He’s in the early throes of birding, and frankly, I could think of no better place to start than here. Even in its much changed state, Cley’s still a beautiful spot for a morning’s birding.”
    Maik looked around at the sun-dappled landscape. He found it hard to disagree. The light seemed to lie with a particular softness on the quietly moving waters this morning, and the gentle crush of the grasses moving in the breeze provided a soundtrack for the birdsong that filled the air. Calls of other, distant birds drifted toward them from high above, where they rode the currents to glide effortlessly out over the marsh.
    Senior continued to address Eric, as if a direct conversation with Danny Maik was something he might be wary of, though there was no reason Maik could think of for his caution.
    â€œThough I would describe the sergeant as slightly more of an agnostic than Miss Hey in birding terms, I cannot imagine he has come here for our peeps and spoonbills.” He raised his exuberant eyebrows in Maik’s direction.
    â€œJust out for a bit of fresh air.”
    Eric’s face showed interest,