A Cast of Falcons by Steve Burrows Page B

Senior’s more caution. A line of dark shapes trailed across the tops of the stunted grasses, wings beating fast. For once, Senior seemed disinclined to look. Perhaps he had already identified them. Or perhaps something else was occupying his thoughts. “Nothing to do with this dreadful business up on the prow at the Old Dairy, then?”
    â€œProw?”
    â€œPublic Right of Way. I trust your visit to Cley has nothing to do with that crime?”
    Maik nodded in recognition finally. His only previous encounters with Quentin Senior had been when the birder was the focus of a pointed investigation into his possible motives and alibi in a murder. Though the line of questioning had been a justifiable one, Maik acknowledged to himself that he might have some way to go to earn back the man’s goodwill.
    â€œNo, nothing like that,” he said, sweeping his gaze across to include Eric in his assurances. “I thought I would see how the marsh was recovering. I’d heard that things were pretty bad down here after the storm.” Maik continued his gaze past the men, taking in the Cley landscape again, the swaying grasses, the glittering cells of water. “I must say, it looks fairly healthy now.”
    If Senior recognized that showing an interest, genuine or otherwise, in another man’s passion was a step toward reconciliation, his expression suggested he was ready to accept the sergeant’s olive branch. He didn’t strike Maik as a man who held grudges. You didn’t get a face as open and friendly as Senior’s if you spent a lifetime letting resentments fester behind it.
    â€œThe winter storm of ’14 wreaked absolute devastation on the birding areas up and down the north Norfolk coast, as you are no doubt aware, Sergeant. But it seemed to save a particular wrath for Cley. The entire reserve was flooded with sea water. The original roof of that hide over there was found over two miles away. These other hides,” he indicated the one behind them, “were flooded all the way up to their thatched roofs.”
    Maik looked around. In the soft sunlight, it seemed impossible to imagine such devastation. “I saw that photo of the seal swimming along the coast road, what is that, nearly a half-mile inland? But everything seems to be coming back nicely.”
    Senior shook his head ruefully. “To the casual observer, perhaps. Vegetation is certainly returning, but whether it will have the same species composition as before remains to be seen.” Something approaching sadness flashed in Senior’s eyes. With the human costs and property damage, Maik had not really stopped to think about how the storm-wrought devastation of these areas would have impacted the birds. Or the birders. Senior surveyed the outlying landscape slowly, seeming to gather it into himself. It was as if he drew something from it, thought Maik, something spiritual that filled his senses, something that completed him, perhaps, in a way Maik could only guess at, but that seemed real enough for all that.
    â€œAll that saltwater percolating into the ground must have had a tremendous impact on the soil invertebrates and root systems,” said Senior quietly. “One suspects Cley as we knew it may come back in time, but for a long while, it will be different — different habitat, different species.”
    Eric nodded sagely. “Some of the veteran birders here have already been telling me the wader numbers are down this season.”
    To Maik’s surprise, Senior managed to summon a soft smile. “Ah, complaints about numbers are a different matter, entirely, I’m afraid, Eric,” he said with a slight tilt of his head. “As you will come to discover in time.”
    Eric looked puzzled.
    â€œIn truth, you are likely to hear similar complaints in all seasons in all birding locales. Nostalgia is as prevalent in birding as in any other area. Much as I’m told the sergeant