A Timely Death - Part One

Mr. Magander has died and his friends have gathered to pay their respects.

A Timely Death

The sun had just crested the ridge of the Blackwood when the ticking stopped. It was precisely ten o'clock.

In the stillness of the clearing, Mr. Magander lay on a bed of soft moss, beneath the ancient, gnarled roots of a weeping willow. To a casual observer, he might have looked merely asleep, but his friends knew better. He had died in his best suit, a magnificent, iridescent coat of midnight black that shimmered with oily blues and emerald greens whenever the light hit it just right. It was a suit that spoke of status, of a life lived at the very top of the canopy. He had gone suddenly, without a ruffled feather or a desperate gasp, maintaining the dignified silence that had defined his years as their leader.

As his soul departed, lifted, as they imagined, by wings even more radiant and vast than their own, his companions could only stand in a sombre circle. They were a parliament in mourning, their sharp eyes clouded with a collective bewilderment.

"He was a pillar," whispered Corvus, the eldest among them, his voice a dry rasp like wind through dead leaves. "The very stone upon which our society was built."

The others nodded, their heads bobbing in a rhythmic, grief-stricken dance. It was hard to imagine the Blackwood without Mr. Magander. He was the one who knew the exact moment the farmer's wife set the cooling pies on the sill; he was the one who could spot a hawk's shadow before it even crossed the sun. But beyond his wisdom and his strength, what made him a legend, what made him truly regal, was the Timepiece.

The Legend of the Gold

They all remembered the day he brought it home. It was the mid-summer solstice, a day when the heat turned the air into a shimmering veil. Mr. Magander had returned from the village, not with a scrap of silver foil or a discarded button, but with a heavy, burnished sun.

He had landed in the centre of the High Branch, panting heavily, his talons gripped tight around a thick gold chain. At the end of that chain hung the watch. It was a hunter-case pocket watch, its gold surface etched with intricate swirling patterns of vines and lilies. To the birds, it was a miracle. It was light made solid.

The lengths he had gone to to purloin it were whispered about in the nests for years. He had entered a cottage through an open transom, dodged a sweeping broom, and unhooked the treasure from the waistcoat of a sleeping magistrate. It was an act of such daring that it had instantly commanded their absolute respect.

From that day forward, Mr. Magander was more than a leader; he was a sovereign. Even on the nights of the full moon, the watch would sit nestled in his nest, catching the pale lunar glow and reflecting it back as a burnished, ghostly glimmer. It was a treasure beyond price, a symbol of his right to lead, his right to the first choice of the winter berries, and his right to the finest females in the colony.

Now, the Timepiece lay silent beside his cold body, and the sun was beginning to hide behind a gathering wall of charcoal clouds.

The Messenger

"We must tell the gypsy," Corvus barked, breaking the heavy silence. "The ritual must be observed. She is the only one who knows the proper way to send a King to the Great Nest."

"Where is she?" asked Skerrit, a younger, sharp-eyed bird who had served as Magander's lieutenant. Skerrit's feathers were always a bit too preened, his movements a bit too eager. "The woods are turning cold. Has anyone seen her caravan?"

They looked from one to another, the sudden shift in the weather mirroring the growing dread in their hearts. The sky was bruising, a deep violet-gray that threatened a downpour. Without Mr. Magander's steadying presence, the world felt fragile.

"She washes her hair down by the brook," chirped a female named Pip. "I saw her there this morning, gathering watercress” and singing to the stones."

Without a word, the parliament took flight. They moved as one, a frantic, chattering cloud of black and white against the darkening sky. They found her exactly where Pip had said.

The Gypsy was a woman of the earth, her skin tanned to the colour of polished walnut and her skirts a riot of faded silks. She was bent over the bubbling brook, her long, silver-streaked hair hanging free and dipping into the icy water. In her reflection, she saw them coming before she heard them, a chaotic, upside-down swirl of wings in the water's surface.

She straightened up, wringing her hair, as the birds descended. They didn't land on her, but they flocked around her in the reeds, their voices rising in a loud, frantic unison that would have terrified any other human.

"What is it, my bright ones?" she asked, her voice calm and melodic. She spoke their tongue not with her throat, but with her heart. "Why such a clamour on a day that smells of rain?"

"We have a funeral to attend!" they cried, their squawks sharp and rhythmic. "The Great One has fallen! The Timepiece is silent!"

The Gypsy's eyes softened. She had known Mr. Magander for many seasons. He had once brought her a sapphire earring he'd found in the dirt, and in exchange, she had left out suet and dried mealworms during the harshest frosts.

"Oh, I see," she said softly, reaching for her shawl. "A heavy day indeed. Must I attend?"

"You must come!" they pleaded, hopping closer, their black eyes shining with desperation. "Please, say you will. Bring the old magic. Scatter the flowers. It is all we ask of you."

The Gypsy looked at the darkening horizon and then at the circle of desperate, beautiful creatures at her feet. "I shall attend," she promised.

The Circle of Grass

The funeral was held as the first heavy drops of rain began to pelt the leaves of the weeping willow. The magpies had been busy; they had collected "suitable matter" for the circle, bits of dried lichen, colourful autumn leaves, and small, white pebbles from the stream.

The Gypsy arrived, her presence bringing a strange, hushed stillness to the woods. She did not speak. She simply knelt by the body of Mr. Magander.

One by one, his friends stepped forward to pay their final respects. It was a slow, dignified procession. Each bird carried a single blade of grass in its beak, laying it gently near the still, feathered breast of their leader. Blade by blade, a green wreath began to grow around him. Corvus brought a sprig of rowan berries, the red standing out like drops of blood against the black feathers.

Then, the Gypsy reached out. Her fingers were surprisingly steady as she picked up the gold Timepiece. She didn't open it; she knew its ticking heart had stopped when his did. She placed the heavy gold watch at his head, stretching the long, ornate chain down his body until it reached his feet. It formed a perfect, shimmering circle of gold, a halo for a thief, a crown for a king.

For a few precious moments, the parliament stood perfectly still. The rain fell harder now, but no bird moved to seek shelter. They each said "farewell" in their own way--a quiet chirp, a dip of the head, a memory of a shared flight.

Then, as if a signal had been given that only they could hear, there was a sudden, violent flurry of darkened wings. The entire colony took flight at once, a desperate, rising tide of black and white.

End of part one. Part two coming soon...