Flight

No, my grandmother announced as she latched the screen door from the inside and gave me one of her most withering glares, no seagulls in the house.  This is where I draw the line.

The limp, injured bird gave an indignant squawk and tried half-heartedly to nip at my fingers.

But it'll die! I wailed.

Nana would not be moved.

Then  it'll die, I reckon, she said coldly, Ain't like there's a shortage of gulls, now is there.  They's nasty, filthy
diseased creatures and.....

I burst into tears.  

The bird struggled.

She relented some. 

I reckon you kin take it to the woodshed, she finally said, mebbe Rowena kin do something for it.  If it don't die first.  But you're to change your clothes and wash your hands in lye soap after, you hear me?

I made it a nest of kindling, old towels and sawdust, brought it a tin cup of water and some bits of salt fish.  It lay on its side and regarded me with suspicious, beady eyes.  I didn't think it would last the night but the next morning when Rowena arrived to doctor it, it seemed better and when I opened the woodshed door it rushed at us with a flutter of wings and a loud, unhappy caw, then promptly fell over.  Rowena quickly snatched it up and before I could blink had wrapped her hands around its body and wings.  It went immediately still and after a few more moments, she set it down in her lap and I watched in awe as it relaxed.  She talked to it softly and stroked its wings, probing its sides and underbelly gently but thoroughly.

I declare, she said after several more minutes, I do believe she's been shot.

She lifted the gull with both hands, peering into it's feathers and brushing them backwards with one thumb.

Ayuh, here it is, she announced and I saw a tiny indentation in its side, barely visible and ringed faintly with dried blood the color of rust. Pellet gun, by the feel of it, she added, and there was more than a hint of disgust in her voice, One of those Sullivan boys, I reckon, target practicin' on whatever was handy.

Can you fix it? I asked anxiously.

Most likely, she told me and gave me a reassuring smile, Fetch me your grandmother's sewing scissors, the little ones, some tweezers, a bottle of iodine and some cotton balls.  


I was already running when she called after me, And some rubber bands, thick ones or some ribbon!

We sat in the summer sun and I watched her tie the gull's beak with a length of ribbon, snip gently at its feathers until the wound was exposed and then pull out three pellets.  When she was done, she dipped a cotton ball in iodine and pressed it against the gull's smooth side, holding it firmly and reciting Bible verses in a soft, calm voice.  The gull stayed bewilderingly motionless.

Beasts and birds ain't got language like us, she explained, So it don't matter what you say to'em.  All's they hear is your tone of voice.  But, I reckon, they do know a kindness when it's offered.

That was in late June.  A month or so later, Rowena came back and pronounced the gull ready for release.  

Don't hold her too tight, she warned me, Jist so she won't go until you're ready, then throw her into the air with both hands, like you was throwin' leaves or mebbe snow.  She'll know what to do.

And she did. 

She unfolded her wings and soared out across the passage, circled Gull Rock, came back and dove gracefully toward the tide, then flew straight and level across the whitecaps, finally turning toward open water.  We watched  until she was just a speck against the blue summer sky.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my grandmother, watching from the window and trying not to smile.