In a flash the cardinals separated into three groups and departed into the shadows. After flying through a ghostly fog, the cardinals saw their destination. Eyes glistened and heartbeats quickened. With a few hushed words, the cardinals swiftly got into positions surrounding the blue jay camp. No feathers rustled. They sat as silent and rigid as statues, waiting for Flame-back’s signal to attack.

The cardinals’ target was ten budding oak trees hidden behind a tall, thick wall of pines. The oaks grew in a small meadow of early spring flowers and clover sparkling with dew. The pine tree border was so dense that one might fly right past it and not see the oak trees inside. It was indeed cleverly hidden. Those oaks were the home of the Bluewingle tribe.

It was very quiet. Occasionally a swish of feathers and breathing broke the silence. A strange long-limbed tree protruded from the center of the grove. In the branches of this tree a hushed exchange was taking place.

An elderly blue jay, Glenagh, shifted on his perch, his thin gray shoulders hunched up. Peering through the oak leaves, he could see a dim ray of light climbing up the ancient mountains.

How long can we go on fighting our old friends? the old blue jay wondered.

He turned abruptly to face his companion, Skylion. “How are you going to keep this ‘war’ up?” Glenagh asked. “Ever since you became the leader of the Bluewingles, we’ve been fighting the cardinals constantly.” The old blue jay sighed. His feathers drooped. “You definitely do make your mind up faster than a falling acorn hits the ground.”

Skylion turned his gaze toward the elder, Glenagh. “They used to be our friends-our family, almost,” he said. The younger blue jay poured a cup of acorn tea for the elder with disbelief.

Shaking his graying head sadly, Glenagh accepted the tea with a worn claw. He gazed at his reflection in his cup with a dreary look. “Remember Fleet-tail? The cardinal who’s always so quiet? Just last week I saw him with a raiding party, hollering and yelling like the rest.”

“Well,” Skylion replied hoarsely, “we have to regard the cardinals as enemies. Stealing and robbing-that’s what they do now.”

Leaves rustled as the wind changed direction.

“True, the cardinals have robbed us bare to our feathers, but we have done our share as well.” Glenagh glanced again at the light outside. “The sack of pine seeds, the raisins, the bundles of roots, the apples…We’ve taken back more than what was stolen from us. We cannot say we aren’t thieves.”

Skylion hastily dismissed the idea. “Yes, but they stole our blueberries, our walnuts and honey! They stole the raspberries, the mushrooms, and more!” the blue jay leader argued. “We only took back food because we needed to survive. It’s just spring. There’s hardly any food you can gather outside. And what about our eggs? Our offspring. The next generation. Is there an explanation for that?”

“Peace is more important, Skylion.” Glenagh shook his head and took a sip of acorn tea. “You do have a point about our eggs, but the cardinals declared that we stole their eggs and they didn’t steal ours. I cannot believe that having been friends for so long, we have suddenly become enemies. Maybe they didn’t steal from us; maybe somebird else did. We should go and talk with them about this.”

“No, Glenagh. It would be a waste of time! We tried to talk before, but they only accused us of stealing from them first. You know that isn’t true!” Skylion snorted.

“But Skylion, don’t you-”

Skylion leaned forward. “Glenagh, can you stay calm and aloof when our eggs are snatched and stolen right from under our beaks? Of course not. We are fighting to get them back!”

Glenagh calmly looked at the leader, the steam of the tea brushing his face. He was silent for a few moments and then said, quite slowly, “Does fighting solve the problem?”

Skylion sighed deeply and shifted his glance to the wall, where there hung a painting of a white bird holding a sword. Though the painting was worn and the color faded, the picture still was as magnificent as ever. The bird seemed to smile at Skylion. Skylion almost imagined that the bird mouthed something to him.

Skylion whispered, “I wish Swordbird could come here to solve this.”

“Ah, Swordbird…” Glenagh toyed with the name as a smile slowly lit up his face. “The mystical white bird, the son of the Great Spirit…He is a myth, but I know he exists. I know in my bones. Do you remember the story in the Old Scripture about a tribe of birds attacked by a python? They took out their Leasorn gem and performed a ritual to summon Swordbird. Immediately he came in a halo of light, and with a single flap of his great wings the python vanished into thin air.” Glenagh paused. “Well,” he said, “to call for Swordbird, we need a Leasorn gem. It’s said to be a crystallized tear of the Great Spirit. But we don’t have one. We have no idea where to find one either. So, it’s what’s in you and me that counts.” Glenagh drained his cup, savoring the last drops.

Skylion opened his beak to reply, but he was interrupted by a frantic rustle of leaves. A young blue jay’s head poked through, and in a high, nervous voice the youngster gave the message: “The cardinals! We are being attacked! We are being attacked!”

2 SLAVEBIRDS’ PLAN

Turnatt’s horde had flown from the warm southwestern region to Stone-Run with about forty slavebirds. Because crossing the White Cap Mountains was trying and treacherous and food shortages occurred on the way, only thirty-eight slavebirds survived the trip.

A month before, the slaves had lived free among their own tribesbirds. Now they dwelled in the leaky, half-rotten slave compound, with their legs chained to a stone wall. The building’s walls were wooden bars that gave off awful splinters, and it seemed as if they would collapse at any moment. Above, rotting hay and logs were bound together for a roof, with holes here and there to see the sky; below was the bare ground, always uncomfortably moist. As the mild spring brought showers and damp winds, the slaves were allowed to build a fire in the slave compound. The birds wore nothing but rags on top of their mud-caked feathers, and as they huddled around the fire, they shivered.

Tilosses, an aged sparrow who had not lost his sense of humor, started the discussion.

“It has been several weeks since we were caught and brought to this filthy place. Ladies and gentlebirds, we have no other choice: If we wish to see our homes and families again, we must escape!” Tilosses paused to make his speech more dramatic. “Escape may not come easily like a grand supper delivered to us; nevertheless, we can find a way if we work at it. That Turnatt may be dangerous, but sometimes he is as careless as a fly. Pah! Why, his name sounds like Turnip!” Hearty laughter followed. “We all know that we need to escape somehow, not remain here to rot. The question is, how?”

Across the campfire a burly flycatcher called Glipper spoke up. “If just one of us escapes, we might have a better chance. The native woodbirds in this forest would help us if we can send a message to them.” There were murmurs of agreement.

“Well,” a nuthatch said, “the woodbirds would help us, but how can we reach them? The guards are too numerous, and that slave driver, Bug-eye, seems to be everywhere at once. It’s really unsafe. How could anybird slip out of the fortress to contact the woodbirds?”

A jaunty goldfinch blurted, “I know how! Trick the captain. Make him think you’re helping him. Convince him to let you gather firewood every day outside the fortress. He’ll trust you after a few days. Then find a woodbird to help!”