Intent upon his music, the hawk paid no attention to Gull and me. He was not hooded or leashed or belled, only caged as if he were a linnet, a starling—it had always hurt my heart to see the caged birds in gardens, imprisoned for the sake of their music, and the hawks standing blind and silent in the mews. It seemed somehow not only a hurtful thing but a shameful thing to make a prisoner of such a proud bird as a hawk, even a small hawk, an ordinary pigeon hawk such as this one, with his slate-gray back, his tawny breast streaked with brown. He carried his head erect above his square shoulders. His fierce dark eyes glanced through me as if I were a bug to be killed and eaten, nothing more. As a boy in Lothian I had learned falconry with such a hawk on my arm.

With the curved tip of his blue-black beak, and with his curved black claws, he plucked music from the bars of his prison.

I stood gazing with Gull by my side, and the harp notes flew up wild and free all around me—as a boy I had unhooded hawks and watched them fly, free and hungry, and felt joy as keen as a knife in my chest. If the hawks would not come back to the lure I was glad, even though it meant a punishment for me; I flew my hawks badly so that they might fly away. I understood this harper hawk defying his cage with music, with notes that soared, golden, silver winged, singing joy, happiness, freedom. How brave of spirit he must be. I knew what it was to be a prisoner, trapped in despair. All creatures should be free, and fate should snip itself and die. If I had wings I would fly away.

As if he could hear me thinking, the hawk paused in his harping and looked at me.

He looked at me this time, not through me, his gaze as deep as a well. As never before I saw a falcon’s nearly human eyes, dark as the dark of the moon between pallid yellow eyelids, under a frown of gray feathers. He opened his beak soundlessly. I saw his thick blue tongue, so very different from mine.

I took three steps, unlatched the door of the cage, and opened it wide.

A whir of pointed wings—he flew at once, as swiftly as only a falcon can fly. In an eye blink he darted above the treetops. With my head tilted back I watched as he circled once, then vanished eastward with a high, wild cry.

I lowered my gaze. “Well, Gull,” I murmured, patting her.

I knew there would be a punishment.

But I smiled, for I knew I had done something good.