Mortal Ghost | Page 4

thread west to the nearest McDonald’s. Though he ignored it, the dog trotted along
beside him. After a few steps, Jesse paused to glow er.
‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Leave me alone. I can’t take o n a dog.’
The dog stopped, cocked his head, whined a little.
‘I mean it. Get lost,’ Jesse said. He stamped his f oot and lunged towards the dog,
who retreated fearfully. Jesse resumed his walk, a bit faster now. The breez e off the river ruffled his hair,
the freshness of the air more country than city. He waited several minutes before glanc-
ing behind him. The dog stood there, irresolute. Je sse could tell that it wanted to follow,
but didn’t quite dare. Jesse didn’t like the way th is made him feel—as if he could take
the animal’s trust and squeeze it between his finge rs like a lump of wet clay.
He almost stumbled over the bird. It lay askew near a tree stump, but as soon as
Jesse approached began to scrabble with its legs, b ent wing dragging and sound one
flapping. A kestrel, Jesse saw straight off—an adul t male with dove-grey tail. It flopped
about, trying to escape when he knelt at its side. The dog came over to investigate,
thrusting its muzzle at the bird, who reacted by ra king the dog with its sharp talons.
The dog yowled more in surprise than real injury an d skittered away.
‘Leave it be,’ Jesse snapped at the dog.
The dog understood when it was time to ignore a boy , when to obey. It kept its dis-
tance. Jesse looked round. There was no one in sight. With enormous care—he knew just
how sharp those talons could be, how strong the bea k—he reached for the bird, making
a good if quiet imitation of a kestrel’s cry: ‘kee kee kee.’ It no longer struggled to get
away, watched instead with an alert tilt of its hea d, its eyes clear and focused. It was
not ready to relinquish its hunter’s fierce proud s pirit. But before long another animal
would maul it, or a passing kid drown it—or worse. ‘Come, Windhover,’ Jesse said. ‘You can trust me. L et’s see if we can help you fly.’
Head tilted and ears cocked, the dog waited with fr ank curiosity to see if a meal or a
miracle would be forthcoming. Jesse grasped the kestrel in both hands, firmly pin ioning its wings. He rose,
brought the bird to chest level, and closed his eye s. The bird’s heart fluttered beneath
his fingers, and Jesse waited until the warmth of h is palms, the timbre of his thoughts
calmed the frightened creature. There is no healing through subjugation. Then Jesse
moves like a line of melody through its body, linge ring longest over the broken bones in
its wing. Cells resonate as note calls out to note. The air is still: the stir of wind has died
away, leaving only the scent of pine in its wake. The dog raised its head and sniffed. It could ident ify the peppery richness of new-
mown grass, the hot iron bite of fresh pitch, the o ily slick of riverbird, the fruity tang of
another dog’s urine—all the manifold