Fly Me-if You Dare

By now the class was drawing to its close. "Let's try to end this in a civilized fashion," I muttered to my kestrel. "For you, soon, a new partner on Course No. 18. For me, an exit into the wet Gloucestershire night, another illusion shattered." Glasier had said no more about our expedition with Brimstone. Just as well, perhaps. The sight of the mighty hawk eagle in action might have waked again the absurd, romantic notions that had drawn me to the sport.

I said as much to Roger in the bar of the Yew Tree that evening. "Oh," he told me. "Mr. Glasier's going to fly Brimstone tomorrow. If it's not raining."

Why the savage Brimstone was incapable of hunting while it rained was beyond me. "Am I invited as well?" I said suspiciously. Maybe Glasier had favorites, but I'd paid my $45 for tuition like the others, and if there was going to be a grand finale I would insist on being present.

"Yes," said Roger. "Everybody's coming. Only we've got to do exactly what Mr. Glasier says." Since we'd been doing that all week, it shouldn't be any hardship, I figured.

I wish, as a farewell gesture, that I could have personally tied my kestrel's leash up when I left him for the last time. But Roger had to, so there wasn't the chance to tell it that I'd finally discovered its birdy secret. What do you do when you've been trained 16 times before, if you are smart and intelligent? You don't go crazy for your food, winging around the sky. No, you just sit there in the comfortable knowledge that in the end someone who has paid $45 for the privilege is going to hand it to you. I wrote "imperceptible" under Training Progress and rendezvoused with the others. For the first time all week it wasn't raining.

Our task force assembled on the road: we five novitiates; a box containing, it turned out, two white polecat ferrets; the German bird dog and Glasier with the satanic Brimstone on his wrist, bells jangling, great ferocious head and beak swiveling around psychopathically. In procession, we drove away from the farmhouse into misty Gloucestershire, twisting through lanes, then bumping along a farm track. The command car flagged us down to stop. Emerging with Brimstone, his dog at his side, Glasier was a lordly figure. Roger, entrusted with the ferret box, took second place with ill-concealed pride. "Keep well back," warned Glasier, "at least 20 yards behind me!" Respectfully, we stood aside as he clambered over a locked farm gate. Then we followed him purposefully across a downward slope of grass toward a thick hedgerow giving onto a bramble patch.

As we neared it, half a dozen white rabbit tails flickered and disappeared. Much good would it do them. The murderous little ferrets would be following them into the warren, and outside, when they fled, the doomsday weapon, yellow eyes aflame, would be waiting for them.

Roger moved in ceremoniously with the ferrets, like a picador at a bullfight. After some reluctance, they disappeared. We drew back gravely to watch. Time passed, a surprisingly long time. Once a white ferret head popped up, only to disappear again. Brimstone shifted restlessly on Glasier's glove. And then the misty autumn afternoon exploded. Something small came twisting out of cover. Simultaneously, with a great clashing of bells, the terrible Brimstone launched itself from the glove in a blur of broad wings. We ran forward for the kill. Frankly, I turned away. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a falconer, but there was something all too purposeful about that violent launch.

But, oddly, the bells continued to jangle and the sound appeared to be diminishing. I looked up. No scrap of bloody fur lay on the grass. The bramble patch was still. A hundred yards away, Brimstone circled aimlessly, then settled on a low bough in the hedge. Glasier swung the lure to bring him back to the fist. He watched it inscrutably for a bit, then came. "An interesting flight," said Glasier. It was the first time in a week I had seen him on the defensive, something well attested by the adjective he used. If somebody tells you he's had an interesting day's fishing, you know it was blank. Interesting is the word you use for a ball game when your side lost and you want to sound like a good sport.

We left the bramble patch, and with it Roger. He was on his knees whistling frantically into the rabbit warren, trying to persuade the ferrets to come out again. "Follow us when you can," said Glasier ruthlessly.