I found him on a wet November afternoon, late, almost evening. The wind had been harsh during the rainstorm which wet the meadows, and a branch must have cracked during the downfall and struck his wing. He was whimpering in a pile of damp leaves. When I approached him, he shied away from me, eyes wild and yellow. It took me the better part of an hour to gradually coax him out of his fierce doubt, but when I finally did he came toward my outstretched hand which was laden with crumbs from the bottom of my food sack.

 

I set him carefully in the emptied sack once he had eaten. His head jerked with pain when I placed his bad wing next to his body, but he made no noise. I carried him with two hands on the bag so I could cushion my steps back home through the woods.

 

Mama looked at him when I brought him through the doorway and said, “Call the taltos.” The grey man came the next morning, fresh from a medicine journey on the other side of the mountain. By then I had the bird in his own nested perch, in back of the tiled stove. I myself used to sit there on cold winter nights as a child, peering out from either side of the roaring chimney, pretending I was a bird up in a warm tree. The taltos gently brought him out from behind the stove and placed him on the table so he could look him over carefully.

 

“Can you set the wing?” I asked.

 

“Take hold of his neck but gently.” The taltos worked quickly, not causing any more pain than necessary. The bird was brave. His yellow eyes kept darting from the pain, but after each pull the taltos gave, those yellow eyes returned to stare up at mine, like he was taking strength from the concern on my face. I started to sense he was giving himself to me in his own wild way.

 

When the taltos was finished Mama asked him whether the bird stood a chance.

 

“He will,” he said. “Once that wing sets, get him up flying. Start him with slow turns toward the lower hills and then work with him until he can launch off from the top of the mountain. If you get him there, he’ll do fine.”

 

“So, he can be mine?” I asked.

 

“Not quite. A bird like this isn’t kept. But he might have chosen to be with you. It’s rare, but I’ve seen some take to a human. This ordeal may have given you to him as a mother. Treat him well, and he’ll nest here.”

 

That was a year ago. His wing is healed. Once a day we go up the mountain together. When he launches from the top he pushes right into the wind, burrowing into the gusts with his wings. I’ve never seen something so powerful. When I watch him fly I feel something break free in my heart.