A fable of devotion and desire, where the rituals of love reveal unexpected truths

One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a death
Four for a birth
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret never told.
(old magpie folk rhyme)

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Alarmed, I swooped to the feathered body that had just hit the grass and clover below the pine tree I was perched in. The sun made the black feathers on his wings and tail shine iridescently and the white patches glow. He was larger than me, younger, and with shinier feathers.

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I tipped my head so my eye could scan him for any movement, but the dot of blood at his temple told me he was dead. Bobbing at the shame of it, I gently rubbed my beak on his chest and began the funeral song.

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My mate Triss, being closest, glided to the body and took up the cry after placing a well-formed twig next to the still form. My heart sang with joy at the sight of her, and I remembered courting her three seasons ago, when we were both newly past fledglinghood. She was so lovely, and I had strutted and hopped, flicking my tail feathers to best display their blue-green undertones and win her notice. Once she had asked, her beautiful beak in a vee, I fed her beetles and seeds until she was stuffed.

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I had brought her exquisite gifts every day until she agreed to be mine: silver twigs, colorful flowers, iridescent shells, and the pièce de résistance, a white pebble with sparkly gold flecks that danced in the sun and glowed in the moonlight.

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Since then, we had raised two nests of magpie babies, and she had only left the building of the third at my call.

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Now, she danced from one foot to the other, swaying to the dirge. She eyed the body and circled it, viewing it from all angles. I was sure she saw the spot of blood at the temple. She peered at me wonderingly. I bobbed my head in acknowledgement of the deathblow. She returned to my side just as the dead bird’s mate dove in, screeching her sorrow.

Ever so gently, she placed a small strip of blue yarn, twisted with green and yellow flecks, next to his head, and I guessed this was his best gift to her, the one that won her.

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I was sorry for her grief. If I lost Triss, I would grieve the rest of my days alone and would never mate again, no matter my age. I knew that. She was my everything.

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And he had been hers.

I wondered if she would mate again.

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Our son, Mapp, arrived next with his mate. Mapp had brought a dandelion leaf, his mate a silver birch twig, and both laid their offerings around the body while they examined it. The murder was obvious, the blood unmistakable to any who looked. They joined the song in sympathy for his fate.

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The last to arrive was another bird I had never seen before. She rested a goldfinch feather by his curled toes and wailed loudest of all. Perhaps she was his mother or sibling, since her gift was so prized.

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A stab of sadness pierced me when I thought of losing Mapp, or any of our children. Their tiny hungry beaks nestled in my memory, little cries wanting food. In two clutches of eggs, we had only lost two, not counting a dud egg, and those to predators, not starvation. Even now, the hurt pricked.

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Parents should never outlive their children.

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I darted to our nest, determined to find just the right gift with which to send him to the Otherside. Around our tree, several rejected gifts from prospective suitors unwilling to respect that Triss already had a mate littered the ground: a grass blade, a wilted flower, half a pink shell.

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Things she had tossed like garbage without a glance.

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Deep in the nest, hidden under the downy fluff from our bodies and the sticks and feathers, I finally found what I was looking for. I had discovered it several days ago, when I was adding building material for Triss: a red silky ribbon that was not a gift from me.

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And she had kept it.

All the other gifts she had discarded, but she had kept this one.

Why?

Who had given it?

Who was trying to steal my Triss?

Had he mated with her already?

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I had stared at that ribbon for a long time, debating what to do. Finally, I tucked it back where I found it and waited, for what, I didn’t know.

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Between foraging trips, I watched. Before returning with food, I watched. After taking flight at dawn, I watched.

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And then I saw him, fluttering about, trying to get Triss’s attention. His feathers shone in the sunlight, and he sang with youthful vigor.

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Surely, she wasn’t interested in this fledgling?

He was barely out of the nest.

And yet, she didn’t shoo him away.

I called loudly to announce my return, and he fled guiltily.

At last, I knew my rival!

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He hadn’t seen it coming. Spying him in the lower branches of a comfortable pine, I dive-bombed him so fast he never had time to react, stabbing my beak swift and deep into his temple.

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He had fallen to the ground like a stone.

I had wiped my beak free of his blood, the evidence of my crime, on his chest and sang.

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Quickly, I grasped the ribbon and soared back to my beaten rival. My eye met Triss’s as I placed the red ribbon across his chest before flying back to our nest to prepare for our eggs.