Page 23 of Shadow Spell

He walked them easy, making some small talk, but keeping his mind, his heart with the hawks. Content enough, ready enough.

He took them away from the school, down a path, to the hard paved road where there was an opening, with tall trees fringing it.

There he released the jesses.

“If you lift your arms. Just gentle now, sliding them up, they’ll fly.”

And the beauty of it, that lift in the air, that spread of wings, nearly silent. Nearly. A soft gasp from the boy, still trying to cling to his boredom as both hawks perched on a branch, folded their wings, and stared down like golden gods.

“Will you trust me with your camera, Tom?”

“Oh, sure. I wanted to get some pictures of Taylor with the hawk. With... Roibeard?”

“And I will. You turn, back to them, look over your left shoulder there, Taylor.” Though Roibeard would answer without, Connor laid a bit of chicken on the glove.

“Gross.”

“Not to the bird.”

Connor angled himself. “Just lift your arm, as you did the first time. Hold it steady.”

“Whatever,” Taylor mumbled, but obeyed.

And the hawk, fierce grace in flight, swooped down, wings spread, eyes brilliant, and landed on the boy’s arm.

Gobbled the chicken. Stood, stared into Taylor’s eyes.

Knowing the moment well, Connor captured the stunned wonder, the sheer joy on the boy’s face.

“Wow! Wow! Dad, Dad, did you see that?”

“Yeah. He won’t...” Tom looked at Connor. “That beak.”

“Not to worry, I promise you. Just hold there a minute, Taylor.”

He took another shot, one he imagined would sit on some mantel or desk back in America, of the boy and the hawk staring into each other’s eyes. “Now you, Tom.”

He repeated the process, snapped the picture, listened to his clients talk to each other in amazed tones.

“You’ve seen nothing yet,” Connor promised. “Let’s move into the woods a bit. You’ll all have a dance.”

It never got old for him, never became ordinary. The flight of the hawk, the soar and swoop through the trees always, always enchanted him. Today, the absolute thrill of the boy and his father added more.

The damp air, fat as a soaked sponge, the flickers of light filtering through the trees, the swirl of the oncoming autumn made it all a fine day, in Connor’s opinion, to tromp around the wood following the hawks.

“Can I come back?” Taylor walked back to the gates of the school with Roibeard on his arm. “I mean, just to see them. They’re really cool, especially Roibeard.”

“You can, sure. They’d be pleased with a bit of company.”

“We’ll do it again before we leave,” his father promised.

“I’d rather do this than the horseback riding.”

“Oh, you’ll enjoy that as well, I wager.” Connor led them inside at an unhurried pace. “It’s pleasant to walk the woods on the back of a good horse—a different perspective of things. And they’ve fine guides at the stables.”

“Do you ride?” Tom asked him.

“I do, yes. Though not as often as I might like. The best, of course, is hawking on horseback.”

---