The Lonely wader

Their boots vanished into the brown waters, the wavelets gently lapping at their feet. The tide was low, no higher than their ankles but raising, and as they walked, the mud resisted their steps, holding on with a vacuum-sucking squelch.

The man in front slowed, and as he crouched down, he shifted the weight of his gun from one tweed shoulder to the other. He raised his hand, and the other two men bent down behind him. The reeds swayed as they waited, their hands buried in their armpits, resisting the cold.

The glass of their binoculars caught the early spring sun. No sign, not yet. They started to move again but slower, their feet barely breaking the water surface. Their backs ached as they strained to keep cover in the reeds.

A splash caused them to stop. They knelt and scanned the water, holding their breath, listening. More splashes came from nearby, regular like a hand stroking the water surface. Finally, they caught sight of their quarry.

In the shallow mere in front of them just beyond the reedbed, a single white bird waded. A black-capped head swiped back and forth, its upturned beak tasting the water.

The third and youngest man pulled out his camera. He set the aperture and shutter before taking the shot. That was half their mission a success.

On the way back to the village, Stanley, a man in his 20s, leaning on a walking stick, turned to his senior. ‘Mr Stapleton, have you ever seen an avocet before?’

‘Many times, my lad, but first time in England.’ Mr Stapleton answered. He bowed to their guide. ‘You were absolutely right, Mr Fobbing, thank you.’

‘See. It was as I said. You’d be more careful who you accuse of lying next time.’ Mr Fobbing replied.

‘Now, don’t be like that. I only pointed out that it has been over one hundred years since the last sighting around here.’

As they talked, a flock of ducks flew overhead. Mr Fobbing took aim with his 12 gauge and shot. Stanley asked his senior another question. ‘What happens now, Mr Stapleton. Do we inform the societies?’

‘Of course, although it is a question of timing.’ The senior man gestured as though weighing up the options. ‘We don’t want to be too hasty. Avocets have occasionally flown over from Holland. What we really want is a nest.’

Mr Fobbing returned with his prize, several mallard carcasses dangling over his shoulder: Their heads rolling from side to side, their feathers sticking together, encrusted in blood.

‘There’s no need to bring in more outsiders.’ he said, agreeing with Mr Stapleton for once. ‘We can look after these marshes on our own. There’s been enough outsiders here as is.’ He said, darting a quick look at his companions.

‘No one wants to put the locals out, Mr Fobbing, but if there is a nest, well: newspaper articles, conferences, book deals, you name it. A long-lost child of England is coming home, I hope for good. Just like the boys from the war.’

At the mention of the war, Stanely massaged the old wound on his leg. The war had left its mark across the country, not least these marshes. The land had been flooded by the army, another defence against invasion, along with the minefields and barbed wire. Most villagers avoided the area, besides Mr Fobbing.

As the sun settled and the three men returned to the village, they made their way to the local for dinner and drinks, Mr Stapleton’s treat. All three left much merrier and far less steady than when they arrived.

‘We will see you bright and early, my lad.’ Mr Stapleton said, patting Stanley on the back. ‘Make sure you get plenty of sleep.’

Mr Fobbing grunted a goodbye and headed home. With one final wave Mr Stapleton stumbled in the opposite direction towards the large county estate where he was staying.

Stanley, now alone, leaned on his walking stick while thinking about his first encounter with an avocet. He grinned from ear to ear and set off for his little cottage.

He fell in love with birding while listening to blackbirds sing on the rooftops of his hometown. He used to sit, eyes closed, listening to the complex patterns of notes sung in liquid tones. Since then, he had travelled the country seeing gannets, capercaillies, puffins and even red kits soaring in Wales, but the graceful avocet was his new favourite.

Today was a good day, he thought, even the pain in his leg was quiet, although that might be the beer. But would they really find a nest? Mr Fobbing said the bird had been there for weeks, but without a mate...

*

On returning to his cottage, Stanley took of his muddy boots and changed out of his damp clothes. He slumped into his recliner and stretched out his right thigh, rubbing out any aches.

The hours of walking took their toll, his breath slowed, and his eyelids slid shut. Three taps jolted him up again. He looked around the room confused, wondering what the sound had been. The tap-tap-tap rattled again on his front door. Stanley couldn’t imagine who would call on him so late. Could it be about the search tomorrow?

Tap-tap-tap for a third time. Stanley pulled himself out of his recliner chair and cautiously made his way to the door. Standing on his doorstep, waiting, was a woman unlike any Stanley had seen before.

Instead of a dress, she wore a long robe with flowing sleeves and a sash tied at her waist. Her hair was raven black and ran down the back of her neck and shoulders, contrasting with her spectral skin, shinning like snow in the moonlight.

‘It is cold, may I come in.’ the young woman asked, voice like liquid, fluting.

Without waiting for a reply, she slid past, took off her shoes and sat down on a chair in his kitchen, her back facing Stanley. He thought there must be some mistake. What business could she possibly have with him.

‘Excuse me miss, I don’t believe I know you name?’ He asked.

‘I shouldn’t think so, I haven’t given it.’ She pulled out a long comb as black as her hair. She began to brush, occasionally stopping to adjust her sleeves or pat down her robe.

‘My name is Stanely. How do you do?’ he said.

She nodded and smiled while continuing to brush. The cheek, Stanley thought, tempted to give her a piece of his mind. ‘Erm, would you like some tea?’

She shook her head while she gathered her hair in one hand and twisted it around the comb, forming a neat bun.

Stanley crossed the room towards an empty chair. As he walked past, he couldn’t help noticing the curve of her neck or the striking contrast of black hair and white skin. After sitting, he asked, ‘What brings you to my home, miss, at this hour?’

‘I saw you earlier.’ She smiled. ‘I liked the look of you, so I followed.’

‘Right.’ There must have been some misunderstanding, he thought. She must be looking for a place to escape the cold. Yet those clothes seemed too fine for someone down on their luck.

She glided out of her chair and knelt in front of Stanley, her hands resting in her lap. Her large dark eyes looked up into his. ‘It’s cold tonight. May I stay.’

White hands and pink fingers, softer than the finest down, stroked Stanley’s cheeks. He held his breath as searching fingers swayed from side to side, heading down his torso, occasionally parting a button from its buttonhole.

He closed his eyes and breathlessly pleaded, ‘I don’t even know your name?’

‘Do you need to?’ He felt soft lips against his own.

‘Please what do I call you? I won’t tell another soul. My lips are sealed.’

She smiled as her robe dropped to the floor. ‘Keep them unsealed, at least for tonight. If you must call me something, call me Snow.’

*

He woke up alone, no evidence of his late-night guest. No white robe lay on the floor. No shoes waited by the door. Outside there was no sign of footprints other than his own. For the rest of the day, he replayed the scenes in his mind and, seeing how ridiculous they were, began believing it was all a dream.

Yet later that night, a tapping came again from his door. He rushed to answer it, finding Snow once again on his doorstep. He welcomed her in gladly, and they spent another night together warm under his covers.

The third night was much the same as the first two, but on the fourth, no knock came. Nor on the fifth. By time the sixth night came and went, he was thoroughly exhausted. He had taken to sleeping in his recliner chair ready for the slightest sound. There had been many, from the haunting call of tawny owls to wailing foxes, leaving him with his red eyes and bags.

Back on the marsh, Mr Stapleton busied himself catching butterflies. He had already caught a small copper and peacock, keeping them in a small box, their final fate on hold until later.

Stanley sat on a small rise of grassland in silence. The two other men had noticed the growing gloom surrounding him. ‘No need to panic, Stanley.’ Mr Stapleton consoled, 'It’s early yet. We might still find a pair, even a nest.’

Stanley nodded. They hadn’t seen the avocet again since that first day. It was as though everything Stanley wanted was drifting away.

Nearby, Mr Fobbing scanned the fleets and water channels with his binoculars. He pointed. ‘There.’

Across the scrape, a white ghost moved through the reeds. Mr Stapleton picked up the trail. ‘The avocet! Stanley, it’s still here!'

Stanley jumped up, joining the others. Mr Fobbing let his binoculars drop down. ‘It’s away from the water. Could be it has a nest nearby.’

‘Maybe. We've only seen one bird, but they could be taking it in turns on the nest. It’s still early in the season, but we can hope.’ Mr Stanley replied.

That night, Stanley returned to his cottage, his hopes revived. He sat on his recliner and waited. A sound from outside caught his attention and he ran, answering the door in time to see a surprised Snow ready to knock.

He laughed at her wide-eyed stare. ‘This time it’s me that has caught you out.’ He grabbed hold of her and squeezed tightly.

She returned his embrace gladly. ‘Not so tight!’ she laughed.

Stanley felt her silken hair against his cheeks, felt the warmth of her body. ‘I thought you were gone. Where have you been?’

‘I was close by. Did you miss me?’ she stroked his face as she walked inside.

He followed her attentively. ‘More than you can know.’

‘My sweet Stanley, let me keep my days as I please, and I promise you, my nights are yours.’ She took hold of his hand and led him to the bedroom.

His thoughts narrowed, instinct took over. ‘For you, anything.’

*

Stanley resolved to stay awake all night, but his exhaustion and the comfort of her warmth drew him to sleep, as it did the next night. He wouldn’t let it happen a third time. He felt in his bones that if she slipped away, he might never see her again.

So, in the morning, he slept in late only joining his companions after lunch. He found the other two at a section of higher ground covered in patchy grass and reeds.

‘Stanley, come! Come! We’ve found it.’ Mr Stapleton led Stanley beyond a section of reedbed. As Stanley looked out across a wide channel, he saw the avocet sitting in flattened circle of marsh grass.

‘We dare not get closer, not yet, but the bird has sat there all day. It must be a nest.’

‘So, it must have a mate.’ Stanley rested his chin on the crook of his walking stick. ‘Then where is it?’

‘Who knows, what matters is: are there eggs.’

‘It’s uncanny, is what it is.’ Mr Fobbing stood a way off his hands in his pocket. ‘We should have seen a mate by now.’

Mr Stapleton waved away the other man’s superstitions. Mr Fobbing walked off mumbling under his breath, ‘As long as I have something to shoot, s'pose it doesn’t matter.’

After they made their way back to town, Stanley made his excuses and skipped dinner. He went back to his cottage, ate a small meal and tried to get some sleep before Snow arrived. He was sitting in his usual place, dozing, when he heard the familiar knocking at the door.

The rest of the night went as before, this time however, Stanley managed to stave off sleep. He spent the time wondering about where Snow went all day, and what she had been doing the three nights she was away. Had she found somewhere else to spend her time? The thought sent fits of jealously through every fibre and sinew.

When dawn was close, the sheets rustled. Snow’s white body glowed even in his lightless room. She stole away to the living room without a sound. Moments later, the front door creaked before clicking shut.

Stanley hurried after, quickly putting on his trousers and a coat and grabbing his walking stick. He could see her not too far off, but as he chased after, no matter how fast he went, she stayed the same small white shape in the distance. He feared he might not be able to catch her.

Slowly, the ground began to rise and soon she was out of sight, hidden beyond the ridge. He cleared the top within moments, but he could see no sign of Snow. Instead, below him, standing in a shallow pool and staring at him was the avocet.

It waded forward across the pool to its small nest of six eggs. Stanley followed still wondering where Snow had gone. The avocet stopped, another noise attracting its attention. It then took flight, giving a shrill cry as it circled a shape emerging from the dark.

‘Stanley, is that you?’ a familiar voice said. ‘Looks like we had the same idea. Caught red handed.’ Mr Stapleton gave a little chuckle.

Stanley’s thoughts were a thorny tangle of questions. What was the connection between Snow and the avocet? Why had it been unafraid of him and why had it led him here? His imagination tried to fill in the blanks as he watched Mr Stapleton get down on one knee in front of the nest.

‘Mr Stapleton, why are you here?’ he asked.

‘The game’s up, my lad. We’re here for the same reason, so there’s no point pretending. We’re lucky there are so many eggs, we could both take one, maybe two.’ Mr Stapleton unslung a small box that had been resting on his side.

Stanley understood. How could his mentor even consider stealing such precious eggs. He gripped tight his walking stick as he brought it down heavily on the box, shards of plastic flying. Mr Stapleton stumbled backwards, his hands sinking in the mud. ‘What are you doing? Don’t be greedy. You can’t have them all.’

‘They are mine! All of them!’ He swung down again, this time against hard bone, cracking against the other man’s temple. Arms rose in defence but were useless against the blows. Soon they fell limp on the ground, the body falling backwards. Stanley kicked it into the nearby channel.

His work not done, he hurried back to his cottage, entering the small shed in the back garden. Not much time. The sun was already peaking over the slate rooftops and chimneys. The gun leaned against the wall next to the door. He picked it up and made his way back to the marsh.

Overlooking the main path heading towards the nest stood a small thicket of birch trees. In their long shadows, Stanley crouched, nervously picking at fonds of bracken as he waited.

The sound of footsteps grew closer, drowning out the sound of Stanley’s heartbeat. The grass rustled, bending under the feet of Mr Fobbing. He kept a regular pace as he reached the patch of wood where Stanley hid.

As Mr Fobbing walked past, Stanley quietly lowered his weapon. The loud roar echoed across the marsh. A flock of dunlin panicked and took to the sky, but there was no second shot for them to fear.

Stanley emerged from the woodland, glaring at the body of the old hunter. He prodded it with the gun barrel, but it didn’t move. Maybe now his avocets would be safe.

*

The village was frenetic for weeks afterwards. The police scoured the marsh, but no sign was ever found of man or avocet. The villagers shrugged it off, saying anyone wandering in a marsh peppered with mines was ‘cracked’ to begin with. They must have been blown to smithereens, the bits eaten, poor buggers. Everyone commiserated with Stanley who continued searching the marsh daily, no matter how hopeless.

The next spring, excitement spread across the country over a sight not seen for a hundred years. In three stretches of coastline in six separate wetlands, small flocks had landed, each led by a young bird in juvenile plumage. Avocets had finally returned to England.

On Stanley’s marsh, however, no avocets returned. The minefields were cleared, barbed wire cut down, yet still no avocets. Decades passed and still no sightings. One winter Stanley breathed his last as he lay on his old recliner chair, even then nothing.

Many years later, two long-dead bodies were uncovered in the garden of an old cottage. Only after they were removed and properly buried, were the black and white feathers of the avocet seen near the village, their long beaks raking the waters of Stanley’s marsh.