ENDYMION

Endymion was not a wise bird in the way that wild grackles are wise. He possessed virtually none of the innate skills that most of his species, namely "Quiscalus," possessed. This was because he had been stolen from his nest by Fred, a sadistic, preadolescent who entertained himself by mutilating and murdering innocent animals. 

Fred took delight in telling (and sometimes showing) his “circle of followers” how he pulled the legs off spiders, hammered in the shells of box turtles, and shot BB’s at squirrels, maiming or killing them. I never liked that my brother was a member of Fred’s flock. In fact, I don’t know why Donny, five years my junior, put up with his “friend’s” cruelty, because he himself was a gentle, compassionate 9-year-old boy. I guessed that he hung around Fred and the others to seek comfort in the camaraderie of others his age.           

It was unfortunate that one cloudy spring day, the evil-doer’s thoughts settled on a grackle nestling. It had been peeping frantically in a half-dead spruce tree waiting, I suppose, for his mother to return. It took less than three minutes for Fred to sprint up the branches and wrench the chick from the entwined nest of twigs and leaves, then shout in vicious victory, “I GOT A BABY BIRD! LET’S DROWN IT IN YOUR POOL, DONNY!”

My brother, blanching in horror at Fred’s proposal, quick-wittedly devised a plan to get the frantic bird away from the talons of monster boy.

“I wouldn’t touch that wild bird if I were you,” he said convincingly to Fred. “They carry diseases.”

“No, they don’t,” balked Freddy. He paused, and then added, “What kind?”

“The kind where you die,” Donny stated.

“I don’t believe you,” Fred mumbled, but now held the bird farther away from his body.

“I saw it on TV. I promise – cross my heart,” Donny insisted. 

As Fred put the “diseased” bird on Mrs. Bennett’s lawn, the other boys began to noticeably back away.

“No big deal,” he announced to the group. “I’ll just go home and wash my hands.” Then tore down the block to his house.

The other boys flew home as well…to do the same thing, I suspected. Only Donny stayed behind to gather the wildly chirping baby bird and carry him home.

When Donny showed the downy russet chick to my mom and told her how it came into his hands, my mother closed her eyes and shook her head.

“I really want you to stay away from Fred,” she sighed. “He’s no good.”

“But what about the bird, Mom?” my brother asked.

“Well, I guess we’ll try to save him,” she replied. “But don’t expect miracles. Wild birds don’t do well in the hands of humans.”

In spite of the warning, the little fellow fared well in our family. Thanks to my mother who had done a bit of research, we learned that nestlings eat cut up worms and tiny morsels of cat kibble moistened with water. Mom took it upon herself to feed our new shoe-boxed pet every half hour for the next couple of weeks. The nestling grew!

I was the one who named the grackle "Endymion," after John Keats’s poem, because this helpless creature was indeed a “thing of beauty.”

As Endymion grew into a fledgling, then a juvenile, his soft brown plumage transformed into sleek, black, iridescent feathers. His head had an almost purplish hue to it. And, he was slightly over a foot in length. His voice also changed. The soft peeps ceased and a rather piercing squawk took its place. But that was where his commonality with other grackles ended.

Being motherless, he had no idea how to fly, so I dutifully took on the project. When he perched on my arm, I swooshed my limb out from under him. His wings flapped like mad. The first few times he ended up on the grass shrieking indignantly, but eventually, he got the hang of it, although he never flew far. Mostly he hung out on top of our garage waiting for someone in the family to come out. In the morning, he’d peck at the kitchen window ledge for breakfast: scrambled eggs and whole wheat bread or sometimes pancakes. Lunch and dinner consisted of berries, sunflower seeds and a waffle.

Another thing that made Endymion stand apart from wild grackles was his fearlessness around humans. Countless times when I’d go for a stroll, say to the mailbox or the deli, I’d call him. In a second, he’d swoop out of a bush or tree and light on my shoulder so he could join me. Everyone who saw us marveled at his demeanor:  “I’ve never seen a wild bird so tame.” “Amazing. I can’t believe that he actually likes walking with you.” “How do you get him to stay on you like that?”  

Even though Endymion was large and looked a lot like Poe’s sinewy raven, many people were charmed by him. However, the other grackles in the area completely admonished him. In fact, there were times when they’d gather together on the bushes around our house and intimidate him by darting their heads, beating their wings and screeching rusty hinged accusations at him: You’re not one of us, traitor! When that happened, I’d rescue the bewildered innocent by chasing them away with a broom.

There were other times when our pet was surrounded by danger. For example, his penchant to walk rather than fly was alarming. Several times, when I saw him hopping merrily across the busy street we lived on, I’d have to rocket out of the house and grab him before a car ran him down.

“MA, ENDYMION’S WALKING DOWN BAYNARD BOULEVARD AGAIN,” I’d scream as I’d dash out the front door.

“Be careful, Ellen,” she’d yell back. “Don’t you get hit by a car.” 

When I scooped Endymion out of the street, I'd scold him, “You wanna go splat?! You can’t walk in the street! Where are your avian instincts?”

The unfazed bird would look at me and cock his head. It almost seemed that he was thinking: Instincts? What are they?

When the sweltering days of August began to show small signs of tapering off, my mother wondered where our grackle would go when autumn, and then winter, arrived.

I remember her asking my brother and me, “What shall we do with Endymion when the cold weather comes?”           

“We can get a cage and keep him in the house,” I replied.

“I suppose we could, but he’s not used to being confined,” she answered.

“But he won’t survive alone outside,” Donny added. “We have to take him in.”

“What about a bird habitat?” suggested my mother. I know there’s one upstate. Maybe if I call and explain, they’ll take him.”

“GIVE AWAY ENDYMION?!!” Donny cried. “I WANNA KEEP HIM! I WAS THE ONE WHO RESCUED HIM! I SHOULD HAVE A SAY IN WHAT HAPPENS.”

My mother said that she’d have to think about it. And so, the subject was put to bed, at least for a while. 

The following day was a summer sizzler, so I buried my concerns about the cold weather and Endymion. I chose instead to focus on which bathing suit to wear when I took a swim in our backyard pool. As I exited the house, I looked up at the garage roof to greet Endymion. I didn’t see him.

I whistled, then called, “Endymion? Come to me! Where are you?” I thought it odd that he didn’t swoop down on my shoulder in his usual fashion, so I went back in the house to ask my mother if she had seen him.

“No,” she replied. “It’s strange. He didn’t tap on the window for breakfast either. He’s probably in one of the trees. I’m sure he’ll come back.”

I decided to forget about the missing bird for the time being, since I was really warm and couldn’t wait to go for that swim. As I walked back outside and headed towards the pool, I saw what looked like a mass of dead leaves on top of the water. Grabbing the skimmer to fish out the debris, I looked at it again. It was not leaves. It was Endymion, lying flat, wings outstretched, motionless, dead.

I stood iced in my position, staring, physically unable to retrieve his body. My mother must have instinctively known that something was wrong, because she came out to check on me. 

“Go in the house, Ellen!” she said when she saw the lifeless grackle. “I’ll take Endymion out.”

Sometime later, we learned that wild birds that are domesticated often see the water’s reflection of the sky as a continuation of the heavens, so now we understood that Endymion had thought he was flying into God’s clouds. What a dreadful shock it must have been to him when he flew into chlorinated water. I can only imagine the struggle he put up.

Years have now passed, and I still think about my “thing of beauty.” 

Sadly, I’ve come to the conclusion that nature’s plan for innocence is often thwarted by those who are misguided or menacing. And even though we may kindly try to right the wrong that was perpetrated by man, it often ends with feelings of inexorable heartbreak and powerlessness.