Mary Alice Monroe - Skyward

Praise for the novels of

Mary Alice Monroe

An inspirational tale of redemption.

Publishers Weekly on Swimming Lessons

Monroe makes her characters so believable,
the reader can almost hear them breathing.
Readers who enjoy such fine southern voices as Pat Conroy
will add the talented Monroe to their list of favorites.

Booklist on Sweetgrass

Skyward is a soaring, passionate story of loneliness and pain
and the simple ability of love to heal and transcend both.
Mary Alice Monroes voice is as strong and true
as the great birds of prey of whom she writes.

New York Times bestselling author Anne Rivers Siddons

With each new book, Mary Alice Monroe continues to
cement her growing reputation as an author of power and depth.
The Beach House is filled with the agony of past mistakes,
present pain and hope for a brighter future.

RT Book Reviews

Monroe writes with a crisp precision and narrative energy that
will keep [readers] turning the Pages. Her talent for infusing her
characters with warmth and vitality and her ability to spin a tale
with emotional depth will earn her a broad spectrum of readers,
particularly fans of Barbara Delinsky and Nora Roberts.

Publishers Weekly on The Four Seasons

Also by Mary Alice Monroe

LAST LIGHT OVER CAROLINA

TIME IS A RIVER

SWEETGRASS

SWIMMING LESSONS

THE BEACH HOUSE

THE FOUR SEASONS

THE BOOK CLUB

GIRL IN THE MIRROR

THE LONG ROAD HOME

Childrens Books

TURTLE SUMMER

Written as
Mary Alice Kruesi

ONE SUMMERS NIGHT

SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT

Skyward

Mary Alice Monroe

This book is dedicated to
Jim Elliott, Jemima Parry-Jones, Grace Gaspar,
Stacy Hughes, Franci Krawcke, Mary Pringle
and to all my fellow volunteers at the
South Carolina Center for Birds of Prey

And to dedicated professionals and volunteers
across the countryand the world
who dedicate their time to help preserve and protect
the magnificent birds of prey.

CONTRETEMPS

Though the worlds dark heartbrought me here,where time was hidingin the unleashed sea,I will stay in this fragile placeof broken trees and wounded birdsthat teach me patience as I watchthem fill the bared brancheslike clusters of singing leaves.I will followa passing flock of plovers,who think faster than we can seewhen they suddenly turnand flash their snowy undersidesin one bright actof collected caring consciousness.They must have heard a warningin the lost languageof the river wind.But the silent merlinin pursuitdisarmed, confused, and angrycackles at his lazy gods.I see the breathof another god, movingbeneath still wingsof the osprey and the eaglein flight. I seecountless angels, rising from the riverwith open handsand upturned palmsto hold the wings in placeas the animals glide overthis sanctuaryand pull the skyback into the universe.Marjory Wentworth

Contents

Birds of Prey (also known as raptors) have characteristics that distinguish them from other birds. A bird of prey has a sharp, hooked beak for tearing food, sharp, curved talons, powerful feet for killing its prey and binocular vision. Thirty-eight species of raptors are found in the geographic limits of the United States and Canada. These species are divided into categories: buteos, accipiters, falcons, harriers, kites, eagles, ospreys and owls.

A BRISK, WINTRY WIND WHISTLED ALONG THE South Carolina coast. It rattled the ice-tipped, yellowed spartina grass and rolled a thick, steely gray fog in from the sea. The old black man paused in his walk and cocked his ear toward the sky. He heard the whispers of change in the wind. Hunching his shoulders, he turned the collar of his threadbare woolen jacket high up to the brim of his fedora, then dug his hands deep into his pockets. He resumed walking, but he kept his eyes skyward.

The old man had walked nearly half a mile when he heard a high, plaintive whistle over the winds song. He stopped abruptly, rigid with expectation, staring out at the heavy shroud that hovered over the wetlands. It was a still morning; the pale night moon lingered in the dusty sky. Suddenly, a magnificent white-crested eagle broke through the mist. Its broad, plank-straight wings stretched wide as it soared over the water.

There you be! he muttered with deep satisfaction.

Bringing his large, gnarled hands to cup his mouth, he whistled sharp and clear, mimicking the birdcall.

The bald eagle circled wide, flapping its powerful wings with a majesty reserved for royalty. The great bird took a lap around the marsh before deigning to return the call.

The effect was not lost on the old man. Heartened, he rushed his hands to his mouth and whistled again, louder and more insistently. This time, the eagle banked, then flew unwaveringly toward him.

This was the moment Harris Henderson relished. He squinted and let his gaze slowly traverse the wide, open meadow encircled by tall, leggy pines. The grasses were crisp and the ground was hard with the early morning frost. In only one days time, winter had blustered into the Lowcountry, plummeting temperatures from balmy to freezing. He took a long, deep breath, feeling the moist chill go straight to his lungs. The morning air carried the scent of burning woodcedar, he thoughtso strong he could almost taste it.

Turning his head, he gazed upon the sleek red-tailed hawk held firm against his chest by his thick leather gloves. Maggie Mims, a robust woman with hair almost the same color red as the hawks tail, looked up at him with eyes sparkling with excitement.

She gave a curt nod.

Harris moved his gloved hands so that his left wrapped around the hawks wings and the right maintained a firm hold of the hawks feet. Instantly, the hawks dark gaze sharpened, her mouth opened and she jerked her wings hard for freedom.

So, youre eager to be off, he said in a low voice.

He waited patiently for the bird to calm itself, all the while looking on with admiration. She was a beautiful specimen, creamy breasted with a dark bellyband and the brick-red tail feathers that gave the species its name. Red-taileds were superb hunters, the black warriors J. J. Audubon had called them. It was hard to believe, looking at her sleek, healthy form, that shed been brought into the clinic with gunshot wounds a mere two months earlier. Well, it wont be long now.

The bird cocked its head at the sound of his voice, glaring, ferociousthe right attitude for survival. Every instinct in its body was on alert for flight. Harris could feel the birds anticipation in his own veins.

In this brief moment before flight, Harris sought to merge spirits with the bird. Hed read stories of shamans who practiced this ancient art, myths of Indians whose spirits soared with eagles, tales that hed heard spoken of only in passing or in jest. Though hed tell this to no one, deep down hed always believed that at the core of legends and myths lay a kernel of truth. There were individuals who communicated at some visceral level with birds. He knew it. Witnessed it.

And it was his private pain that he was not one of them. Although highly skilled, he didnt possess the rare instinctthe giftof connection. The art of truly flying the birds.

The closest he came to it was at liftoff. The seconds when the birds wings stretched out and he heard the whup-whup of their flapping and felt the quick fluttering of air against his cheek as the bird flew fearlessly into the wind. At that stolen moment in time he caught an exhilarating glimpse of what it might be like to fly, to feel the lift, then the air glide over him like water.

Ready? asked Maggie.

Sensing freedom at hand, the red-tailed tightened its talons on his arm. The brisk wind gusted, riffling the feathers on its head. She didnt flinch. Her eyes were focused. A faint stream of breath clouded the air like steam as her chest rose and fell. The moment had come.

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