Jamie Bastedo - Nighthawk!

N I G H T H A W K !

Jamie Bastedo

Copyright 2013 Jamie Bastedo

eBook Copyright 2014 Jamie Bastedo

5 4 3 2 1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of Red Deer Press or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON, M5E 1E5, fax (416) 868-1621.

Published in Canada by Red Deer Press, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, ON L3R 4T8

www.reddeerpress.com

Published in the United States by Red Deer Press, 311 Washington Street, Brighton, Massachusetts 02135

Edited for the Press by Peter Carver

Cover and interior design by Daniel Choi

We acknowledge with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Bastedo, Jamie, 1955

Nighthawk! / Jamie Bastedo.

ISBN 978-0-88995-455-7 (paper), 978-1-505244-344-6 (epub)

I. Title.

PS8553.A82418N54 2012 jC813.6 C2012-905182-9

Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)

Bastedo, Jamie.

Nighthawk! / Jamie Bastedo.

[256] p. : cm.

Summary: The spirited and inspiring adventures of Wisp, a nighthawk who migrates from the tropical rainforests of Colombia to the northern Tundra, in an effort to get farther north than any of his species has ever been before.

ISBN: 978088995-4557 (paper), 978-1-505244-344-6 (epub)

1. Hawks Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

[Fic] dc23 PZ7.3484Ni 2012

To Jazzy, Riley, and the kids of Back Bay.

Prologue

N ear the top of the world, in a school shaped a bit like a frog, at the back of a case of basketball trophies, hangs a gold-framed photo of three brown speckled birds. Two are perched side by side on the schools pebble roof. They look up, cringing, at a third bird, mostly blurred, as it swoops in for a wide-winged landing almost on top of them.

No one remembers how that photo ended up with the trophies, but it seems to fit. Someone is obviously proud of it.

You could easily walk by that photo and see no birds at all. Thats the way it is with nighthawks. They are mysterious birds, hard to see, hard to find, hard to figure out.

If you see one on the ground, you might mistake it for a rock or a stick or a crusty piece of lichen. If you see one in the air, you might mistake it for a wobbling bat or a high-flying hawk or a dagger-winged falcon. If you see the bright flash of a nighthawks wingbars, as it dips and dives through the dusk, you might even mistake it for a UFO .

But you could never mistake the sound it makes when it plunges out of nowhere and sets the whole sky shaking. Like the blurred bird in the photo, nighthawks are too fast to capture, too mysterious to know.

Except, that is, if youre lucky enough to journey with one into its magical, dangerous world.

DEATH FROM ABOVE

Moosehead School, Yellowknife, Northwest Territories

I know I have a problem when the stars return. Even the planets give me grief.

I cant read them.

Thats what we Plebeians do.

Thats why Guardians let us live.

Where Damon gazes up at the stars, with that odd look in his eyes, and sees a pouncing jaguar or hovering rhinoceros beetle, I see random blips of light. Where he sees a flock of nighthawks diving at Saturn or a giant raven dive-bombing the North Pole, I see a mess of bright squiggles and dots.

I can see stars clear enough. I just cant read them like he does. Like he badly wants me to.

Damon, my father, is a fully initiated Navigator.

In the star department, Im a nothing.

Things go okay until I discover that.

I remember feeling totally at home, peeking out from under my mothers breast, her soft brood feathers tickling my beak. At three weeks old, Im almost ready for my first test flight from the flat pebble roof of Yellowknifes Moosehead Public School. But my feathers are too stubbly, so I spend most of the day tucked beneath Fern, my mother, without a care in the world.

Except for Winnie and Willo, my brother and sister. Luckily, they always sleep in and I can enjoy the best time of day without any pokes or bumps or full-blown attacks.

What wakes me is Moms habit of turning to the sunrise. She purrs and coos as she settles back down on us while I stare at the sky. Im totally fine with doing that since, in mid-July, the sky is still too bright at night for any stars. They arent a problem for me. I dont know yet how much they will hurt me.

I like to guess the spot where the sun will crack the horizon. I like to listen to the dawn breeze as it gets the poplar tree swaying beside the school. Its branches reach over the roof and swish in front of me. What I like most about this time of day are Dads air shows.

Beerb Beerb Beerb.

I stick my beak into the world and tilt my head to the sky.

There he is, circling high above the school. Set on fire by the rising sun, Dads wings slice the air with a whistle and a whoosh that raise the feathers on my back. I struggle to follow his dizzying flight as he darts like a swallow, hovers like a tern, soars like a hawk.

Beerb Beerb Beerb.

Then silence

My lungs freeze. My spine tingles. Time stops.

Dad pulls in his wings and drops into a tailspin, spiraling straight for us. Just when Im sure hell crash, he fans his wings, spreads his tail feathers, and makes a sound that gets my whole body shivering with delight.

V-R--R-R-O-O-O-O-M!

Dad ends his show with a cool inside loop, lands on the branch closest to us, and perches crosswise on it.

For some reason, this always bugs Mom. Not the show. He basically does that for her. And to tell other nighthawks, Get lost, this roof is ours! Its the way he sits. Nighthawks are supposed to perch lengthwise on a branch, not across it. But thats my dad.

By this time, my siblings are awake and the fights begin, for space, for attention, for food. Especially food.

Mom goes hunting for us while Dad watches for ravens. Good morning, chicklets, Mom says when she comes back, through a mouthful of crunched-up dragonflies.

Winnie is the biggest chick, so guess who gets fed first? He shoves Willo and me out of the way, then pecks like crazy at Moms beak. I could easily push Willo aside, over the edge if I wanted. But I dont. I let her eat next.

When its my turn, I open my big mouth, Mom shoves her beak halfway down my throat, and out comes breakfast. I usually get more than anyone else since Ive learned to clamp onto Moms feet and not let go until she has nothing more to give.

Fast learner, Dad says.

Its the same routine day after day.

Until Winnie gets picked off.

It happens one stinking hot afternoon. Dad says the summers are getting hotter and this is the hottest day yet. Weve grown lots, but Mom insists we stay crammed under her, out of the blazing sun. The heat turns the tar under the pebbles into black, oozing muck.