The young cuckoo made desperate attempts to get himself through the
narrow opening in the hollow tree. He screamed when he failed to get
through.
His foster-parents had remained so long beside him that they were wasted
and sad while the other birds, their broods reared, were vigorous and
joyful. They heard the one that had been reared in their nest, the young
cuckoo, scream, but this time they did not fly towards him. The young
cuckoo screamed again, but there was something in that scream that
reminded the foster-parents of hawks. They flew away. They were
miserable in their flight, these birds, for they knew they were
committing a treason.
They had built their nest in a hollow tree that had a little opening.
A cuckoo laid her egg on the ground and, carrying it in her beak, had
placed it in the nest. Their own young had been pushed out. They had
worn themselves to get provision for the terrible and fascinating
creature who had remained in their nest.
When the time came for him to make his flight he could not get his
body through the little opening. Yesterday he had begun to try. The two
foster-parents flew to him again and again with food. But now their own
nesting place had become strange to them. They would never go near it
again. The young cuckoo was forsaken.
A woodpecker ran round the tree. He looked into the hollow and saw the
big bird crumpled up.
“Hello,” said the woodpecker. “How did you get here?”
“Born here,” said the young cuckoo sulkily.
“Oh, were you?” said the woodpecker and he ran round the tree again.
When he came back to the opening the young cuckoo was standing up with
his mouth open.
“Feed me,” said he.
“I’ve to rush round frightfully to get something for myself,” said the
woodpecker.
“At least, someone ought to bring me food,” said the young cuckoo.
“How is that?” said the woodpecker.
“Well, oughtn’t they to?” said the young cuckoo.
“I wouldn’t say so,” said the woodpecker, “you have the use of your
wits, haven’t you?” He ran round the trunk of the tree again and
devoured a lean grub. The young cuckoo struggled at the opening and
screamed again.
“Don’t be drawing too much attention to yourself,” advised the
woodpecker when he came to the opening again. “They might take you for a
young hawk, you know.”
“Who might?” said the cuckoo. “The neighbors. They would pull a young
hawk to pieces.”
“What am I to do?” said the young cuckoo.
“What’s in your nature to do?”
“My nature?” said the young cuckoo. “It’s my nature to swing myself on
branches high up in a tree. It’s my nature to spread out my wings and
fly over pleasant places. It is my nature to be alone. But not alone as
here. Alone with the sound of my own voice.” Suddenly he cried, “Cuckoo,
cuckoo, cuckoo!”
“I know you now,” said the woodpecker. “There’s going to be a storm,” he
said; “trust a woodpecker to know that.”
The young cuckoo strove towards the big sky again, and he screamed so
viciously that a rat that had just come out of the ditch fastened his
eyes on him. That creature looked bad to the young cuckoo. Rain plopped
on the leaves. Thunder crashed. A bolt struck the tree, and the part
above the opening was torn away.
The young cuckoo flung himself out on the grass and went awkwardly
amongst the blue bells. “What a world,” said he. “All this wet and fire
and noise to get me out of the nest. What a world!” The young cuckoo
was free, and these were the first words he said when he went into the
world.
That was the last story the King’s Son told from Maravaun’s book, “The
Breastplate of Instruction.” They had another little field of blue
flowers to cross, and as they went across it Fedelma told the King’s Son