Part II Chapter 3 Doctor Dolittle and the Green Canary by Hugh Lofting
Ebony Island
John Dolittle stared at Pippinella in amazement.
'That was an extremely dangerous thing for you to have undertaken,' he said. 'I'm surprised you are here at all to tell the story.'
Pippinella smiled sadly, nodding her head in agreement. 'Yes, Doctor,' she replied. 'But I had no thought for the dangers I was facing. All I wanted to do was get away—as far away as my wings would carry me.
'Had I been a regular wild bird I would have known some of the geography of the land. Then such a journey would not have been so hazardous. From time beyond remembrance the goldfinch or swallow, or any one of the migrating birds has made his two yearly journeys from one land to another—one way in the spring, the other in the fall. They would no more dream of getting lost than they would of forgetting how to fly. After they have made the first trip with the flock it becomes a perfectly simple matter for them, and I really believe most of them could do it with their eyes shut.
'But for me? Well, if I hadn't been desperate with grief, I would never have embarked upon such a mad adventure. It was only after I had flown steadily for two hours, and then on looking behind me found I had passed beyond sight of land, that I fully realized what I had done. On all sides North, East, South, and West, the sky met the sea in a flat ring. No clouds marred the even colour of the heavens, nothing broke the smoothness of the blue–green sea. In turning my head to look back I had changed my direction without thinking. Now I didn't even know if I was going the same way or not. I tried to remember from what quarter the wind had been blowing when I started. But I couldn't recollect. And anyway there was no wind blowing now. So I could get no guidance from that.
'A terrible feeling of helplessness came over me as I gazed down. I was flying at a great height—at the wide–stretching water below me. Where was I? Whither was I going?
'And then it occurred to me that in this, as in my other first difficulties of freedom, I had got to learn—to learn or perish. "Well," I thought, "I'll go and take a closer look at the surface of the water. I'm too high up to see anything here. Perhaps I can learn something from that."
'So I shut my wings and dropped a couple of thousand feet. As I came nearer to the water I noticed many little patches of brown on it, thousands of them. They were evidently some kind of seaweed or grass. They floated in straggly chains, like long processions of tortoises or crabs. But these chains all lay in the same direction.
'"Ah, hah!" I said. "That's a current." I had seen something of the same kind before, grasses and leaves pushed across a lake by a river that flowed into it. And I knew there was a force in that water down below me that drove all those weed clumps the same way.
'"I'll follow the drift of that weed," I thought. "It will anyhow keep me in a straight line and maybe bring me to the mouth of the river from which the current flows."
'Well, my idea would have been all right if my strength had held out. You must remember that it wasn't many months since I had flown at all in the open. And suddenly as I skimmed over the weed chains I got an awful cramp in my left wing muscle. I just felt I had simply got to stop and rest. But where? I couldn't sit on the water like a duck. There was nothing for it but to keep on. I had been going three hours at seventy miles an hour, some two hundred miles—by far the longest flight I had ever made. The wonder was that I hadn't given out before.
'Things looked bad. In spite of all my efforts to keep at the same level I was coming down nearer the water all the time. Finally I was skimming along only a few feet above the swells. I was so near now I could see the tiny sea beetles clinging to the weed tufts. In between, in the clear spaces, I saw my own reflection looking up at me, a tiny fool of a land bird with wildly flapping outstretched wings, trying to make her way across a never–ending ocean, lost, giving out, coming nearer to a watery grave second by second.
'The thing that saved me was the little sea beetles that crawled upon the floating weed. They gave me an idea. If the shred of weed could carry them, I thought, why wouldn't larger clumps of it carry me? I looked along the straggling chains that wound over the sea ahead of me. About a hundred years further on I spied a bigger bunch of the stuff. Making a tremendous effort, I spurted along and just gained it in time. I dropped on it as lightly as I could in the exhausted condition I had reached. To my great delight it bore me up—for the moment. The relief of being able to relax my weary muscles and rest was wonderful. For the present I didn't bother about anything else, but just stood there on my little seaweed boat and rose and fell on the heaving bosom of the sea.
'But soon I noticed that my feet were getting wet. The water had risen right over my ankles. My odd craft would carry my small weight for a few moments only; then it had gone slowly under. It was of the utmost importance that I should not, in my exhausted state, get my feathers waterlogged. I looked around. Not more than six feet away another clump of weed was floating about the size of a tea–tray. With a spring and a flip I leaped from my old raft to the new one. Being a little larger, it carried me a moment or two longer than the one I had left. But it, too, sank in time and the warning water rising around my feet drove me on to yet another refuge.
'It wasn't the most comfortable way in the world to take a rest—hoping from one sinking island to another. Still, it was better than nothing. In the short jumps I did not have to use my wings much and I already felt the cramp in my left shoulder improving. I decided that I could keep this up as long as I liked. It was the steady drive of constant flying that tired me. So long as there were large weed clumps enough and no storms came I was safe.
'But that was all. I wasn't going ahead. The current was moving very slowly—and that in the wrong direction for me. I was hungry and thirsty. There was no food here, and no prospect of getting any. There were, it is true, the tiny sea creatures that crawled upon the weed. But I was afraid to eat them, saturated in salt water, lest the thirst I had already should grow worse. The only thing to do for the present was to be thankful for this assistance, to rest up and then go on again.
'Presently I began to notice the sun. It had been getting higher and higher all the time since I had left land, but soon it seemed to be standing still and then to descend. That meant that midday had been passed. I began to wonder if I could get much further before night fell. There was no moon. I knew, till early morning, and in the darkness flying for me would be impossible if I could not see my guiding current.
'While I was wondering I suddenly spied a flock of birds coming towards me in the opposite direction to my own. They were evidently land birds, and when they got nearer I saw that they were finches, though of a kind that I had never seen before. They were slamming along at a great pace and their freshness and speed made me feel very foolish and weak, squatting on my lump of seaweed like a turtle. It occurred to me that this was a chance to get some advice which might not come again in a long while. So, putting my best foot forward, as you might say, I flew up to meet them in mid–air. The leaders were very decent fellows and pulled up as soon as I called to them.
'"Where will I get to anyway if I keep going straight along this current?" I asked.
'"Oh, GREAT heavens!" they said. "That currents meanders all the way down into the Antarctic. Where do you want to get to?"
'"The nearest land—now, I suppose," said I. "I'm dead beat and can't go many more hours without something to eat and a real rest."
'"Well, turn and cut right across the current, then," said they—"to your left as you're flying now. That'll bring you to Ebony Island. Keep high up and you can't miss it. It's got mountains. That's the nearest land. About a two–hour fly. So long!"
'Without wasting further daylight—for it was now getting late in the afternoon—I took the finches' advice and headed away to the left of the current in search of Ebony Island. This time I kept direction by flying square across the drifting chains of seaweed instead of following their course.
'Well, it may have been only a two–hour trip for those finches, but it was a very different thing for me. After three hours of steady going my wing began to trouble me again. The big setting sun was already standing on the skyline like an enormous plate. It would be dark in twenty minutes more. Here the seaweed was no longer visible. I had passed beyond the path of the current. And still no land had come in sight. I took a sort of bearing by the position of the sun and plugged along.
'Darkness came, but with it came a star. It twinkled out of the gloomy sky right ahead of me as the sun disappeared beneath the sea's edge. And although I knew that the stars do not stand still I reckoned that this one couldn't move very much in a couple of hours, and that was certainly as long as I would be able to keep going with a groggy wing. So, heading straight for that guiding silver point in a world of blackness, I ploughed on and on.
'Another hour went by. Weary and winded, I now began to wonder if the finch leader could have made a mistake. He had said there were mountains on the island. As more and more stars had come twinkling out into the gloomy bowl of the sky the night had grown lighter. And although there was no moon, the air was clear of mist and I could see the horizon all around me. And still no land!
'"Perhaps I wasn't high enough," I thought. With a tremendous effort I tilted my head upwards, and still ploughing forward on the line of my big star, I raised my level a thousand feet or so. And suddenly, slightly to the left of my direction, I spied something white and woolly–looking, apparently floating between sky and sea.
'"That surely can't be land!" I thought. "White in colour! It looks more like clouds."
'Presently as I flapped along like a machine, just dumb and stupid with weariness, exhaustion and thirst, strange new smells began to reach me—vaguely and dimly—sort of spicy odours, things that I hadn't smelt before, but which I knew did not belong to the sea. My floating clouds grew bigger as I approached. As I realized how high up in the sky they hung I became surer than ever that they were just white clouds or mist. Then the air seemed to change its temperature fitfully. Little drafts and breezes, now warm, now freezing cold, beat gently in my face.
'And then! At last I saw that my clouds were not floating at all. They were connected with the sea, but that which they stood on, being darker in colour, had been invisible until I got close. The white snow–capped tops of mountains, glistening in the dim starlight, had beckoned to me across the sea. From the icy wastes of the upper levels had come the chilly winds; but down lower, now visible right under me, tangled sleeping jungles of dark green sent forth the fragrance of spices and tropic fruits. I was hovering over Ebony Island.
'With a cry of joy I shut my aching wings and dropped like a stone through the eight thousand feet of air, which grew warmer and warmer as I came down.
'I landed beside a little purling stream that carried the melting snows of the peaks down through the woodlands to the sea. And, wading knee deep in the cold fresh water I bathed my tired wings and drank and drank and drank!
'In the morning, after a good sleep, I went forth to hunt for food and explore my new home. Nuts and seeds and fruit I found in abundance. The climate was delightful, hot down by the sea—quite hot—but you could get almost any temperature you fancied just by moving to the higher levels up the mountains. It was uninhabited by people and almost entirely free from birds of prey. What there were were fish eagles—who would not bother me—and one or two kinds of owls, who preferred mice to small birds. I decided that it was an ideal place that I had come to.
'"So!" I said, "here I will settle down and live an old maid. No more will I bother my head about fickle mates. I'm a mongrel, anyway. Never again will I risk being deserted for a thoroughbred minx. I'll be like Aunt Rosie—live alone and watch the world pass by and the year go round in peace. Poof! What do I care for all the cocks in the world! This beautiful island belongs to me. Here will I live and die, a crossbred but dignified hermit."
'My island was large and its scenery varied. There were always new parts to explore—mountains, valleys, hillsides, meadows, jungles, sedgy swamps, golden–sanded, laughing shores and little inland lakes. Later, as I came to the shore on the far side, I could see, in the distance, another piece of land. I decided it must be another island such as the one on which I had landed.
'Later I explored this island, too, and found it only one of many more which lay in a sort of chain. There was no end of variety in the scenery and of beautiful flowers and I began to think of the whole string of islands as belonging to me. I composed some wonderful poetry and many excellent songs and kept my voice in good form practising scales three hours a day.
'But all my verses had a melancholy ring. I couldn't seem to convince myself that living alone like this was the happiest way to exist. That was the first sign I had that something funny was happening to me.
'"Look here," I said. "This won't do. Even if you're going to be an old maid you needn't be a sour old maid. This is a beautiful and cheerful island. Why be sad?"
'And I set deliberately to work to make up a cheerful song. It went all right for the first two or three verses, but it ended mournfully, like the rest.
'Then I tried to get to know the other finches and small birds that lived on the island. They were very hospitable and nice to me. And the cocks vied with one another to be seen in my company. To them, of course I was a foreigner. I never said anything about my romance or where I had come from. And I aroused considerable interest among them as a bird with a mysterious past. But, after all, it was only a sort of idle curiosity on their part and I found them intensely dull and somewhat stupid. I tried hard to overcome it and take part in their society chatter and community life, but I just couldn't.
'And then another curious thing: the window–cleaner kept coming to my mind.'
'Ah!' said Gub–Gub. But Jip promptly put a large paw over his mouth and Pippinella went on.
'In some mysterious way, my good friend of the windmill—well, I can't quite explain it—but it almost seemed at times as though I felt him near me somewhere. I spent hours and hours working out all the things that could have happened to him—that might have prevented him from coming back that night when he left me hanging on the wall exposed to the storms of heaven.
'And then it suddenly occurred to me that I should never have left the neighbourhood of the mill. Something told me that he wasn't dead. And if he was still alive he would certainly return some day—the first moment that he could. And I should have been there to welcome him back—as I always had done when he returned from work. I started to blame myself.
'"If you had been a dog," I said, "you would never have come away. You would have stayed on and on, knowing that you could trust him—knowing that if he still lived, in the end he would come back."'