Wild Wings: Chapters 24–44

It had blown Iris far into the desert where she found shelter beneath an outcrop of rock.

Below, a trail of camels and people trudged over the high dune ridges, their long, dark shadows pressed against the golden sand.

A shaft of sunlight broke through on his face.

Mum wrapped me in a duvet and put me in front of the TV.

The TV blared on; cartoons, football, quiz programs, and golf.

I laughed and followed them under the yew and up the path into the little church.

Below, a snake swam through the green waters, its head above the surface, trailing a sinuous wake behind.

Her body ached, and fever sapped her strength.

I unclipped Kip, our young sheepdog. He was a bit fresh and keen when Dad first got him. Some friends with young children had visited once, and Kip had rounded them all into one of the barns.

The ground was boggy underfoot. Deep tire tracks had ground into the mud in the gateways. I splashed through the puddles, the water almost coming over the top of my boots.

This morning I’d believed that the marabout would find Iris. But now it did seem a bit farfetched. Mum was probably right. How could they possibly find her in miles and miles of mangrove forest?

I miss my village, but it is not so bad here in the hospital. I make friends with the new children that come into the ward.

Jeneba is very sick right now. The fever has taken hold, and Dr. Jawara thinks she may have malaria as well.

Mum fussed about with the tea urn, and Euan’s mum and Rob’s mum set out some tables and chairs.

I heard the rustle of straw as Kip came out to greet me.

He licked my face and barked. I put my hand over his muzzle. “Shh, Kip, no noise.”

A low growl built in his throat and his hackles were raised.

Mrs. Wicklow was standing in the back entrance of the village hall beckoning us in.

“Oh, and there’s an orthopedic surgeon in London, mad keen on birds. He’s offered to do the operation free.”

School was canceled for nearly a week, and Rob, Euan, and I spent most of the time tobogganing on the hills behind the village.

She’d stop lessons half an hour early so we could look at photos of dawn in the desert, of Berber shepherds in the high Atlas Mountains, flocks of birds on estuary mud flats, and cattle grazing green lowland pastures.

We put out tables and chairs, hung bunting flags from the roof, and decorated the stage.

But the storm was faster still. It plowed across the sea, churning it into green-gray troughs and peaks of foam-tipped waves.

The waves peaked and crested beneath her in a blur of white streaked surf.

The ground was flatter and covered by coarse grass.