The Magnificent Nest

Summer

Mr Tweep woke up yawning and wriggling and making a little chirrup. In the tree next door, Mr Ruffles was basking in the morning sun on his new veranda.

“Good morning Mr Tweep, wonderful day isn’t it?” chirped Mr Ruffles.

“Oh yes, lovely,” replied Mr Tweep flatly, and he flew off to see to the day’s business.

The wood in which the two birds lived was perched on a hillside facing south. In the afternoons, the breeze would swim in off the sea and go stirring through the leaves. The trees and plants grew strong and healthy, drinking in the moisture from the air and soaking up the sun. At this time of year it was alive with colour and with the song of many birds. The bees hummed merrily as they bumbled from flower to flower and the creatures of the ground sniffed and rummaged contentedly in the leaves and soil.

One day, Mr Tweep was returning home to his nest just as the sun was setting, sending its warm searching fingers through the trees. He flew in taking his usual path past the front of Mr Ruffles’ place when he noticed a new layer had been added to the already large nest. Mr Tweep didn’t recognise the deep green moss now lining his neighbour’s home. It certainly wasn’t from this or any other nearby wood. Mr Tweep was puzzled.

He came to land in his own nest and a depressing thought entered his head. His own nest appeared ugly and bare. He decided he didn’t like it - a thing that he had never decided on before.

“Oh, there you are Mr Tweep,” tooted Mr Ruffles, “I was beginning to think you’d moved to a new tree.”

“No, still here,” hollered Mr Tweep, beginning to feel a little ashamed.

“You must come over some time and see what I’m doing to the place,” called Mr Ruffles, raising his wing like a king’s sceptre over his property.

“Oh, thank you, that would be nice,” returned Mr Tweep.

 It was a few days later that Mr Tweep discovered his neighbour’s secret. He’d seen Mrs Primple, the squirrel from across the way, scurrying off with a beautiful feather between her teeth; the feather had looked strangely familiar. Later, during his neighbourly titter with Mr Ruffles, he’d noticed a slight patch on his left wing where it was starting to thin. It was then that he realised Mr Ruffles was selling his feathers.

The night of this discovery, Mr Tweep was restless and unable to sleep so he set to work. He decided to take the few twigs and bits he’d intended to use to patch up the north wall of his nest and instead use them to build a veranda facing east. He worked right through the night and at the first yawning of the sun he tiptoed out onto his new veranda, nestled down, sighed a satisfying sigh, and then – WHOOSH – he plummeted like a stone, landing in a pitiful heap of splintered twigs. Mr Tweep managed to clear up the mess and hide all evidence of the fiasco before anyone else was awake and could know about it.

Autumn

Time passed and now the wood was all in quiet preparation. Summer turned, retreating like a tide, and the first September chills poured in among the trees. Mr Tweep had been watching his neighbour with interest. Over the past month, he had seen all sorts of comings and goings over at Mr Ruffles’ place. The nest, if you could still call it that, was now a palace of a home with three levels, each made of fine dark wood sealed expertly with downy moss. On the top level was a balcony, which at one end contained a bathtub carved with a delicate pattern of swirling leaves – apparently the work of an impressive woodpecker, according to Mr Ruffles.

A little hard feeling started then in Mr Tweep. It seemed to sit somewhere in his belly like an acorn and he grew deeply agitated. To add to this, he also began to feel very small. The bigger Mr Ruffles’ place got, the smaller Mr Tweep felt – try as he might he just couldn’t shake this feeling from his feathers.

“Good morning Mr Tweep,” hallooed Mr Ruffles, “Fine day isn’t it!”

“Very fine,” replied Mr Tweep, feeling an urge to fly suddenly.

“You haven’t seen the new bath I’ve put in, you really must come and try it before it gets too chilly.”

At this, Mr Tweep turned and looked at Mr Ruffles. The creature he saw perched on the nest’s new balcony was a strange tufty looking thing with runty feathers and spotted, blotchy skin. 

Mr Tweep suddenly felt very awkward and embarrassed. He wondered whether or not he should say anything to his neighbour about his appearance.

“Yes, I’d like that,” Mr Tweep offered finally. And he flew off to see to the day’s business. 

He thought about Mr Ruffles all day, and he decided that he seemed happy enough; after all, who wouldn’t be happy in all that luxury?

Indeed, Mr Ruffles was growing very content with his new home. It was the sturdiest and warmest and most impressive nest in all the wood, which was a good thing too for it was going to be a cold winter. Thank heavens I’ve done all this work to the place, he thought. But something was missing, he couldn’t quite put his wing on it. There was just a little restlessness somewhere in his heart. What he really needed, he realised, was a roof on the top floor to keep the heat in and the rain off – yes, that was it. Now was the perfect time to do it, before winter finally arrived.

Winter

Mr Ruffles looked down at himself and smiled at his beautiful feather, but then he felt the little restlessness nagging at his heart and he stopped smiling. His eyes grew large and clever. “I’ll sell it,” he said to himself, “I know it’s my last but I’ve come all this way and done all this hard work, to stop now would be a complete waste.”

And so, that same afternoon, the feather was sold and was hanging on a field mouse’s wall by teatime. The mouse was happy with his purchase for it was the last feather and was worth the high price he had paid for it, perhaps a little too high, but he had had no choice; Mr Ruffles had very nearly backed out of the whole deal and the mouse’s wife was adamant their home was incomplete without it.

Within days the roof was up, attached to the nest wall by great sticks of oak. It was warm inside and not a droplet of rain seeped through. Mr Ruffles put his feet up and sighed a weary, contented sigh. It was a grand achievement and it was done at last.

One morning, as dawn broke in the wood and the fingers of light went searching through the trees, Mr Ruffles stared out of his nest, meeting the light with wide unflinching eyes. He’d been up all night, tossing and turning and waiting for the unbearably long night to pass. When eventually the light had crept in far enough to find the face of Mr Ruffles, it revealed a misshapen creature. He was plucked and pock-marked with little red welts all over his feather-picked skin. His eyes had lost their bird-quick brilliance and now roamed lethargically over the wood.

In the tree  next door, Mr Tweep was readying himself to leave for the day. As always, he wriggled out a stretch, planted both feet on the edge of his little nest, glanced at the sky, chirruped, and took off. 

In that instant, Mr Ruffles, staring out from his nest, saw him take flight. He saw it as though he was seeing it for the first time in his life. He saw the proud curves of the wings, the finely sculpted feathers, and the little whirlpools of light playing across their surface; he saw the deft and weaving spins, lifts and lines of neatness splicing through the air. The absolute incomparable feeling of flight fluttered through him for just a moment and was gone.

Mr Tweep, passing by Mr Ruffles’ nest, heard him weep and saw his red eyes brimming with tears. But there was nothing he could do. 

Without a feather to his name, Mr Ruffles could no longer fly. 

Trapped inside his magnificent nest, he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.