chapter one

 Rube the Robin



Rube nests low, in hidden places. He makes a new one every year. 

He likes shelves and flowerpots. I think he likes being near people.
— From Bird Boy’s Notebook —

"Special delivery!" calls Mr Blackbird, crash-landing on my boat. No fancy loop-the-loop today, just a messy tumble of black feathers and scrambling claws.

“Important leaf-letter from Sage,” he pants.

"What does she want this time?" I settle in for the usual news. “More May Day plans?”

Mr Blackbird shakes his head grimly. “Magpie meeting. Dawn. All choir members must attend.”

My tail feathers droop. Sage is next door’s parrot. Her letters are usually fun — gossip about the humans, reminders about singing practice, and lists for our May Day party. But a Magpie Meeting?

“What do you think it means?” he asks, quietly.

Trouble. Big trouble.

“No idea,” I say, ruffling my feathers. "But can you tell the others? I’d better get ready."

Before I fly off, let me introduce myself. I'm Rube — Rubecula Erithacus if you want to be fancy about it. I'm a robin with one of the brightest red breasts in all of Berkshire and lead singer of our local Songbird Choir. This is my patch: Riverside Garden at the end of Fishery Lane, where the garden slopes down to the river and the old boathouse. See that white rowing boat on the lawn? That's my headquarters, and it’s the best command post a bird could hope for. I nest under the seat and keep watch over everything from this bow. At the moment, the apple trees are just finishing their blossom, and everywhere you look, the garden birds are busy with nests and eggs. It should be our happiest time of year.

But right now, Sage’s leaf letter is suggesting we're in for a terrible day.

I make my usual pre-flight danger checks — look for hawks, scan for cats, locate the humans — then launch myself over the hedge to Sage's garden. The rest of the songbirds follow behind. 

I take my position at the front of Sage's railing. The wise old parrot — my best friend, despite being ten times my size and not even a songbird — hops along her terrace towards me. Her humans let her roam freely out here, knowing that if any real danger appears, her screech will bring them running. The other singers line up and Sage gives a deep, dignified nod. I open with a clear trill, and the dawn chorus begins.

Parus, our youngest blue tit, careers in late. She tries to join the harmony but starts a beat early and sings a note too high, startling the sparrow next to her.

"Sorry! Got excited!" Parus chirps, puffing up her chest. 

Hula, the bullfinch from two gardens up, rolls his eyes. I hide a smile. Parus means well.

Phil, the song thrush from Middle Garden, sings clear and loud as always, and the woodlark from The Mansion can't remain standing, drifting high above us with his sad but beautiful song. Sunlight peeps across the garden while Hula whistles and flutes, and the nuthatch from the other end of the lane pops up to a high perch for her loud, rhythmic delivery.

And that's when I notice them. 

Black and white shapes, gathering on the rooftops. 

More than usual. 

Far more.

"Rube," whispers Phil, his voice faltering mid-note. "Look up there."

"Keep singing," I murmur back, though my voice wavers. "Don't let them know we've seen."

A rock dove, a pair of jackdaws, a starling, a green woodpecker, and lots of sparrows join in. There’s even a heron, kaharking tunelessly along with the chorus. But the sky is darkening, and more birds are noticing now. Our melody becomes patchy as voices drop out.

"Eyes on me, everyone," calls Sage from her perch. "Music is hope. While we sing, we are free."

The magpies are circling, landing, waiting. Their silence scary against our joyful song.

The Titchies — blue tits, coal tits, long-tailed tits and their cousins — cluster together. 

"So many magpies,” breathes Parus.

“What do they want?” asks his friend. 

The Finsters, our local finch gang, huddle together. A flashy, feisty flock of birds who are unusually subdued this morning. And Cory the greenfinch looks terrified.

I count the magpies gathering around us. 

Thirteen. 

Too many. 

Something's definitely wrong.