It’s no fun being the smallest magpie of the bunch.
Jasper would know that for a fact. Despite his mother’s early reassurances that he’d get there like every other magpie eventually, there never really happened for Jasper: he had floundering wings a half-inch shorter than his younger brother’s, knobbly twigs for claws, and his feathers were still more of a goopy papier-mâché grey than a sharp-suited black.
But everyone knew it was the inside that really mattered, right?
Alright, so he wasn’t the best treasure hunter, either. But come on, it was just so difficult finding diamonds these days, and not many two-leggers carted around shiny coins anymore. So when he spotted a flash of metal by the riverbank, as dazzlingly aureate as a fallen bead of sweat from the Sun herself, it was only natural that he’d think he’d struck gold. Then, it was only natural for him to parade his newest find around the mischief like a medal. How was he meant to know about blasted chocolate coins and their dastardly foil wrappers? And really, had there been a need for all the teasing? Had there been a need for Reginald, leader of their mischief, to cackle so hard he almost tipped himself over and toppled tail-first from their nest?
God, birds were so judgemental these days.
Anyway. None of that was his fault, of course. He was just a poor soul, caught fast in the cruel limes of misfortune. And so, to cheer, up, he decided he’d treat himself to a nice fly by the River Thames. It was a warm afternoon, the sort of summer day that settled under the crook of your wing and nestled between your feathers like cotton-fluff. He’d not been wandering for long before he caught a glimpse of it – a sharp steadfast glint, unwavering in its purpose – the keening, beckoning call of real treasure.
All at once, he hurtled down headfirst to inspect it, and there it was, half-buried in the damp riverside dirt: a small, milky-white sphere, limpid in its ethereal glory and otherwordly in its mysterious beauty, with ribbons of ultramarine suspended in the centre like bold blue brushstrokes against a cloudy sky.
Finally. This was his chance to turn everything around.
He’d struck gold.
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Naturally, the other magpies lacked his natural shrewdness and impeccable good sense, so it took him a while to persuade them that he, Jasper, had single-wingedly taken down a two-legger. But with a triumphant flourish of the wing he’d brandished his newfound treasure as if it were a hunting trophy, and watched smugly as the same expression dawned on every magpie’s countenance: a mix of amazement, respect, and even… fear.
Naturally, then, Reginald had to step down from his role. And he did without complaint, feathers trembling in doleful reverence, although there was something of a defiant glare burning unextinguished in his eyes. All hail Jasper, the magpies thus proclaimed, eye-plucker, man-slayer, destroyer of universes.
It was truly, truly delightful, and Jasper made sure to bask in every glorious second.
He was no longer the laughingstock of the bunch. In the days that followed, he banqueted on juicy first-pick worms and slept in the softest, downiest patch of the nest. He named his treasure The All-Seeing Eye of Perception, Interjection, and Conjunction, and exhibited it in the centre of the nest as a relic of his terrible strength, his indomitable might.
He was only sure what two of those words meant, and even then, he wasn’t entirely convinced.
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It lasted for a while, the eternal glory. And in that while, the days were long, and good.
The day it all ended came a month or two later. By then the leaves of their home-tree had begun to crackle copper and a slight chill had started to settle into the soft linings of the nights. It was one of those nights when he heard Reginald race back towards the nest, his wings in flight as swift and striking as twin bolts of black lightning. Lodged firmly in Reginald’s beak – a sleek drawstring pouch, with contents that rattled insistently and clamorously as he landed among the mischief, chest puffed out with an unspoken pride.
With one swift move he pulled open the pouch, and knocked it over – out rolled about half a dozen Eyes, assorted sizes, all glistening with the same glassy, enigmatic sheen as Jasper’s treasure.
“I’ve been investigating, and listening, and observing,” he said, almost incoherent in his exhilaration, “They offer them in individual sacks, the gift establishments by the river, and smaller two-leggers are quite fond of them. I’ve heard they’re called marbles.”
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And that was how Jasper found himself on yet another cheer-up fly by the river again, the “marble” rattling good-naturedly in the half-hearted hold of his beak. This time, he didn’t even have the gentle brushing warmth of the sun on his wings to comfort him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had half a mind to continue flying out east as far as he could until his wings grew weary with strain or even with shame; find another nest where the magpies were less shrewd and live there forever instead. He’d been so deep in thought that he barely noticed the loosening grip of his beak until it was too late, and the marble was careening out of his grasp, catapulting itself like a sorry comet into the giggling waters of the Thames. It lands with a small splash, sinking briefly below the surface, and for a moment Jasper strains to see where it’s gone.
In the distance, he thinks he sees the Eye wink, as if suppressing a bubbling smirk.
Written by Norah Chan from Calne, Wiltshire, England
