Hilary's story 'Peace Crane'

How I came to write this story
Peace Crane is about an injured crane that is rescued by a boy who then feels a mystical connection with the creature, and is sure that it has granted his dearest wish. When my husband told me about the return of the Crane to East Anglia after hundreds of years of absence, and I began to research this, I came across the story of Sadako Sasaki, a Japanese girl who died as a result of the Hiroshima bomb. I read about the legends and symbolism surrounding this bird and the idea of cranes as a symbol of peace made me think about the many ways that different people can long for peace. The boy in my story longs for peace in his family. Sadako, and those who still offer origami cranes at the Children’s Peace Monument , long for peace between nations. Many people long for, and work for, the right of wild animals to live freely and in peace in their natural environment.

Short excerpt:

...The power lines hum as I pass below them and a few steps further on I notice a creature – I can’t say what kind – lying in the grass at the edge of the path. My pace slows and my hands come out of my pockets. Roadkill, I think at first, but this track is hardly used by vehicles. As I come nearer, there is a small movement, so small I wonder if I imagined it. The creature is still again, and then another tremor flutters across the pale shape. Is it alive? Or maybe it was the rising wind riffling the feathers, for now that I am almost upon it, I see that it is a bird, a large grey bird, with a long neck and black and white markings on its head. One huge wing is stretched awkwardly behind the bulk of the body, and I can see immediately that it is broken. The enormous flight feathers are darker than the rest of the plumage, and only one of them is damaged, torn half way along its shaft. Is it a heron? There is a heronry further round the track, where tall trees line the shore on the edge of Horling Broad. Squatting beside the huge bird, I wait for it to move again. The burnt-orange eyes stare at me. There is no mistaking the life in them. The head is black, with a broad white stripe either side, and a patch of red on the top. I don’t think herons have red on their heads, and I know they have long black feathers at the back of the neck, which this bird hasn’t got.
I may not know what the bird is, but I know what has happened to it. It has flown into the power lines...

Copyright Hilary Taylor, Gentle Footprints, Bridge House Publishing

Tomorrow The Natural History of the Common Crane...