When I was visiting my cousin in Edinburgh a few years ago, she told me about the unusual swan behaviour on the local pond. I was immediately hooked on the swan saga of Craiglockhart Pond! This story is based on the true story of Brighid, one of the Craiglockhart swans. With thanks to The Friends of Easter Craiglockhart Hill for documenting their Swan Saga over many years.
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SWANSONG
I can still feel their beaks stabbing me and their wings beating me, again and again. I am bruised and bleeding, but they have not quite killed me. So be it. I should suffer. I should lie here and sing out my sorrow. I have done as they have done, and more.
After all, when I arrived nine summers ago with my handsome, tough yellowbeak from the narrow waters between the ugly walls, we chased away the nice old couple who lived here. Out of nowhere, we splashed down into their pond, and we lunged at them. They were sensible. They just went. They realised that they had to give way to the exuberance of our youth, our right to take what we wanted, because we were the future of this water and they were the past. They flew off to find some oily backwater where they might die from hunger or disease in the short days. My yellowbeak and I, we did not care. We had worked hard to find the right space to call our own, and this was it! Room enough for one pair and no more. Sheltered. Plenty of food. Well-tended surroundings with good nesting material. Oh yes. This small stretch of water was swan heaven.
How passionate was our first summer here? Very. Heads bobbing, beaks touching, tails flicking, wings flapping, swimming along chest to chest. We could not get enough of each other. And so it was, for year after year. He was a star, shining on the shimmering water. He helped to build our nests. He tended to me as I sat on our eggs. He was attentive when the grey fluffs broke out of them, and helped me to tutor the little ruffians in the ways of swanness. He gave me everything an egglayer could ask for. We raised so many young ones. As each batch grew large and white, we shooed them away to fend for themselves elsewhere. They could fight their own battles for space to raise their own young. That was our legacy, our hard work for the survival of swankind.
Nothing occurred to disturb our idyll, and we didn’t even notice that we were getting old. All I expected was that our longing to be together and mate together would carry on. The illnesses of the flocks on the estuaries could not touch us. The risks of life near the ugly walls and wide black paths were long behind us. My yellowbeak was still handsome, and I was still popping out eggs. The natural cycle of our lives was comfortable and predictable. Seasons came and went. Winters were always hard. No bird, no matter how lush their plumage, can abide the cold, grey days. And there is boredom. No mating, no nesting, no nurturing the young. There is just – waiting.
One short day in what must have been the thirteenth long wait I had known, there was something ominous in the sky. I could feel it, but I did not understand it. Whatever was going to happen, would happen. A swan does not question why. It had never happened before, but it happened then. A young, strong yellowbeak landed on our pond. Something stirred in me that I didn’t like, but couldn’t control. It was something that a swan should not feel, I was sure of that. I should be sailing out with my mate to chase the cocky intruder off our long-cherished home, and attack him, if need be, although I had not tapped my aggression for a long while.
My mate sailed out, hissing furiously. The stranger hissed back. I was drawn to watch the stranger; his feathers puffed so elegantly on his well-muscled wings. My mate flapped and reared up, several times. The stranger returned the gestures. Eventually my mate lunged to grab the stranger’s neck with his beak. The stranger swerved nimbly away, and then launched himself at my mate. And I joined in. I bit and beat my loyal companion. I was full of disgust for him – an old creature, a has-been. As he backed away, the stranger swam out proudly into the centre of the black water.
Heads bobbing, beaks touching, tails flicking, wings flapping, swimming along chest to chest. He excited me. What joy to be wanted by this exotic young creature! What a swan of swans I must be to have attracted such a mate, who might have found so many others on the waterways nearby. His youth made me feel young again. His virility warmed my spirit.
The old yellowbeak would not leave. Of course not. He had committed to me, for life. But his skulking in the reeds annoyed me. He was the evidence that I was unnatural, that I had committed a gravely unswanlike act. Perhaps he would starve. Perhaps his pining would break his heart. Perhaps he would sicken. But he did not. His bruised and torn body sailed out on to the pond one last time. I saw the faint hope in his eyes, but this time, the stranger and I showed no mercy. We damaged every limb. He hobbled on to the bank and out of our way for good.
The stranger and I were free now, free to enjoy each other. We were dizzy with flirting in the thin spring sun. The mating was vigorous. But as time passed, I wondered whether eggs were coming, and felt some disquiet. Was I -surely not – past it? As spring turned to summer, the eggs finally came, and I forgot my worries. The summer was fruitful and fun, as the stranger and I launched five fine grey fluffs into the world. Alas, summers don’t last. The days started to shorten. But I was content and ready for another cycle of life with this hot young mate, until –
The stranger started to swim off every morning to the spot in the reeds where the old yellowbeak had hidden from us. He seemed to be looking for him. Then he would draw back suddenly, and swim off to the other side of the pond. I would seek him out and try to comfort him, but he was becoming distant. In time, he started to sicken. He was listless, he could not eat, foul stuff seeped from his eyes and beak. I was deeply sad now. I cared for him as best I could – until he drew his last breath.
I was alone, throughout the short days and the cold. I swam, I ate, but I was empty. I felt trapped and vulnerable. Time dragged on. Just as daylight started to lengthen, a new yellowbeak appeared! Oh, the relief! My life could begin again! But no. After a short survey of the surroundings and me, he flew off. Did he sense what I had done? Despite his rejection, I started to build a nest. It was what I always did when the days got longer. What else could I possibly do?
I was interrupted. I knew what they were going to do, as soon as I heard the whine and beat of their wings approaching. Out of nowhere, they splashed down into my pond and lunged at me. They sneered at my oldness and aloneness, expecting me to give way to the exuberance of their youth, their right to take what they wanted, because they were the future of this water and I was the past. They did not care. They had worked hard to find the right space to call their own, and this was it! Room enough for one pair and no more. I sat in the reeds and watched them, just as the old yellowbeak had watched me with the stranger.
I did try to move on, once. Wings open wide, with a grunt I launched myself upwards and circled a few times. But I was not meant to die at another pond. I was meant to die where I had loved and lost. I was not going to leave quietly, like the nice old couple. Let the glamourous new pair do the dirty work! I landed in the early morning, exhausted, and waited for them to notice me. Immediately, they tore across the pond, hissing and spitting. Their beaks tore chunks out of me; their wings smashed into me. They did what they had to do. There is only room for one pair on this pond. But why didn’t they finish me off? I must hobble away, like my old yellowbeak hobbled away. Will cold, or hunger, or illness find me? Or will he?
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Thanks to friends at Slough Writers’ Group for suggestions to improve the first draft of this story.
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Photo: Swans on the pond at the National Archives, Kew, London, UK.
