So now the escapee nightjar and I were conspirators. I had to stay patient and play my part in its plot.
We stood a while longer, though of course the urgent call did not sound.
But the boy stood there motionless, gazing up at the spot where the bird had once perched. He already had what a hunter needs most, patience.
My feet were growing numb and I, at least, knew there was no point in waiting further.
“Maybe it’s gone,” I said, gently breaking the silence.
He murmured assent and lowered his head, then when I said nothing went back to watching. It’s a battle of endurance sometimes, to see who can be most patient. I was happy to lose.
“I didn’t see it fly off,” he said, unwilling to give up.
“Maybe it was too quick. It’s too dark to see.” I had to put it like that, or risk insulting him.
“Can’t have.” He wasn’t happy about it, but knew there was no hope.
“What kind of bird was it, anyway?”
“A jokjok.”
I could tell he had never heard this Evenki word before. He had so little of our traditional knowledge, our language. He spoke even less than I did.
Much of our old ways will be lost forever with the passing away of our old folk.
Extract from The Nightjar at Dusk, Pathlight Spring 2015 (p 28), by Gerelchimig Blackcrane (格日勒其木格・黒鶴)
Altaic Storytelling 