Yesterday, I found out the painful way that apostlebirds will continue to do urgent alarm calls even after the threat is gone but a freshly dead group member remains on the ground.
My technician and I had been working in the creek with a few members of the Sweetbeak Clan when we heard the mobbing calls . The birds we were working with swiftly flew to the aid of the group while we lumbered behind like the slow ground bound beasts that we are. Unfortunately for us, we were furthered slowed by the water in the creek and the muddy, muddy steep banks. My technician forged through the water and up the muddy bank and I ran around the whole mess. But not quick enough, I arrived in time to see the birds urgent alarm calling and looking at the ground (naturally I thought it was a snake (not unlike the apostlebird - mulga snake interaction that I had seen earlier at the station).
The birds kept alarm clicking and staring at the ground (see video of the end of the interaction), and I gingerly stepped across the ground seeking the perpetrator. I was very paranoid as it could have been the world’s number two most venomous snake and clearly the birds were alarm calling while looking at something that I myself could not see. The last thing I wanted to do was tread on an angry snake. I refused to step into the bushes, and when I backed off, that is when I saw him and my heart dropped.
It was Nowum, a little bird that was hatched some time this autumn, and at only 8 months old at most, he had weathered a dry hungry winter, evaded many, many hungry raptors feeding their own young through what was a busy elongated breeding season for birds, reptiles, goats, pigs and roos alike, and in the sad and often cruel way of nature, had succumbed to a rapid raptor attack.
The raptor had long gone, robbing me the chance to see the face of the cause of my loss, and thus identify the species responsible for Nowum’s death. Perhaps it was a she-raptor that would have fed her young, or maybe a young raptor searching for his next meal (more likely as the predator had failed to carry off his prize). I am sure that the predator was beautiful and had I been another type of biologist, I would have rejoiced at the majesty of the rapid attack.
But alas, I am not a raptor-ologist, and the apostlebirds are my pride and joy, so instead, I picked up Nowum and cradled his broken neck, stroked his beak, and looked up at the audience of family and group members. “I am so sorry, so, so sorry I was too late to help”. They alarm clicked softly and in my guilt and I was worried that they would think that it was me that had killed him, but they had seen the attack, mobbed the culprit and seen the release, albeit too late, of their child, sibling, family member and friend.
We (my technician and I) carried Nowum back to the rapidly growing nest and in the shadows of a large gum tree examined him for wounds. I found a large puncture near his heart, so then I knew it was a large raptor, larger than a hawk. And in a cruel twist of irony, we wrapped him in the bread bag, the bag that he would have died to get in. Poor bird finally got his wish. Nowum’s group was already back to business with nest building and begging for bread by the time we got back to our gear, and we returned to our work with heaviness in our hearts. But as the world never ceases to turn, and as the season and winds forever continue to change and the lives of these often fragile birds continues to unfold, we continued to work at unraveling their mysteries. Nowum, like all the birds that I have noticed had gone missing, found dead and eaten and dried by the unforgiving desert wind or seen limping away to never be seen again, will remain in my heart. Nowum, you will be missed, and thank you for giving me a little piece to the puzzle of apostlebird acoustics and antics.
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