HIMALAYAN BLOOD PARTRIDGE 7 



shadows of the cliff were small, scattered islands of white, pitted with falling drops 

 from overhanging icicles. It was so still that sometimes I could hear the faint tinkle 

 of these drops breaking through the thin ice crust of the snow. But it was a stillness 

 made up of countless sounds — so many of which had no meaning to me. I heard only 

 the song of the lark, and the murmur of a hundred rivulets, trickling along the first 

 stages of their long voyage to the sea. 



I waited, watching, careful of every movement, and the afternoon light deepened 

 around me. Then above me, like the rush of a sudden tempest, came the loud beating 

 of wings. A great lammergeier swept over the edge of the cliff out past me into space. 

 It circled again, its red eye gazing fixedly down at me, as if to discern whether death 

 had made me worthy of closer attention. 



I watched, always, for the other living things of this meadow — a meadow, though 

 miles above the sea. I could see the faint outline of a vinous-throated pipit, sitting 

 close on its nest. Snow was above and beneath it, but an overhanging bank of turf 

 shielded the small dwelling-place. Sometimes a tiny, dark form would creep out into 

 the coarse grass — one of those strange little voles which choose these bleak regions for 

 their tunnelled homes. Above them, flies and gnats were dancing in the thin air, and 

 on a bit of stunted bamboo a tortoise-shell butterfly flattened its bright wings in a 

 little oasis of yellow light. 



Without warning, the sun dropped behind a distant ridge. It was as if some one 

 had turned out some enormous lamp. Luminous clouds appeared in the air that before 

 had been so clear, and the first whisper of the cold night wind echoed softly in the 

 crags. The insects vanished, and one by one the icicles and rivulets were silenced at 

 the touch of the coming twilight. From a high ravine came the plaintive call of a 

 white-capped redstart, and a grey fox barked from somewhere afar off. Then, in the 

 rich afterglow reflected from the mountains of snow, seven birds appeared over the crest 

 of the ridge. They came slowly, one after the other, and I knew them at once for the 

 Blood Partridges I had come so far to find. 



Through my glasses every feather was distinct, every movement clear as the birds 

 straggled down the slope. Now and then several of them would loiter and pick at the 

 abundant red berries. But they did this carelessly, almost perfunctorily, being quite 

 evidently not hungry. 



A small moth, his wings half benumbed, tried to fly before them. He was a 

 delicacy, and as such, was promptly pursued and captured. Three of the Partridges 

 were adult male birds, and the four others were clad in the warm brown hue of the 

 hens. As they picked their way from one tussock to the next, now over the coarse, 

 tangled grass, now through a half-frozen patch of snow, their tails were held high, and 

 the crimson beneath shone brightly. A hen pecked viciously at the bird beside her, and 

 was answered by a low, resentful double note. It was the only sound made by the little 

 covey. 



As the Blood Partridges drifted down the slope, they ceased their loitering and 

 advanced more steadily, stopping only now and then to watch and listen. They drifted 

 further and further away from me, until they seemed but little windswept fragments 

 of the meadow itself. I watched them eagerly, cautiously — watched them until they 

 vanished among the uppermost ranks of the dwarf rhododendrons. 



