Chapter One

1

Garuda, the Hindu god of birds, is also the king of bird poop. When he brings finches and nuthatches to our feeders, the droppings fertilize the soil. So he’s also the god of new grass. He flies direct from India to Seattle, and it doesn’t matter that the airports have been closed for a week since the planes hit the Twin Towers.

Garuda has the wings of an eagle.

My grandfather Bapu prays to all the gods and goddesses, but he’s silent as we trek into the woods to search for barred owls. Bapu marches ahead and I copy his strides, stepping into his giant bootprints in the soil. I’m Anu the Boy Explorer, star of National Geographic, bringing my backpack and birdseed to feed the chickadees.

“Quiet, Shona,” Bapu whispers. He still uses my Bengali baby nickname, which means “golden,” although I’m already eight and three-quarters.

I try to be quiet, but my jeans swish and my breathing disturbs the leaves. The air smells of fall—of dampness and leaves. Afternoon sunlight filters through the treetops, and a breeze lifts my hair. No biplanes or helicopters buzz overhead. The sky sleeps in a strange silence.

Bapu makes many turns, tramples far off the path and finally stops in a clearing. We’re far from the house; I can’t see the moss-covered roof.

I sit next to Bapu, so close that his warmth radiates into my leg. His clove and sweet pipe smell mixes with the cotton laundry scent of his shirt.

My heart beats fast.

“Soon, Anu, soon,” he says.

I check every shadow, watch for an owl blending