Milo had been buried beneath the sweet osmanthus tree by the front door. Rain fell softly, drop by drop, darkening the fresh mound of earth. Lila sat by the window, holding Milo’s favorite old toy. It was a little cloth fish, faded at the edges and soft from years of chewing and carrying and loving. But in Lila’s hands, it felt as hard as a stone.
Lila stared at the osmanthus tree and said very seriously, “If you give Milo back to me, I’ll give you all my strawberry candies.” The wind moved through the leaves. It did not answer. Lila thought for a moment. “I can give away my favorite bunny, too.” “And my colored crayons.” “And… and I’ll eat broccoli every single day from now on.” By the end, her voice had become very small. But no one said yes.
After that, the house felt hollow. Milo used to lie in the warmest square of sunlight on the wooden floor. Now the sunlight was still there, but no small gray body rolled over inside it. Milo used to flop across Lila’s homework and sweep her pencil with his tail. Now the pencil lay perfectly still. No one disturbed it. No one made a mess. No one purred.
Every evening, Lila sat beneath the osmanthus tree. She told Milo about school. About the wind on the playground. About the carrots at lunch. Lila closed her eyes and tried to imagine him stepping out from behind the tree, tail held high, pretending nothing had happened at all. But behind the osmanthus tree, there was nothing.
One evening, while Lila was telling Milo about her day, a strange sound came from behind the tree. First came a sharp click. Click! Like a camera shutter. Then came barking. Then frogs. Then birdsong. Then the crack of a snapping branch. Lila froze.The sounds tumbled over one another, as if the forest had swallowed a whole crowd of creatures and could not decide which one to spit out first. She held her breath, gathered the little bit of courage she had, and stepped toward the trees.
Lila pushed aside a thorny bush behind the tree. The sounds stopped at once. There, beside a fallen log, was a bird unlike any bird Lila had ever seen. Its feathers were brown and plain, but its tail was long and graceful, curving outward like the strings of a harp. One wing was tangled in a thin net. The more the bird struggled, the tighter the net pulled. Lila knelt down and whispered,“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”
Lila worked carefully at the net. A twig scratched the back of her hand. It stung, but she did not let go.Lila loosened one loop.Then another. At last, the final thread snapped free. The bird stumbled, flapped hard, and found its balance. Then it opened its beak and said, “You untie knots at nearly the same speed a snail moves house.” Lila’s eyes grew wide. She asked: “You can talk?”
“You should say, ‘I can understand birds,’” it replied. “Clearly, you are a remarkable child.” Then it opened its beak again. It barked like a dog. Clicked like a camera. Moaned like wind through a hollow tree. Then it lifted its head proudly and said, “I am remarkable, too. I am a lyrebird—the finest collector and copycat of sounds in this forest.” Lila blinked. “A copycat bird?” “A copybird,” said the lyrebird. “Much more elegant.”
“I heard you speaking to the little cat,” the lyrebird said softly.“You want him to come back, don’t you?” “Yes,” she whispered. “More than anything.” The lyrebird lowered its head.“There is an old story,” it said. “At the far edge of the world, beyond places most maps forget, there is a valley called the Valley of Cats.” “They say,” the lyrebird continued, “that in that valley, cats who have gone away may return to the ones who loved them.”
“Where is the Valley of Cats?” Lila asked. “Far,” said the lyrebird. “How far?” “Farther than the mountains. Farther than the grasslands. Farther than the rainforests, the deserts, and the sea.” Lila looked up. Her voice was quiet, but it did not shake. “If Milo can come back, then I have to go.”
The lyrebird hopped onto a mossy stone and slowly spread its tail. Sunset slipped through the leaves and touched each feather with gold. Then the lyrebird began to sing. In its song, there was rain. There was running water. There were insects calling in the dark. And somewhere inside the song, so soft Lila almost missed it, was a little cat’s meow.
When the song ended, the lyrebird folded its tail and looked down at Lila. “That,” it said, “is my gift.” Lila frowned a little. “A song?” “A power,” said the lyrebird. “The Echo Throat.” Before Lila could ask what that meant, the lyrebird opened its beak and let out a piercing eagle cry. The sound sliced through the trees. Birds burst from the branches in a flutter of wings. Then came the low growl of a fox. The howl of a wolf. The roar of a storm rushing through a canyon.
“I can copy any sound I have heard,” the lyrebird said proudly. “And now, so can you.” Lila felt warmth rise in her throat, like a small golden wind. The lyrebird’s voice became serious. “Remember this. When danger comes, a hunter’s cry can be useful. Many creatures flee when they hear an eagle or a falcon.”
Lila opened her blank notebook. On the first page, she drew Milo. Then she drew the lyrebird. Underneath, she wrote: Lyrebird. Collector and copycat of forest sounds. A little annoying, but not bad-hearted. The lyrebird leaned over her shoulder and read the words. After a pause, it said, “Could we remove ‘a little annoying’?” Lila thought about it. Then she shook her head. “No.” And for the first time since Milo had gone, Lila truly laughed.
Fun Fact: The superb lyrebird, Menura novaehollandiae, is a songbird found in the temperate forests of eastern Australia. Male lyrebirds are famous for their beautiful tail feathers and their astonishing talent for mimicry. A lyrebird can copy many sounds it hears, including other birds, insects, frogs, koalas, camera shutters, tools, and even the calls of birds of prey. It can switch quickly between sounds, often with amazing accuracy.