The Birdman's Daughter. Cindi Myers

had arrived like an apparition out of the mist, the ink black body sharp against the gray fog, the orange shield above its bill brilliant against the bright blue crest. Martin held his breath, immobile, transfixed by this glimpse of the divine. Was it so far-fetched to think that a creature with wings was one step lower than the angels?

      The King Eider was the fourth new species he’d added to his list that day. Number 3,047. In those days, he’d seen four thousand birds as a lofty goal to attain. Only later, when he’d passed four thousand and was closing in on five thousand, did he begin to think of reaching for more. Of trying to do what almost no one before him had done.

      When he’d joined the others in the pub, they had groaned at the news of the sighting, and cursed his luck even as they bought him drinks. No one questioned that he had actually seen the bird. Though worldwide, the birding community was a small one, where honesty and integrity counted for everything. Martin’s reputation was unassailable. Others often said no one worked harder or was more dedicated than Martin Engel.

      The respect of his colleagues was almost as important to him as the numbers on his list. When he was a child, he had sometimes felt invisible in the midst of his older and younger siblings. Their names were routinely in the local paper as winners of athletic competitions and academic honors. Trophies and award certificates lined shelves in the family room. Only Martin had no plaque or statue with his name on it. The family photo album was devoid of Martin’s accomplishments, for there were none. His parents, busy with their other talented children, had left Martin to himself. Sitting in the bleachers at the innumerable football, baseball and soccer practices of his siblings, he had discovered birds, and what grew to be an avocation, an obsession—a calling.

      He glanced at the framed awards that filled one wall of his office. His parents were no longer alive to see these honors. He seldom saw his siblings, and even his children took little notice of his accomplishments most days. It didn’t matter as long as his fellow birders applauded him, and as long as he himself could look at this tangible evidence of all he’d achieved and feel satisfaction filling him, warm and penetrating as the African sun.

      When he was gone, the records he’d set would live on. His grandsons could find his name in books and on Web sites, and they’d know that he’d been more than an odd little man who traveled a great deal and didn’t have much to say. They’d see that he’d made his mark on the world, and maybe they would find a way to make their mark as well.