Why Jays don't sing.
Only the other day I was half way up Schiehallion when I was approached by a Raven on a mission. I know this because he said so. He insisted on telling me why Jays don't sing.
Long long ago in the forests of the north Jays used to sing. In fact they had the sweetest song of all the birds, far sweeter than nightingales.
In those days the forests of the north were mostly mighty sun-dappled oaks rich in insects and rich in acorns. The Jays would sit in the oaks and sing all day long to the great pleasure of Boradrial, the Goddess of the northern forests. Boradrial has long Raven hair and eyes the colour of blue ice. Her stare can penetrate granite and freeze geysers. Her voice is the lapping of the Arctic sea on icebergs and the creaking of flowing glaciers. When she is displeased the north wind blows and snow covers the land. When she is excited the northern lights flicker in psychedelic magesty in the cold northern sky. Her beauty is the beauty of a cold, dark, star-studded night when Orion strides across the heavens.
For many a century all was well, the Jays serenaded the Goddess and she was delighted with them. It is well known that acorns are a favourite food of Jays but that did not matter until the Jays, swollen with self esteem, became arrogant and greedy. They began to eat more acorns than the oaks could produce and so gradually as the ancient oaks died they were not replaced and the magnificent oak forests were, bit by bit, replaced by dark green conifers. This was not to Boradrial's liking.
Boradrial tolerated the Jays for a while because she so loved their mellifluous voices. In the end however, she had to act or all the oaks in the world would have disappeared.
When a Goddess is stirred into action you can be sure that there will be consequences. With a flick of her wrist she summoned all the Jays in all the world. They assembled in the huge Corrie on the north side of Ben Alder to hear their fate. She is a terrible Goddess but a wise one. She told them in a whisper that was like the swirling of spindrift slipping off a cornice, that they would be punished by losing their singing voices. In those distant times the plumage of Jays was pure white, the colour of the driven snow and it camouflaged them from all their enemies. She told them that they had not been pure and that only their rumps would remain white so that she could see them wherever they went. She told them that now their enemies would be able to see them and the foxes and sparrowhawks would prey upon them. She told them, however, that if they were to mend their ways they would get their singing voices back and their pure white plumage would return. This is why for every acorn that a Jay eats it will plant three or four more in the hope that the northern oak forests will return and then Boradrial will forgive them.
Every time a Jay tries to sing it only manages to produce a hideous screech - we have all heard it in the woods. The Jays know, however, that some day when the acorns that they plant have replaced the oak forests Boradrial will relent and once again the glorious enchanting notes of Jays will fill the woods with unsurpassed melody.
Thus it was that the Raven spoke before catching the wind with his powerful wings and disappearing towards Craig Varr. He was gone before I could mention that his voice had a bit of a croak to it but perhaps that wouldn't have been diplomatic. I finished my climb in contemplative mood.