The Magpie's Garden

By Nicola Koen

Posted on October 1, 2025

Cover Image Title: Magpie

Cover Image by: Sofia Segura

Classification: Traditional media

Specifications: Watercolor and Prismacolor, 5.5 inches X 8.5 inches

Year: 2025

Location: Utah, U.S.A.

I always warned my grandmother about placing her wedding ring on the windowsill, but she never listened. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that one Monday afternoon, while I was scribbling away at math problems, she let out a shriek.

“That wretched bird stole my ring!”

I rushed to the kitchen, only managing to catch the fleeting glimpse of the culprit’s long black tail. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that our thief was a magpie; being alone was a bad omen already. Now we had a criminal on the loose.

       I was out of the front door in an instant, chasing the bird down, despite my sandals and jeans. I didn’t get very far into the woods; skipping the mile run in P.E. might not be the best idea. Rocks crackling underfoot, I hobbled through the undergrowth, following the direction the magpie had taken and my exceptional natural instincts. Would now be a good time to mention that I got kicked out of Girl Scouts for nearly walking us off a cliff?

       Luckily, there were no cliffs nearby — or at least I hoped — so I was safe wandering on for the meantime. The sun was starting to set towards the west; my bed seemed like a very good option right now. The picture of my grandmother’s hazel eyes welling with tears formed in my mind; the mere thought of returning was wiped away immediately. I couldn’t leave empty-handed. Not if I wanted to live to see my soft bed.

       Branches attacked me ruthlessly like I was a piñata as I stumbled along. Twigs and leaves became part of the mess known as my hair. I felt like I was a real officer stalking a dangerous felon in the darkening night, though I didn’t bring any doughnuts as snacks. While I was debating whether chocolate or caramel doughnuts would taste better on the job, I stopped in my tracks. My heart hammered hard against my chest as I tried not to breathe. Then it came again, the tweeting — more like the screeching — of a magpie. I had to be close!

       One step, then another. I gradually crept closer to the sound; besides my darting eyes, I was like a wax statue. I entered a small clearing surrounded by about half a dozen trees, each one with more moss than bark. An old farm door was set into a rundown wall, with the once white paint having faded to a displeasing brown. Above was an emerald canopy, hiding any trace of the sky. Creaking and aching as if holding up the weight of said sky, the trees chorused. Which one was the hideout for this thieving delinquent? Eeny meeny miny — chirping resounded from just above my head. Gotya!

       I ran to the sound, grabbed the nearest tree trunk, and started climbing. Half a metre from the ground, and my calf muscles were already groaning in pain thanks to the hike up. Still, I climbed through the pain. My grandmother might bake me a chocolate cake if I bring it back before midnight. Bark scratched across my skin, and the moss dripped sickly sap into the wound. 

       Nearly there, I panted. Nearly there. The nest was right above me now, the magpie having continued its song with the same confidence I had in the shower. Though, as my grandmother kindly informed me, confidence does not translate to talent. I hauled myself up onto the last branch and gave myself a quick breather for my heart rate to settle. The little criminal stared up at me, its beady eyes begging me to let it go free.

       “Can’t do that, Mr. Magpie.” I panted, shooing him away. “I arrest you in the name of the bird law!”

       Once Mr. Magpie had packed up his stuff and finally left, I searched his nest for my grandmother’s ring. There was only one problem. I bit my lip, checking in the nest one more time. It wasn’t there! But what did turn up, however, was an old metal key. And where there was a key, there must be a lock. The farm door!

       I scurried down the tree, only adding minimal injuries and scratches to the list, but there was no time to think about it now. The sky was already pink, and Gran would start to worry. That was almost as bad as not bringing back the ring at all!

       After twisting the key in the lock and a good, hard kick, the farm door swung open onto the prettiest picture I have ever seen. A garden with neatly tended rosebushes dancing under the honeybees and ivy stretching over the wall. Green lawns and benches — though slightly on the older side — charming pathways, even a small waterfall that must have been flowing strongly not so long ago. It was perfect. And right in the middle of the beauty was a nest on which a very guilty-looking magpie sat. It flew away not too long after, leaving a silver ring in pristine condition, if not slightly nibbled at the edges, for me to take.

       I didn’t just leave with the ring that day. The magpie had shown me something much more wonderful, a hidden treasure that I call Mr. Magpie’s garden. I never saw him again, but I always kept it ready for the day he returned.

[ Writing Editor: Anonymous. ]