This is StoryQuest. Today's story is the bird who was afraid of height.

In a crooked tree on the edge of the entirely unremarkable village of Thimble Thwait,

a small, round bird named Crispin sat trembling on a branch no higher than a

wheelie. To be clear, Crispin was a bird, and he was afraid of heights. Now, you might be thinking,

hang on, isn't that a bit of a design floor? And yes, you'd be right, it absolutely is.

But life is full of odd contradictions, like soup that's too spicy but somehow really cold.

Crispin had been born to a long and prestigious line of Skydwells. His great-grandmother once flew over two countries. His father taught

air acrobatics to kestrels. His cousins were stunt pigeons who did dives off radio towers for

YouTube fame. And then there was Crispin. Crispin who got dizzy standing on a thick root.

Crispin who once fainted while looking at a kite.

Crispin who lived in the bottom nest.

Technically it wasn't even in the tree, it was under it.

He built it for himself out of moss, a button and a single sock.

One morning there was a loud knock which shook his sock door.

It was Belinda, a pigeon with muscles in places, pigeons weren't even supposed to have.

She wore a tiny leather helmet and always had at least one bandage somewhere dramatic.

Crispin! she shouted, it's migration day.

Crispin gulped already.

Belinda checked her tiny flight watch.

We have to leave in ten minutes. Bring snacks.

And with that, she lurched Skywit in a gust of feathers,

leaving Crispin alone surrounded by snacks he definitely wasn't

...