by Johnny Benet
Then they peeled off, one by one, each swimming in one of the four directions.
Feathers watched them until they were out of sight.
The thrumming faded as they went, and the sadness lifted.
But not all of it.
Some had stayed with him, and he knew it always would.
Perhaps that was the price of helping turtles.
Feathers thought of the look in turtle’s eye as he drifted into sleep.
Had it been his imagination?
Did she love him too?
SOME DAYS AFTER THE turtles left him, something woke Feathers in the middle of the night.
The turtles were thrumming below him. They felt far away.
A half-moon illuminated thin strands of cloud stretching across the sky. A lonely night wind blew over a calm black sea.
The thrumming faded, going deeper and deeper.
They were sinking.
Feathers remembered his dream.
The great turtles do not die of old age.
When they die it is of sadness, and they finally sink down to find their peace, free of their sadness, down at the bottom of the sea.
Feathers kept vigil all night as they faded.
They would not be like Grey, falling from the flock to be forgotten.
Feathers would remember them. Remember them tonight. Remember them to the end of his days.
In the quiet time before dawn the thrumming ended, and Feathers knew.
They were gone.
He looked out over the sea for a while. Then he tucked his face into the warm down of his breast and slept through what little was left of the night.
FEATHERS WOKE ACHING with hunger. The sky overhead was dappled with clouds. Far off along one side of the horizon row upon row of huge dark cloud-banks blocked the sun. The sea under them was dark in shadow, and rain was falling there. A cold wind heavy with moisture blew from the storm, making the clouds overhead race away across the sky.
His heart felt light as the wind. Feathers gulped fresh air deep into his lungs. He could taste rain, and the electric excitement of the storm. It filled him with its raw energy.
He quickly found fish sign and ate two fish, one right after the other. They were so good. Feathers settled down on the sea again, savored the salty taste the fish had left in his mouth, and just breathed as he watched the storm come.
The wind was making a keening sound. It blew the tips off the waves and filled the air with fine salty mist.
Feathers shook his head. He looked around. A bolt of happiness and sadness, blended together, burst into his breast. Was it?
He lifted into flight and flew a long slow circle. Listening.
He flew a fair distance to a new position and lit back down onto the sea. He listened again.
Yes. It was.
Under the keening of the wind a high-pitch sound thrummed down in the sea. It held sadness, but hope too, and it sounded steady and strong.
Feathers saw turtle again, in his mind’s eye, on that dark beach. She sat over the hole she had dug, not making a sound. She filled the hole with sand, smoothed the sand over it so carefully. Making it indistinguishable from the sand around it. Keeping what she was leaving there safe and hidden.
Feathers listened to the new thrumming. He felt its sadness in his breast. And he was glad.
Just then a ray of sunlight broke through the storm clouds and reflected off one of them, making part of it shine, a single point of white light against the gray. The spot of light stayed there. The clouds above were moving fast, but they did not blow across the sun to block that sunbeam. Strange.
Feathers watched. Something about that point of light was so fascinating.
It was moving towards him with the clouds. Then it seemed to break away from them, moving in Feathers direction.
It slowly traversed the sky. But Feathers knew the distances were deceiving. Although it seemed to be moving slowly, it was actually flying fast and hard.
Something clicked in Feather's mind.
He ruffled his feathers.
Flying.
It was flying.
His heart contracted in on itself. It was too much at once. Losing turtle. Hearing the new voices thrumming across the sea. And now this white bird flying towards him. Way out here.
What else would be asked of him? He was tired, and just wanted to fly, to fish, to sleep on the rolling sea.
But as the bird came closer he found he could not look away.
She passed right over him, but if she saw Feathers she did not show it. She was of his kind. She was small and frail, but there was no sign of fatigue in her flying. Maybe half as big as Feathers, her whiteness brighter than a new cloud in the sun.
Feathers watched her until she passed over him to make sure. She was of his kind, but he had never seen her before. She was not of his flock. At least not of the flock as he had left it. She looked young. Maybe she had come into life after he had left.
But why was she flying out here alone? Birds of the flock stayed together.
She passed over and started moving away from him in the direction opposite the storm.
Feathers suddenly realized he was holding his breath.
As the bird had flown over him and away he had looked up at her breast. And her belly.
Feathers could not seem to breath.
He just watched the bird fly away, floating there, dumb and frozen.
His heart pounded in his chest. His lungs ached for air. But no breath came.
Her belly.
The world started to blur and tilt to one side.
Then suddenly Feather's chest unclenched and his throat opened and he sucked in a great gulp of air. He rose up off the sea and flew hard.
She was so small. Yet he was hard pressed to catch her, and it was a good while before Feathers settled into a position just behind the white bird's right wing tip, and flew with her.
To wherever she was going.
HOW DOES THE TURTLE find her beach? How does the first bird find her nesting ground? The world is so big, with so many wrong turns. So many places to be lost in forever. Poison, and confusion.
So how?
Maybe they were born with the way there already imprinted in their minds.
Or maybe, just maybe, they just flew.
Not thinking where they were going. Not deciding where to fly at all. Their flock deciding for them. It was a mystery, and following it was an act of faith. But for turtle and first bird, the flock would not be other turtles, or other birds.
The flock would be the world itself.
Feathers came out of his reverie. His thoughts were wandering. He was thinking nonsense. Days upon days of flying without sleep or food had weakened him.
The great muscles that powered his wings had shrunk down to stringy sinew, and he felt there was not much of him left. His mind was going off into strange imaginings, and he feared that he might just dive right into the sea during one of them, not even knowing he was going down.
Was that what dying would feel like?
But the white bird flew on to wherever she was going. There was no wandering to her flight. No hesitation. And she didn't seem to tire.
Her flying was just as strong as it was that day, many days before, when she had appeared out of a dark cloud.
Thoughts of the sweet salty taste of fish filled the hours. He so wanted to just take a moment and swoop down. Just one short dive, and a quick meal.
But something told him he must not. No, he had to stay right here at her wingtip, until she reached where she was going, or he dropped from the sky.
She led them to land the next day.
IT WASN'T THE HOME he had known. It wasn't further down the coast from home. The place the white bird had taken him to was new. No sand bluffs behind the beach here, no coast mountains to gleam in the setting sun.
The land was flat. Forest came right down to the water. Tall trees that left the ground below in shadow. Not as thick as the turtle's jungle.
There was space here. You could see the ground. You could peer a ways into those trees.
But some things were similar to the home he had known.
A river and a bay of calm black water. High grass. And islands of marshland, separated from the land by wide patches of grass rising out of shallow water. But it was deep enough. No cat or fox would cross it, and if they tried their splashing would be heard before they even got close.
It was a safe place. A place where a flock could bed down safely for the night. There would be fish in the bay and fish in the ocean. This could be home. A place where the flock chattered in the grass as the sun went down.
But Feathers had to be sure.
The fear that lurked in the shadows of his heart peered up at him from that black water.
He powered ahead of the white bird and chose a place a distance out in the bay, yet not too far from the grass.
Screeching echoed through his mind, chasing everything out but fear. It was just a memory of another place and another time. But something in him didn't believe it, and Feathers was sure he was diving to his death as he cut through the surface of the bay in a streamlined hard dive.
He plunged deep, bubbles trailing behind, and kicked deeper towards the darkness that lay below him. He passed down into it until the blackness closed in and he could not see farther than a wingspan.
Something fast and silver darted into his field of vision. Feathers grabbed it without thinking, and took it whole. It was so long since he had fed, he had almost forgotten the taste of fish.
His eyes were not burning. He did not feel any tingling on his skin from the water. There was no strange aftertaste from the fish he had eaten. Its meat had been healthy and clean.
He turned up, kicking towards the surface.
The white bird was waiting for him there, flying in a slow lazy circle around where he had dived in.
Feathers went to her, and they flew together towards the grass.
He meant to watch over her. But the noon sun was so beautifully warm, and the sound of the breeze through the tall grass so soothing, that he soon fell asleep.
When Feathers started awake the sun was halfway below the horizon. He scanned the marsh for danger, every fiber tense, ready to fly to safety. Then he realized what had woke him.
Singing. The white bird chirped and chattered, her voice filling the marshland with solitary birdsong as the sun went down, as if making an announcement.
The flock was here.
THE SONG WOULD BE HEARD by every cat and fox roaming the forest. The night was their time to hunt, and the song was a challenge to find a dry path, any winding way that led to the sound and smell of bird.
Feathers was not sure if such a path might not exist. He had flown back and forth over the marsh before he had settled down with the white bird that morning. He had not seen a land path leading to their resting place. He thought it was safe. But he had been here less than a day, and the creatures that hunted them had lived here their entire lives. They knew the land.
And they were always hungry.
The last rays of the sun faded into violet twilight. Feathers sat across from the white bird, his back facing water. He scanned the high grass behind her and to either side. Any creature creeping up on her would move that grass. When they did he would see it.
When the beast pounced from the darkness upon his prey, the white bird and Feathers would already be gone.
The white bird lay on a small nest of sticks and mud lined with grass. Her eyes drifted open and closed. She had to be exhausted. They had flown impossibly far together, and he had no idea how far she had flown before he had joined her. Yet she must have spent the day building her nest.
And she had done more than that. It was in the way she settled down, the down of her breast puffed out. She had laid her eggs, and the seeds of a new flock lay beneath her.
Feathers gut clenched in hunger. He had intended to fish that morning after they settled down, but sleep won over hunger. It had been days since he fed, and they had been days of hard flying too.
Had white bid fed while he slept? No. Gathering twigs and grass and mud and putting it together was a day’s work. She must have worked on her nest, fighting fatigue and hunger, as he slept.
In the shadows of the grass where they lay it was already dark. But some light remained out over the water. He had caught a fish without trying that morning. It would be too dark to see fish under that water now, but maybe he could catch one up near the surface.
He edged back into the water to try.
Feathers laid his catch beside the white bird's nest and settled down again into his watching place. She fed. Her eyes drifted close. But before long they were open again. She was fighting sleep. Feathers stayed awake to protect her. But she had something to protect too.
This was a good place. She could easily feed herself without having to stray far from her nest.
But was it really safe? Feathers would fly over the marsh in the morning and check, again and again, until he was sure.
Absolutely sure.
He drifted into memories of other nightfalls with his flock. The mountains as the sun set, the singing and chirping in the twilight just before sleep.
A gentle breeze murmured through the grass. The air was sweet with the smell of grass and fresh water. There were no mudflats with their sour stench here. No fog horns from across the bay. But some things were just like his home. Like the peaceful feeling that came over him, settled down, surrounded by tall grass. It felt so cozy and safe.
This could be home for the white bird and her flock. A good home.
Feathers was glad he had slept through the day, and he was glad he was hungry. The sleep he had taken and the bite of his hunger would keep him alert. And while he kept watch, he had this beautiful night to himself.
But in spite of the charm of this place and the memories it evoked, something inside him was already wanting to move on. Part of him missed the roll of the sea.
A full moon rose to cast the marsh in glowing silver and black shadow. Feathers slipped into the water and paddled backwards a short distance to where he could better see the marsh around them. The water shone like a smooth black rock in the moonlight. He looked down into it for a moment. The bird that looked back from the water had black feathers with no sheen. Lines of scarring ran across one side of its face. One eye was off white, as if covered by a film. The other eye was a pool of black sadness. There was grief in that black eye. Feathers looked away. He could not look at the bird in the water for long. He did not want to look at him again.
He moved back to his place in the grass across from the white bird.
She was awake, and her eyes were on him.
She just kept looking at him.
Feathers wished for a dark patch of shadow he could hide in. He did not want the white bird to see the bird he had seen in the water. Last bird, ravaged by sadness and failure. Had his flock wondered why he was not with them as they sank down into that poisoned water? Had they called out his name?
He resolved not to look into the mirrored surface of the bay again. He could not bear to see what he saw there. What creature could? Turtle. Turtle had seen him and not looked away.
But Turtle was gone now.
Feathers forced himself up and out of his thoughts. Watch the grass. That is the one thing he must do now. He could think and remember all he wanted once he was back out on the open sea.
But not tonight.
He could not watch the grass without watching the white bird too. The fish had revived her, and her eyes were alert and seeing. She was looking at him. And she kept looking. She held Feathers firmly in her gaze, unblinking.
There was something about those eyes.
They were eyes that could take in the ugliness of the world without looking away. Without losing hope. They were eyes that could take it all in and yet still bring new life into the world.
Feathers could not understand that kind of courage. He looked away from he
r. She was so beautiful. But the courage in her eyes scared him.
She knew only of beginnings. Feathers had seen how things ended, and it had marked him.
He scanned the grass for any hint of motion. He listened for any footfall. Finally he let his gaze drift back to her.
She was still watching him. There was a knowing look in her eyes. As if by looking at his ugliness, she could see what he had seen, as if she could see the end too. Yet the hope was still there. Her eyes shone with it.
How could she bear to look at him? Something bitter rose in Feather's throat.
He could not stay here.
Her world was new and full of promise. A new flock lay under her breast.
She should not have to look at him. If there were to be a last bird for this flock - and Feathers supposed there had to be, as all things end - if there were to be a last bird, the white bird should not have to look at him. Last bird was a long time away, beyond her time.
She should not have to look at Feathers.
He was a premonition of what was to come.
Feathers slipped into the water and swam just along the edge of the grass, blending with the shadows. Careful not to make splash nor sound. There was a good viewpoint behind the white bird where he could see any approach to where they were.
Feathers settled down into the deep shadow there. No creature out in that grass could see him here. The white bird could not see him either. She faced the other way now. It felt so good to be invisible.
In the morning he would make sure this place was safe. He would fish for the white bird.
Then he would fly straight out to sea until the land disappeared. Where there was nothing to look at him. Where he would not have to look into the white bird's eyes.
FEATHERS STARTED ACROSS the bay in the cool of the morning. A light drizzle of rain had fallen during the night, followed by night fog that had already started to burn off in the heat of the morning sun.
The white bird had finally given in to her fatigue just before dawn. When she woke, she would find three fish, their silver bellies fat with meat, beside her nest.
