by John Morano
In a sense, Lupé’s view of the strange opening paralleled what his flock thought of the sun. They believed the sun was actually the eye of the Lord, Pettr. Everything on the planet, the Earth itself, was contained inside God’s body. Everything they encountered was physically part of the Creator.
This was one of the reasons why the petrels could not understand the destruction the man-flock subjected the planet to. They saw it as an attack on the actual body of God. While it was hard for them to accept this behavior, because the birds knew that the man-flock was injuring their Lord, the petrels prayed that Pettr’s reprisals would not harm them as well.
They were terrified of the strange new rain that burned their eyes and singed the planet, gradually making the sea itself more acidic. They called it “Pettr’s tears” and believed that if these tears continued to fall, they would wash away whatever was harming the planet. The birds hoped that they would not be swept away as well and worried what the effect would be on the others who were not part of the man-flock or their ways.
Lupé had also been taught an interesting view of death. He believed that in order for a bird to get to heaven, it must “fly the good flight” while it lived, being true to Pettr and the planet. Any bird that accomplished this and died would be able to fly to the sun, pass through Pettr’s eye, and join their Lord on the other side, the side where the many flew as one. Those who were false, who had not flown the good flight, would burn when they tried to pass through the sun. Only those who had given their best to the world would be permitted to fly through Pettr’s eye unharmed.
Lupé prayed that someday, Pettr would allow him to pass through the opening beyond the web so that he could experience heaven on Earth, freedom.
One of the greatest privileges of being free was feeding. As a captive, Lupé was tormented at being fed. No doubt the man-flock thought they were taking great care of their “guest,” but that was not the case. Actually, they couldn’t have been more cruel or insulting.
The limp, lifeless pieces of shrimp, squid, and clam that were cleaned, cut, and laid before him did not truly nourish or satisfy him. Feeding was a spiritual act, and Lupé’s spirit was being starved. The food he was given was too clean. It was sterile, expired, and frozen. It was cold, frosty, neither warm nor vital. It was laid out in colorful shells created by the man-flock. This was not feeding.
Lupé was robbed of the ritual of gathering his own meal. For a petrel, ingesting was only a small part of eating. The flight, the search, the acquisition, the return, and the thanks were all equally important parts of the whole. One needed cunning, strength, and skill to feed.
Among the man-flock, one only needed to bend over, to bow to the captors in order to eat. Lupé was further insulted because only petrel chicks and those who are too old or feeble were fed by others. A full-grown petrel only accepted a meal offered from the ocean, one he gathered himself.
Disgusted at what lay in front of him, Lupé reminded himself, “I am of the deep water and the open sky. I eat the little fish. And I have never eaten the scraps from the tiny islands the man-flock floats on the ocean.” Yet he choked the morsels down, understanding, perhaps better than the man-flock, he needed to survive even if doing so was, at the moment, distasteful.
Whenever Lupé’s meal arrived, he would mentally transport himself to the islands and try to relive his feeding ritual. Captured but not contained, Lupé would release his mind, allowing it to soar off until he was alone in a cloudless sky, floating silently above the ocean, carefully watching the water below. Inevitably, a reef of dancing shrimp would appear, the water thick with the little fishes hopping and popping just above the surface of the sea.
Circling, Lupé would open his beak, taste the salt in the wet air, and then dive toward the meal. Pulling up at the last second, he would level himself and walk on the water, skimming his beak through the massive school, filling it with choice morsels. It was as if the ocean squeezed the fish out of the sea just to feed him. Lupé would eat until he was satisfied, then return to the clouds where he would thank Pettr and fly home fulfilled.
For any petrel, this was one of the most sacred experiences of life, second only to mating. It sustained them physically and spiritually, but what the man-flock offered Lupé was something less than scavenging, a painful insult. So when he was completely absorbed in his vision, Lupé would close his eyes tightly and force himself to eat what was in front of him, pretending all the while that he was home, feeding in the deep water.
Although Lupé was not nearly as religious as some birds, he did spend much of his time meditating and praying. Actually, there wasn’t much else for him to do, and Lupé was convinced Pettr would help him escape if he could only reach him through prayer.
The petrel recalled that most flocks of sea birds had individual members known as “birds of pray.” Lupé’s flock called them “savns.” They were almost always found by the shore, facing into the wind, meditating. Indeed, Lupé’s grandmother, Pakeet, was a legendary savn. As a youngster, he had always felt a quiet presence whenever he was around either Pakeet or his mother, Raza.
It was said that the birds of pray spoke directly to Pettr. Lupé wasn’t sure if this was true or not, but he had seen them change the weather on several occasions. On cloudy, rainy days, the birds would pray—alone or in groups—for Pettr’s eye to reappear in the sky. As they silently recited their individual mantra over and over, the rain would cease, the clouds would pass, the sea would calm, and the sun would emerge, bright and beautiful, to dry damp feathers.
How these birds spoke to Pettr was still a mystery to Lupé, although he did speak to a blue booby named Beako once who tried to explain. Beako told Lupé that all sea birds who meditated did the same thing. They sat facing into the breeze because it was the only way the wind could speak to them. They sat near the shore so the ocean could add its message.
In their minds, the birds would silently chant an ancient mantra. This would unite the voices of the wind, the ocean, and the Earth, revealing one very special voice, Pettr’s. Having reached this plateau, the birds of pray would be able to speak directly with their Lord.
As a very young petrel, Lupé remembered following his grandmother to the shore. He knew she was a special bird, and he wanted to see why the other birds treated her with so much respect. He watched Pakeet as she stood only a flap or two from the shore and turned to face the wind. The youngster stood behind his grandmother and did exactly as she did. He stood there listening, waiting, and watching… Then he fell asleep.
When he awoke, Pakeet was standing over him. He had slept for the entire day while his grandmother prayed. She asked him if he had a good sleep. Then she inquired, “What is it you prayed for, Lupé?”
After a moment’s thought, the petrel said, “I prayed for a brother, but Pettr didn’t hear me.”
“How do you know what Pettr hears?” she asked.
“I know he didn’t hear me because I don’t pray very well… I get distracted. My mind wanders, and I fall asleep.”
“If you believe in what you pray for, that is enough to get Pettr’s attention… Did you dream?” Pakeet questioned.
“Yes, let me think… I dreamt about another who looked just like me, a female. Not a brother. We were together on a different island… and you were there. But it was just a dream. I’ve had it before. It’s not important,” Lupé said.
Pakeet raised the feathers on the back of her neck as she often did when she was thinking. Then she said, “Maybe the dream is nothing… but maybe the dream is an answer from Pettr. Maybe he is telling you that he hears your prayers, that you will have a sister, or that some other female will come to you one day.”
While Lupé thought this over, his grandmother motioned him closer. She looked around to make sure they were alone, and then she said, “I can help you stay awake when you pray, Lupé.”
The young bird listened carefully as his grandmother continued.
“There are certain words that savns li
ke me say over and over while we pray. I cannot tell you all of them, but Pettr would not mind if I told you your first word. Should you fly the good flight throughout your life, you might just find out what your other words are… For now, whenever you pray, repeat the word ‘Sea’ over and over. Picture it. Smell it. Hear it. Be one with it, and your prayers will be stronger.”
Lupé remembered the conversation with his grandmother vividly. If ever there was a time to put her advice to the test, it was now. So he decided he would try to recreate the savn’s conditions inside the silver web. Perhaps he could find another word of his mantra. But there were many problems to overcome.
To begin with, Lupé was not near the ocean. The only thing remotely like the sea was a hollow silver branch that fresh water flowed from when the man-flock touched it. And there was no wind, at least no wind that Lupé had spoken with before. There was, however, a cool, stale breeze that always blew with the same force in the same direction, but only when it was warm and the man-flock was about. Like the water from the silver branch, this wind had no voice. It continuously moaned the same lifeless sound.
Looking at the problems that faced him, Lupé thought his chances of speaking to Pettr were slim. He chose to try anyway. So he prayed… and nothing happened.
Later that same day, while Lupé daydreamed as he looked out at the sky through the opening, he noticed that a pair of robins nesting on a branch nearest him had laid an egg. Usually, Lupé paid no attention to nests and eggs. They only depressed him, making him wonder if he would ever father his own chicks. The only reason this nest interested him at all was that both the mother and the father were nowhere to be found. They had left their lovely blue egg completely unattended. At least one parent would usually remain with the egg at all times. Lupé knew if he ever had young, he would take better care of them.
As he continued to watch, Lupé realized he was mistaken. The egg was not entirely abandoned. A very old butterfly, colored in orange and black, sat on it. Lupé found this very funny, because the butterfly’s rear end covered only a fraction of the egg. Was the butterfly tasting it? Lupé wondered. He had been told that these insects taste their meals through their feet. Was he trying to incubate the egg? There was no way the little insect could warm the orb, or protect it for that matter.
So, for the first time since his capture, Lupé laughed, amused at the absurdity of the situation. Even though the butterfly could not hear the petrel sputtering, he turned toward Lupé and smiled. Then he sat down even harder on the egg as if to say, “Laugh if you will, but if I choose to sit on an egg, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Beyond the nest, silhouetted against a distant cloud, Lupé saw the returning mother. As she bent her wings and began to dive, Lupé knew what she had in mind for the old butterfly sitting harmlessly atop the egg. For a moment, Lupé was stunned, not knowing what to do. He didn’t want to see his little friend die, so he began to hop up and down and flap his wings, hoping the butterfly would get the message. He didn’t. The old egg-sitter just stayed where he was, stubbornly flashing his huge grin at Lupé. He was probably enjoying the petrel’s performance.
At the last second, just before the angry mother was about to swallow the butterfly, Lupé pushed out a piercing caw, one that would have made any petrel proud. Following Lupé’s cue, all the other creatures being held captive by the man-flock began to whistle, peep, squeak, hoot, and screech. The butterfly just kept smiling and casually drew his wings together, as if to stretch. He made no motion to leave the egg. Then it was too late. The robin was on the nest and ready to make her kill when the butterfly… disappeared. It didn’t fly away. It simply vanished. While the mother robin pecked at the empty air around the nest, Lupé wondered whether he was seeing things, if captivity had finally affected his mind.
Whenever Lupé thought about protecting eggs or young, the word “rat” came to mind. If there was one creature the petrel hated above all others, even the man-flock, it was the rat. Rodents were the vermin mainly responsible for devastating Lupé’s flock and family. They ate the young, the old, and the unhatched.
Lupé was also convinced that at night, a large rat roamed outside the silver web. The petrel was very concerned about this. He had fought rats before and won, but never like this, never without the use of flight. Also, he had a feeling that the rat who roamed the area around the web was a rather large, hungry rodent, perhaps larger, hungrier than any he encountered before.
Lupé had suspected its presence since his arrival long ago, but lately, the rat was growing bolder, coming closer. Because it made him feel ill, Lupé hadn’t been eating all the food the man-flock provided. He knew this was a mistake; the scraps would attract the hairy scavenger.
Still, there was something very puzzling about all of this. Lupé never actually saw the rodent, nor could he find physical evidence of the dirty visitor. He was sure he had heard and smelt him several times, but in the morning, there were no footprints, no hairs, no droppings anywhere to be found. This was obviously a very clever rodent¬—one more reason why Lupé had to worry. The petrel had a feeling that tonight, he would find out how clever this rat was and how well he could protect himself while contained in a small space. It was not something Lupé looked forward to.
The more he thought about the rat, the more determined Lupé was to defend himself. He remembered how rats had killed all the birds of his family, how they had raided the nests and devoured the future of the Gwattas until he was all that remained. The burrowing petrels had had no defense against the rodents the man-flock had left behind when they visited the islands.
Many of the mature birds could survive the onslaught, but as the eggs were systematically consumed, no new generations had emerged to replace the elders who flew to Pettr. In three generations, virtually all of his flock were killed. Lupé’s beak tightened, and his feathers tensed. The images of death would not go away.
Once again, the petrel began to drift back to Gwatta, the island of his youth. Many had already perished. Lupé and his parents, Kurah and Raza, lived together on bare rock under the ledge of a boulder only a few flaps from shore. It was a good nesting site, and no petrel would dare challenge Kurah for the location between the rocks. But no one was safe from the rats roaming the island.
A young bird at the time, Lupé had been flying for only a short while. One day in particular, he sat on the rocky ledge so that he could protect his younger brother, Barau, who was only a few days away from the greatest moment in any bird’s life: first flight. For the first time since Raza had borne the egg that had become Barau, she and Kurah had left the nest to fish together. Lupé watched over his brother and scanned the sky for his parents’ return.
Chicks were not usually named until they flew from the nest, but Lupé had been so happy at the idea of having a brother, he couldn’t wait to name him. According to the birds of Lupé’s flock, Barau meant “friend of the sea.” Lupé had hoped the name would give his brother luck when fishing. Barau returned his brother’s love and hoped that someday soon, they would fly and fish together.
It was a frightening thing for a young bird—any bird, for that matter—not to be able to fly, especially with his parents gone, so on that day, Barau peeped to his brother constantly. Every time he was called, Lupé glided down from the ledge that overlooked the shore to reassure his brother with mellow hooting and a gentle peck. But as the morning wore on, Lupé grew hungry and restless. He could hear the surf and the wind teasing, which only added to his impatience.
After a while, Barau began to complain that he, too, was hungry. The youngster had not eaten much solid food, so Lupé thought he’d offer his brother a treat. He said, “Barau, how would you like to share some nice, fresh crab meat with me?”
Barau’s eyes lit with excitement as he squeaked, “Do you think I’m ready to eat some?”
“Of course you are,” Lupé said. “I’ll find a nice, big crab and fly overhead. Then I’ll drop it down on the rocks right here an
d we can eat together.”
Little Barau glowed. “Yes, yes!”
Lupé told him to lie down against the rocks under the ledge until he returned with the crab. He warned his brother that even though his coloring concealed him, unnecessary movement would expose him. Looking back, Lupé could barely see Barau’s gray body snuggled among the dull rocks, but there was no mistaking the sound of the youngster’s happy peeping as his older brother flew toward the beach in search of a treat.
While scanning the shore for a good-sized crab, Lupé encountered a pair of petrels from his own flock, Bax and Stee-sky. They were not much older than him. It was a time when Lupé rarely saw others so much like himself. He was overjoyed and decided to spend some time with his two new friends. The three dropped clams on the rocks, splashed in the surf, and played tag in the clouds—all the things that young petrels should do together.
Soon, the wind began to shake Lupé. It tugged at his feathers and reminded him of Barau. Lupé felt a strange sensation in his breast. The wind warned that something terrible was happening. The petrel flew to his brother.
When Lupé returned to the nest he saw a sight he would never forget. A rat had killed Barau, eaten him from the neck down. The little bird’s body was torn open and cleaned out like an empty shell on the beach, two halves, lifeless and stiff. Lupé stared at the fluffy down strewn among the rocks. The tiny feathers that had been almost ready for flight were covered with Barau’s blood. Lupé could not quiet the image of his grounded brother pinned to the rocks, powerless to escape the ravenous rodent.
When Kurah and Raza arrived, no words were exchanged. They blamed themselves, not Lupé, for the loss of Barau. Silently, they cleaned and prepared their roost for another chick, who never came.
