A Wing and a Prayer (The John Morano Eco-Adventure Series Book 1)

by John Morano

  There was something about this butterfly that made Lupé feel good inside. He felt unusually calm, relaxed. It was the same feeling he used to get when he was with his mother or grandmother. He had no choice but to return the creature’s infectious smile. “Just my luck,” the petrel mused. “You float in here for the fun of it, and I’d do anything to be able to get out.”

  Lupé had seen plenty of butterflies before, and he knew there were two things butterflies never did. They never spoke. Perhaps it was because they didn’t have mouths, Lupé guessed. And they never listened to anything anyone told them. So Lupé usually didn’t pay too much attention to them either, but this butterfly seemed to demand attention.

  Not at all satisfied with his perch on top of the silver web, the insect started to climb down the side. Lupé was impressed with the agility of the aged butterfly. Watching his colorful friend lower himself all the way to the base of the web, Lupé wondered why he didn’t just fly.

  But before Lupé could find an answer to his question, the butterfly pulled his wings together above his body and strolled through a slit into the petrel’s space, flashing that huge grin the entire time. The two creatures stood face to face and just stared at each other, the butterfly dwarfed by the size of the bird.

  Lupé gazed into the jet-black eyes that radiated with the brilliance of comprehension. The spark of knowledge burned inside the little body, so much so that it surged through its shimmering eyes. It was the touch of those sparks, those little beams of life, that made Lupé feel so calm, so safe. The petrel had a feeling that there was a great deal of power behind those tiny black peepers. As old as the butterfly seemed to be on the outside, those eyes suggested that a curious—perhaps mischievous—youth lived within. Left alone, it was obvious the insect would enjoy many more years of egg-sitting and zapper fighting.

  Next, Lupé couldn’t help but marvel at the fragile wings. He was confused as to why a creature with such splendid wings would need six legs and feet. But it was really the wings that made them brothers. He began to lose himself in the intricate patterns of orange, black, and white. The petrel knew that these wings, thinner than a single sheet of dried seaweed, held special power: the incredible power of flight. He wondered when he would use his own power again.

  “Very soon,” Lupé heard from within the web. He nearly fell over with surprise.

  He stared directly at the butterfly, lowered his head so they could be face to face, and asked, “Did you say something?”

  The butterfly smiled.

  Lupé continued, “Do not fool with me. I am a desperate bird. I ask you again, did you speak to me?”

  The grin disappeared, and the old butterfly slowly shifted his antennae. Lupé had never heard one speak before. He waited to hear what the insect would tell him, what wisdom he would impart. The proboscis, a built-in straw used to sip nectar and other liquids, uncoiled completely, and then the butterfly… yawned. He turned, retracted his proboscis, and walked out of the silver web, where the petrel could not follow.

  Letting his frustration get the better of him, Lupé yelled, “Do not try to come back in here, dried-up old petal… unless you wish to see the inside of my belly!” But Lupé would not eat the butterfly, and the butterfly surely knew that. It was a Monarch, and it was filled with a toxin that would make the petrel quite ill, a wonderful trait that allowed the insect to be bold beyond his appearance.

  As soon as the words left his beak, Lupé felt foolish for having said them. He knew butterflies couldn’t speak, and he felt bad for chasing the old smiler away. He also had the feeling that it would not be so easy to make a meal out of this butterfly, regardless of the bitter taste it might leave.

  That night, Lupé was again visited by Zomis, who made fast work of all the petrel’s leftovers while Lupé tried to tell his friend about the butterfly. Zomis did not listen. The rat-bird had only one thing on its small mind: food.

  Even after many nights together, Lupé was still amazed at how much Zomis physically resembled a rat. Its posture, habits, look, and smell all declared “rodent.” Even the pigeon’s coo had morphed into a rat-like snivel. Zomis’s feathers, which were once fluffy and light, were now matted so flat with oil and dirt, they looked more like bristly hairs than feathers for flight. Lupé was sure Zomis was far too heavy to fly anymore, and those dirty, unpracticed wings could be good for only one thing: hoarding scraps for their hungry host. It was a point Zomis was all too happy to prove.

  Lupé found himself asking, “Zomis, how can you eat like this? Don’t you miss flying, gathering, the whole experience of feeding? Your body never leaves the ground, and you live on the scraps of others. How can…”

  Zomis looked up from the other side of the silver web. The pigeon was so upset, it actually stopped chewing, then gathered its girth and slowly waddled toward Lupé. Only the hard silver web stood between them. When the angry rat-bird laid its bulk against it, the entire structure rattled.

  Zomis spoke quietly but forcefully. “I am what you see. I live this way because I choose to. Who are you to say what is better? Yes, I am free to fly and eat worms and seeds, but I am also free not to fly, not to eat worms and seeds if I choose.”

  Lupé carefully interrupted. He did not want to anger the large Zomis any further. “But what of the wonderful experience of gathering your meal, the ritual your kind has performed since the beginning? You love to eat sooo much, surely you are above scavenging.”

  A look came over Zomis that Lupé had not seen since the first time they met, when Lupé sprayed the pigeon with hot oil. Zomis was obviously hurt and disappointed by the petrel’s criticism.

  Shaking its tiny head, Zomis replied, “What is above and what is below? Who decides what is better, what is worse? Or what is right, what is wrong? I will decide for me… And when was the last time you flew for your food?”

  Lupé shot back, “Had I the opportunity, I would. But I have no choice. You do.”

  “And I have chosen,” Zomis countered. “Why is scavenging not as wonderful as anything else? I live for the moment every night when I emerge from my hole and scurry from web to web, seeing what lovely morsels wait for me. It’s all I want. I kill nothing. I waste nothing. Why would I take something else from this world when this has already been taken? Why isn’t my harmony with the Earth every bit as beautiful as yours?”

  Zomis turned away, drained and tired.

  Lupé never suspected that the pigeon could be so serious and make so much sense. Zomis was the strangest bird he had ever met, but they were friends, and Lupé realized he had hurt Zomis deeply. For the second time in one day, Lupé felt empty. He had chased away the only two friends he had had in a very long time, friends who had actually come to see him.

  Now the petrel understood that there were two reasons why Zomis liked him so much. First and foremost, Lupé had terrific food to share. But almost as important, Zomis must have felt drawn to Lupé because the petrel always accepted whoever, whatever the pigeon—the rat—decided to do with its life. Any judgment had been based solely on character. Lupé knew he had violated that trust.

  The petrel squeezed his beak through the silver web and gingerly poked Zomis’s flab several times. The messy mass began to jiggle and bounce. After a third poke, Zomis began to sniggle a giggle. Then the rat-bird’s crazier side re-emerged as Zomis tumbled against the web, laughing. Lupé smiled in anticipation, waiting to be let in on the joke, but Zomis did not stop laughing until Lupé grabbed that rat-bird’s greasy tail-feathers with his beak and tried pulling one out.

  When Lupé tugged, neither Zomis nor the tail-feathers budged. The petrel, however, was pulled clean off his feet and crashed into the web himself. After seeing this, Zomis stopped chuckling and instead screeched with laughter. It was the one thing Zomis had to do like a bird, because rats never actually laugh. They only sneer, or snicker on occasion.

  Finally, Lupé demanded, “So you find me falling that funny?”

  “Oh, yes! But it’s not… c
oo hoo hoo… not, coo hooo, just you,” the rat-bird choked.

  “What else could it possibly be?” Lupé cawed as he regained his feet and brushed his feathers off.

  “It’s just the idea… the notion of me flying like a bird and eating worms and seeds… worms and seeds! Coo hoo hoo. Oh, it’s just too funny,” Zomis said while sucking up an unattended morsel.

  At this point, Lupé was happy his friend was somewhat hair-brained. He was happy Zomis could turn pain into laughter and wished he could do the same with the pain of his captivity.

  Then Zomis cut in. “Coo hoo hoo… don’t… hoo hoo… think I’ve forgotten, coo hoo. You still hurt my feelings before.”

  Lupé’s disappointment with himself returned. The pigeon’s head was not quite so mixed up after all.

  Zomis regained himself and continued, “So now you have to give me something special… something very special that I can eat. And we’ll be friends again.”

  Lupé smiled. This was the Zomis he knew and loved. He also knew just what to do. The petrel turned, looked down, and poked through some scraps of food with his beak. He extended his wing to brush away some squid and some shrimp. Then he found it, a small clam that the man-flock had not opened for him. And even though he couldn’t eat it like this, the unopened clam made Lupé feel happy. It was the closest he would come to feeding himself. The clam reminded him of his freedom.

  It was a tight squeeze, but Lupé managed to push the clam through the silver web to Zomis, who waited with anticipation. Once it was through, Zomis pecked at the hard shell until it was dizzy. Lupé told him to wait, but Zomis was too absorbed with the potential meal to pay any attention to the petrel. When the ravenous rat-bird had pecked itself silly, it finally seemed to understand that the shell was harder than its beak.

  Lupé asked, “Are you through?”

  Zomis looked up suspiciously, wondering if the clam was some sort of trick, a ploy meant to embarrass.

  Now that Lupé had Zomis’s attention, he instructed his friend to push the clam over the ledge where the silver web sat and then to bring the clam back up to him after it struck the shiny, hard ground below.

  Zomis did as instructed. The pigeon shoved the clam over the edge. There was a loud crack. Lupé’s friend disappeared and then reappeared, out of breath, dragging the prize. The petrel had never seen his chubby companion move so fast.

  Zomis said, “Why did you tell me to do that? Look, the shell is broken.”

  “And it’s lucky for you it is,” Lupé quipped.

  The clam was cracked in several places. Lupé picked the shell apart with his beak, which was longer, stronger, and more practiced at this chore than his friend’s. Together, he and Zomis shared the bounty of the clam. It was the most enjoyable meal Lupé had had since his capture. For Zomis, the clam was one of the most enjoyable meals it had had that evening.

  Things went on much the same between Lupé and Zomis. They met every night and talked while they ate. Needless to say, most of the eating and talking was done by Zomis. Lupé was still miserable at being kept, and he constantly worried about how he could save his flock, but having a friend made it all a little easier to cope with. He thanked Pettr for sending Zomis to him. He wondered what his God’s purpose was. Would Zomis figure into his escape from the man-flock, or would the rat-bird be the last friend he’d ever know?

  One rainy night while the two friends sat together, the silver web still between them, the wind started to call Lupé again. Gradually, the clear night sky grew darker. The bright stars faded from sight, shrouded behind a dense bank of clouds. The wind joined in, swirling and whistling with mischief. The elements were combining forces. It was something Lupé had learned to fear, because it usually spelled “storm.”

  The petrel grew quiet, yet restless. He made no noise, but he stretched his wings nervously. Flapping them with great force, he lifted himself off the ground until his head bumped against the top of the web that contained him. He did this over and over. Zomis tried to calm the bird, but Lupé did not respond. He felt distant, removed. The petrel wanted the wind, and it appeared the wind wanted him. That night, it was Lupé who appeared crazy. This scared Zomis. The rat-bird backed away into the safety of the shadows, waiting for Lupé to regain his senses.

  As the branch outside tapped against the opening, the petrel began to respond to the sound it made. The louder the tap, the wilder he became. Thunder cracked and snapped outside. It looked to Zomis like Lupé and the storm were connected somehow. Each grew more intense with the other.

  Just as the petrel reached the point where it seemed he might seriously hurt himself, he became quiet and still. He had sensed a presence. With glazed eyes, he scanned the web, convinced that something had joined him inside. He wasn’t sure what it was. He wondered if the wind was coming to free him, or maybe it was Pettr himself. He couldn’t tell if this presence was something to be feared. Then he saw what had joined him. The old butterfly had returned.

  He strolled around Lupé’s space as if it were his own, paying no attention to the storm that raged outside. The calm of the silent visitor contrasted greatly with the violence of the weather. As Lupé watched the butterfly, he became transfixed, frozen. He couldn’t twitch a feather.

  Zomis started to worry about Lupé. He wanted the petrel to snap out of the trance, so the rat-bird decided to chase the butterfly away.

  Like he had read the pigeon’s thoughts, Lupé turned toward the black shadows and whispered, “He’s here to help me… I think.”

  The butterfly fluttered away and landed on the sealed opening that separated the storm from Lupé. When he looked back at the petrel, the huge beaming grin reappeared.

  Lupé could not pry his eyes from the portal. He and the old butterfly watched the clouds roll as an occasional crisp of lightning creased the sky. The petrel’s gaze became a glare. Lupé became hypnotized by the way the wind jarred the limbs of the tree outside. They shook back and forth while they tapped at the opening, calling Lupé to it. Moved by the wind, the tree seemed to dance for Lupé. It soothed him, just like the smile of the butterfly, but on another level, there was something unsettling about both.

  The storm continued to rage, and the erratic tapping of the branch grew louder, stronger. Then the robin’s nest that clung to the throbbing limb snapped free and slid toward the sealed opening.

  Suddenly, the old butterfly popped into the air, just as the branch broke from the tree and exploded through the opening, shattering it and letting the robin’s nest drop in. The silver web rattled as debris rained in. It shook violently while the wind, the rain, and the night all surged into the room. Spinning and whistling, the wind found Lupé. The breath of the planet had come to him.

  Gone was the glazed look. Now the petrel’s heart beat wildly. He was wide awake. He knew that Pettr had answered his prayers by sending the wind and the butterfly to free him. But Lupé was still inside the silver web, and he had no idea how to get out. Above the cracking of the thunder and the howling of the wind, Lupé heard rocking, a quiet creaking from within the web.

  He turned slowly and saw the butterfly next to him swaying back and forth on a broken shard of clam shell.

  The happy insect smiled his smile and bobbed his head to the rhythm of the shell, back and forth, back and forth.

  At first, Lupé thought the old butterfly was as crazy as Zomis. This was no time to be rocking merrily. Then the petrel understood that the butterfly was trying to tell him something. He watched and concentrated. The shell gleamed and sparkled as it rose and fell. Lupé knew what he had to do.

  He beckoned his plump friend to emerge from the shadows. “Zomis!” The word had barely crossed Lupé’s beak when his companion appeared at his side. “Shove the web over the edge!” Lupé cawed.

  Zomis looked confused and said, “But if I do that, you’ll be hurt… I can’t. I won’t. You’re not yourself tonight. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Lupé had to think fast. An opportunity
might be slipping away. “Shove me over the edge, you fat, feathered, egg-laying pigeon.”

  Zomis looked hard at Lupé.

  “Come on, you cooing seed-eater,” the petrel taunted.

  The rat-bird’s expression became fierce as it gathered its bulk.

  “Shove me over the ledge, you… bird!”

  That was all it would take. Zomis’s body began to swell. The pigeon lowered its head and charged Lupé with all of its might. Zomis wanted to run through the mesh and pounce on the antagonizer—crush the life out of him if possible.

  Lupé knew what was coming and braced himself against the far side of the web.

  When the rat-bird threw itself at Lupé, both the petrel and the silver web were launched over the ledge. They hit the ground with a crash and a tumble.

  The butterfly, who seemed to be enjoying all of this, was flitting about overhead when Lupé noticed the web had broken open, just like the clam he had shared with Zomis.

  He struggled through the crack, and for the first time since his capture, he was free to go.

  Lupé cawed loudly and looked toward the opening. He was ready to join the wind in the clouds. As he stretched his wings and prepared to fly… he was slammed to the floor under the considerable weight of Zomis.

  “Now you’ll answer to a rat!” Zomis hissed. “And what I leave of you will not be worth scavenging by another.”

  The petrel tried to wriggle out from under his attacker, but he could not. Frantically, he moved his head from side to side to avoid the thrusts of Zomis’s small, sharp beak. Finally, Lupé blew a thick stream of hot orange oil over Zomis and down the rat-bird’s open beak.