by John Morano
Zomis gagged and rolled off Lupé.
Immediately, the petrel flapped into the air toward the opening. After a second, he stopped himself and circled back to check on his pigeon friend. He perched next to Zomis and said, “Forgive me, my friend. But I needed you to push me over the edge. I’m sorry I had to do the same to you. There was no meaning behind the words I used. Now I have to leave. I will never forget you.”
“No meaning?” Zomis asked.
“None.”
“I will miss you too.” The rat-bird grinned as it continued, “There’s only one thing I will miss more than your company… and that’s your lovely leftovers.”
Lupé laughed and brushed his wing against Zomis. It was the first time he had freely touched his friend, and he was reminded that there was no longer a web between them. A strange thought occurred to the petrel. He remembered that he had never been able to say goodbye to his friends on Gwatta when the man-flock had captured him. Lupé pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time.
Zomis looked Lupé in the eye. For a moment, the chubby bird seemed completely normal, a proud example of “pigeondom.” It tilted its head slightly to one side, looked to the opening, and nodded. Then it said, “May the wind be at your back.” It was the ancient farewell that bound all birds as brothers and sisters. The words filled Lupé with power and purpose.
In an instant, there was bright light everywhere. One of the man-flock had entered and was looking directly at Lupé and Zomis. The intruder waved a long branch with a thick nest of dried grass bound to the end of it while he positioned himself between the two birds and the bare opening. He stepped toward the pair, sweeping down with the stick to scatter the birds in opposite directions.
Zomis screamed, “Fly, Lupé! Fly!”
The intruder seemed to be more interested in Lupé than Zomis, and he pursued the petrel. He swung the stick at Lupé, trying to sweep him into a corner. The petrel was so busy dodging the stick, he could not gather himself to fly.
It looked like Lupé would be returned to the silver web until Zomis decided to get involved. Prepared to do whatever it took to protect the petrel, Zomis charged the attacker, running as fast as its little legs would carry the large body. While Zomis gathered speed and momentum, it extended its forgotten wings. They were dirty, twisted things that hadn’t been used for many years, yet Zomis seemed to remember the meaning of their existence. And as the pigeon flapped and shook the dirt from them, its great bulk lifted off the ground.
Working furiously, the plump rat-bird managed to raise itself a few feet in the air. The wings pumped harder and harder, and the pigeon picked up speed. Lupé watched in amazement while Zomis propelled its robust body at the only thing that stood between the petrel and freedom.
The one from the man-flock turned and faced Zomis.
Dodging a swipe of the stick at the last second, the flying rat-bird lowered its head and struck with full force in the region where the intruder’s legs met his torso.
Zomis must have been flying faster than it appeared, because the creature screamed, stumbled, and fell backward. But as the one from the man-flock tumbled, he reached out with the stick and smashed Zomis to the ground.
Lupé flew to his friend.
Before the petrel could speak, Zomis stood, somewhat wobbly, and said, “Quick, before he rises again, fly!”
“Thank you!” Lupé replied. He leapt into the air and added, “One day, a petrel from my flock will bear your name!”
Lupé raced toward the opening.
As he did so, the long stick with the nest returned to life. The one from the man-flock rose. He reared back to swat the escaping petrel from the air. Suddenly, he froze on his feet.
This time, it was the old butterfly who flew to Lupé’s rescue. The tiny creature soared with incredible speed right at the head of the one with the stick. He landed on the intruder’s nose and spread his wings over the creature’s eyes.
The intruder jumped up and down, shaking his head from side to side, refusing to release his grasp on the dangerous stick, but the crusty old butterfly held on. The stick flew in every direction yet never once came close to Lupé, who passed through the opening unscathed.
As the one from the man-flock grew more desperate and enraged, he swung the stick directly at his own head, hoping to crush the fragile butterfly who clung to his face.
Just when it seemed certain the intruder would accomplish his horrible purpose, the old butterfly twittered away, and the stick broke across the intruder’s nose.
This time, when the one from the man-flock hit the ground, he did not move until well after sunrise. The pounding in his head and the sharp pain that lingered between his legs served as a potent reminder of the power of lesser creatures.
It seemed as though the moment Lupé flew through the window, the storm disappeared. The sky became clear, the wind dropped to a whisper, and the air tasted sweet. Lupé landed on what was left of the tree outside to collect himself. He was free, but he wasn’t exactly sure what to do next. It had all happened so fast.
The petrel closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he found his favorite butterfly standing at his side, smiling. The wind tugged at his feathers, and Lupé knew where he would have to go. Whether he got there or not was quite another issue.
The petrel turned to the butterfly and said, “I doubt I’ll ever see you again, my brave friend. Tonight, because of you and Zomis, I have my freedom. And tonight, I must leave you both forever. Thank you for delivering me from the man-flock, for giving me the chance to save my flock. My search begins.”
Lupé looked back through the opening for the last time. What he saw surprised him and brought a smile to his beak. He and the butterfly shared a wide grin as they watched what was happening inside.
Zomis, now standing again, had found something interesting.
Lupé chuckled as he saw his robust friend dragging the robin’s nest, graced with a recently hatched chick that had somehow survived the crash, toward the hole in the wall. The nest fit easily through the hole, although it was still a tight squeeze for Zomis. Lupé could see that those greasy feathers did serve a purpose when Zomis’s extremities barely slipped through the crack.
The rat-bird would become a parent. It was an irony that warmed Lupé.
The petrel climbed into the cool night sky, wondering whether the chick would be raised as bird or rodent. But he knew the answer really didn’t matter, because the chick would be Zomis’s child, and that was enough.
Part Two: Weathering the Storm
With nothing but a wing and a prayer, Lupé burst into the dawn sky. A pink sunrise hailed the beginning of his migration to the Islands of Life. Although he was still many miles inland, Lupé could smell the sea. Instinctively, he pursued the vast waters.
Looking down from his flight, Lupé saw many trees, hills, and small streams. But more than anything else, the planet was covered with the immense nests of the man-flock. Trees were cut, hills were flattened, fields were cleared, and streams were drained, all to make room for the countless nests and the wide, hard paths that scarred the planet’s skin.
Some of the nests were so tall, they reached up into the clouds, higher than the highest trees, never noticing the little petrel chasing the sea. Lupé gazed at the massive structures created by the man-flock, and a sad smile crossed his beak. He was reminded of something Kurah had told him as a chick.
His father had just been putting the finishing touches on a fresh nest, a nest any petrel would be proud to call its own. Although most from his flock chose to burrow into the dirt and sand, Kurah had felt a nest could be safer. He liked to be able to see what approached without being cornered underground.
Lupé recalled the help he had given his father, how he had gathered all the loose twigs and debris he could find and carried them to the site, a shaded ridge not far from shore, covered with dwarf pines and shy oaks, protected by a rocky outcrop. When Kurah finished, a snug nest sat softly among the roc
ks. The mature petrel nodded approvingly, smiled to his son, and then flew off to feed.
The more Lupé examined the nest, the more he became convinced he could improve it. So while Kurah was away, Lupé began his alterations. By the time his father returned, the young petrel had piled enough twigs around the original nest to house several families. The cozy creation of Kurah was now a massive, sloppy pile of debris.
As usual, Father said nothing. He looked over his son’s work, and then he looked a little longer. While Lupé waited to be congratulated on his craftsbirdship and sense of style, Kurah hopped over to the mound and began removing excess twigs. Somewhere under there, he hoped, his original nest survived.
This was too much for Lupé. He screeched, “Father, what are you doing? I helped you make the greatest nest on the island! None is bigger than ours! We are living large!”
Kurah dropped the twigs from his strong beak and turned to his son. “I thank you for your help, Lupé, but what makes a nest great is not its size. The only thing that can glorify any home are the birds who live in it. Their nest will only be as special as they are.”
Father leaned over and slowly ran his beak up and down the little one’s neck. He whispered to Lupé, “Always fly the good flight. Only your spirit will bring honor to this spot, not a bunch of twigs.”
As is often the case with small birds, Lupé only partially understood what his father was saying, but happy for the chance to help, he joined Kurah in removing the excess. When they were almost done, Lupé made one last appeal.
“But look how big, how soft I made it,” the little one peeped.
“You are right, son,” Kurah replied. “It is big, and it is soft, but does that make it better?”
Now Lupé was really confused. He looked at his father, smiled, and nodded his head.
So Kurah asked, “On cold nights, what keeps you warm?”
Lupé thought carefully. “You and Mother covering me.”
“In a nest this size, would you stay warm?”
Lupé began to understand.
“On dark nights, when the snake is hungry, what keeps him from my sleeping son?” Kurah continued.
Again, Lupé thought. “The snake must pass you and Mother before he can reach me!”
“When the hungry hawk flies overhead, who is he looking for to become his meal?”
“Little ones.” Then Lupé swallowed hard and added, “Like me.”
“So, my son, what size nest keeps you warmer, safer, and hides you from the hawk in the clouds?”
“The little one!” Lupé laughed.
Kurah nodded, and together, they removed the rest of the twigs.
Later that evening, when Lupé, Kurah, and Raza were nestling down for the night, Lupé, never one to give up on a new thought or idea, popped his head up between his parents and asked, “Okay, I know it’s better to have a small nest. So if I can make one too big, can I also make one too small? How will I ever know what size is just right?”
Raza looked down and answered her son’s question with another question. “From where you sleep, little one, what do you see?”
Lupé looked all around him, concentrated, and screeched, “Two large rumps!”
“Good!” Raza cackled. She continued sincerely, but slightly ruffled by the realization that her rump could seem that large to someone. “Now you know how big your nest should be… large enough for two adult rumps. The young will squeeze in between.”
The last thing Lupé remembered hearing that night before he fell asleep was his mother whispering to his father, “Does my rump really seem that—” And then the petrel had nodded off.
Although this was a very happy memory, Lupé was saddened by the thought that his next nest would probably be a lonely one, only one-third full.
Whenever he was faced with a long flight, Lupé liked to look back at his younger days. It helped him feel as though his family was still with him, and in one sense, maybe they were.
Pressing on toward the sea, Lupé was amazed at how many nests the man-flock had built. He had learned long ago to avoid the glow of the tiny suns of the man-flock. Their light meant danger, but since the petrel was already surrounded by them and there seemed to be no getting away from this glow, Lupé ignored the dead light and continued to fly to the ocean.
The petrel’s thoughts returned to the man-flock and how they seemed blind to the beauty of Pettr’s Earth. He wondered why anyone would want to destroy something so perfect. Lupé decided that the man-flock probably didn’t see the beauty, and that was what enabled them to act the way they did. He felt sad for them.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, Lupé looked forward to seeing the many colors of life that would splash across the planet. He had waited a long time for this opportunity. Magnificent in its own right, the sky usually offered blues and whites, but the Earth presented greens, golds, reds, browns—every color, shade, and blend imaginable. This was especially exciting to the pelagic petrel. All these colors were alive, all part of Pettr’s plan. Lupé became more eager to see it as he pictured the scene in his mind.
When the sun burned away the morning clouds, Lupé saw that the once-vibrant colors had faded. The planet actually looked sick. The trees that had covered the Earth like feathers on a bird were gone. The man-flock clipped the wings of the planet, Lupé thought, just as they clipped my wings. He considered who would perish first, his flock or the planet. The once-healthy Earth, especially in this area, was now covered with unnatural cuts, scabs, and blisters—all evidence of the disease spreading below. Depressed but determined, the petrel flew on.
Before he saw it, before he could taste it, Lupé heard it: the roar, the thunder, the spill of the ocean slamming the shore. It was constant, wonderful. And then the smell became thick. At first, wet wisps of salt were carried to the clouds. As the sound of surf grew louder and clearer, the salty air became more dense. Lupé pumped furiously, drinking it all in. It was what he had waited so long for. Then he saw it—the sea. For the first time since he was tangled in a net and grabbed by a hand, the petrel felt truly free.
Without thinking, he climbed higher in the sky until he was up among the thin clouds, where he flew lazy circles while the sweet sea waited below. Lupé wept as he thanked Pettr. Then he folded his wings to his sides and dove at the blue-blue ocean.
Lupé sliced through the clouds and emerged with dew dripping from his beak. Plummeting to the stirring sea, his feathers fell flat against his body. The petrel dove with such speed, he thought the plumage might be pulled from his face. Below, there was nothing but ocean, deep and vast. Lupé was finally surrounded by his two favorite colors, the rich blue of the ocean met by the gentle blue of a clear sky.
The petrel thought, This is what it must be like to pass through Pettr’s eye and live on the other side with the Lord. It was then that he landed on the more quiet, deep water with a tiny splash. Bobbing up and down on soft, rolling swells, he thanked Pettr again.
As Lupé flew further out to sea, the only sound that joined the wind and the ocean was the thup-thup-thup of his liberated wings. The sound was so soothing, so missed, the petrel welled with emotion. Like a chick hearing its mother’s heartbeat through her feathered breast, he felt secure, reborn.
Lupé flew under the sun as it started to fall away from the Smaller Sea. He watched the wind blow a peaceful shadow across the cool water. The Gwatta was immersed in the rich blue of day.
Although he wasn’t exactly sure where the Islands of Life were, Lupé did have a strong feeling as to where he should search. Now that Pettr’s eye was closing, Lupé would turn so that the leg that bore the silver band of the man-flock would be alongside the sun. He would fly in that direction, down toward warmer water, straight through the night. If all went well and the wind cooperated with Zomis’s farewell, the eye of Pettr would rise in the morning on the side opposite the silver band.
Once Lupé was well into temperate water, it would be time to change course. He would fly away from the ri
sing sun, into the setting sun until he reached the sea of his birth, the Ocean of Peace. He believed that somewhere in that great body of water, the Islands of Life waited for him. Lupé hoped that sometime during his journey, Pettr would provide him with a hint as to the exact location of the islands. Even without the clue, Lupé trusted that sooner or later, Pettr’s wind would blow the way.
The petrel had flown for quite some time and was well into his journey when his breast began to ache. The wing he had twice injured at the hands of the man-flock began to throb and burn. Lupé was puzzled by the pain, because he knew he had not flown long enough to feel like this. There would certainly be pain by the end of his journey, but not yet.
Then Lupé understood. He was out of shape. His once awesome power of flight had deteriorated. For the first time in his life, the anxious petrel wondered whether he was physically capable of reaching his destination. He gathered muscle and will, clenched his beak, and flew toward the answer.
Lupé told himself, If I am going to be beaten, I will not beat myself. Something else must defeat me.
Unsure of what lay ahead, Lupé decided to count his blessings and concentrate on the positive. Pettr had been good to him. His savior had heard his prayers and provided Zomis, the butterfly, and the wind. Lupé reasoned that Pettr would not have helped him escape only to let him die later searching for the islands. The petrel believed that as long as he kept his faith, Pettr would provide.
As he flew on, Lupé became deaf to the pounding of the little heart straining within him. Instead, he let the sound of the water below intoxicate him. It was the sound he dreamt of and lived for. It was a sound that nourished him. Gazing down at the sea, Lupé started to feel better. The water below was cool and clean. It rippled quietly and glistened beneath a watchful, warming sun.
Clean water always pleased the petrel. It meant the sea was healthy and full of life. But too often, that was not the case. Lupé had seen the black death before. He knew firstwing what it was like to feel the heavy muck cling to his feathers. He had witnessed the black sludge kill those above the sea and those below the sea.
