by John Morano
Lupé imagined how the sky would clear and the ocean would still once he was through the storm. Then he could rest. When the wind leaned on him, he felt the feathers of his underside skimming across the tops of the swells. With every down stroke, the tips of his wings would dip into the sea. He was wet, heavy, and tired. He was afraid of the darkness and felt as though Pettr was pushing the sky and clouds down on him, forcing him into the sea. Then, just as he tried to lift himself higher into the air, it happened. The ocean rose up and swallowed him.
For a moment, Lupé thought of the net that had grabbed him long before. But unlike the net, the ocean covered him inside and out. The heavy water that tugged him from the sky filled his tiny lungs and pinned him under the waves. Lupé struggled to stay afloat. He worked wings and webbed feet like never before, paddling, prodding, pushing, pulling, pumping, and finally panicking. The green sea held on, sucking him under.
The bird’s beak broke through the churning water, and he cawed a final desperate cry. He became dizzy. He wondered if this was the last time the planet would hear the voice of his flock. Lupé made one more courageous attempt to free himself, to emerge on the wing… but again, the sea swallowed him.
It was quiet now. The wind and the ocean were exhausted. There were no wings flapping, no sea birds screeching. Only the calm slap of gentle swells broke the silence. Pettr’s opening eye covered the serene sea with fresh sunlight, burning away all traces of the havoc that had raged during the night.
As far as any eye could see, there was nothing but ocean and sky, sky and ocean—one expanse meeting another. But for the keen eye, there was something else, something minute floating on the sparkling vastness. Quiet like the day and soft like the single dusty cloud that floated above, a clump of seaweed rode the swells. Oblivious to storm or calm, the heavy green patch drifted on.
Beaten, drained, injured… but still alive, the dark gray petrel sat atop the seaweed, floating wherever the currents would carry him. Captive once again, Lupé was happy just to be breathing, happy to have weathered the storm. He was reminded of a phrase his father had often—perflaps too often—uttered: “Tough birds last longer than tough seas.” Lupé grinned.
The seaweed was thick enough to support the petrel, but it was by no means an island. Lupé paced back and forth. He realized he might be trapped where he was for a few days. When his tender wing was rested and healed, he would resume his journey. In the meantime, he wondered how he would feed himself. For the time being, it seemed food would have to come to him. He was in for another lean period, but as long as another storm didn’t hit, he was sure he’d be able to make it. He had survived worse than what faced him now.
Lupé decided to examine the seaweed. With a little luck and Pettr’s blessing, he might find a few crabs or stowaways. Poking through the leafy green, Lupé came across a clump of black mussels. He loved black mussels. They were one treat the man-flock never provided. The petrel plucked one from the weed, held it firmly in his beak, and jumped into the air. An incredibly sharp pain laced through his side, and he tumbled beak-first into the sea. The mussel slipped free, and with a subtle plip, sank toward the bottom.
Lupé climbed back onto the seaweed, realizing that there was no way he could fly, not even a little. Then he smiled as he thought, Even if I could fly, what would I drop the mussel on to crack it, the water? Lupé was forced to sit there staring at one of his favorite meals, powerless to feed himself.
The petrel fixed his gaze on the clump of black mussels. He pictured the tender meat inside the tight shell and could almost taste it… when his vision waddled away. Lupé was stunned. He had never seen a mussel waddle before. Then another one popped out from under the seaweed, raised its head, and disappeared under a sheet of translucent green.
“Raised its head,” Lupé said out loud. “Since when do mussels have heads?”
While he contemplated the bizarre question, a mussel plopped itself down on the petrel’s foot. Lupé lowered his head and focused his eyes. Then he understood.
A tiny dark sea turtle spread himself across the webbing between Lupé’s toes and prepared to nap in the warm sun. Looking around him, it dawned on the petrel that his seaweed haven was infested with little turtles.
He remembered that he had once asked a large green turtle named Cheekar about this very thing. Lupé had seen turtle eggs, turtle hatchlings, and full grown turtles, but he’d never seen adolescent turtles. One night, he and Cheekar were watching a clutch of young emerge from a sandy nest just off shore. They saw the dainty hatchlings break through the crusty surface and scurry toward the water. Instinctively, the babies chased the light of the moon and the stars that bounced on the sea in front of them.
Occasionally, Lupé would dive at rodents and raccoons who dug up the eggs, or he would chase gull and frigates who tried to pick the young off the beach. Cheekar appreciated Lupé’s help, so he told the petrel how turtles spent their mysterious youth. They called it “the hidden years.”
Cheekar said, “Those who live long enough to hatch, who can make it to the sea, and who can avoid being eaten by the fish that wait for them, attach themselves to clumps of seaweed. They hide among the floating vegetation until they are large enough to fend for themselves.”
So it seemed that Lupé was sharing the seaweed with a group of tiny turtles who were waiting to grow. The petrel laughed. He liked turtles and welcomed their company. He lowered his beak and gently nudged one of the adventurous youngsters off his foot.
Just as the black speck waddled away, the entire clump of seaweed rose and shook. Pieces tore and fell from the edges. Lupé’s initial reaction was to think storm, but as he looked up at the sky and then scanned the ocean, he could see that all was calm, all except the seaweed he was perched on.
The clump rose again. A hard fin broke through the green and swatted Lupé across its surface. The petrel was terrified. Once again, he was being attacked, and he could not fly. There was no place to hide, no place to protect himself, so Lupé stood motionless on the seaweed and waited for the next strike.
He had seen something like this before. Occasionally, a bird floating on the sea would lose a leg or would actually be swallowed by a passing shark or other fish, but Lupé thought the thick patch of seaweed would hide him from those below. If it was a shark that had spotted him, Lupé knew his chances of survival were slim.
Something burst through the seaweed directly under the bird. Its jaws were stretched wide, and the petrel was caught in between them. Lupé popped into the air. Although he had thrust his body from danger, his legs still dangled beneath. Lupé imagined the pain that would ensue after this shark swallowed one or both of his legs. Would he become a meal, or would he bleed to death stranded on the clump of seaweed? Both these terrible thoughts flew through the petrel’s tiny head as he tried to tuck his legs tight against his body.
Then it happened. The jaws slammed shut on one of the bird’s legs, and the shark disappeared below. Lupé closed his eyes and waited for the pain. It did not come. It’s probably such a clean cut, he thought, that I won’t feel anything for a little while, or until the wound becomes infected. Afraid to look down at what was left of his leg, Lupé searched for the shark or the fish that had done this to him. The creature was gone… for now.
He knew he would have to examine the limb, and he forced himself to look down at the bloody stump. As he lowered his head, he closed his eyes. Slowly, reluctantly opening them, the first thing he saw was his foot… and it was attached to his leg… and his leg was still attached to his body. The petrel bent the limb… no pain. He hopped on it… still no pain. He examined the other leg. It was fine. Lupé was delighted but puzzled. He had glimpsed the jaws closing on him. There was no way the shark could have missed.
All of a sudden, the pain that Lupé had expected arrived. Well, it wasn’t exactly pain. It was more like a severe… pinch. Something pinched at the petrel’s leg. Then he saw it, just above his ankle. It sparkled in the sunlight, as if P
ettr was winking at him. It was the silver band the man-flock had attached to Lupé’s leg.
When the shark had tried to remove the bird’s feathery supports, he had bitten the hard silver band. Now, slightly bent and twisted, it pinched at the petrel’s leg. Lupé leaned over, grabbed it with his beak, and rotated it slightly, and the annoying pinch went away. The petrel sat down on the seaweed, let out a caw of relief, and prepared to thank Pettr for his good fortune… but the thanks were premature.
A bulging swell in the water ran against the current. It was headed directly at the clump of seaweed and Lupé. The petrel was too frightened to move. There was nowhere to go. Then out of the ocean rose an enormous green turtle, and it didn’t look happy to see Lupé.
The female turtle faced the bird and said, “Now I will do to you what you’ve done to my young.”
Terrified and confused, Lupé shot back, “I haven’t done anything to your young.”
“Do not lie,” the turtle hissed. “It will not save you. I’ve seen.”
“Well, what have you seen?”
“I saw you attack one of my babies.” The turtle came closer. “I saw you reach down and attack the one at your feet.”
“I did not attack that one or any other!” Lupé screeched. Then he had an idea. “Count your young if you don’t believe me.”
“And allow you to escape?” the mother questioned.
“There is nowhere I can go.”
“You cannot fly?”
“Would I be here if I could?”
The angry turtle studied Lupé, weighing the petrel’s words. She finally nodded her glistening, light-brown head and said, “Then I will count my young. Pray that they all are here.”
Even though Lupé’s life and the life of his entire flock rested on how well this turtle could count, Lupé couldn’t help but be amazed at how many young were hidden among the seaweed. A petrel laying anything but a single egg is generally unheard of, but Lupé saw so many baby turtles, he guessed that the mother must have laid well over a hundred eggs to have so many young still alive. Now he realized that all those turtles he saw with Cheekar must have come from a single nest. The petrel was impressed.
He waited as the counting continued… what else could he do?
“Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…” The big green turtle seemed to know each one by name as she extended a motherly caress to every youngster. And still they emerged from folds in the weed. “Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…”
Lupé waited.
“Forty-seven, forty-eight.”
It was over. Lupé felt much better. He had proved his point. Sanity had defeated rage. Now she would know the petrel was no threat to the young turtles.
The mother turned to Lupé and announced, “One seems to be missing.”
Lupé’s heart stopped. He cried, “No, you must be mistaken. There are so many!”
“I know them all. One is missing. It is Gilgongo, the first to have reached the sea.” The turtle paused. Lupé thought he detected a small grin as she said, “Oh, I believe I know where he might be.”
“Wonderful,” Lupé said, relieved that the mother might find Gilgongo and forget about hurting him.
“Yes,” she said, “I think I know precisely where my baby is. I suspect that he’s dead and in your belly.” The enormous brown head fully extended from its shell. As she pushed herself up on her front fins, her shadow covered the helpless gray petrel.
Very calmly, Lupé reiterated, “I did not harm any of your young.”
The fierce turtle snapped back, “I will tear your belly open and find out for myself.”
The turtle slid closer.
Lupé heard the slow shlup-shlup of large, wet fins slapping the seaweed. But he would not make it easy for her. The petrel did the only thing he could think of, no matter how useless it might prove. He puffed his feathers, lowered his head, and fixed his gaze on the turtle’s dark eyes. They were the only vulnerable part of this living rock. If he could attack the eyes, he might be able to protect himself. Unfortunately, directly in front of those eyes were the jaws. Lupé would try to avoid one and strike the other.
The petrel hissed. He had heard a goose do it once and thought it sounded very threatening, but the turtle continued toward him, and the shadow grew darker. She raised her head and opened her powerful jaws. Lupé felt that even though a quick flap or two would hurt, it might help him move suddenly. He spread his wings wide. The moment he extended them from his flanks, a tiny dark speck fell in front of him and waddled up to the approaching turtle.
Its protector looked down and said, “… Gilgongo?”
The black speck raised a minute fin, pointed it at Lupé’s wing, and said, “It’s soft in there.”
The large turtle turned to Lupé. Her expression shifted from motherly relief as she spoke to Gilgongo to outrage. “So, you thought you could hide my baby from me and finish him off later?”
Lupé did not like where this was going. He was about to attempt an explanation when the little one piped up. “He didn’t hide me. I hid in him. It really is soft. He has feathers.”
Then the mother turtle allowed herself a broad, apologetic smile. She said, “I’m sorry. It appears you were telling the truth after all. Will you forgive me?”
Lupé let out a long breath, folded his wings, and said, as if he could say anything else, “Of course… no harm done. I know you were just trying to protect your own. And I also know that there are many birds that prey on your young. But birdsonally, I have never done so.”
“Well, that’s very nice to hear,” the turtle politely responded. “I only wish more birds could say the same.”
“Any from my flock could. We were taught to believe that the birds and the turtles are cousins. To the Gwattas, ‘turtle’ means ‘the bird that flies beneath the sea.’”
The reptile added, “And you must be the turtles that swim above the sea?”
Lupé smiled. His brown friend seemed to appreciate petrel logic.
“It’s an interesting thought,” the turtle mused, “but really… look at the two of us. We don’t have much in common.”
“Not true,” Lupé countered. Then, taking stock of his indignation, he continued, “With all due respect, we are far more similar than we are different.” He raised the feathers on the back of his neck just as his grandmother used to do during intellectual exchanges. He asked, “What are those things that stick out from under your shell?”
“Only a very stupid bird would not know that these are my fins… Are you such a bird?”
Reluctantly, Lupé nodded his head and said, “I confess to being such a bird, because to me, they look like wings.”
The turtle grinned.
“And what is that on your face?” Lupé asked.
“It would take an even stupider bird not to know that this is my mouth… Are you such a bird?”
Again Lupé nodded his head. He said, “It seems you are in the presence of such a bird, because to me, it looks like a beak.”
This time, a little laugh escaped the turtle. It started deep within her shell, bubbled up, and popped out through her fluttering nostrils.
“And how do you bear your offspring?” Lupé had no intention of letting up with anything less than complete acknowledgement from his wet friend.
“Yeees,” the mother turtle conceded. “I dig a nest. I lay my eggs. And I return to the ocean and wait for them to hatch.”
“Now you get it,” Lupé said. “Eggs, nest, beak, wings… We are cousins. I can no more harm your young than I can harm my own.”
The turtle and the petrel became instant friends. Once again, Pettr had provided. The mother turtle told Lupé her name was Pingolo, but her friends called her Ping. She seemed very pleasant now that her young were safe, and she spent the rest of the day patiently listening to Lupé tell the story of his flock, capture, escape, and now his search.
When he was through, Ping said, “Lupé, you will stay here with my children. I will bring
food, and I will drag this seaweed toward the warm water until you are ready to fly. As I protect my own, so shall I protect you.”
Lupé had no doubt that Pingolo could provide for and protect him quite adequately. He felt very secure. And since he really had no choice anyway, he accepted the turtle’s offer and thanked her for her kindness.
During their conversation, Lupé asked Ping if it was typical for a mother turtle to pay so much attention to her young. Throughout the talk, Ping smiled. It was, perhaps, what Lupé liked best about her. She was naturally happy. If you asked Ping whether an open clam was half empty or half full, she would always see it as half full. She was one of those creatures that tried to enjoy everything life presented to her, but on the other wing, her feelings ran as deep as the ocean she and Lupé floated on.
When the petrel praised the extraordinary care she gave to her young, a faint hollowness replaced her happy glow. The painful grin forced across her tan face was betrayed by the turtle’s empty, wet eyes.
Ping said, “This is not the kind of care my mother gave me… or the kind of care her mother gave to her. Until now, it was never necessary.”
“What do you mean?” Lupé asked. “You have so many young, and they’re so healthy… I’m sure most of them would do fine even if you didn’t worry about them so much. I only wish I was as fortunate as you.”
“I also wish you had many young to care for, but things are not always as wonderful as they appear.” This time, it was Ping’s turn to enlighten.
“I may not be as desperate as you,” she continued, “but we are swimming in the same ocean. There are not as many turtles as there once were, and every day, there are fewer.”
