by John Morano
“Ping,” Lupé said, “what were you doing before, when we were in the sea together?”
“Swimming,” she said.
“No, it was different. It was more than that… What were you doing?”
Ping’s expression remained intact, but she stopped circling the seaweed. Lupé noticed a glow, a glimmer in her eyes. He heard the turtle mutter under her breath, “It worked.”
Without the petrel having to ask again, Ping explained that her display was a dance, a sacred dance turtles performed for special friends. Ping said she had never heard of the dance being done for one who was not a turtle, but since Lupé had become so dear to her, and since he had pointed out how closely related turtles and birds are, Ping thought she’d see what effect the display might have on him. She explained that her performance was intended to mesmerize the observer, to help the witness come closer to the spirit of the planet, the part of the soul that lived in everything, the spark of life.
Lupé was astonished. He told Ping about his experience.
“It is fitting,” she said.
The petrel remembered the warm ray of sun, Pettr’s eye looking deep into the sea, searching for Lupé and Ping. He recalled that even though he was well underwater, when he looked up the beam, he could see directly into the clear sky. There was no distortion at all. It was as though the sea did not flow through the light.
Then he remembered the word Sun. Lupé knew immediately that it was the next step in the mantra of the birds of pray. Pakeet, his savn grandmother, had provided the first clue, Sea. Now Pettr had seen fit to add the next word himself. Lupé wondered if this meant that he was getting closer, or maybe falling behind.
He was lost in thought. He completely forgot about Ping. But the turtle didn’t mind. On the contrary, she hoped something like this might happen.
The introspective bird was flooded with ideas. He was happy, because this showed that Pettr was still watching over him. And since Pettr had provided the next word in his mantra, Lupé believed his Lord was pleased with him. What had happened to him under the water could only be interpreted as encouragement from above. But Lupé believed there was something more to the message. It was a signal, a warning perhaps. Pettr was telling him to move on, to find the Islands of Life, and get on with it.
The petrel told the turtle his analysis of the events. Ping was excited that the display had exceeded her expectations, but at the same time, she was saddened by the thought of losing her new friend.
It was time for Lupé to fly. He told Ping that once he hit the warm water, he would cross the thin stretch of land that separated the Smaller Ocean from the Ocean of Peace. Then he hoped Pettr, or the wind, or something would lead him to the islands. Ping had never heard of the islands before. She was sure they were not in the Smaller Ocean, but the petrel already knew as much.
Lupé thanked Ping for all her help. He rubbed his beak against her neck and called her by her full name, Pingolo. The two wished each other luck. Neither was especially skilled at farewells. They took one long last look to feed the memory and warm the soul. Then Lupé popped into the air. Once again, he was on the wing.
The golden-green seaweed grew smaller and smaller as Lupé climbed higher into the sky. But while the meandering patch was still in sight, he heard Ping and a chorus of small turtles, led by Gilgongo’s distinctive squeak, wishing him well.
Carried by the wind and the turtle’s melody, Lupé began the next part of his journey. He thought about how lucky he was, and he sent his thanks to Pettr.
Part Three: Bird Meets Girl
Long after the melody of the turtles echoed in his mind, Lupé came to a relatively thin stretch of land commonly referred to as the Neck. Sea birds called it that based on a legend that was as old as the first flock.
The legend claimed that the man-flock would one day become more powerful than the planet itself. There would be so many of them doing the same things that the man-flock would, in effect, become a single massive creature. The beast’s head would lie in the enormous land mass above the warm water. Below would be the body, the southern landmass where the man-flock would strip the Earth to feed itself and its head to the north. The neck, which is where Lupé now flew, was the thin length of land that connected the head and the body.
Lupé crossed quickly. The anxious bird felt strong, rested. His wings worked well as he slid through the sky with ease. He wondered why he suddenly felt so good. Then he realized his body sensed how close he was to Peace. Lupé had finally returned to the sea of his birth. It greeted him with sunshine, clear water, and a soft breeze. The happy petrel dove beak-first into the friendly sea.
The instant Lupé surfaced, salt water still rolling off his feathers, he heard, “You’re doing it all wrong.”
The petrel saw the shadow of a very large bird circling him. Then he heard again, “Young bird, I say, you’re doing it all wrong.”
The uninvited guest, a weather-worn albatross, selected a spot on the sea and splashed down next to Lupé. The mature male was white with gray splashes. He bore an impressive yellow beak and incredibly long, thin wings. When it came to sheer distance, there was not another bird on the sea that could rival the albatross. Lupé knew of some that went years without ever touching actual soil. The creature that sat across from him was definitely a bird of the sea.
“My word, you’re doing it all wrong,” the albatross insisted a third time, and then he added, “Horrifying technique.”
“Eggsactly what am I doing wrong?” Lupé questioned.
“Why, fishing—plunge diving, specifically. Lesson number one: It’s not wise to fish unless there happen to be fish present.”
“I’m not fishing,” Lupé explained.
“Oh, of course you are. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, young hen.”
“I’m not a young hen.”
“Oh, do forgive me,” the albatross apologized. “I’m quite sorry, indeed. I had absolutely no idea. You could knock me over with a feather. It’s just that compared to me, you do seem rather young, actually quite youthful, I must say. You do carry your age exceedingly well. And what a fine figure of a mature female you are, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Lupé minded. He did not know what bothered him more, having his gender mistaken, or the suggestive look in the lonely albatross’s eyes. The petrel was forced to point out something he’d thought he’d never have to. He said, “I am a male.”
Contrite but tickled nonetheless, the albatross replied, “Indeeeed… Oh, I am exceedingly sorry for my lack of perception. I should have recognized your splendid maleness immediately. It’s just that my eyes have been getting a little too much sea sun lately.”
The last few words passed Lupé without notice, since he was extremely eager to explain the other bird’s oversight. The petrel graciously said, “It’s quite all right. I am not a very common bird, although others tend to mistake only my flock.”
“Well, I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I am ever so slightly—just a touch, mind you—nearsighted. Now that I can observe you closer, it’s quite obvious that you’re an exceptional example of your gender… a fine example, indeed.”
“Thank you very much.” Lupé was reassured and pleased that the other bird had misidentified his sex based solely on an admitted visual defect. However, his concern resurfaced when he noticed that the longing, lonely look in the albatross’s eyes had not completely disappeared.
Desperate to change the subject, Lupé continued, “What were you saying before about my doing it all wrong?”
“Why, fishing. Please forgive the presumption, but if I may…” And without pausing for Lupé’s consent, the albatross pressed on, “The most basic fundamental of fishing is that there be fish in the water. And this location is obviously barren at the moment. Now, if you’re looking for a meal and you’d rather not wait for the proper tide, I would be happy to—”
“Thank you,” Lupé interrupted, “but I really wasn’t fishing.”
&nbs
p; “No need to make things up, chickie. Don’t be embarrassed. Of course you were fishing.”
“No, I really wasn’t.”
“Then, pray tell, why were you diving in and out of the water? I suppose you were doing it for fun?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I was doing.” Lupé went on to explain that he had been away from the Ocean of Peace a long time and was merely celebrating his return. He told the albatross that he was searching for the Islands of Life and asked the well-traveled bird if he knew anything about them.
The nautical wayfarer took a deep breath and said, “Well, I’ve been at sea long enough to have seen every corner of the ocean twice, and I can tell you without fear of contradiction that these islands you seek…” He took a second prolonged breath, nodded several times, and resumed, “These islands, yes… might just be out there, somewhere.”
It was at this point that Lupé knew there was no such thing as a simple answer from the albatross. So he said goodbye to the bird and prepared to continue his search. When he was just about to fly off, he heard the bird say, “Search wherever you like, sweetwings. It is a big ocean, but you might want to start with Galahope.”
Lupé’s first reaction was to fly on, but something kept him where he was. He asked, “Where and what is… Galahope?”
“Oh, so now you’re interested? No longer in a rush?” The albatross floated on the sea preening at his feathers. Eventually, he cleared his throat, swallowed deeply, and said, “It happens to be a group of small islands—an archipelago, if you will—more than a dozen islands clustered below the warm water.”
“Where below the warm water? And why do you think I should go there?”
“On second thought, I’m not so sure you should. You appear to be independent. You’re obviously your own bird. And I get the impression you’re somewhat solitary, a loner like myself. So you might not be interested after all.”
Lupé screeched, “I’m interested! I’m interested!”
“Well, no need to raise one’s voice. The only reason I mentioned it at all is that on one of these islands, a larger one, I saw an entire colony of birds—petrels, in fact—exactly like yourself. It is the only place I’ve ever seen your kind… but you would probably prefer to be on your own, wouldn’t you?”
“Eggsactly where is Galahope?” Lupé pressed, ignoring the tone and taunts from the large bird.
“Let’s see, from where we float now…”
The petrel waited anxiously.
“… from this spot, I would estimate… It’s been quite some time for me… but I would surmise… oh, a few days’ flight south by southwest from where we float, and a fair distance off the big western shore of the Body. Maybe another two days’ flight into the setting sun—depending on the wind, of course.”
Lupé looked in the direction the albatross suggested. It looked like an easy flight for a petrel, and he could probably get there in less time than it took to get the directions, he thought. He was ready to go.
He turned back to thank the loquacious explorer who floated next to him… but the albatross was gone. There were no ripples, feathers, or any other markings where the visitor had sat on the sea. Lupé looked up. The sky was empty… Then he spotted him high above the clouds. Carried by bold strokes, the albatross headed toward the sun. It was much too far for him to have gone in the short time Lupé had looked away. Although albatrosses could fly great distances, they were not quick. Then the feathered speck disappeared into the light.
While Lupé flew on toward Galahope, he thought about the albatross. He wondered what the bird’s name was, and whether he actually entered the sun or was merely shrouded by its glare. Lupé also thought about what he might find on the islands. Would there actually be a flock of his kind?
Because he was so heavy in thought and so full of hope, the time passed quickly. He pumped his wings with renewed vigor. Reaching the Ocean of Peace was one thing, but now that he was flying to what might be his flock, Lupé sliced through the sky with no trouble at all. He flew on through the night, the day, the night, the day, the night, concentrating carefully on what lay below.
As first light began to fade the night, Lupé saw something he liked. The water underneath him had become surf. It was breaking against land. He could see a ring of what looked like tiny snow-capped mountains, rolling and disappearing, erupting in white where the green sea slapped gray rock. He had come to a group of islands.
Lupé circled the great mounds of dried lava that had flowed from active volcanoes, which were now dormant craters. It was still dark, but as dawn wore on, he would be able to see more. Soon, he would be able to begin his exploration. But he was in unfamiliar surroundings. He understood the importance of caution. He remembered how he was rewarded by the man-flock when he dove blindly into a crevice to answer a female’s call, so he flew carefully, waiting for light to fill the sky.
Gazing at the islands below him, Lupé was reminded of the vision he had had in the silver web. Were these the islands Pettr had shown him? Lupé tried to recall the details of the dream. He hated to do it, but he tried to put himself back inside the web. He listened to the sounds of the wind and the surf, felt the dawn, and chanted, “Sea, Sun… Sea, Sun… Sea, Sun…” Lupé hoped that the words would carry his questions to Pettr as he concentrated on the islands below. But the petrel could not recreate the vision in the web, and Pettr did not respond to his prayer. Lupé knew he would have to find his answer another way.
The petrel shifted his attention to the foaming surf that surrounded the islands. He heard the cutting fizz and could feel the crisp spray of the chilly water. Although it was a warm locale, cold currents flowed here, bringing food and life. Maybe these are the islands, he thought.
Soon, Lupé was soaring through the low clouds that were so wet, the petrel could almost drink the wind. He descended onto the rim of a massive crater and perched so that he overlooked the shore. The sun rose and warmed his plumage. Wind shook the scrubby trees that grew inland. The petrel turned away from the sea and looked into the brush. Then he glanced down at the earth that spawned the vegetation and asked himself, “Could this be home?”
A dusty spray of dirt and sand flew up from the stone where he stood and into the petrel’s eyes. He shook his head, ruffled his feathers, and flapped his wings just as he always did when sprayed with dirt. The grains that fell from his feathers captured his attention. He brushed them with his foot, and the wind blew them back. Lupé turned so that the wind was behind him and brushed again. The soil returned and continued to blow in no matter how Lupé positioned himself until two small piles covered the petrel’s webbed feet. Although it was not the way wind behaved normally, Lupé was not afraid.
The mounds of dirt that held him to the stone warmed and welcomed him. The wind was telling him something. When Lupé stepped from the tender grasp of the grains piled on his feet, he knew that the third word to his savn mantra was Soil… Sea, Sun, Soil. Pettr did not have to tell him. The wind and the island delivered the message. Galahope and the Islands of Life were one and the same. Sea, Sun, Soil… this was the soil. He stood on the aged lava and studied the terrain of his new home.
Looking out at the sun rising over a stand of dwarf trees, Lupé noticed a group of birds in flight. Judging from their shape and their erratic flapping, he knew they could only be one type of bird—petrels!
Lupé studied them as they flew closer. What type of petrels were they? A female passed, followed by one, two, three, four, five, six excited youngsters. And all of them looked like Lupé! The petrel was overjoyed. He watched them flying together. It was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. He had always hoped to find a female, but never did he dream there would be a flock. The words of the albatross came back to him, “… an entire colony, exactly like yourself.”
It was magnificent. Things Lupé didn’t dare imagine were coming true. But by the time he realized he should fly over and introduce himself, the other petrels were gone. Lupé was so cau
ght up in the joy of the moment, the gaggle had flown by and continued on their way. Since he had found them once, he decided it wouldn’t be difficult to find them again. Galahope wasn’t that big.
A melody from Lupé’s distant past rose from somewhere on the island—cackles, screeches, tooting, squawking, bird-like barking, wings flapping, guttural chuckling—thousands of birds united in a bizarre harmony, many flocks living together. The island was rich with activity, yet blended in with the wonderful cacophony of bird life were those unique sounds Lupé had heard as a hatchling, the sounds of his flock. It had to be the colony the albatross spoke of. Lupé tried to isolate the din of the gathering. He followed the distinctive jabber as though it were a current in the air. It carried him.
The petrel glided past the shore, above the dense thorn-brush thicket, and over a second weathered volcanic ridge. From the distance, he saw them. The sky was thick with sea birds, many of them petrels. Sunlight flickered through flocks of flapping wings and darting bodies.
Below, the aerial bustling petrel pairs nested in burrows spread out among stunted pines, oaks, and cacti. These had to be the Islands of Life. Lupé’s vision was finally realized. He saw before him a happy, healthy flock of petrels just like him. Several downy chicks hopped and tripped around their holes. There could never be a sight more beautiful than this, he thought, unless of course—dare he even think it—there would one day be chicks of his own.
Lupé landed on the branch of a tall, leafless shrub. He was not quite sure what to do next. Looking down into the burrows, he glimpsed the speckled splendor of new life, petrel eggs yet unhatched. And then it struck him, covering Lupé like a wave that rose from the sea and swallowed him. He looked closer, and he knew it was true. What he saw before him were certainly petrels, but they were not his flock.
No doubt they were incredibly similar, but they were not Gwattas. He recalled the nearsighted albatross and smiled sadly to himself. Yes, a little too much sea sun for the old bird, he thought. Even Lupé, who was not at all nearsighted, had made the same mistake. Blinded by desperation, he had allowed himself to be overcome by hope.
