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

by John Morano

  The longer Lupé looked, the more obvious the differences became. These petrels did not have white wing bars or a pale belly like Lupé. They carried a little more white on their foreheads and cheeks, but the rest of their plumage was even darker than Lupé’s. And where all in his flock had split tails, these petrels had rounded rumps. All in all, they were remarkably like Lupé—indeed, the closest he’d ever seen to himself—but the inescapable truth was that they were not his flock. They were not Gwattas.

  Just as Lupé came to grips with the unpleasant reality of the situation, he sensed danger. Off to one side in the dry brushwoods, something watched him. Lupé studied the thicket. A petrel hopped out and stared at him. Then another popped out. Two more landed on either side of him. Without expression, they watched Lupé. Outnumbered and unsure, Lupé became alarmed. For some reason, his cousins did not seem happy to see him.

  One of the larger petrels landed directly in front of Lupé. He had the confidence of a leader. The bird, who silently studied Lupé, had a chipped, crooked beak. Bristly quills rose on his head and covered his back. His plumage looked pointy and painful to touch, not smooth at all. The bird’s feathers reminded Lupé of the dry needles that grew on the island’s cactus.

  Looking at the group that now surrounded him, Lupé thought, Bird, am I in trouble.

  One of those that flanked him spoke up. “Who are you?”

  Lupé turned to him.

  “What flock are you from? And why were you watching us?”

  Lupé flashed a friendly grin with hopes that it would bring one back as he replied, “There’s no need to worry about me. I am a Gwatta petrel, and my flock has all but passed on. I’m no danger to you. I’m not even sure where I am right now.”

  “I do not believe you,” one from the brushwood said.

  “Quiet, Wohat,” the large bird in front ordered. “Let the visitor speak.”

  Lupé took his cue. “Really, I mean you no harm. Actually, I’m very happy to meet petrels so much like myself. I was hoping I might be able to stay with your flock while I decide where to go next.”

  The leader looked at Lupé, paused, and said, “Decide now and be on your way.”

  One of the others, who stood on some trembling, loose rocks, suggested, “Maybe we should speak with Tapao? He might find this petrel interesting.”

  Wohat, the one from the brushwood, flew by and cuffed the petrel who spoke. “Bog will decide what should be done.”

  Bog was the leader perched in front of Lupé. He was pleased that the visitor saw who controlled punishment here. He said, “You may be interested in us, but we are not interested in you. And that’s really what matters here.”

  If there was one thing Lupé hated, almost as much as a rodent, it was an unfriendly creature. Unpleasantness is unnecessary, Lupé thought. This is a rude bird. The lone petrel was getting a little angry, a little foolish. He looked at the others who were waiting for their leader’s instructions. Then, in a very loud whisper, Lupé told Bog, “One who needs others to enforce his will is usually not worth listening to. I am also not interested in you, but I am curious about this island, so I think I’ll stay.”

  Hate lined Bog’s eyes. It was a cold, breathless moment.

  Bog wiped his beak with the underside of his wing and shook the mandible as a warning. A challenge was being issued, and lines were being drawn. The leader said, “Stay on this island if you like, but stay away from my flock. You do not belong. Do not test me on this, outsider.”

  Lupé considered the situation. Bird to bird, he would enjoy accepting Bog’s challenge, but to do so now would be ill advised. He had learned long ago never to fight a bird at its own nest. And this was definitely Bog’s nest. Also, Lupé understood that he had much more to lose. It would not be wise to wager a race against a life. This was, however, a challenge that would not be forgotten.

  He hated to do it, but Lupé relaxed his feathers and lowered his head in a submissive posture. Bog’s chest swelled while death remained in his eyes. Lupé caught those eyes in his own, and with bowed beak sent Bog a silent message that he hoped was understood, “I, too, am not to be pushed.”

  It was time to find a nesting site. Given his recent reception, Lupé knew he’d have to choose carefully. He’d have to find a location that would keep him away from his inhospitable cousins. Even though he was depressed that the petrels were not from his flock, Lupé was encouraged by the fact that there were so many so similar to himself. If he was able to locate these birds, maybe another petrel from his flock might do the same.

  Lupé wondered whether Pettr was sending a female to the islands at this very moment. Also, Lupé could not ignore the fact that the third word of the mantra had come to him when he touched down. The more he thought about it, the more determined he was to stay.

  The petrel hoped the entire flock would not be as hostile as those he had just met. So he decided to select a site that was outside the colony but still close enough that he might make some friends and get some information. Actually, he really wasn’t the type of bird to live in a large colony anyway. He knew that the strength of many wings often created the problems of many nests. He would do as he had always done, go it alone.

  Not far from the ragged jagged shoreline, Lupé found a spot that pleased him. Sitting on loose stones, sheltered by a broad green branch, Lupé could hear the steady thrump-fizz, thrump-fizz of the ocean striking the shore. He listened to the song of the surf. The heartbeat of the planet pulsed soothingly on. This was where he’d stay, just beyond the outskirts of the colony. He was close enough to be aware, yet distant enough to be undisturbed.

  Shaded by a little tree, Lupé considered his next decision: nest or burrow? Since the low branches and scattered rocks already buried him somewhat and since he was hatched in a nest, the choice, although not in keeping with most petrels, was an easy one. So Lupé strolled the area surrounding his new home collecting leaves, twigs, seaweed, shells, stones, and feathers. The petrel used them all to create a hopeful little nest for himself—sturdy, soft, and a snug fit for two feathered rumps.

  Almost done, Lupé needed one more twig to weave into the side of his structure. He scoured the ground for the perfect piece. And then he found it, draped over a bare rock just above his head. Not at all brown or brittle, this twig was green and supple. It would be very easy to work into the nest, where it would dry out and harden in place. Lupé stretched his neck, opened his beak, and snapped the twig from the stone.

  As he carried it back to his nest, the twig began to twitch and move in his beak. This feels softer than wood, even green wood, he thought.

  Lupé dropped the twitching twig in front of him and slowly walked back to the boulder to see if some strange moving plant grew there. He came to the rock but saw nothing. He flapped his wings in an effort to get a better view. When his head cleared the large stone, the petrel was shocked to see a marine iguana draped across the rock sunning himself. The lizard who stared back at Lupé just happened to be missing the tip of its rather long tail. It was the lumpiest, bumpiest creature Lupé had ever seen.

  The reptile cocked his head and said one word. “Yo.”

  Still conscious of the last reception he received, Lupé carefully replied, “Hello.” After what felt like a migration, the petrel peeped, “You seem to be missing a bit of your tail.”

  The lizard politely nodded his head, paused, and calmly quipped, “Yub, ya jusdt dore id from my rear ent.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Lupé said. “I was building a nest, and—”

  “I know,” the reptile interrupted. “My dail loogket ligka dwig. Id’s habbent before. Id’ll grow bagck. Den I’ll tagke anudda nab, ant some birt’ll rib id off again. Fuhgeddaboudit, dad’s jusdt da way id is.”

  “I’m really sorry. I had no idea. Do you want me to get your tail for you?”

  “Nah, don’d feel bat. Da pain is only incredubly eggscruciatint’ for dat instand ya bide my flesh and den rib my dail from da mosd sensudive
pard’a my botty. Oddawise, id’s no big deal. By da way, my name’s Stithl.”

  Since there was something sourly humorous about Stithl and since it seemed they were living in the same general area, the petrel decided to perch himself and shoot the breeze with the lizard. As they spoke, the irony did not escape Lupé that on Galahope, those who were so similar to himself saw only differences, and yet one so different as the iguana could be so accepting.

  Lupé observed delicately, “You have a somewhat unique accent, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Ya dingk?” the lizard said, puzzled by the statement.

  “It’s interesting, amusing to hear.”

  “I amuse you? You dingk I’m funny?” Stithl seemed to be getting annoyed, approaching anger.

  Lupé consoled him, “No, no, not ‘funny.’ Not ha, ha. Not at all. I mean interesting. Your expression is unique.”

  Stithl smiled proudly. “Dad’s righd, I’m compledly uniq.”

  After they ended their chat, Lupé flew down to the shoreline. The water was so clear, it was difficult to tell where the ocean began and where the sky ended. It was such a beautiful setting and Lupé had so much on his mind, he decided to pray.

  The petrel relaxed, stood near the surf, and turned his body to face the wind. He ran the three words over in his mind: Sea, Sun, Soil… Sea, Sun, Soil. Then he tucked one leg against his body, balanced on the other, and swayed in the breeze. It was a strange sensation. On the one wing, he felt like he was gliding, but on the other, he was still firmly planted on the Earth.

  A shadow passed across the inside of Lupé’s eyelids, breaking his concentration. He continued to pray but opened one eye. He saw a solitary petrel from the colony walking along the shore picking at seaweed. The bird did not appear to be one of those with Bog, so Lupé closed his eye and went back to what he was doing. Soon, he opened the eye again and took a second look. The bird resembled the female he had seen when he first arrived at Galahope, the one flying out to sea with the young.

  She was alone now. She went to a rock, popped up on top of it, and turned into the wind. It looked to Lupé like she, too, had come to pray, although she was not nearly as formal about her meditation as he was. This bugged him a bit. The next thing Lupé knew, he was shouting at her to lift one of her legs.

  Lupé called, “You’ll get much better results if you lift—” As he stepped toward her, Lupé forgot that his own leg was still tucked away, and he fell flat on his beak. When he tried to push his leg out so that he could stand up, the appendage spasmed and cramped, which caused Lupé to roll toward the surf. His leg finally relaxed, but when Lupé stood and shook the sand from his feathers, a small wave crashed over him and dragged the drenched petrel across loose stones out to sea.

  Choking and wet, Lupé realized, “I must look like a real squid.” But the worst of it was, Lupé thought he heard the female giggling as she flew away. As embarrassed as he felt, Lupé couldn’t help but admire her flight. She flew very nicely. Since she didn’t seem at all surprised by his difference, Lupé wondered if perhaps she’d seen a Gwatta petrel before. He decided that the next time he saw this bird, he would speak to her. Then Lupé remembered what an auspicious first impression he must have made and thought, With my luck, she’s probably Bog’s mate.

  For the first time in his life, the petrel realized that even if he did meet a female from his own flock, she might not want him. He had never considered the possibility that he might have to impress her. He had always assumed that they would fall for each other the moment they met. An expression—never directed at him, of course—that he had heard several times as a youngster rang in his ears: “I wouldn’t have you if you were the last bird on Earth.” Since, in a sense, Lupé was the last bird on Earth, this was not an attitude he wanted to encounter.

  Soon after he returned to his nest, Stithl slithered over for a visit. He began with, “Yo.” Then he asked, “Whud wus dad before?”

  “What was what?”

  “Dad disblay ad da shoreline.”

  “Oh, you saw that?”

  “All of id.” Stithl smiled. “Every bid, from when ya began ta pray ta when ya call’t ta da female ta when ya fell on ya beagk ta when ya god wash’t oud, ta—”

  “Okay,” Lupé interrupted. “I know what happened. I was there. No need to relive it.”

  There was silence. Lupé welcomed it.

  Stithl, however, cocked his head and asked, “D’ya mindt if I magke a liddle obsavashun?”

  Lupé definitely minded, and he hoped the tailless iguana would get the hint when he said, “You’ve already observed plenty.”

  Stithl did get the hint… and ignored it. The lizard’s bumpy head bobbed rhythmically as he said, “Lubé, ya nod smoot.”

  “What do you mean, I’m not ‘smoot’?” the defensive petrel challenged.

  “We doan really know each odda very well, so I’m dryin’ ta be tagtful, bud how can ya possibly imbress a female by loogkin’ ligka complede squit?”

  Lupé caught himself saying, “I knew I looked like a…” Then he gathered his composure and said, “I was not trying to ‘impress’ anyone. I just noticed that… that ‘bird’ was praying with poor technique.”

  “She wasn’d da only one wid poor tegchneegque… jussd sayin’. Loogk, Lubé, dis is me, Stithl, ya talgkin’ ta. I’ve seen id all. I know whud’s goin’ on. Id don’ madda whedda ya a rebdile or a birt. Neets is neets. So doan give me any’a dis praya tegchneegque stuff.”

  Lupé was getting mad. “What are you suggesting? Listen here, you lumpy lizard. Don’t tell me what’s going on in my mind. I know what happened down there.”

  “Yeah, so da I. Ya fell on ya beagk, god hid by a wave, an’ god dragg’t agross rogks oud ta sea. Ligke I sait, smoot.”

  Lupé was never so tempted to just blast another creature with hot oil. He could feel the liquid welling up behind his beak, just itching to spray the smug iguana, to cover his dark green face with sticky orange, but the petrel refrained.

  Stithl, however, had no idea what was flying through Lupé’s mind and had no intention of refraining. “Lubé,” he said with a slight grin, “ya know, I wuz wondrin’, if ya sugch a rare pedrel, is id safe ta say ya neva been wid a female before? Don’d dagke id da wrong way. I’m jussd asgkin’.”

  This was not a topic Lupé wanted to discuss with anyone, especially Stithl. He decided he wouldn’t say anything until the lizard could find a topic worth discussing.

  All Stithl said was, “Yeah, dad’s whud I wuz afrait’a. Well, I’m here if ya eva neet’a lizart ta gcry on.”

  Lupé thought, Why couldn’t I have ripped his tongue out instead of his tail?

  That evening, Lupé was visited by Tapao, the leader of the petrel colony. Tapao came alone. He seemed a little older than Lupé, the kind of bird who could be gentle and strong at the same time. He was also much friendlier than Bog. The leader explained that Bog did not speak for the entire flock, and he was quick to add, “No one bird can speak for all.”

  After they visited a short time, Tapao invited Lupé to live in the colony if he wanted to. Lupé appreciated the offer, but said he would rather stay where he was. Lupé was comfortable and thought the others would be more comfortable with him if he appeared gradually. As he explained his thoughts, Lupé noticed a look of relief relax Tapao’s brow.

  Not sure if he’d even get an answer, the petrel asked, “What is Bog’s role with the flock? Is he a problem?”

  Tapao replied, “Yes and no. Bog defends the colony and looks out for possible trouble. He and his group are valuable. They can be very tough on our enemies. Unfortunately, they assume that any creature not of our flock is automatically an enemy. They tend to take themselves and their responsibilities a little too seriously and sometimes cause more trouble than they clear up.

  “Bog needs to learn,” Tapao continued, “that a bird who constantly flies into the wind doesn’t usually get anywhere.”

  “Judging from that chipped b
eak of his,” Lupé said, “it seems Bog spends a lot of time proving himself.”

  “Well,” Tapao replied, “having a battle-scarred beak can be a deterrent or an invitation to a challenge. If it’s a deterrent, it can be very useful, but if the beak becomes an invitation, then you don’t know how to carry it.”

  Since it didn’t seem Tapao was in any hurry to leave, Lupé kept talking. He found out that Tapao’s flock was not originally from Galahope. His flock, who referred to themselves as Darums, left the Islands of Black Sand from the northwest when they lost their nesting sites to the man-flock. The Darums were happy on Galahope, probably one reason why they could be so overprotective.

  At first, Lupé thought Tapao was a rather ordinary looking petrel, especially considering he was a leader. Not overly large or aggressive, not very old, not very young, not very striking—Tapao was plain. But as they spoke, Lupé began to see why Tapao was so highly placed. He was honest, and he was wise. Although many take those qualities for granted—often those who don’t possess them—these are two of the best things any creature could hope to be. It was obvious to Lupé that Tapao flew the good flight.

  Lupé noticed Tapao looking at the silver band around his ankle. Every bird knew what such a thing meant. So Lupé asked the leader if it bothered him, knowing that he had been held by the man-flock. The leader shrugged and said, “The man-flock take who they want. It doesn’t tell me anything about you as a bird.”

  That was when Lupé decided to tell Tapao his story. As patient as a pine, the leader listened to the entire tale. When the younger petrel was through, Tapao surprised him.

  “We had a mutual friend,” the Darum said.

  Immediately, Lupé wondered whom they both might have known. Certainly not Zomis. Ping? Jopi maybe. But Lupé was grounded by what Tapao said next.