by John Morano
It looked as though Bog had swallowed Lupé, and his followers thought that’s exactly what happened. They were so excited with the victory they began planning an attack on Stithl. Then Bog started to gag. He could not breathe. The Darum tried to shake Lupé from within him, but the smaller petrel would not let go. He responded by burying his beak deeper inside Bog’s throat. One of them would suffocate before the other.
Occasionally, a petrel slipped past Stithl and went straight for Lupé, cuffing and biting his exposed body. But Lupé was so focused, he did not hear Stithl’s warnings or feel the Darum’s blows. Although Bog lifted the smaller petrel off the ground, it seemed the Gwatta was gaining control.
When he felt Bog finally fall to the ground, limp, Lupé withdrew. Whether Bog was dead or alive did not matter. Lupé had proved his point. But before he could think another thought or take a much-needed breath, several Darums attacked.
Lupé and Stithl battled the birds, but more arrived. There were now too many for Stithl to control himself, although he continued to try. Lupé knew he no longer had the strength to defeat them. There were so many, and he had beaten their leader so severely, he believed that Bog’s followers would surely execute him. Every part of his body was being pecked, pulled, tugged, twisted, and torn.
Still, Lupé fought on. He would not give his life away. It would have to be taken from him. And when it seemed that would be the petrel’s fate, something strange happened. There weren’t so many attackers to fight off. Bog’s companions were being driven away.
Sirka had returned with her group of fishers, who were delighted to see how they could apply their fine flying skills to battle. Many of the youngsters were overjoyed at another realization: they were now as large as Bog’s cohorts. But for a bird to be successful in battle, it needs speed as well as size. Sirka’s group had grown strong and quick fishing at sea, while Bog’s followers had grown heavy and slow foraging for jellyfish and clams.
Yip, Kelp, Sirka, and others beat Lupé’s attackers mercilessly until they retreated from the fight. When Wohat and the last few Darums would not release Lupé, Sirka swooped by and lowered her heels into Wohat’s head, pecking at his face to add emphasis. Immediately, several of the pupils mimicked their instructor as if it was some feeding technique they were supposed to practice on Wohat’s head.
Soon, Lupé was free, and his assailants were gone. Even Bog dragged himself along the shore as he limped off alone… well, not completely alone. Yip and Kelp followed him, pecking, diving, cuffing, and shooting him with blasts of hot oil just to help Bog remember the day a little better.
Sirka escorted Lupé and Stithl back to the nest. The iguana’s tough hide had protected him well. Occasionally, he stopped to cough up loose feathers. Several hung from the corners of his mouth. The lizard never bothered to wipe them off. He wore them with pride.
Lupé had not fared quite as well as his lumpy friend. The petrel could not fly and had trouble walking, although he would admit neither. Instead, he whispered to Sirka, “It would be rude to fly home and leave Stithl to walk alone after what he just did for me.”
Sirka could see Lupé dragging a limp wing through the sand. It left a crease in the sand alongside his footprints as he tried to catch up to the iguana.
In the clouds above the trio, youngsters from the group flew watch. Even with Bog incapacitated, they were taking no chances and waited to see that their friends were not ambushed by those who escaped the battle.
Stithl suddenly sniffed deeply and then vanished over the hill that led to his rocky lair. When Lupé and Sirka heard a long, loud, “Haaahhh!” they were sure the reptile had finally collapsed. But when the pair climbed over the sand expecting to see the worst, they found Stithl with his head buried in an immense clam.
The sticky, smelly brine dripped down his neck while he sucked out the soft meat. Stithl was surrounded by a hundred cracked clams. It appeared Tapao had paid his debt, with a generous bonus. The petrels heard nothing but intense slurping and an occasional, “I love Dabao,” from the hungry lizard.
Sirka did not understand where the clams had come from and what Tapao had to do with them. Leaving Stithl to enjoy his reward, Lupé’s only comment was, “I’ll tell you all about it later.”
Back at the nest, the pair was greeted by Yip, Kelp, and a finch named Wiff. Wiff was a strange bird—large for his kind, but much smaller and faster than any of the petrels. He was a very smart finch who had an unusual preoccupation: he spent almost all his time talking to sick birds, no matter what flock they were from.
Ill birds were usually avoided by anyone outside of the family. Most believed it was up to Pettr to decide who lived and who died. But Wiff actually sought these birds out, studied them, and tried to help them. He would sit up all night and gather strange foods or instruct them to do weird things.
Many of those who followed Wiff’s advice improved quickly. He seemed to know more about healing than any creature on the island. And he seemed to carry Pettr’s blessing. No petrel or hawk, no lizard or seal would ever harm Wiff. They knew how important he could be.
Although Wiff was genuinely upset any time he saw a creature in pain, he never pressured any bird to take his advice. He would offer it, and you could do as you wished. Wiff asked Lupé if it would be all right to examine him. Sirka said it would be welcome.
While Lupé was being poked and prodded—only a touch more gently than he had experienced at the beak of Bog and his cohorts—Yip and Kelp offered some interesting information. They were on Bog’s tail, quite literally, when the defeated Darum returned to the colony.
Tapao was waiting. He approached Bog and said, “Petrels cannot fly with only one wing. Both wings must surrender to the idea; likewise, one must be totally devoted to the flock… totally devoted to flying the good flight… And you are not.”
It was understood that Tapao had not taken part in the earlier fight, and it was also understood that Bog and his gang were lucky he stayed out of it. Tapao was undeniably older, but he was absolutely a warrior. The leader went on to strip Bog of all his rank and responsibility. Since he had never commanded their respect, and since they were no longer afraid of him, Bog also lost most of his influence over the Darums who flew at his side.
“And,” Yip screeched, “Tapao made the totally glide choice of placing two proper petrels—namely, us—in charge of flock security!” The brother and sister were so excited, they burst into the air and flew spirals around each other, trying to work off their emotion.
Watching the display, Sirka said, “Security might become a little lax around here, but we’re gonna have a lot more fun.” In between Lupé’s ouching and ooing, he and Sirka congratulated their former pupils. The pair decided it was time to form a new group with younger birds and start all over. Things were changing.
Time passed. Winds blew, rains fell, tides rose and then crept back into the sea. Whether it happened that first night under the moon or whether it happened some other, there was no escaping it… Sirka was pregnant—so much so that many of the petrels were concerned for her health, not the least of which was Lupé.
They were worried about Sirka, because she had grown so large, it didn’t seem healthy. Wiff was a constant visitor to the nest. The finch confessed to Lupé that he had never seen swelling like Sirka’s before, not in any bird. Even Lupé knew that female petrels always laid a single egg, which accounted for roughly half their body weight. Sirka, however, had expanded well beyond that. She could not fly and even had difficulty walking. It was getting so bad, she reminded Lupé of a cute, clean… Zomis.
Whenever Sirka slept, Lupé dismantled a section of the nest and made it a little larger. He hoped his mate would not notice how big she was getting, but she did. And the closer Sirka came to egg-laying, the larger she got. Lupé worried that the pregnancy might cost his mate her life and that he was to blame.
The idea of losing her terrified him. It was one thing to go through life alone, but how could he cope with losi
ng the one bird he had searched so long to find? Others had been taken from him, but Sirka was different. They were one. Lupé knew the only thing to do was give Sirka the best care he could.
That, however, was easier said than done. There were others also trying to take care of Sirka. Yip and Kelp, Wiff, Stithl, the current group of young fishers, the graduates from past groups, parents, and others all wanted to do what they could for Sirka. Tapao pretended not to be concerned, but more than once, the Darum leader was caught fluffing Sirka’s nest, dropping off food, and asking the youngsters how his niece was doing.
For Lupé, the only peace he got was when he took the youngsters out to sea. There were usually fewer birds in the fishing group than there were hovering around his home attending to Sirka. Never was a bird more pampered or cared for. For both Lupé and Sirka, the attention was heartwarming, but it was also annoying.
As uncomfortable as her pregnancy and all the attention made Sirka feel, she remained in good spirits. Lupé told Stithl that life with her was like flying with a tailwind. She was an effortless companion who only had to be herself to make life wonderful for her mate. Even though Sirka was quick to laugh at her predicament, Lupé could see beneath the good humor. He could tell that Sirka ached at her inability to fly, wondered whether she’d live or die… and worried about losing the life within her.
Lupé did his best to comfort his mate, but it was a difficult task to accomplish with so many others around the nest set on the same purpose. At times, when the Darum nest-flies wouldn’t let Lupé get close to his mate, he would sneak away to pray, to listen to the silence that often gave answers. Sometimes Lupé would meditate on the wing, soaring above the sea. It reminded him of migration, when one was forced to pray while flying. It also reminded him of being alone, with only Sirka beside him. During these solitary moments, Lupé prayed that Sirka and their egg would both be healthy.
Even though it seemed his mate might lay her egg that very afternoon, when several Darums showed up at his nest and the breeze began to tug at his feathers, Lupé seized the opportunity to make a quick flight around the island. Seduced by the wind, Lupé answered its call.
He reflected on Sirka’s eyes as he flew. Dark and wet, they always reassured and comforted Lupé with their warm sparkle. It was as if there was something behind the eyes, a knowledge or confidence that whatever happened, as long as Lupé and Sirka were together, all would be well. Lupé wondered whether his mate saw the same thing in his eyes. Sirka and her inner glow were now part of Lupé’s life, a part he did not want to lose.
Lupé thought of their egg. It was the egg that caused Sirka’s difficulty. Even if all went well, if Sirka survived and the egg hatched, what would they find? Was the chick that caused her to swell diseased… dead? And what if this birth ended Sirka’s ability to conceive others? These were frightening thoughts. The wind whispered and stroked Lupé’s wings, reminding him that whatever happened was Pettr’s will and that time would answer all his questions.
Gliding over a supple stretch of sea, Lupé’s attention was drawn to the translucent reflection of a jellyfish floating below. The petrel decided a snack was in order and swooped toward his food. With ease, he lifted the lumbering morsel from the blue. He swallowed hard as he returned to the clouds.
Lupé swallowed a second time and realized that this jellyfish did not taste like any he had ever eaten before. It was soft, but it was also hard. It could be chewed, but it did not fall apart in his beak. It slid partway down the petrel’s throat and lodged there. Lupé began to gag and gasp. He could neither swallow nor dislodge the strange thing. It was choking him.
Whatever it was, Lupé knew this was no jellyfish. It felt and looked like clear, durable seaweed. He was reminded of something Stithl told the group when the iguana spoke about scavenging the shoreline. “All dad glidduhs is nod fooot.” Was this what the lizard was talking about? Lupé became concerned. He was not taking in enough air—less with every breath. He had to get to shore and clear his throat before he suffocated.
Lupé wondered if he was going to join Pettr before Sirka… if he and his mate would leave a parentless egg. Lupé was crushed with the thought that he might father a chick who was more alone than him. He knew if he didn’t tend to the problem at wing, at the very least, his egg would be hatched without a father. Lupé struggled to reach the shore while the thing that strangled him sank deeper into his throat.
Back at the nest, Sirka was struggling as well. She fought to thrust the enormous egg from within her body. Tapao, Stithl, Wiff, and the others waited to see what would emerge, what it was that birdened Sirka so.
Lupé’s mate pushed hard and felt a stab of pain that went beyond the pain of birth. It was as if something reached into her abdomen and clawed at her soul. Immediately, her thoughts flew to Lupé. Where was he? She cawed his name and heard no answer.
Lupé made it to shore. He would not drown, but he was by no means out of danger. Few would have noticed the solitary bird watching from above the clouds, but as Lupé stood on the rocks choking, he could see Bog circling high overhead. Looking more like a vulture than a petrel, Bog swooped down and landed just a flap away from his dying adversary.
Lupé was as helpless as a fish washed up on the sand. The choking petrel did not move. He found that if he took delicate, short breaths, he could take in some air and still keep the weed from sliding further down his throat. A small piece hung from the corner of Lupé’s beak, a piece just long enough for another petrel to grab. He wondered whether Bog would seize the opportunity to kill him or rise above their past and pull the killer seaweed from his enemy’s throat. Either choice would result in the end of hostility between the two birds.
Bog hopped closer to Lupé and watched, expressionless. There was no compassion in his face, no mercy, no love in his eyes. Bog leaned forward, tilted his head, took one last look, and flew off, leaving Lupé to die.
From the day he was hatched, Lupé knew he owed the Creator a death. It was, perhaps, the most un-mysterious thing about life… one day it would end. But Lupé hoped his death was not being collected now. He had come too far to lose it all so foolishly.
Lying against the wet rocks on the threshold of forever, Lupé thought of his flock, his family, and his mate. He began to chant Sea, Sun, Soil over and over to himself. It was a final, desperate attempt to call Pettr. The lack of oxygen made Lupé dizzy. It felt as if the shore was spinning, tumbling. He couldn’t control the feeling, and he didn’t know whether it was the waves, the wind, or his demise that caused the sensation.
Soon, Lupé was looking down at the shore. He had left himself behind. He could see his body draped over the gray rocks, motionless, lifeless. His neck was stretched and contorted. From the corner of his beak hung the imposter jellyfish that strangled him.
The feathered speck on the beach that only moments earlier had contained his essence was now nothing but an empty shell, like so many others waiting for the tide to wash them away. Soon, the beach also became a speck… and then the island… and then…
Like vapor evaporating off the sea, Lupé drifted up through white clouds. He felt as though he was becoming part of the sky, blending into the blue, moving effortlessly toward the life of the planet as he was pulled by the silent strength of the sun. The sky was so big and he was so small, Lupé felt absorbed by its vastness. He was nothing. The sky that carried clouds, wind, rain, and birds now carried a spirit, perhaps the Gwatta’s last life.
And then it came to him. The final word of the savn mantra was Sky. Lupé repeated it over and over to himself—Sea, Sun, Soil, Sky… Sea, Sun, Soil, Sky—but it was too late. He knew his life on Pettr’s Earth, his life with Sirka and the Darums, was over. As he drifted closer to the burning eye, he saw the searing white but still could not feel the heat.
Something flapped and flashed across the fiery orb, a black silhouette against bright white. It looked like… a bird.
Lupé continued to drift closer and closer to Pettr’s burnin
g eye. He wondered what it was that flew so close to the sun. He wondered whether he would pass through or be consumed in the fire that filled the sky. Soon, he would know whether or not he had flown the good flight. He continued the chant as he floated on.
The dark little bird appeared again… flapped, fluttered, hovered, and then flew off.
Lupé was confused. He had no idea where the mysterious creature came from. He knew of no bird that flew at this height or in this sky. Although puzzled, he wasn’t afraid. Lupé actually had the feeling the bird liked him. “Either way,” he reasoned, “what can happen to me now? I’m already dead. The only thing left is the sun.”
Lupé’s thoughts soared to Sirka. If she survived the birthing, she would have to raise their chick without her mate. Even if he was permitted to pass through Pettr’s eye, to go where the many fly as one, Lupé thought he would never be happy. No matter what the other side was like, there could be no happiness without Sirka. He could never be Lupé unless she was with him. He knew he would wait patiently for the day Sirka came to join him. But his thoughts assumed that both he and Sirka would be allowed to join Pettr.
Lupé turned to the sun and began to feel the heat that awaited him, but with subtle swiftness he was surrounded by a cool white mist that obstructed Pettr’s burning eye. He could no longer feel the searing heat as he floated in an ocean of clouds. Lupé knew that he was moving, but he had no idea what carried him or where it was taking him.
Then Lupé saw her, a petrel from his flock. There was no doubt about it. She looked exactly like those he remembered, and she carried the scent of the Gwattas. She was younger than Lupé, incredibly agile on the wing, and beautiful.
As she studied Lupé, the feathers on the back of her neck stood with curiosity. She smiled and flew closer. There was something familiar about this bird, something that went beyond her look and smell.