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His whole body ached.
Things haven’t been the same since the great migration, or so he had been told by his father, and he supposed that was true enough. Because of some disagreement long ago, for reasons long forgotten (his kind had never set much store in recording the past, what’s now is now and what’s then is then, as they would say), his brothers had moved on to the island he called home.
The drum of the waves crashing against the cliffs boomed far below and the sun above burned with a miserable, muggy heat that he might have once appreciated. But now it was mere distraction, driving the nail of frustration even deeper into his brain. He peered down into the gnarled crevices in the palm tree’s bark, deep and secret, jealously guarding the rewards within. It was hard to see, so deep in, but he could see the larva squirming, white and plump and juicy. His beak darted downward, not as fast as he once was, and felt it wedge against the edges of the bark, the larva just out of reach. His stomach groaned longingly. How long had it been since he last eaten. Days? A week? It was hard to tell. It had always been difficult getting a meal, his beak too broad to fit into these nooks, too short to reach, even when he was young and full of vigor, but now it seemed all but impossible.
Staring at what he hoped was his meal to be, he found himself thinking more about the old times. His people didn’t keep records, but his family was fond of tales, especially ones of the past, his father in particular but he supposed his dad was odd that way. It was during a time much like this, he and his father, heads bobbing up and down fruitlessly as they reached for the food that was just too far, that he told him of the early days of the island.
‘There were few enough of us to begin with,’ his dad began, reaching, straining into the crevices of the tree as he spoke, his voice sounding muffled. ‘but our forefathers hit hard times soon enough. Not only was isle choked with those damned hawks,’ he bobbed back up briefly and quickly dug back in, ‘but the food was not as plentiful as it was on the other side of the Blue. Our food was better at hiding their young than their brothers, laying them deep in wood, and it was hard for us to get at them—as you know well enough by now!’ his father laughed and he couldn’t help but join him. ‘A lot of us died, not enough to eat, you see. But after a time, our numbers stopped dwindling and we began to grow, albeit slowly, but we began to come back.’
He paused. ‘What changed, dad?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, but then hesitated, ‘well, not at first. After a time, some of us began to change, nothing too great at first you see, but their feathers were brighter, their bodies slimmer and more agile to escape the hawks, their beaks longer and more narrow. They became the envy of their society, and their numbers grew, far greater than the others who stayed the same. Times have changed, son, for the better to be sure, but unfortunately, we’re not part of it. We have stayed the same and they have gone on and repopulated the island. Our numbers shrink every day.’
‘But why?’ he asked, pausing from his futile attempts, upset, ‘why can’t we change too?’
‘I don’t know, that’s just the way things are I suppose, the way things always will be.’ With a sudden ferocity, his father had reached downward and pulled up, a particularly fat larva clamped in his beak. He gulped it down. ‘The point of my story is to not feel bad about something we can’t change, but to strive and hope you’ll come out okay.’
It was true enough then, and it was true enough now, but that did not change the fact of his age and he struggled.
Just then, one of the others, one of the “changed” his father had spoke of landed beside him. He took a break and examined him. While his kind were broader and thicker, the other was slim and quick, feathers bright, beak narrow and sharp. Perfect. He thought about himself, how drab he must have looked by comparison, his feathers frayed with age, most of the color bleached out by the greedy sun, his beak a cobweb of tiny cracks. The other looped down, lightning quick, and pulled up his reward and swallowed it eagerly, he did it again and again. His stomach muttered enviously.
“Brother, would you lend an old bird a beak?” He said, “I’m very hungry.”
The other slurped down another tasty dish and gave him a sideways look, considering him with fiery orange eyes. “Brother? We’re not brothers anymore, old bird,” he said, not unkindly, but the way one would state a simple fact, like the sky was blue or the hawks were murderous bastards. “I am busy. So sorry.”
With that, the other took off, stomach full.
He looked at him as he went, not with malice, but with a kind of hopeless grief at his words. It was true, they were not brothers, they had changed too much, they were no longer kin, but strangers entirely. A dying breed, I am, he thought, and soon we’ll all be gone, and they’ll be all that’s left. It was a depressing thought, but he supposed that was for the best. The young ones of the future wouldn’t have to struggle like he did.
With a sudden burst of determination, he felt some of the old fire of his youth and reached down with as much force as he could muster, straining against the wood and his own aching body. His beak snapped shut and with a chirp of joy, he pulled up two of the larvae. “Strive and hope you’ll come out okay,” he whispered and gobbled his prize down. It tasted wonderfully, but the feeling of a full stomach was even better.
He realized how tired he was and took flight, down to the cliffs and sat tiredly in his nest. So tired. He buried his head beneath a wing and fell asleep almost at once. Before he drifted off, he wondered vaguely when his next meal would be.
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One day me and my granpappy were goin' fishin' down by the crik. I slipped and fell on a rock, skinning my knee and my granpappy leaned in real close and asked: "Is the rock okay?"
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