“Eeeeiiwaahh!” The one known as Squall cried out in fear of the sky.
“Don’t crack an egg,” cried Night Time.
“Bring on his own heart attack’s more like it,” said Plum Black.
It was common knowledge that upon hearing thunder for the first time, some fresh fledges drop from the tree like wet, heavy fruit, then rot in the mud like fruit, too.
“Let your heart attack this,” said Squall.
And he pecked at Plum Black’s shins.
When the thunder exploded again, Night Time made one of his wicked, uncanny mockeries and Squall stuck his beak down into his coat, wishing to fly off and hide.
“Hush.” Our Many cast a suspicious eye down at the hide tent of the Keeyaws, still full of humans, though the rains were letting up.
“None of you brought any food?”
“I did,” said Night Time.
“. . . and. . . ?”
“It was delicious.”
Night Time twisted his arrogant beak until it was right down over my face, and I thought I was going to receive a wondrous late-day offering, when he said, “Hmmm . . . his affliction seems to have—cleared up—a bit.”
“Your father pruned him.”
“I suppose he’s at all ends of the wind,” said Night Time, “where the Old Bone lives.”
“I’ve flown with the Old Bone,” said Plum Black. “I’ve seen him, and ridden with him, in the sky.”
“. . . and. . . ?” Night Time didn’t hesitate to mimic even Our Mother of Many.
“I can fly him to the ground,” said Plum Black.
“It’s not how fast,” said Night Time. “But for how long? And how far? And from where? It’s the intangibles.”
“Back when I was a fledge,” said Our Many, “the Old Bone was already old, and known as such.”
All of my family turned their beaks to my face, and their eyes blinked and wondered.
Like the portent it might possibly be, the quills and absence of quills burned there.
Where they’d been plucked.
Below my eye.
Morning came slowly.
Constantly I listened for my father’s return through the vaporous woods. Instead, I heard only the elder siblings call out and tried to guess how far. With time I could sense their wingbeats in their caws, and the ravines and open meadows had their resonant effect on their songs. As they moved in and out of earshot, I got a sense of our songscape and its traditional winds, long before I could venture out into it by my own wing power. Still, I heard nothing of Fly Home. Not even his far cry. Not even the dull echo of Keeyaw’s yelling could summon him.
With the beastmen below, pestering the fallen Giant to move, no one returned that morning with happy amounts of half-chewed creature: no pieces of caddis fly. No carrion beetle. No grasshopper. No grub dug up from the underworld. No seed from the farmer. No nut. No berry. No juicy eider egg, or gull egg, or nestling.
Nothing. Not a drop.
It was as if we were still under a heavy rain, even though the morning sunlight warmed us and a steam rose up from the leaves and glistening tangle of branches. All around us the steam hung in the air. It seeped from the bark of the trees like a hunger.
Soon the Giant lay fully in the road, where the wooden carts waited, and Keeyaw stood high up on the trunk, one hand holding on to his whip-switch and the other on to an untrimmed branch, and he rode his land barge far into his squinty-eyed purpose. The only thing about him moving—unless you counted the occasional lurch of the Giant—was his weedy, sea-gray beard, blown stubbornly over his distant, scowling face.
“Where will they take the Giant?” I asked.
But Our Many acted as if Keeyaw no longer existed.
“Where?” I said. “Where will they go?”
“Away,” she said. “Away!” she yelled down at the beasts. “Away!”
Usually Fly Home announced himself from far off. But I heard only the click of his sharp hooks on the nest and looked up. High above stood the old bird, somber and remote, and his feathers gave a rustling sigh as they settled into place. The elder siblings all gathered around, but not too near, so they could caw out their questions and be ready to duck away in fear of the answer.
“What?”
“What?”
“What of the pale feather?”
“What is the news?”
They flapped and pecked at the air, and I wanted to crawl under Fly Home’s wings and have him fly off because I wanted to be free of everyone’s ill-feathered commotion. Our Mother of Many sidled up beside him and arranged his nape.
“So, what took you?”
“What took me? How long will we have to endure him dragging our friends away? What took me?” He kissed Our Many. “Open up,” he said, “and I will show you.”
Turning his beak sideways, he shook a sweet morsel of offering down into her throat. Whatever he fed her must have been the most scrumptious delectable yet, because he lowered his great curved horn to My Other, and my brother’s eyes closed and his skin nearly changed color as if he were heating up.
“The news,” said my father, taking note of the barking and yanking of Keeyaw at his animals, “is the army of beastmen traveling here along the road.”
“Keeyaw?” she said. “Soon he will be gone.”
“No. More are coming. More than Keeyaw, and less than him. These are the kind who do not fell trees, but who fell each other, in numbers too great to count, let alone chew into pieces and hide in the trees.”
Squawks of giddy excitement came from my siblings as they shook their wings.
“So—” said Our Many. “What did become of the white feather?”
“I spat out. I had to. In order to bring back enough for an offering.”
“And what of the Old Bone? What did he make of the paleness?”
My father mumbled something under his beak.
“You mean you were gone all this time and you never saw the Old One?”
“You know how it is. You can’t just find the Old Bone; he finds you. It’s like going out looking for the wind.”
As Fly Home went on, his voice sailed far off into his resolve, far beyond the drudgery of Keeyaw.
“Last night, in the land beyond trees, I saw the great human masses and kept watch as they slept under the skin of dead animals. Today I followed them until I was sure they would pass by our aerie. It won’t be long now. Soon the hills will shake.”
The noise, the rumbling, it grew and grew and was still nowhere near. I thought it must be Keeyaw. But when I looked, it wasn’t the