Sanunique and Pickard landed at a stopover along their migration path with thousands of other birds for rest and recuperation. For days, they had followed the earth’s magnetic fields and now were enjoying the wetlands along their route, a place to refuel by harvesting wild rice and pulling apart cattails for the thick juicy root at their base, sipping cool water filled with nutrients they’d need for the remainder of the long journey. If a person didn’t know any better, you’d believe the water was cloaked with a white and black veil, birds swimming or sleeping on the shoreland, the sky occasionally filled with a flurry of motion, birds who stretched their wings before settling in a great rustle as though they were holding a secret together, bandstands of birds sensing the shortening of the day’s length and charting a course using the sun as a directional guide, heading home the way salmon tread water back to their spawning grounds, leaping over rocks with abandon, a driving force in the quick of their being, the way animals push babies to birth in a need to bring life to life, such were the forces gathering on a day filled with the smell of crackling leaves swirling to the ground, letting go of their position on branches until another season, scraping the ground in a lasting sigh of thank you.
But Sanunique was having doubts. “I should’ve have never left her,” she told Pickard, “just because she didn’t have wings.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” said Pickard, who always flew with Sanunique on these migrations. “Why wouldn’t you think she was a cowbird?”
“I left my nestling to die. I findi it hard to forgive myself.” Sanunique flew into a dizzying spiral before returning to Pickard’s side. “I didn’t feed her, teach her, do the things mothers do for nestlings. No wonder she’s confused about who she is—human or bird or both?”
“Both,” said Pickard. “You know that as well as I do.”
“But I don’t really know her,” said Sanunique. “She doesn’t consider me her mother. Cleo reserves that place in her heart. Do you think I’m jealous? All those years growing up and not understanding why her tongue remained silent, I could’ve helped Liana to understand.”
“Now she speaks to humans,” said Pickard, “and has been endowed with the gift of Zingerall, our universal language.”
“But only briefly. It’s part of her transition. Soon her throat will become closed to human speech. Words will evaporate. Then what will she do? She will need me by her side.”
Pickard didn’t have easy answers. He could see that his friend, always proud and resourceful, was picking her feathers apart with worry and fear. This had to stop. After all, she was their leader, and how could they safely arrive at their next destination if Sanunique’s inner resources were focused on what she thought were her failures as a mother? He had watched her assume her place as a young fledgling circling the Earth, not once, but three times. Yet here she was wounded, her head tucked beneath her wings. Pickard had always been regarded by Sanunique as her confidant. As a member of the raven clan, Pickard had always been regarded as a bird who held wisdom in the span of his wings.
“Did you forget already?”
Sanunique raised her head and looked at him, her purple eyes dim. “Forget what?”
“Armantrout sent a dream. Said he’d deliver Liana to the candlestick maker’s house where John and Cleo kept hope alive no matter how difficult their own lives became. And they allowed the flame of hope to burn for other people.”
“It was only a dream,” said Sanunique.
You don’t believe that?” Pickard didn’t know what else to say. “What about la guida? Was she a dream?”
“They made me give up my child,” she said, hitting her beak against a reed. “The two of them made me believe it was the cowbirds. All the while I’ve blamed the cowbirds.”
“No, Armantrout and la guida wanted to make your loss easier.” Pickard nestled closer to her, still keeping a respectful distance. “Dear Sanunique,” he said. “It’s hard for me to see you in such pain. But you have to know that each year we build our nests and then what happens? We feed our children until they get stronger and they fly away. And what do we do? We shout encouragement and let them test their wings. Most of the time we never see them again. Liana is no different. You must keep hope alive,” he said, “and believe one day we will find the 0+1 egg and heal the world. Maybe with her help.”
Sanunique rubbed her beak against his. “You are a good friend,” she said. “All these years you have flown by my side. I can’t thank you enough.” She flew into the air and called to the other birds to follow her to the next stopover along the path.