Scarlet Feathers

I open my eyes to the early rays of daybreak. My mate rests beside me, keeping our two eggs safe and warm. I watch her for a few minutes, then nudge her with my beak gently. Slowly, she awakens, and I edge closer to her in our hole in the tree to nuzzle and groom her lovingly, and she closes her eyes and utters a few appreciative sounds before she checks on our eggs. We have successfully raised several youngsters in the last 25 years.

There should have been more.

When I was a youngster, there were so many more of us. We’d fly together in a glorious, vibrant display of colors and cry out in sheer joy of the act. The rainforest burst with a chorus of all varieties of life, and ours filled the skies. Humans had some respect for the land, and worked more in tune with it, allowing cohabitation.

I nuzzle my mate one last time before flying off a short distance to some clay licks. I have a lot of flying to do to provide for myself and my mate today, and I need minerals from the licks to fuel my body. I relish in the salty taste now - when I was younger, I had to first develop a taste for it. A few neighbors join me, and we chatter as we glean our supplements from the clay. One of the younger ones - a 10 year old - lands close to me. He’s nice enough, but I do find him rather annoying most days.

“Morning!” he exclaims excitedly. Even just his greeting irritates me - which annoys me even more.

“Morning,” I respond, more subdued. I wonder if the reason he annoys me is because of his inexperienced youth? I know I used to be more like him; maybe with age and experience comes intolerance for the next generation?

‘Ugh. It’s too early for this’, I think, trying to mind my own business as the rest talk on. But my young neighbor wants to chat. With me.

“How’s the mate and nest?” he asks, cautiously. Though he and his mate have been together for several years, humans have poached their eggs each time. But this year, they’ve managed to avoid being found. Their clutch is only days from hatching now, and he brims with excitement. It is this energy that soothes some of the irritation in me, and I find myself happy for him and his mate.

“Good. My mate is minding the nest today. It is her birthday, and I want to find a nice treat for her.”

“Oh? What do you have in mind?” he asks, curious.

“I was thinking I could bring home some of those tasty nuts - those odd-shaped ones? What do the humans call them again?”

“Oh, uh…,” my neighbor pauses to think. I can see his tongue working in his beak as he thinks, but I know he knows human words better than I do, and I wait. “Oh, cashews!?”

“Yes! Those!” I respond ecstatically, “Of course, humans will be seeking them out as well this time of year, so I think I’ll have to go to the far side of the rainforest to avoid most of them.”

“True, true,” the younger male nods. After a slight pause, he asks, “Would you mind if I came along? My mate has been so nervous waiting for someone to steal our eggs, she’s hardly eaten anything lately. And with the eggs so close to hatching now, I would love to give her some; she’s going to need the energy.”

I hesitate. I intended to go solo on this errand, and I question if I can tolerate my young neighbor for the entire day. But thinking about the stress his mate must be under after so many raided nests, and the babies that will be insatiably hungry, I realize I cannot deny him his request. I nod.

“Very well. It is a longer flight than for usual foraging, though. Do you want to tell your mate?”

“Hm. Yeah, I better. I don’t want her to worry any more than she already is. Think I’ll ask our other neighbor if he’ll help keep an eye out too; his mate is doing the foraging today.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” I say, genuinely appreciative of the consideration he is showing his mate. I ruminate on the thought as he goes to inform his mate and neighbor of today’s plans. He may be young, but he’s a good sort. I think he’ll make a good father when his chicks hatch.

Upon his return, we take a few minutes more at the clay lick to fuel up and discuss the path we will take. He hasn’t traversed very far before, so when I discover he isn’t familiar with some of the landmarks, I decide I will show him the way that I was taught. It will add a few extra hours with a couple more stops, but I know he will benefit greatly from my help today.

We take off as the clay lick begins to get more and more crowded, eyes alert for any sign of humans. With eggs close to hatching, tensions are high. Poachers like to come when either one or both parents are gone from the nests; it is easier to deal with only one parent. Thankfully, we see none in the immediate area.

Our first stop comes about 3 kilometers away; we stop to drink and take advantage of the fruit nearby the stream. It is a well-known landmark that even my young neighbor knows. We also pick out some of the insects that have gotten caught up in our feathers - what an annoying drag they are! We then encounter another group of macaws who stop by for a drink as well, and they have seen humans.

“Beware - humans near the cavern!” one informs us. She is an older bird - nearly 60! - and one that I have seen around often. I shriek in annoyance at the information, drawing the attention of her much younger companions.

“How do they travel?” I ask, my feathers ruffled.

“By foot. It will take time for them to move this far in, but they are coming.”

“Should we continue on, or return?” my neighbor asks. The old female looks him over, moving her tongue eagerly.

“Where are you going?” she inquires.

“To get cashews - about 19 more kilometers,” I inform her. She thinks for a moment.

“I know where you mean. I think you’ll be fine to go - just make sure you fly home today. Don’t leave your mates unattended any longer than needed with humans coming near.”

My neighbor and I both nod in understanding. The other group is kind enough to say that they will warn our mates about the possible poachers when they return. The old female even offers to personally help our mates keep watch until we are back home, and we gratefully accept. Our kind don't get to be her age without learning a thing or two. We each drink a little more water before taking off again; we won’t be stopping for some time, especially with the knowledge that people are closing in on our sanctuary.

The flight to our next destination is silent; both of us are concerned about the humans coming nearer. The other group had been unable to determine if they were a helpful sort or not, as almost every human who enters the jungle comes armed with one of their deadly guns. Sometimes, humans just want to watch us - study us. Other times, they capture us, outfit us with tags, and release us. And then there are the poachers, who steal us from our very homes.

We draw close to areas that humans farm and cultivate from. Giant machines carve into the clay resources; horrendous things that they are. The noises of machines and man ring out, drowning out the rest of the jungle inhabitants for kilometers. But instead of attracting mates and bearing offspring, instead these things attract pain and breed destruction. Nothing they touch is ever the same, and they leave little undisturbed or for the rainforest residents to utilize. They are infiltrators; inconsiderate and greedy and nothing like the harvesters of my youth.

I hate them so much.

My neighbor lets out a distressed sound at the sight and sounds, and my heart breaks a little for him.

“I know, I know,” I offer apologetically. I knew we’d likely see some such activity, but I didn’t think they had moved in so much closer since I last flew this way. Mankind’s hunger is devastatingly relentless; I don’t know anything that can withstand such endless harvesting or even how anything can.

The sun is low when we come near the sea. I want to show my neighbor the sight, and there is a unique rock carved out off the coast that makes for a good landmark. I slow my pace some to fly beside him and watch his reactions; he is enthralled by the creatures below us in the water as we soar overhead.

“Whoa! What is that thing!?” he exclaims. I look down and let out a squawking, shrieking laugh.

“That is a whale shark,” I say as we watch the large, dark shape below cruising along just beneath the surface. As I recognize the pattern of white spots across its back, I add, “In fact, that is the very one that beached itself when I was about your age! Wow, he’s gotten big!”

“What do they eat!?” the younger macaw asks.

“I think small things. I never see them eating flesh from larger things, anyway.”

“How awesome! I can’t wait to show my mate and hatchlings some day!” he chatters excitedly. I feel my heart warm at the thought.

“Are you excited to be a dad?” I ask.

“So much! It’s been so heartbreaking to lose the number of eggs we’ve had… I kind of can’t believe it’s finally happening.”

A pang jolts through me; I know his pain. My mate and I have raised three offspring to adulthood - the rest were poached as eggs or captured as young, or else were killed and eaten by predators. I too was in disbelief when a clutch survived the poachers.

We stop once more before reaching our destination, each drinking deeply from another gentle stream. We will soon be able to gather some cashews for our mates, but we won’t be able to drink with our beaks full of the nuts, so this is our best chance to get in a drink before harvesting and the long flight home. This is also our last chance to exchange words before we cannot talk.

“Okay,” I begin, “so we will collect the cashews - as many as we can hold without choking. Then, carefully follow me; we’ll be going home a shorter way, but it’s getting dark and you don’t want to lose me and become lost.”

The younger male bobs his head in understanding.

“How long before we have to leave?” he asks. I glance at the sun, dipping lower and lower on the horizon.

“Not very. I hope I’m right and these haven’t been disturbed as much. Be a pity to have flown all day for a small harvest. If there’s a lot, though, it won’t take long to get what we need.”

I nearly shriek in delight when we land on the branches of the cashew tree - there is a bountiful display of the nuts, ready for the taking. We both devour a number of them before we begin collecting for our mates. Before long, both of us have enough to justify the flight. Still, even with the quick harvest, it is already approaching dusk; we have to hurry home before it is too dark for us to see.

It is said that humans cannot see as many of the vibrant colors that we can, and I take satisfaction in that fact. I don’t feel they deserve to see the phenomenal beauty that we do. Not after what they’ve done. However, while we can see a variety of colors humans can’t, even us macaws can’t see in the dark. We begin to fret when we start bumping into foliage.

“Hey!” cries a shrill voice. My neighbor and I stop, trying to figure out where the voice came from. Suddenly, a bat appears. “Hey!”

“Hi?” I respond as best I can with the cashews in my beak. The bat quickly notices that neither of us really has room to chat, so she continues.

“Sorry, but I couldn’t help but notice you two are having trouble getting through in the dark - you macaws are more day creatures than night. Can I help get you where you’re going? I’ve got all night.”

My neighbor and I exchange looks, then both nod at the kind bat. I think she is an insectivore, but it is hard for me to tell.

“I guess you can’t really tell me where you need to go…” the bat muses, “So I guess you can nod when I guess. Do you live near the twisted tree?” We shake our heads. “Not the human town?!” We shake more vigorously. “Whew, thank goodness! Uh, the clay licks?” We nod. “Ah, that’s a flight. All right, follow me. Don’t mind the screeching - it’s how my kind get around in the dark. I’ll try to slow down some.”

We begin following our guide, though it isn’t easy - even a slow bat is fast, and she isn’t all that big. But her screeches help to give us a sense of where she is even when our eyes fail. She seems to take us the same way - or very similar - to how I intended to go home, so I begin to relax a bit at the fact that she seems to know where to go.

We stop once more at a spot to drink; my neighbor and I place our harvests on rocks next to us before we drink, remove more insects from our feathers, and then carefully pick the cashews back up to continue. Our guide takes advantage of our break to hunt; she is, in fact, an insectivore. She happily snags the ones we pick off ourselves, considering it payment for her kind deed. We take off once more, both my young neighbor and myself warmed by the thoughts of our mates’ appreciation for the thoughtful food and that we will soon see them and be able to cuddle with them.

Or so we think.

When we finally arrive home, we know something is wrong. Even our guide stops emitting her shrill screeches, opting to fly silent in an equally quiet area. The flapping of our wings should draw attention; our neighbors should be poking their heads out or calling out. But there is nothing. Other jungle creatures too remain silent.

Humans have been here.

Panicking, my neighbor and I pick up our pace, flying recklessly in the night. We fly to our respective trees, hearts hammering. We drop our hauls into the hollows, crying out.

They are empty.

Our frantic cries for our mates go unanswered. So too do the ones we make for our general community, and all we hear is silence. That is, until we hear heavy scrambling in the rainforest undergrowth. A net comes flying at us, and we both take off high into the canopy, shrieking. Above the trees, we continue calling out, hopeful one of our kind will answer. None do.

I again open my eyes to the early rays of daybreak. This time, I wake in a tree I don’t readily recognize, and my mate is nowhere to be found. It takes me a moment to recall all of the previous day, and when I do, I instantly make my way to my nest.

I approach the tree hollow cautiously. I don’t know if humans are still around or not. Furthermore, I am terrified to confirm what I already know; my family has been stolen. Eventually, though, I decide I have to look - just in case the eggs are still there by chance, awaiting desperate incubation.

The nest is sadly empty, save for a few scarlet feathers moving gently with the breeze. Countless feathers of my kin litter the floor of the jungle.

My cry is mournful; sorrowful. Broken.

My neighbor silently approaches his own nest not long after, and I can tell from the cry he utters, his situation is no better. We both sit in our respective nests, contemplating our losses.

Suddenly, a shocked squeak comes from my neighbor’s hollow; our guide, the bat. She was asleep in the tree. I then hear my neighbor caw in excitement.

“One of my eggs!” he cries joyfully, looking the small object over. I fly over to see for myself.

There, nestled in a small, hidden section of the nest, a single one of my young neighbor’s eggs. Next to it, I see our kind guide who sleepily blinks at us in the bright daylight.

“I found it after you were both chased off. I tried to keep it warm all night; I hoped you would come back. I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t,” she says sleepily, “I am sorry about the rest of your families.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much…,” the younger male says, nuzzling both his egg and the bat in turns.

“If it’s not too much to ask,” the bat begins, “can I sleep here for the day?”

“Of course! Of course, my dear friend. Thank you so much; sleep well.” He then turns to me as the bat quickly slips back to sleep, “What now?”

“I… I don’t know. None of us ever return here after the poachers take us….”

My neighbor dips his head, upset. He stares at the egg.

“How am I going to do this alone?” he asks. More to himself, but as he says it aloud, I hear him. My heart breaks for him, even as he is still able to celebrate having an egg; both of us still suffer a cruel blow. I think about what my mate would say if she was still here with me, and I decide to follow through with it - it’s what she would want.

“You won’t. I’ll help you.”

“Really?” he replies, surprised. I nod.

“We’re all each other has now. Friend.”

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