And then the bird

Cole sat perched on the rocky outcropping, eyes closed as the salty air blew over his face. His whiskered quivered in the breeze. To his ears, the rush of the waves against water, rolling in chaos up front and peaceful rising and falling from afar, filled the land with sound. To his nose was salt- his touch to the small grains of sand between him and the rock. His fur was buffeted against the wind. It was almost like the waves- rolling, up and down, roaring in his ears and yet making the grass quiver in quiet, small movements. It all added up, all the senses, and yet, something was missing. It was this exhilarating moment in which he opened his eyes that brought him to his paws every morning. Ah, yes- sunrise was beautiful.

Describing such a sight could only go so far- straight ahead were streaks of purple and orange, signifying the end of the reign of stars and the grip of night. Now the sun rose, bringing warmth to the chilly air in its expansive range of hues. The clouds that formed a trail across the sky lit up as if they were the sun themselves.

He then tilted his head slightly, just a small change, bringing the source of the stunning scene to the middle of his vision. His eyes remained squinted, unable to fully take in the power of the source. The sun. The sun was rising, slowly, climbing up the rocky yet clear wall of the sky, to eventually hit its peak and fall again. Of course, even the most powerful source must succumb to the darkness at some point- it was the course of life.

Only when the hues had faded into a calming purple-blue had he dared lift his face from the scene. With a yawn, he pushed himself to his paws again, feeling weary from simply staring. He shook out his pelt to rid it of sand and salt before scanning the area. The beach scene was quiet, aside from the familiar echoing of the world around. He couldn’t help but yawn again.

Today really was a slow day- the dog had only spent perhaps an hour outside, and he was still drooping from the heavy weight of sleep. In order to help wake up, he stretched and began to walk around. His paws sank satisfyingly into the sand and lifted with the slow crunch of sifting gold, occasionally hitting a shell or stone. Sometimes, he would lean down to peer at the object in question, and either pass it on as boring or admire its appearance. Usually it was the latter.

He found a range of shells in colors from white to a peachy pink, and oddly shaped rocks and plants lined the small cliffs. He did not, however, bring or carry any of the objects with him. In all honesty, he’d seen them all before. Every little rock and shell had been viewed by his dark eyes, and new ones were spotted and observed with much interest. They did not lose their spectacular forms, but rather were fine as they were. They dotted the beach and made it sparkle. What was the point in showering his quiet box in pink and white and blue when he could, instead, rise to his paws every morning and admire each one on their own as he walked? This point of view and the untouched nature led him to never bore of the experience.

His daily routine was a simple one- he’d wake up, watch the sun rise, then begin to patrol the stretch of sand in silence. He’d never question or ponder about what may be behind the cliffs that grew up and towered behind him. Not that he couldn’t or feared it, though. He just wasn’t interested. The only attention he gave the silent rocks were for the tiny grasses and mosses that grew upon him, and for the prey the caves and crevices hid within them. When he was done and well fed, he’d return to his box without a single word, curling up and completing the ritual of silence. The calls of the birds were the only voices accompanying him as he faded into the darkness of night.

It was on this particular day that his quiet routine was broken, shattered into a thousand pieces in which he could not pick up and sort again. All he would be left to do is sweep up the pile of glass and let the ocean take it away- but to give up such a perfect life is such a waste. He would not accept defeat with such ease.

He woke up as usual and scanned the horizon until it faded, and then began his daily walk. It was at about evening when the large sound of flapping hit his ears as a particularly fierce gust of wind might. He thought nothing of it until the creature in question entered his vision.

The bird was not the occasional seagull that dared land on the shores of this island. Such a snack would have been welcome had be been able to catch it, but the opportunity was not there and disappointment filled his lungs. But, then, a strange curiosity burned through him, like the glowing light of the source on the horizon. Had this strange feeling not reached down to grip him may his life had continued on as normal- if only he could go back and fix it, save the mirror before it would be broken. He’d leap for it, a life-or-death lunge to nudge his old self back into place. If only he could actually do such a thing.

He had never seen such a creature before. Before him and yet in the distance was a pale colored bird- almost the peachy color of the seashells, and yet browner- and when it gazed directly at him it’s face looked flat. The flat shape on its face appeared to be like a two waved seashell- at the top were two curves and the bottom was round but near a point. When it turned its head to look at him, or to glance away, he could see that the bridge along its face leading to the beak actually stuck out quite far. It was interesting. He took a step forward, mystified, until it made an absolutely dreadful sound.

The creature made some weird whooshing noise between that of a bark of a dog and wind whistling in a tunnel. In text, it could only be written as “who.” It was not in the slightest a normal sound for a bird- a bird’s call must be scratchy and sharp, for it must be loud and ring throughout the land. Something was terribly wrong with this bird. He felt a little bad for it. His fear worsened when the bird turned its head backwards for a moment, looking behind it, before rotating back. It was a very, very strange bird. He didn’t like it- and yet it intrigued him all the same.

The bird made its call multiple times as he approached it cautiously. It then scrunched up when he put his nose a few inches away, sniffing. It was definitely a bird, but it didn’t quite smell of sea salt- it wasn’t from here.

“Who are you? Where are you from?”

It gave no answer aside from pecking at his nose, causing him to rear back with a yelp. He then peered at the odd feathered thing for a few seconds, before getting up and shaking his pelt. The sun was setting- his routine was being ruined. It was cracking, and he, sensing this, turned away from the being drawing in the curiosity and left it for the night as he slept in this safe, comfortable box.

It was still there the next day. Annoyed, he tried to keep his distance. The bird, despite his efforts, began to trail him, though- it left three-toes marks in its wake as it trotted along the sand after him. The sun was straight above and at its highest when he finally turned to the bird again, who stopped abruptly as he leaped toward it. He landed merely a foot away- the bird was not scared.

“Leave me alone,” he would tell it. This time, however, he also added with his scratchy and unused voice, “Or at least tell me who you are.”

He wasn’t really expecting a response. So far, all the bird has done was make that weird windy noise. He nearly leapt into the air when it chirped out a word.

“Hoot-a-you?”

“Hoot-a-me?”

He stared dumbfounded at the creature. He hadn’t really come to think of it as a real creature, a real animal, until now, when it showed that it really was thinking and living.

“Who nane a-’e, ‘ut you?”

“My name?”

“Ye.”

A pause filled the conversation with silence for a few short moments as he tried to recall his name.

“Cole. Yours?”

“Who nane a-’e.”

He cocked his head and the bird did the same.

“What does that mean?”

“Who nane. Hoot-a-’e? Who-a-’e.”

“I don’t understand.

“Dun dog.”

His lips fell down in a frown.

“I’m calling you Toasty- like the marshmallows said in the legends. You put them over fire and eat them while warm.”

“Who eat ‘e.”

“Me. I eat you.”

“Who. Who not.”

Suddenly it hit him. When the bird said “who,” it really meant “no.” With this revelation he left the bird without another word, curling up in his box and spending the rest of the day staring out at the sea from the shadows. When night came, his sleep was full of nightmares. The bird would not escape his mind.

When he woke, earlier than usual, he was faced with another, living nightmare. The dilated and round eyes of the bird was gazing into his box, straight at him. Its form filled the view. He leapt up with a start that was followed with a frenzy of shocked barking that stung and tore at his throat. The bird burst into the air, spooked as well.

The bird would not speak again. His days went on similar to the last, with the odd creature trailing after him wherever he went. Occasionally, if he asked it something while grimacing at the pain in his throat, it would reply with a simple, meaningless “who.” Together they began to observe the shells of the beach, and Cole found himself showing it around wordlessly. It was over this time that they formed a bond- a mutual friendship that hadn’t really been intended or wanted in the first place. By the end of a fortnight, he discovered that the bird had worked its way into his life, and they were now inseparable.

“Hey, Toasty,” he decided to ask one night. The bird was huddled beside him in the box, warm and free from the night winds. “What are you?”

“A ‘urd.”

It was the first words they’d shared since their meeting. He already knew this, however, and prompted the bird for more. Finally, he got the answer he’d been hunting for:

“’E? Ty’ o’ ‘urd? I an owl. You who no tat?”

An owl. Whatever an owl was, his curiosity was sated. He pondered over the recent events that night, unable to sleep, and groggily pushed himself to his paws at the wake-up-peck of Toasty alerting him of sunrise. He never truly woke up that day.

Toasty, to his observation, appeared to be more of a night-time animal. It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard of nocturnal animals before, he’d just never seen them. The bird tried to adjust. It didn’t really succeed- but, at the very least, it wasn’t alone in the tiredness of a sleepless night.

The ocean was, like usual, beautiful. It was equally breathtaking as it had been days upon days ago, those endless days layering themselves into weeks, then months, and perhaps, someday, even years. But, it was different this time. Something shifted, just like the sand when you lift your foot, when the sightseeing wasn’t spent alone, but with another- a friend.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “There’s so much more than just the colors.”

They reveled in the salty air.

“’Tis nice.”