By G.R. Nanda
2200 A.D. Atlantic Tribe, Desolate Plains of the Atlantic
As the windstorm died down, the old man cleared his throat and slurped on something. There was scattered shuffling of limbs and mutters outside of the egg shell in the crowd.
Nickel had resorted to slumping at the bottom of the egg, keeping his head and back laid along the bottom while his feet were placed above him. It was the most comfortable position that didn’t hurt his neck or back. He had hated keeping his neck stooped so he had basically slid his torso down and moved his legs up.
His egg had stayed relatively still during the windstorm, but the walls had still been battered and shaken. Even though the egg had prevented him from the iciness of the winds, he had curled into a ball, frightened by the noise of the windstorm and the shaking egg.
Now, he lay unwound.
Father Hawk sure did sound like an idiot. Nickel wasn’t entirely sure why the tribe worshipped him. He hadn’t proven himself to be particularly brave, at least yet. And he was very impulsive.
His body was feeling numb from being still for so long, but being inside of the egg honestly beat being outside in the chilly orange air.
“Father Hawk lay hurting on the ground” started the old man.
“Here we go,” thought Nickel.
“He had seen much that could guide him further, encourage him— but also frighten him………………………………………………….
***
Beginning of Time, The Holy Grasslands.
Father Hawk lay panting. He opened his eyes. There was no more majestic view. Only the baby blue sky above him. His body ached and stung all over from the fall. He really had to be more careful when he was flying.
The Coyote. Father Hawk saw the Coyote. He was fearsome and frightening.
Even from a distance, he could see how muscular and defined his body was. The muscles rippled under his fur. He had sauntered over his rock ledge, confidently peering over the distance. He was truly a beast and up close, he must be even bigger. His eyes had glinted like bright pinpricks of glaring light, boring from his head. It was almost as if they were stars themselves.
The sight of the Coyote was bored into his mind and Father Hawk felt like its haunting was what seeped the pain all over his body.
He slowly sat up, wincing every few seconds.
He was filled with a freezing dread.
No. No. No. That was what he had to confront. He couldn’t freeze. If he did, he would freeze forever and he would never be able to confront what he needed to confront.
It didn’t matter how long it took him or how desperate he became, he had to push through. He couldn’t just fly away anymore so he had to see to the end of something.
So he traveled again, for one more day, doing what he did the previous day. He knew that no matter how endless the grasses were, he would be getting closer to the mountains and ravines that hosted the animals he wanted to talk to.
He knew that because the grasses were getting uneven, he would find the end of the same old grasslands eventually.
When he got to a patch of exceptionally long grasses where the green needles clumped together and stretching upwards, curving above him. They were very thick and hard to get through. Father Hawk found himself getting his limbs stuck in the clumps. When he moved his arms and right leg forward, his left leg got caught in a thicket behind him.
The green needles were flexible enough to push against but they were so thick that it took some time. The grasses were like spiderwebs entrapping Father Hawk in their intricate grouping. They were stuck in front of him, obscuring what lay ahead.
But lucky for Father Hawk he could hear what lay ahead.
A faint gurgling issued in the distance.
Father Hawk immediately ceased moving and allowed his body to be stuck in the thicket of grasses.
It was faint, but loud enough to pierce the afternoon and the mystique of the grasslands.
Suddenly a shuffling sounded, becoming louder and louder. It was a roar of movement. It came from the left and sounded like a cacophony of rustling grass.
Eventually, Father Hawk could see it. The grass to the left started to droop to the sides like the skin of a banana being peeled open. The rustling was a roar.
A bison tore through the grass, bursting out of the green with a sheer force that Father Hawk was not capable of.
The furry brown beast rammed into Father Hawk causing him to yelp and seethe with a stinging pain. The horns of the bison dug into Father Hawk. In the speed of the animal, Father Hawk was pressed into the animal, stuck and failing to fall off due to both its speed and force. The pain of the horns digging into his small feathered body was too much to bear.
In the chaos of the moment, Father Hawk grabbed at the bison’s head helplessly and hoisted himself so that his arms were brought up over the bison’s horns. So he hung by his arms over the bison horns, dangling, vulnerable and afraid.
As the bison’s sprinted, it began to huff and puff until it snorted and fumed out of its large nostrils. The hot air beat against Father Hawk’s body, pushing his lower body off a bit. But of course, his body just slammed back into the bison.
The bison grunted loudly and then jerked his head back and forth, shaking wildly.
Father Hawk was thrown off and sent flying through the air. The world was a dizzying mix of green and bright blue. The grass and the bright sky mixed together and spun violently.
The disorienting panorama ended when Father Hawk slammed into the ground. His body stung all over and his vision was splotched with hazy black spots.
G.R. Nanda 