The Station, Part 27

I’m flying through one of the tunnels. I’ve done this many times before. It’s not that special, but it is still a wonderful feeling. I’m not one of them, yet I’m one of them. That’s how they feel about me. Ever since their arrival and our initial meeting. Of course, there was some trepidation at first, but that soon fell away and was replaced with understanding and acceptance. Now I’m making my regular and certainly expected journey back to them once again to join in the feasting. The fruit is about to fully ripen and I wouldn’t miss this for all the worlds. The ritual has become my favorite of them all. And I have participated in so many rituals of all shapes and forms. Some I must admit, I do not care for, but I do not tell those beings these things. It is not my place.

Ah, I’ve arrived in time. Before I go to meet my brethren above, I make a brief sojourn into the feeding grounds. The fungi’s’ rounded tops are practically bursting with their sweet meats. I can almost taste them now. Their reddish glows must be seen even through the shrouding mists above where my hosts bask. They are so polite. They could have been feeding already. But they waited for me. I must return the favor and delay no longer. I just wanted to see the grounds before the feasting began. I won’t see them again, at least not in this way and with these temporary eyes, for some time to come.

I arch my back and flap with wide wings, and up I go into the mists. I feel the cool dampness wash over me and I welcome it. I’d forgotten how good it felt. So many other responsibilities to fulfill. I’m glad my hosts understand. I can see them now, clutching the upper rock face with their specialized claws. So alien to me under any other circumstances. But at the present, it is but second nature. I call out and it is answered immediately. Especially by the young. I don’t know if it is because they can now feed their hungry bellies now, or because of me. I matters little, all are happy to see me nonetheless. After all, I helped make their lives possible when such lives were supposed to have been extinguished long, long ago. My hosts open their wings in greeting. The fluttering of their wingtips indicating it is not formal, but genuine friendliness. They then shuffle their positions to let me through and I flip my new body over to alight upon a preferred outcropping. I greet them back fluttering my own wings and dipping my head to others in thanks. It is rare that I feel this welcome. Oh, I have relationships many all the sentient beings, but so few of them are so giving of their culture. Even fewer think of me as their true friend and fellow member of society. It is these societies I cherish most of all. Truly, most will probably forever view me with a wary sensory apparatus. I cannot blame them for that.

Today I have been invited to participate in one of the most cherished of traditions. The Great Feast for lack of a better term. They eat like on a habitual basis like most other beings, but this one is special. Their crop, the fungi, has blossomed with their renewing sweet meats. They are more like fruits, really. But I do not argue the minor points. They are what they are. I feel the same hunger as my peers.

A signal goes out, and the feast has officially begun. As custom, the eldest are the first. They loosen their grips on perches and dive toward the glowing spectacle below. With practiced ease, they swoop upward; taking advantage of the warm updrafts that supply them needed lift. Before they make their way down, these elders survey the beautiful forest for any signs of danger. There is none. Not here. Not anymore. But the ritual is important to them. Once their survey is completed, one of them called up to the rest of us, signaling that all is well. A cacophony of sounds erupts from those of us still above. Even I join in the excitement. I hear my new voice among the people, now swooping down in a complex, yet elegantly choreographed mass. Because I am considered so young among them, I wait for my turn with the youngest. I feel no shame or insult at this. This is not about inequality—it is all about safety. After all, the crop is extremely abundant. Plenty for everyone.

This is it. My time. I open my wings, stiffen them and let go. I dive down, some of the young beside me. We arch upward, catch a brief updraft and swoop over the land. The feast is already a successful one. My brethren have already made their selection and are eating heartily. I alight upon one of the mushrooms. Up close, its meats pulse with an inner glow, indicating their ripeness. Unlike the others, I don’t immediately begin eating. Rather, I pick one glowing globe and hold it between wide, clawed hands. It’s warm and smooth. The glow is almost hypnotic. One of the others eyes me strangely. He is wondering why I don’t eat immediately. The look is gone and he resumes feasting. I sometimes let the experience get the better of me. A small indiscretion perhaps, but not one that breaks the rules. Savoring the moment, I bite into this fruit. The juice rushes into my mouth, and the taste is again brand new. It truly is sweet, but with other flavors I cannot communicate. These new senses of mine, the new sight, touch, hearing and now taste are always new again. I now understand once again why this feast is so important to them. While other foods are just as plentiful here in their new world, this particular one comes but once a particular season and then only for the briefest of time. After today, what little bit of fruit that may remain will loose it glow and recede back into the parent plant. Nothing goes to waste. After the feast, we will return with full bellies back to our respective perches an digest the delicacy. And as nature would have it the fruit will make it way out of our bodies and the newly germinating seeds we expel will drop to the surface below. But before that happens, the parent plants, having performed their final duty, will rapidly wilt and wither away. Their own nutrients will help bring up the new generation to follow. And so the cycle will continue.