The Station, Part 69

Its eyes are bright, full of life and dare I say, wonder, or is it…awe. I must assume nothing. But I do longer fear them. And behind it, I see more of them, lining up; all with that same expression that I feel should not be upon their faces. My first visitor reaches the old one’s side and looks up to it, then me, then back up to its elder. It is uncertain. From the old one’s wings comes a sound that reassures me and seems to do the same to the little one. Its face relaxes and it again moves toward me. It is now a mere half meter away, it faces even with my chest. Its nearly invisible pupils lock with mine and then, by the stars, it smiles. I know the smile anywhere, in any place. It is undoubtedly the smile of a child. And with that, it has dipped it head back down toward the floor. Its forelimbs spread again in that same pose of supplication. Is it waiting for me to do something? I feel silly, awkward. I can only stare down at it. The old one moves in beside its charge and reaches out ever so slowly with its good hand, almost reverently. With a touch ever so light, it takes my own hand and places on top of the little one’s head. Its skin is cool and soft. At my touch I feel it briefly stiffen and just as quickly relax once again. As tenderly as before, my hand is taken away and juvenile look into my eyes again, smiles and crawls away. It is immediately replaced by another. The hand motions are repeated. I now understand the motions now and the elder creature’s guidance is no longer needed. It seems to be aware of this and removes its hand from my own. I perform the unfathomable ritual again and again until there are no more heads to touch.

Now the last to approach is the first adult that arrived. Like its elder, it towers over me, but only in size. Like all the others, there is no aggression in its motions. I know why it is here. I raise my hand one more time. In response, it lowers it body until it lays flat on the floor, just low enough for me to barely reach the top of its head, but I manage it. Unlike the softness of the little ones, its cranium is hard and somewhat rough like rock. It only lays there for a moment, head down just like all its brethren, and then once again raises itself to it full height. It looks down upon me with an expression that I take to be thankful, and resumes its place behind the eldest of them all. The ancient beast—no, I should not think of them as beasts—this being, along with the rest of its kind, seem to be waiting for something. For me to do something. I have no idea what. What do they want me to do? Again, I feel the awkwardness. But like before, it is this great old one that saves me from further embarrassment. It begins to sing.