All One Must Do is Wait

The season of frost was soon upon us. Those that stood and watched, waiting for the change were taken unaware by the sudden march of ice. The season of warm had gone, and the frost was moving faster than it ever had.

My flock and I were some of the last to heed the signs of change. Had we paid attention, maybe our flock would have survived. By the time we noticed, the lakes and rivers were beginning to freeze with ice, and the ground that was soft during the season of warmth, was now harder than rock.

I am Willow, the last blue runner of the Crown Flock. Our flock was the biggest in the north. When we flew, the sound of our wings could be heard for miles. We were the fastest and most powerful flock, rivaling the ancient ones who had nested in the white pines before us. My kin were magnificent, their feathers a rich vibrant blue and green that shone in the last light of day. I am now one of the last to wield such feathers. Myself, a group of eight from my flock lock, and a few stray birds from lesser flocks are the only ones of the Crown Flock to have survived the dangers of the great migration; and our troubles are far from over.

When our messengers finally brought news to my family and I of the sudden change, my father, the great leader of the flock, gathered as many of our kin as he could, warning them of the coming frost. Some did not believe the frost had come, and still thought it would be another month or two before the great migration. Some were hesitant, but followed my father as we departed.

We rose from the lakes, glades, and pines like a great cloud of flapping wings. My father leading those that would follow, with my mother by his side. I remember looking back and counting those that had come. Though our host was large, larger than most other flocks, we were still missing nearly half of our members. It saddened my heart greatly to think of them dying in the cold that was coming.

We flew for most of the day before settling down in a large opening in the forest. My father was experienced with the dangers of the great migration, he had done it nearly five times now, so he dropped low and made the flock do two sweeping passes across the glade before settling down. He had spotted no predators, no red haired dogs, nor did we see the pale ones with their sticks of thunder.

We nestled together, my father, mother, and myself huddled together in the center of the glade, the rest of the flock surrounding us. The night was cold, but it passed uneventfully. I remember looking up that night and gazing at the bright stars far above. My father had told me stories of how they were the souls of the ancient ones and rulers of the flocks, and that he, when his time came, would make the last migration to the land of eternal warmth and sun. He had pointed to one of the stars and said. “That, Willow, is your grandfather, the leader of the flock before me. He made the last migration nearly a year before your time. Soon, hopefully in a few years, you will be able to show your sons my star, and remind them of the hope that lies after death.” he turned to me and said more seriously. “Remember son, death is not the end. Though there be mourning, all will be reunited above with the greatest of joys. All one must do is wait and push on.”

I didn’t sleep that night. Instead, I gazed up at the small dot that was my grandfather, imagining what it was like up there in the land of eternal warmth and sun.

The next day we arose early. Before the crickets and song birds could begin their songs, we were above the trees, flying south towards the land of warmth. We flew for nearly an hour before we stopped at a pond beside a small mountain. The pond was clear and cool, with flashes of silver fish beneath the water. We took turns, the whole flock, diving down and catching them. After a day of not eating, the fish tasted good.

We spent only a few minutes there. My father waited to catch last, letting the women and children go first, then the other male’s. After he caught his fish, he rose into the sky and we continued our journey.

After a few hours we encountered another flock, the Red Flock. They had heads with feathers that were as red as a setting sun. My father met with their leader, and we were warned of pale ones to the west. The Red Flock had picked up survivors from a small flock I had never heard of, that had been ambushed in a small glade with a single pine tree standing in its center.

The news saddened my father, and as we flew on, his face was set like stone, his eyes always scanning the ground below. That night the chill lessened a little, the first sign that we were headed in the right direction; toward the land of warmth.

We had settled in a large glade, beside a small lake. Some chose to float on the water, and others sat in the grass and slept. We had seen no danger or cause for alarm when we had arrived, but as the night grew, and the flock slept, death encircled us. I heard the warning cry before my father and mother did. The warning was then followed by a chorus of shrieks and screams. My father’s head snapped up just as a sound pierced the night. It was a howl, a deep and blood thirsty howl.

My father cried out for the flock to fly, and all flew as fast as we could. The night was suddenly full of the sound of flapping wings, snapping jaws, and the screams of the dying. As we rose I turned and saw our attackers. A group of black shapes ran through the glade, snapping at my kin as they took to the sky. They were large, their fur was black, and their paws were like hidden blades as they struck bird after bird out of the air. I had heard stories of them told by the elders of the flock. They had called them wolves. Blood thirsty demons that preyed on birds during the changing of seasons.

The sounds of snapping teeth, dying birds, and the awful howling, slowly disappeared as we flew blindly into the night. We flew for hours, the fear of what had happened kept our wings moving even though our muscles begged for relief. The weakest of the flock soon departed from us, falling back to the ground, their wings locked from the strain. The sound of them hitting the ground, and the shattering of their bones, will never escape my memory.

As dawn broke, my father gave a cry of agony. We had gone the wrong way, heading northwest instead of south. An entire day had been lost and the chill of frost could be felt again. My father looked around, and without searching for danger, led the flock down onto a small lake. We lit upon the cool water and rested. Our wings, thankful for the respite. After a moment, my father and mother swam through the flock, counting the survivors and looking for how many we had lost. They came back with their heads low. Nearly forty seven of the Crown Flock were missing and many more were gravely injured.

Despite the horrors of the night and the injuries in the flock, my father gave the call to fly and we flew. Some birds fell back to the ground after a little bit, their injuries too bad for them to continue with the flock. They went down and formed small flocks of five or less; small protection against the cold and predators. Other birds simply collapsed from the air, their wings locking and their bodies smashing into the ground. As we flew through the day, trying to get back on course, many more of our kin left the flock, some from exhaustion, others from death.

We traveled for the entire day, until the sun set on the horizon. The trees had changed, and there was no glade we could settle in tonight, so my father steered us towards a group of large trees, and the remnant of the flock lit in the branches.

There was no moon that night, nor could we see the stars. Instead we were rocked by a cold wind. Our feathers did little to protect us from the chill, and because of the branches, we couldn’t huddle close enough to warm each other. The night passed slowly, almost none of us slept. The sounds of bones being shattered and dying birds echoed through our minds, keeping us from sleep.

The next day passed as a blur, with a handful of the flock falling back or falling from the sky. Our once great flock had been reduced to a small remnant of nearly thirty birds. Our heads hung low and our pace had slowed. Many birds mourned the death of their loved ones. Their cry’s filled the sky as they flew. That night we slept in a small glade, and the night passed as uneventful as the last.

I slept little. I lay awake, looking at the sky, wondering if the last migration would be as difficult or as painful as this one was.

As the sun rose, so did we. Our wings reflected the sunlight in a blur of blue and green flashes as we took off into the sky. We flew without stopping for nearly an hour before we saw it. A large group of birds stood in a large glen with a single pine tree standing in the middle. My father turned towards it and we swooped low. As we drew closer my father hesitated, slowing for just a second.

I saw the effect before I heard the sound. My father’s wings exploded in a burst of blue and brown feathers before his body plummeted to the ground below. The sudden roar of thunder ripped through my ears. My mother screamed and dove after my father as he fell. This time I saw it. A leap of red flame from the single tree, and my mother lurched in the air, her scream cut off by the sound of the thunder stick. The flock panicked, not seeing the danger. All they saw was my father going down so they followed. I called for them to stop, twisting up into the air and away from the pale ones below. A few heard and flew up to me, the rest did not and they were cut down by a blast of flame from the tree. I hovered in shock as those that followed my father joined him on the ground. Their bodies lying next to the fake birds standing in the glade.

I turned then, not wanting to see what happened next, and flew away. I did not know where I was going, so I let instinct guide me. My eyes were filled with tears and my soul was heavy. My father, gone? That couldn’t happen, it just couldn’t!

The landscape below passed quickly. I didn’t notice as the sun dipped below the horizon. I didn’t hear some of the birds behind me fall, exhausted. And I didn’t feel the pain in my wings from flying all day. Instead, I carried on well into the night, until reason overcame my grief and I turned towards a small opening in the forest below.

We lit in a small swamp. Cattails and reeds lined the murky water and dotted the small islands floating here and there. I collapsed in exhaustion, my wings refusing to work. How had it gone so wrong so fast?

I turned and counted those that were with me. Only eight had survived. My heart sunk as I remembered the once large flock that had filled the sky, my father leading it. Sadness overwhelmed me and I wept. I wept until my eyes dried up and the grief was only a dull ache in my chest. Something my father said suddenly came to my mind and I looked up to the sky, searching the bright stars. I froze when I saw it. My grandfather’s star was alone when my father pointed it out to me. Now there were two small but bright stars on both sides of it. The words my father said echoed through my mind. “Remember son, death is not the end. Though there be mourning, all will be reunited above with the greatest of joys. All one must do is wait.” those words melted the grief and a sense of responsibility came over me. I heard my father’s voice in my ear. “You now lead these few. Lead them wisely.”

I looked to the sky and a hard resolve filled me. All I had to do was wait and push on. The next day I arose early and called for the remnant to fly. We flew through the day and well into the night before we stopped. During the day two small birds from the Blue Flock joined us. They were some that had been left behind because they had failed to keep up with their flock.

The next day came and went, and the next and the next. I watched for danger as we flew, choosing to land in only small glades far into the forests. We slept in peace those nights and a few other birds joined us. The threat of frost was behind us, the threat of wolves, foxes, and pale ones loomed ahead. The words my father had said still ran through my mind. “All will be reunited above with the greatest of joys. All one must do is wait and push on.”

The next day we rose before dawn, our wings tired and sore. We pushed on till late in the day where we lay to rest. That night we were awoken by a sudden howl and I gave the call to fly. All of my small flock took to the sky just as three animals, similar to wolves, lunged at us. Their fur was brown and dirty. They barked at us as we flew away. No bird had been taken. We flew through the night and into the day.

“All one must do is wait and push on.”

Exhaustion threatened to over take us as we landed in a small glade that night. Though we slept long, our muscles never seemed to recover.

“All one must do is wait and push on.”

The next day we rose with the sun and flew. I feared my wings would lock and I would fall to the ground from exhaustion. Then I heard it. The sound of birds. I looked up and my heart skipped a beat. Before us lay a vast lake, and on it, hundreds and hundreds of birds. I recognized several flocks. The Red Flock swam together, their calls loud and joyful. I saw the Silver Flock, one of the larger flocks. I saw the Blue Flock and the Pine Flock and many more.

Joy rushed through me and I dove towards them. My flock coming close behind me. I looked for an open patch of water and shot for it. As my feet touched the water a sense of relief swept over me. I had made it. My flock had made it. The land of warmth lay before us. We had made it. As I looked around, the words of my father ran through my head one last time.

“Death is not the end. Though there be mourning, all will be reunited above with the greatest of joys. All one must do is wait and push on.”