Farsight and Squid: An Avian Tale

Kirrit dropped out of the clear summer sky and landed on the fallen beech tree beside Grokko. The little green heron looked over at Kirrit in surprise.

“Well hi,” he said, his voice a raspy bass. “Who are you?”

“Grokko, it’s me, Kirrit,” the swallow said. “We met the other day, remember?”

“Nope.” Kirrit blinked his sharp black eyes at him. “Sorry. Are we friends?”

“No,” Kirrit said, feeling like a real heel as Grokko hung his head.

“Oh.” The heron looked up, into the sky, as a pair of ducks whistled past. “So, how can I help you?” Kirrit nearly fell off the log.

“You sent for me,” he said. Grokko gave him a blank look. “Not ten minutes ago, this pigeon told me I needed to meet a heron here, now. You don’t remember that?”

“Nope. This pigeon, she wasn’t a duck, was she?”

“No,” Kirrit said, sidling away from Grokko. The bird was mad.

“Ah Shells. I’ve been looking for this duck-faced pigeon for years.”

“Why?” Kirrit asked before he could stop himself.

“She owes me a squid.”

“Stark-raven mad,” Kirrit muttered, shaking his head. He cleared his throat. “The pigeon must have been mistaken,” he said slowly. “I’ll go now. Sorry to have bothered you.” He hopped toward the end of the beech. What a waste of time. It would have been more productive to chase wild geese. And who the Shell would send him on this fool’s errand? A shadow flickered over the water and flashed past him. Kirrit glanced back at Grokko. The crazy heron was staring down into the shallow water. Turning away, Kirrit almost ran into a wall of glossy black feathers. Skittering back, Kirrit looked up, into the fierce black eyes of a raven.

“Found you!” cawed the raven, bounding along the log, driving Kirrit back toward Grokko. “Wait’ll Akraa hears about this!” He leaned forward, his heavy beak inches from Kirrit’s snowy breast. “So, what did I find? Who are you?”

“I’m Kirrit,” squeaked the swallow, “a spellwing-in-training. This is Grokko.” Kirrit flicked his wing back at the heron.

“I’m a seer,” Grokko croaked, sticking his long neck over Kirrit’s shoulder.

“Pleased to meet you,” the raven said, hopping back. Kirrit breathed a sigh of relief, glad to have that sharp beak pointed somewhere else. “I’m Carrak, a finder.”

“Have you found a duck-faced pigeon, by any chance?” Grokko asked eagerly.

“No, you two are the first thing I’ve found,” Carrak answered. He shrugged his wings. “I’ll keep an eye out, though.”

“You know, this is all very interesting,” Kirrit said loudly, “but I have somewhere else to be. Good day.” He spread his wings to fly away, but a big black foot came down on his slim, forked tail.

“You can’t go,” Carrak said. “I just barely found you.”

“What does that mean?” Kirrit shouted, flapping his wings and trying to free his tail. Carrak stepped back in surprise and Kirrit fell over. “What does it mean to be a finder?”

“I find stuff,” Carrak said, looking over Kirrit’s head at Grokko. Kirrit glanced back at the heron, who quickly stopped whatever he was doing and gave Kirrit a concerned look. “I get this feeling,” Carrak continued, “like I’ve lost something important. It’s like a whisper in the back of my mind that I can’t quite hear, but if I just fly, and let it guide me, then I find what I didn’t know I was looking for.”

“But why me?” Kirrit asked.

“Not you, the two of you. I found both of you, and you can’t go until I figure out why.” Kirrit stomped his foot and fluffed out his feathers to show just how angry he was. He glanced over at Grokko, who was preening his breast feathers.

“Why don’t you do something,” Kirrit said crossly. Grokko stopped his preening and frowned.

“Do you want to see me dance?” he asked. Kirrit groaned and hid his beak in his wing. “I can sing too. Want me to sing?”

“No, you feather brain, I want you to see.”

“See what?” That was the last straw. The edges of Kirrit’s flight feathers blazed with a clear, silvery light as he lost control. Anger and swallow magic flooded through him in alternating waves of hot and cold. Grokko tripped over his own feet trying to back away. “Please, Great Winged One, don’t kill me!” Grokko pleaded.

“Stop it!” Carrak cawed, stabbing his beak into the beech and tearing out a chunk of rotten wood. Kirrit took a deep breath and reigned in his power. The light faded. “What was the point of that?” Carrak asked. “You scared the crap out of him.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Kirrit protested. “He’s insane!”

“You’re the only one here acting crazy.”

“Me? He was the one asking about a duck-faced pigeon.”

“So?”

“So? So? So, there's no such thing!” Behind him, Grokko sniffed loudly.

“What-- What was it you wanted me to see?” he asked. Kirrit sighed.

“You’re a seer, right?” The heron nodded. “So look into the water and tell me what you see.” Grokko hopped off the edge of the log and landed in the shallows with a splash.

“It’s all ripply,” he said.

“Wait until the ripples clear,” Kirrit said through a clenched beak. “Now what do you see?” Grokko peered into the water.

“I see... my feet! There’s mud here, too. Hey!” He leaped into the air, splashing Kirrit and Carrak with mud. “That was a fish. Did you see it?” He looked back into the water. “Where’d it go? I’m hungry.” Kirrit gave Carrak a disparaging look, but the raven only shrugged.

“Grokko,” Kirrit said, calling the heron’s attention back to him. “Look again. Try spreading your wings.”

“How do you know so much about this?” Carrak asked as Grokko fanned out his steely gray wings to shade the water.

“I watched Okkaan Corr do it once,” Kirrit replied. The raven was silent for a moment.

“Okkaan Corr,” Carrak whispered. “The Okkaan Corr?”

“Yeah, unless there’s another great blue heron around here by that name. Why?”

“He’s-- He’s only the greatest seer since-- since Chorriaan Grokk,” the raven stammered.

“Hey, that’s who I was named after,” Grokko said, shuffling sideways so that the sunlight reflecting off the water danced across his feathers in wavy golden lines. “My mum says I even look like him.”

“He was also a great blue,” Kirrit said, looking down at the stumpy little green heron. “I think you mother was just being nice.”

“No, she said that I have his eyes, especially when I do this.” He arched his neck so that his beak almost touched his breast feathers and stared wide-eyed down into the water. The sun-ripples flashed in his red-orange eyes, making them burn like fire. “See, don't I--" Grokko fell silent, his body going rigid.

"Are you okay?" Kirrit asked, exchanging glances with Carrak. Grokko didn't answer. Instead, he opened his beak and began to sing. Kirrit felt chills wash over him as the heron's sweet, melancholy voice drifted across the gently rippling water.

"Soon will hatch the silent swan, next to call the Warriors gone," he sang in clear, soft tones that would make a nightingale green with envy. Kirrit felt the excited rush of magic roiling in the pit of his stomach. He listened eagerly as the little green heron continued. "Soon will find the raven king, red with blood, with no right wing. Soon will time run out for all, for none will heed the swallow's call. Soon will come the final war, and after that, there is no more." Grokko shuddered and blinked furiously. "--look a little like him?" He tried to bend his neck even further.

"Yes, yes," Kirrit said quickly, trying to stop him from breaking his neck. "Your mom was right, I can see it now."

"Really?" Grokko grinned, the feathers on his crown standing up comically.

"Sure." Kirrit glanced at Carrak, who was staring out into the sky, a worried look on his face. "Grokko, can you tell me again, about the swan and the Warriors?"

"Nope," replied the cheerful heron. "I never told you anything about a swan. Must be thinking of someone else."

"Must be," Kirrit agreed, turning away. Carrak looked sharply at him.

"Now I know why I found you," he said. "I must go and warn the king, I must tell all the ravens. You, go warn your people. Tell any pigeons you see on the way, too. The war is coming and people must be told."

"What can I do?" Grokko asked, hopping up beside them on the log. He made a face and lifted one large, webbed foot. "Okay, who crapped on my log? Shells, guys, I have to eat here... Hey, a fish!" He dove off into the water, soaking both Kirrit and Carrak. Kirrit shook his feathers out, the sunlight forming rainbows in the mist.

"You want to take the word of that?" Kirrit asked. "He's insane." He watched Grokko pop up on the bank across the way and choke down a fish twice as long as his beak. He seemed to have forgotten that the swallow and raven were still there. "Still," Kirrit said with a sigh, "we can't afford not to."

"If we're wrong, we'll be pleasantly disappointed," Carrak said. "See you around." Kirrit watched him wing away over the water and disappear into the trees. Kirrit cast one last look at Grokko, then hopped along the log to the far end. A new prophecy, one that spoke of war and blood and death. And just my luck, Kirrit thought, I got to witness it. But was it luck? Someone had to have sent that pigeon, but if not Grokko, then who?

"Ah, you got my message," croaked a deep, throaty voice. Kirrit spun around, almost falling off the beech. He had to crane his neck back to stare up into the amber-gold eyes of Okkaan Corr. "I was starting to think that pigeon got hit by one of the Bloodfeather brothers."

"You-- You wanted to see me, sir?" Kirrit asked, glancing back at Grokko. What the Shell was going on?

"Yes. I was thinking about our conversation the other day, and I realized that I forgot to tell you something."

"Forgot to tell me what? Sir." Okkaan Corr shrugged his three foot wings.

"I forgot again. It wasn't that important anyway." He turned and began wading upstream, vanishing into a stand of rushes and thistles growing at the water's edge.

"This is too bizarre," Kirrit muttered, launching himself into the sky. He'd tell Crikkit and Skifree first. They'd know what to do. Of course, all the Avians had to be warned, that's where the pigeons came in; no one spread news and gossip faster than a pigeon. A delegate would have to be sent to the Trumpeter, clear over in Virginia, to apprise him of this development, though shells to shards said he already knew. Those swans had an eerie knack for knowing when their times were up. The eagles, naturally, would have the most say in this--

"Bey you!" Kirrit glanced up as a shadow fell across him. "Gan you belp me? I'm loogig for a beron. A green beron named Groggo." Kirrit almost fell out of the sky. Above him circled a pigeon, her deformed beak flat, almost like a duck's bill, with a rather sorry looking squid clutched in her bright pink feet.

"He's down there," Kirrit said, pointing to Grokko's cove with the tip of one wing.

"Thangs a lot," the duck-faced pigeon replied, breaking out of her holding pattern and gliding toward the fallen beech.

"Hey, wait!" Kirrit called after her. "What'd you owe him the squid for?"

"I lost a bet," the pigeon called back.

"What sort of a bet?" But the pigeon was too far away to hear. Shaking his head, Kirrit let her go. It was probably better that he not know, anyway.