– Felix
It was busy at the Chip N’ Swill. Felix had to wedge himself onto the end of a perch and hold his wings at half-mast for balance. He stared at the gull next to him tackling a tangle of live sandworms.
“Bumpy,” Alim said, one wing full with dirty plastics, the other full with an order of chips. “Don’t just sit there drooling over other birds’ food. Order something or make way for somebird who will!”
“You got a mid-week chip?”
Alim dropped a chip before him and stuck a foot out.
“Credit?” Felix asked. “I’m saving for debut. I want to buy Am—” he remembered Manfred’s warning. Surely it was only superstition? He decided not to risk it. “I want to buy my henling something nice.”
“I didn’t know you were dating?” Alim asked, scratching a new line past the halfway mark on Felix’s credit cup before moving off to pile stinking pieces of bait in front of a tern in exchange for pieces of coloured glass .
“She’s all I can think about,” Felix said, as though that explained everything. He nibbled on his chip and glanced again at the gull with the live worms, noticing for the first time he had a fledgling tucked up under his belly feathers.
He stared into space and tried to think what to get Amelia. What would she like? Maggots? Maybe. Lice? No, too common. Worms? No—that’s what she used to give him.
The youngster was crying. Felix leaned over, pulled a funny face to make it smile, when its father chose that exact moment to sick up a mix of chip and sausage and spit for his chick. The mix splashed everywhere.
Felix gritted his beak, licked sick off his chip, and moved to the other end of the perch.
“Felix!” It was Huma, calling from the other end of the log. She was struggling to carry a paddle-pop-stickful of stunned green ants; a bottletop filled with warm, sticky, energy drink; and the largest chip Felix had ever seen. “Do you know what day it is today?”
“Friday,” Felix replied helpfully as Huma placed the entire order in front of a small sandpiper.
“Oh good. So you do know.” She called back, marking off the sandpiper’s credit cup. “We’ve got the lunch crowd here,” she spread her wings wide to indicate the gulls, terns, oystercatchers and sandpipers packed along the perch, “and as soon as they’re done, we’ve got deliveries again.”
“Ok. You don’t have to make it sound like I’m not wanted.”
He was still nibbling the chip when only a wingful of lunchtime customers remained.
“I’m fascinated,” Alim stopped washing plastics to look up. “You’ve made it last all afternoon.”
Felix gave it another cursory nibble and tried not to look hurt.
“No really. A single chip. You bought that, when, at lunch?”
“Okay, that’s it, I give up,” Huma said. “What’s up, Felix?”
“I’ll bet he’s trying to think of a graduation present,” Alim said.
“What?” Huma flew-hopped to the log-top. “You mean to tell me the big migration’s actually off?! I must know who this mystery henling is immediately!”
Felix sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand, Huma, but there comes a time in a cock’s life when he needs to think about the future.”
“I’m trying not to laugh,” Alim said.
“I’m trying not to be insulted,” Huma said. “What wouldn’t you expect me to understand?”
“You see?” Felix said, as though his point was obvious.
“Look, Bumpy,” Huma started. “Don’t you think this is all a bit…” She glanced at the remaining customers. “Never mind. So what are you thinking of getting her?”
“Don’t let my friends stop you,” Felix waved a wing at the pair of oystercatchers he didn’t know and the father gull, who was currently sicking up dessert. “Tell me what you were going to say.”
“I was going to say this is all a bit sudden. All your life you’ve had your heart set on migrating, and now one little henling’s—what, looked twice at you?—and it’s all off. And you seem to have forgotten it’s we hens who do the choosing. What if she doesn’t choose you?”
“Oh she already has. We went on date day last week. We talked. Ate lunch. All sorts of stuff. You should have seen us.”
“Errr…” Huma started.
“So,” Alim cut her off. “What are you going to get her, Bumpy?”
“I don’t know. Any ideas?”
“Well…henlings always like nice jewellery, don’t they Huma?”
“Perfect,” she said. “Why don’t you head over to le marché and get her a nice ankle ring.”
“Nah,” Felix dismissed the idea. “Too common. I want to get her something nobird else would think of.”
“Bumpy,” Huma said, and she seemed sad. “If I was you—” she stopped suddenly before starting again brightly. “I guess I’d start with something simple and from the heart. Give it to her and see how she reacts. If she doesn’t love what you love, she’s not the right henling for you anyway.”
Felix stared at her. From the heart? What was that supposed to mean? From his heart or hers? What did it mean that she might not be right henling?
“Hello?” Huma waved a wing at him. “Earth to Bumpy?”
“Nothing but crickets,” Alim grinned.
“Of course!” Felix slapped the logtop. “That’s a great idea! I know exactly where to find some. And some late summer honey. Thanks, Alim. You’re the best.”
Felix stopped mid-bob, cocking his head to listen. There it was again. Over there, in the undergrowth. He uncurled a single claw from the ground, careful not to make a sound. One by one his other claws uncurled, until his whole foot was off the ground. He moved the airborne foot forward, a micrometer at a time, until one claw brushed the ground in front of him, then the next, and finally the third. He shifted his weight and repeated the process with his other foot, stopping to re-triangulate whenever the crickets rubbed their legs in their strident song. It was a painstakingly slow process.
Almost there, almost there—stab; and the cricket was his, neatly spiked on his beak, still twitching.
The sun was still high in the sky when he found the last of a round dozen. Carefree in the summer heat, he flew the long flight out to a stand of flowering yellowbox—stopping only to collect a tiny fish-shaped plastic bottle—his flight never wavering once as he dreamed of how much Amelia would love this present.
And it was still only early afternoon when, a bottleful of gathered nectar later, he flew the storm-drain-circuit to find the right sized wrapping box. The crickets wriggled in his cock-purse as he found and discarded box after box. A clean, undamaged burger box made his gift look small inside. A bright red and yellow food box with a big golden M on it gave him an idea. After spending more time on the box than the crickets and honey combined he was almost ready to give up when he found exactly the right one: an undamaged box with a red and blue trim and a big fancy
He packed the still-twitching crickets and drizzled the honey, rubbing the sticky substance into their legs and wings to keep them still, while the sun drifted to the western treeline. It wasn’t perfect (a sprig of beach rosemary in flower would have been a nice touch, and some fruitfly maggots would have complemented the dish perfectly) but it was good enough. He gripped the box in his feet and flew as fast as he could to her tree.
After a rough landing (his head and pygostyle were going to hurt for days, but at least the box was salvageable) he checked on his crickets, drew a deep breath to steady his nerves, and called out through the front bolehole.
“Hello?”
When nobird replied, he stuck his head inside. A cool pool of air embraced him.
“Amelia?”
Maybe he should just leave the box and go; the crickets would stay alive in this cool, and if he wasn’t there when she came home she wouldn’t feel she had to share them with him; she could enjoy them all to herself.
Decision made, he flew to the middle of the kitchen, put the box on top of her mother’s worm-farm, and flew outside again, whistling to himself.
Evolution: it's for the birds 