Date Night

– Manfred

Manfred turned away from the bolehole and paced back to the sliver of glass hanging on his nestroom wall. He checked his reflection one more time. Lucky he did, too—wasn’t that neck feather a little crooked? He adjusted it before pacing back to the bolehole and checking the sun. 19° 36′ 00” on the dot. Only four more seconds of arc to go.

Maybe she wasn’t coming? Maybe it was all some silly game henlings love to play? He thought back to their meeting. Surely his landing was full points? His mind replayed her amazing voice; cultured, classy; so unexpected for a henling from the eastern melody. She’d make an excellent provider for their offspring—he stopped mid-pace, feeling his wings rise in blush, checked his emotions. He couldn’t risk the pain of getting ahead of himself again.

It’s only a practice date, he reminded himself, heading to the glass for another quick preen. He looked at his reflection one last time—again—and paced back to the bolehole. He checked the sun again. 19° 36′ 03” already.

She’s not coming. The sun slid down the sky, the final arc-second passed, and the first of the magpie choirs sounded call for quarters: that was Macdonald, right on time as usual.

He tried not to feel let down.

I could do with an early night anyway, he told himself, heading back to his nest. He climbed in, and had the feather-lined straw just right when he heard a tap on the tree. He jumped up, raced to check himself in the glass again, and forced himself to slow down to a regal stroll towards the bolehole.

There was a pelican standing at the end of his branch. “Manfred Magenta?” It asked.

He opened his beak to reply but something was wrong with his voice. He nodded instead. The pelican stretched out a huge wing, its long, graceful primaries ending at his doorstop. Amelia appeared at the top of the wing and smiled. She slid down, feet first, and seemingly defied gravity to land gracefully on her feet, take his primaries in hers, and kiss them in greeting.

Manfred almost giggled. He said the first charming thing that sprung to mind: ‘my, what wonderfully glossy, black feathers you have.’

“All the better to fly with,” she said with a flutter of her nictitating eyelids. “This is for you.” She winged him a pretty box. He took it from her and pulled at the orange twine.

“Is this whipper-snipper twine? Do you know how hard this colour is to find?!” He opened the box carefully. It was filled with little grass-lined eggshells packed in straw. Each shell was from a different bird, and each one contained a different thing—new out-of-season blueberries in one, sunflower seeds in another, sesame seeds—

Sesame, he thought. Good for eggshell strength. She likes me.

—another one filled with chip crumbs, two with lilly-pillies—one with pink the other with purple. And at the heart of it all was a delectable piece of rotting roadkill—maybe possum by the smell of it? Definitely mammal anyway.

“Ooooh, Amelia!” he gushed. “Look at these delicacies! These will make the best dinner ever!”

“No,” she replied with a smile. “It won’t. For I’m taking you out to dinner tonight.”

Once again lost for words, he put the box in his room, glanced one more time in the glass, and allowed Amelia to escort him to the pelican service. By the time he boarded, his breathing had calmed, his suave decorum had returned, and he was aware of his surroundings again.

“A howdah!” He exclaimed as Amelia joined him in the lacy pillion strapped on the pelican’s back. His mother and sisters flew them all the time but he’d not been allowed to since he’d fledged. “It’s so delicate. And the same white as the pelican. I didn’t notice it when she landed.”

“Welcome aboard,” the pelican said. Manfred didn’t recognize her; she wasn’t on his mother’s staff. “My name is Daphne. Please enjoy your flight. We’ll be airborne in approximately ten seconds for a flying time of precisely fifteen minutes. If you care to look just to the left of our heading you’ll see Blackbutt Reserve in the distance” —both mudlarks gave an evolutionary shiver at the thought of all the predators— “but don’t worry,” Daphne continued. “We’re not going into raptor territory.”

“So where are we going?” He asked, once again feeling short of breath. Amelia smiled and Daphne didn’t answer. As Daphne took off, Manfred crossed his primaries and hoped Amelia was taking him to Maxim’s de Borealis—he knew where it was as surely as magnetite points 11.8 degrees east of true north—because if they were then she was definitely the one. He’d do anything to be her mate. At first, he watched the land move underneath them, far more majestically than when it did so under his own power—but soon found himself watching the horizons instead. The sky was pastel pink over the ocean and liquid gold over the bush; washed out in sticky salt air in one direction, as clear and crisp as a winter’s day in the other.

As light finally disappeared from the sky, Daphne began her final approach. A frisson of excitement tickled Manfred’s feathers. “Maxim’s,” he breathed. Still, it was way sooner than he would have liked when the flight ended and Daphne delivered them to an inconspicuous branch.

They slid off Daphne’s wing and Amelia gave the pelican a huge footful of shiny currency.

“I’ll be at the parking pond,” Daphne said, the branch bouncing as she departed.

Manfred almost stopped at the threshold in front of him. He could tell by the smile Amelia gave him that she thought he was awestruck, and in a way, he was: the inside of the tree was panelled with rich, warm oak; gold fleur-de-lis designs and mosaicked stained glass windows; an exquisitely beautiful mosaic leaf-patterned ceiling. Moonlight flowed through the stained glass and glowed on the tables.

But it was Amelia he admired. She was completely at ease as she held out a wing to escort him across the room and sweep up the extravagant staircase at the back of the tree. He was breathless again—and sweaty—when they reached the top to be greeted by an immaculate black and white currawong. He felt the usual moment of alarm, and stress hormones swept all other thoughts from his mind, but the currawong was one of those evolved ones, with the funny beak.

“Madam,” the currawong bowed. Manfred couldn’t think what they called themselves—Contrempes? Continentals? Incontinents? He watched as the currawong took Amelia’s wingtip to her beak for a grooming, “and monsieur,” she cast her yellow stare briefly on Manfred before turning to usher them. “Your table is right this way.”

This time Manfred gasped: Amelia had reserved them a private roomlet. The currawong swung a luxurious branch of melaleuca for them to perch on, poured them a warm stale beer each, and left. Amelia smiled at him.

The night was a blur of food and drink. He tried to keep track of it all, but there were too many courses. All the foods he’d heard his mother and sisters talk about. There was pizza crust; hard and stale, with a scrap of tomato paste on it; he’d remember that delicacy for the rest of his life. Somewhere along the food journey he tried kebab. And then there was dessert. A slightly-squashed marshmallow, sun-baked, with a lovely crisp finish and molten inside. He was still savouring the last taste of it when Amelia tossed an extravagant wingful of shining beetle carapaces on the table and stood to draw out his perch. “I should get you home before it’s too late even for Daphne to fly.”

When Daphne dropped him onto his home branch, Manfred gave her a box: green, with the ape words ‘hot apple pie’ splayed across it.

“Oh I couldn’t eat another thing!” She protested.

“Good,” he told her. “Because that’s just the wrapping.”

She opened it. And he could see by the glow in her eyes she was lost for words. She held up the most beautiful yellow milk-ring he’d been able to buy with his mother’s wealth.

Later, as he lay snuggled in his feather-lined nest, he pictured her wiggling her toe and looking at it.