– Bobbi
Bobbi circled the canopy, waiting for her clearance to land. When the last of a long line of henlings and messenger pigeons took off, dispersing towards the testing grounds, the first blasts of heat and light from an orange summer sun had finally stabbed the sky. It was going to be a long, hot, sticky day.
Three different flight path choices appeared in her vision. She accepted one and joined the downwind approach. A couple more turns and she was on short finals, the bolehole looming before her. Stretching out her claws she was finally waved in.
“Where have you been?!” Amelia was a mess. As Bobbi watched, a feather dislodged on her shoulder.
“It’s all sorted,” she replied soothingly. “Huma can change. Pancho’s doing a flyover at the Northern grounds.”
“Great. Can you do the interviews?” Amelia waved towards a pair of cockatoos a level below them. “I’ve got the Southern speech to rehearse,” she continued. “Pigeons have gone out to all the teachers. You’ve got about three degrees to bring the Connection up to speed.”
Bobbi automatically glanced out to see the sun even though the angle was wrong from here. It didn’t matter. Three degrees wasn’t long. She flew-hopped down the hollow trunk.
“You must be Bobbi,” the cockatoo pair greeted her. “I’m Chipper.”
“And I’m Peabody. So what’s the sequence—Northern first?”
“No,” Bobbi said. “Since the wind decided to be a westerly, we’ll go Southern, Western, Northern. Eastern last, of course.”
“Can you tell us why Amelia’s so stressed?” Chipper added.
Good question, thought Bobbi. “Well,” she thought quickly and came up with something that was probably true enough. “We’ve had to change where to have lunch. I’ve just sorted that out with Huma. Lunch will be with the Western Melody. That will put beaks out of joint because they’re the richest and we’ll be accused of favouritism. Also, our last-minute inspections are up in the air—literally and figuratively: Pancho’s doing a flyover of the Northern classes and will make a go/no-go decision from a thousand feet up. I’ve just done the same for Southern, and Harriet for Western.” And we can’t find Amy, she added to herself.
“We heard on the pigeon seedmill that Southern won’t do their speech?” Chipper said. “Stayce, isn’t it?”
“Stayce, yes. It’s ok, Amelia’s doing it for her.”
A huge squawking from a native miner flock indicated time was up. Bobbi and the reporters joined the exodus of henlings.
Amelia complained the whole way. “This westerly’s stronger than the storm chasers said,” she said, in her latest tirade. “I’m detecting a .0008 percent increase in dust in the air already. Are my sensors off?”
“I’m reading the same,” Bobbi agreed. “This could get bad.”
“That’s nothing,” Peabody scoffed. “I can think of at least a clawful of dust storms that blacked out the sky in my lifetime. My left nostril was mud-caked in the last one. I swear I’m still finding red dust in my bolehole.”
“Well, for us smaller birds,” Bobbi explained, “.0010 is enough for us to constantly rework the maths. Even the constants need constant checking,” she joked.
“Uh-oh,” Amelia said, pointing ahead. They’d arrived at the testing grounds. Hundreds of henlings perched and gossiped on powerlines, fenceposts and branches. Every log and rock was occupied by pigeons, miners, and sparrows. It was absolute chaos theory.
Amelia and Bobbi hung back while their cloud of henlings followed Chipper and Peabody straight to the action.
“I can’t do this,” Amelia said.
“Why not?” Bobbi asked.
“Look at it. The testing ground barely meets requirements. Look at those runes! You call that properly arranged? And where’s the visitor’s bird-bath?”
“The what?”
“And these hawking seagulls, wandering around wherever they please, screeching their wares and begging for chips.”
But Stayce was suddenly upon them. “Bobbi, Amelia!” She greeted them with a double airbeak.
“Stayce,” Amelia managed. “Nice, errr…” she looked around. “Runes.”
“Yes,” Bobbi agreed. “I like… errr…” she struggled, “…the way they’re all sorted by colour,” she blurted. All three heads turned to look at the runes. The sun had bleached them white and brittle. If they’d ever been coloured it was impossible to tell now.
Stayce recovered first. “Amelia, thank you for coming. It’s an honour for you to come and speak to us. Would you like to get the testing underway?”
Amelia delivered a short speech, something about being honoured and flattered, before flying to the first nest. “Nice, nice…” she muttered, racing to the second.
“What’s your hurry?” Bobbi whispered to Amelia.
“I’m not hurrying,” Amelia said as she flew out of the third, a side-eye to the sun. She flew straight through the fourth and didn’t even stop at the fifth.
In no time at all the inspections were over. But the henlings didn’t seem to mind—they left their perches in droves, flocking to inspect the nests for themselves, squawking with delight and joy, tearing apart the nests they didn’t approve of.
“So,” Chipper said to Amelia. “You’re the head judge—tell us what you think.”
“Yeah,” Amelia replied. “They were good. That first one was roomy, airy,” she turned to face Bobbi, “don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Bobbi agreed. “What a fantastic feather lining. And quite a few had really good light. It’s been a really pleasant time and I think we’ve made some new friends for life, right Amelia?”
“Yes,” Amelia agreed, wiggling her glittering toe.
Evolution: it's for the birds 