The Last Song

I will myself to remain cocooned within my inky black dreamscape, if only for one more rotation. But the sounds of the dawning of a new day, where there are no days, scratch at my consciousness and break the silence of the night.

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It is only in my dreams that I experience the freedom of my ancestors or see the beauty of the islands they called home, and I am loath to let them go. My dreams are my lifeline, they feed my soul and give me the strength to survive in a world that is not of my choosing.

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There was once five of us, spread throughout the metallic bird that keeps us captive. I’ve never seen them, but I could hear them. Their calls travelled to me through the open spaces, each distinct and unique to its source. Without the sun and moon to guide me, I have no sense of cycles, but their calls fell silent, one after the other, some time ago. Now there are only two of us.

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Loneliness is not common amongst my kind. We are solitary by nature. Preferring to keep to ourselves rather than travel as a pack. I’ve been far from home for so long, I no longer know any other way of being than this and I doubt I would know what to do if I had a companion. And yet, there is a stirring within me, an ache to know another. To be known.

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There must be more to me than who I am in this world.

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There must be more to life than this.

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There must be, more.

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From where this melancholy mood, this need to be seen has come from, I do not know. I do not welcome it. In fact, I fear it. It does me no good to want for something more, as I can see no way out of this life.

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There is no way home for me, for any of us.

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I hear him now, the other one, calling to me. From where, I do not know but the sound comforts me. I close my eyes and allow his song to smooth the rough edges of my mood, to awaken my own voice.

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Will he be waiting for my response, wanting to know he is not alone? Or has he adapted to this strange new existence better than me?  My leg pulls on the wire that tethers me, stopping me from floating freely throughout the ship. I fear a return to gravity. My wings are weak and brittle and may no longer have the strength to carry me.

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I shake my body. My yellow feathers flutter and fluff. Air passes over my syrinx and I open my beak. It is time to sing for my supper. To give the Collectors what they want, until they reach the next planet and capture new exhibits for their flying museum, until I’ve sung my last song.

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