Bird and the Werm

He opened his eyes, blinking the world into view. Turning this way and that to take it all in. He stretched his wings and chirped to his neighbors. What few stirred told of a golden dawn and an open sky, perfect for the hunt. He fastened his trappings and prepped his feathers. He hopped to the edge of his perch and looked to the silvery slice of light peeking over the horizon. A new mist hovered above the ground and a new wind whispered through the leaves. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and fell from his high branch. Falling through the air he twisted and spun. The ground burst through the morning mist and shot up to meet him. He spread his wings and let the air pull him up, and up and up, until he leveled out. He flapped his wings and pushed higher and higher into the treetops. He bobbed and weaved through twigs and branches, and shot through leaves like a bullet. He burst through the canopy and fluttered above the sea of green that stretched on and on into the breaking dawn. He looked down on his home and had a strange thought before focusing on the journey ahead. He couldn't entertain such thoughts, he was the early bird afterall. He flew through wisps of cloud and watched the green sea transform below into the brown lands. A wide open land sparsely littered with thin gray trees that scraped the sky with thin twisted fingers and thorny bushes that grew as wide as a tree top. And with its muddy ground and deep puddles this was fertile ground for the hunt.

He soared about the sky to find a good landing position below. He was excited to see that he was the only bird in the sky or on the grounds. The first. The earliest. His feathers raised a little in pride at that and he started to slow to begin his descent. He landed in a particularly large thorn bush and laid out his tools on a dry patch of fissured earth at the base of the bush. He was putting his spear together when something in the corner of his eye grabbed his attention. A dry, mummified mouse lay against the twisted roots of the bush reaching out to the empty air. He took a moment to look at the body. He wondered at the mouse, wondered what it was reaching for. He followed its reaching fingers with his eyes and saw a small nest tucked in the lower branches of the bush. Curiosity overtook him. He hopped over and fluttered up into the nest. It was empty. All except for a single dull, black feather. He picked at it then flipped it and saw its fluorescent underside. It was so colorful it scared him at first. He half expected it might blind him or be a trap of some kind. But another moment passed and nothing happened. He blinked, enraptured with its beauty he decided it would come with him. Could be good luck. He swept it into his beak and tied it onto his back with a bit of leaf hemp he had on his belt. When he re-emerged into the open, the sun hung low in the sky and a crow was poking about in the mud. No doubt for his catch. So he quickly snatched up his spear to flutter to the open mud.

He twittered angrily at the crow. The black bird ignored him. He twittered some more. The crow cawed its dismissal of the tweet and continued poking about, never bringing those yellow eyes off the muddy ground. Offended, he flew a few flutters away to another spot. That crow was prodding the wrong spot anyway, this mud patch was where he needed to be. He began his toil shooting harsh and sharp glances at the black bird. The crow did not notice. While he was pushing his stick deep into the mud and swiveling it around he noticed a shadow emerge from behind. He jumped, dropping his spear. It was the crow, standing, staring with his beak hanging open. He wondered what the black bird was staring at. Obviously him but wha- the crow nodded to the feather. He pulled it around to his front to look at it clearly. The colorful side was exposed and in the light it was quite beautiful. The crow cawed. He tweeted his response. The crow pulled up a satchel from under his wings and showed its shiny wares. Curious, he pushed his neck out, better to see what all was in the sack. Pretty stones, colorful buttons, bright strings, glistening beetles, in truth a wad of useless junk. The black bird pushed through most of it, shuffling the tangled mass about in the big satchel. The black bird ruffled his feathers and pulled out a small iridescent orb that glistened and winked in the pale morning light. As he looked into it, he felt as if he was pulled into a deep gust of wind. Twirling and swirling in a flood of color and mute sound. He blinked. The world came back to him. The crow looked sure of the trade and ca-cawed its pleasure. He thought it over, longer than expected but decided a bauble like that was more dangerous than useful so he declined with a tweet. And with a shuffle and flurry of feathers, he hopped back to the spot where his spear lay pressed in the mud. The crow squawked its incredulity but didn't seem disappointed. He left it there to stare into the orb squawking and cooing softly to itself.

Some time passed and the mud was beginning to dry and crack under the heat of the rising sun. He had to find it soon or else he would go home empty taloned. He poked around under the thin shade of a grey withered tree when something pricked at his senses to look up. There, against the greying sky, perched on the only branch of the old tree, sat a massive holy bird. He bowed deeply to the bald necked holy one. A long and deep “reeeeeh” came from its curved beak. He didn't understand what it meant. So he tweeted a question. A raspy “arrrgh” gurgled from its naked throat as it shifted its weight on the branch and stretched its massive wingspan to eclipse the sun. He understood. But he could not leave no matter the danger. He was the early bird afterall. The holy bird's cold eyes shot to the feather on his back and another long “reeeh” broke the silence. It bowed to him before it smoothed its white collar against its black feathered body and jumped from the limb, sweeping over him in a gust. His eyes followed the holy bird clear over the empty blue sky as a boom of thunder sounded in the not so distant sky and moisture filled the air. He watched the bird disappear into the horizon and his eyes fell back to the ground where he saw a small lump in the mud. He hopped over. It was a satchel. The crow's satchel, he realized. He swiveled his head all around and saw a bush here and a tree there but no sign of the black bird. He picked up the satchel and shook it. Beetles, string, and other junk fell and plopped in the mud. He wondered about the orb as he slung the empty satchel under his wing and hopped away from the pile of crow junk. Then a drop of rain fell to the ground, then another and another and soon he was toiling in the downpour.

He could see the heads of small soft s wriggle about in the mud as it got thicker and harder for him to walk in. They would be easy prey and soon his thin toes would be packed with muck but he pressed on, there were bigger s to catch. He poked down this hole and swirled around that puddle until his spear caught on something, it was a ball of s. Wrapped all about each other, he picked up the mass and wiped the s and grime from its surface and was swallowed into that mesmerizing glint and flicker of the orb. He could not pull himself away. Somewhere he heard the splat of something hitting soft, gritty mud. But here the flashing colors kept him warm and all of his birdly troubles seemed to wash away like dirt in a stream. Until. A rumble snapped him out of it. The rain was coming down hard now and the doughy mud was turning to soup beneath his feet. He snapped his head around, turning this way and that but there was no sign. He listened, but all he heard was the heavy rains. It must've- it was happening again. He put the orb in his satchel. A deep earth churning groan shook through his hollow bones and a cacophony of muffled tearing and snapping roots sent jolts through his feathers. The sound was getting louder and louder as a dark mound slowly erupted from the mud in front of him. He was dead still and he dare not move. Two stalks flipped up on top of the mound. One then the other. They were eyes. Werm eyes. Deep black pools of savage hunger were staring at him. His heart was pounding, the mound was three of him wide, and just as high. Large enough to eat him whole. He thought about flying away but the mud and rain would slow him and the commotion might get him eaten, so he dare not move. The stalk eyes were searching now, no doubt trying to discern him from the muddy background. Luckily werms have terrible vision but their other senses are beyond belief.

Fear broke his eyeline from the stalks down to his talons, they had been swallowed by the mud but there he saw his spear. He flicked his eyes back up to the werm. The stalks were moving left and right scanning the area. The muddy mound began to descend, sifting back and forth through the mud and the stalks soon sunk out of sight. When rumbling sounded distant enough he took three deep breaths and snatched up the spear. Already, he could hear the deep horrible rumble below growing. He drove the spear down into the mud and with all of his might pushed against it until one foot was wretched free with a sucking "thwoop". The rumble was getting much louder, he was pulling, pulling, pulling until with a second "thwoop" he was free. He flapped hard but the rain was heavy and his feet were covered in thick muck. He hopped, skipped and fluttered, trying to get away from the swell of wet earth and the growing growl that was right below him now. In his haste he slipped and fell into a pool of dark, muddy water with a flat “plat”. He only sunk as he kicked and reached wildly but there was no ground to gain in that muck. His world turned to black, cold, grit when suddenly his leg was crushed by some great force. Short of breath and panicked he inhaled and the dark slurry filled his lungs. His leg had been released but pain remained as he was being forced up, up through the mud and into the air by something hard that knocked his lungs clear. He gawked for air and scrabbled, clinging to whatever he could. His eyes were closed but he could feel the rain and air smash against his face, he was ascending; then that familiar drop tugged at his gut. He opened his eyes to see the muddy ground rushing up to meet him. He let go and pushed away from the mass and expanded his muddy wings to slow his fall. The 's massive body plummeted past him. It's small rear legs scrambled for purchase all while it's segments writhed. The crashed with a sickening crunch! He splatted flat into muddy ground and as he tried to rise his leg was engulfed in an electric pain. He fell to one knee and felt something pressing against his wing. He found that his spear was still on him, tangled around the crow's satchel strap. He untangled the spear, pulled it up and saw that the was turned around staring at him fully exposed. Row after row of razor teeth sharp as spear heads littered the gaping maw of the . One huge claw like forearm was hunched close to the body and ended like a shovel. But the other claw dangled sickeningly from sinew. A series of cracks emanated from a large indentation on the forehead between the eye stalks that were angled down upon him and he knew they saw him clearly now.

He rose to circle the great , his spear out stretched. His leg was on fire but he circled the as it rumbled and growled but this time his muddy feathers were unruffled and his hollow bones were unshaken. It slammed and drug its functional claw around the muck, flinging black speckles as it raged. He saw it was hurt and couldn't dig and it never made a move forward but stood its ground. He tested it stabbing at the 's hard carapace circling his foe all the while. It snapped at him and smashed its claw into the mud in rage as it missed. He jabbed the spear down a crack in the broken claw. In and out, dodge, in and out, in and out, duck! He was behind the as it writhed in pain and the long pink tail whipped and caught him full in the chest. Knocking him off his feet and a good distance away. He sloshed around in the mud trying to get his bearings. He wiped the mud from his eyes and saw the charging him, mouth wide. The rain had stopped and the sky was a grey mist. He was tired and didn't know if he could muster any more strength when he saw, caught among the sharp white teeth lay black feathers. The feathers gave him an idea and while he was too weak to do much more fighting he could do this. He reached into the crow's satchel, grabbed it and pushed the orb into the air. He dared not look into it but held it aloft and saw those black stalks gloss and lose focus. It stopped its furious charge, it slid forward just in front of him then was rooted. The scent of earth and death seeped from the gaping maw. He lowered the stone to the mud and watched the black stalks, they remained locked on it. He limped feebly over to his spear and picked it up. He climbed up the 's back and stood between its eyes and drove the end of his spear down through the cracked indentation on the 's head and it broke like a fresh egg.

A deep purple substance began to pool up from inside. The stalks dropped slowly, resisting here and there but fell forward all the same as if to sleep. He slid down the 's front and settled himself against the hard carapace. His breath rattled in his chest and his leg throbbed dully. He looked down at his chest, at the feather he found. A ray of sun burst through the grey sky above and shined on his charm of luck. It looked more dull to his eyes now but just as beautiful. He tweeted his gratitude, untied it and let a sudden gust of wind carry it away. He pushed himself up with his spear and began to gather the three sharpest teeth from the . He hobbled around the back end of the and sliced off the rounded soft, pink tail and packed it all up in the satchel. He fluttered raggedly away until he caught the wind. He looked toward the horizon, toward home and tweeted his satisfaction into the mid morning horizon.