Grandfather

Grandfather used to tell me stories about guardians and guides that would help weary travelers find their way back home. His favorite was the story of the red macaw. Our people honored the beautiful bird, and our elders would say it was because of the avian with the bright colored feathers that we became the Summer People. I could recite every story with perfect detail, but the tales did not inspire me as my family did. Their faith made even the most challenging situations become fruitful lessons.

Right now, I wish I had their faith.

I am lost in the jungle. My brothers and I had set off into the wilderness to hunt for wild game. Finally, of age, I was excited to join them in bringing meat home to feed our family and the people in our village. Picking up on the tracks of a wild boar, we found the beast grazing a short distance away. In hushed voices, they told me of their strategy of how we would corner our prey. We had practiced this strategy in mock scenarios on numerous occasions, but I was exceptionally eager to execute it for real. Quietly, we moved into formation. I took my time creeping. Like my brothers had taught me, I ensured that no twig or shuffle of rock would give away my position. Although I was sure my racing heartbeat would give me away, I slowed my breathing and felt a successful capture just within reach. It would just require patience and tact.

One by one, we each reached our position around the prey. On occasion, the boar would read his head, listen and then return to his grazing. My eldest brother was about to give the signal to pounce, but our efforts would be in vain. A young jaguar descended upon our prey. My brothers called for a retreat and ran from the giant cat. However, the boar and I sprinted off in the opposite direction. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me despite the sharp pains building in my chest. The jaguar caught up with the boar and pounced. A tussle of snarls and squeals filled the air. I did not look back but willed my body to move faster. Stopping at the nearest tree, I made short work of climbing the trunk. Finding safety in a tree when pursued by a predator is a gamble: It could always follow you into the tree. But I was quickly losing momentum, and I took the chance. By the time I reached the upper branches, quiet had descended once more. I focused on my breathing. Soft paws upon the earth alerted me I was no longer alone. Jaguar pranced by with his prize in his jowls. He paid me no mind and continued to carry his meal off out of sight.

The tree, while saving me from predators below, did not have any fruit on it. Still terrified from my failed hunting excursion, I refused to leave the safe branches. As night fell, I became hungry for the first time. But, as I listened to the nocturnal beasts begin to stalk the jungle floor, fear overrode hunger once more. By morning, I was fatigued from lack of sleep and ravenous with hunger. I knew I had to find something to sustain me while I found my way back home. As I stretched and began to shift my body to climb down, my palm grazed something soft. There, a single macaw feather had been left on the tree branch. I picked up the feather and held it between my fingers, marveling at the rich colors.

Yellow.

Green.

Blue.

Red.

Something in the colors reminded me of grandfather. Once, as a small child, he had followed a macaw home when he had lost his way from his mother. He remembered the stories of his aunt, who would tell him Macaws lived in the south, just like their village. The story always unfolded into an elaborate fairytale, much of which I didn’t entirely believe happened, but the notion of following it home didn’t seem altogether strange. Or maybe, the realization of having limited options gave no other strategy. Either way, I looked towards the direction I had discovered the feather, carefully made my way down the tree, and started hiking in that direction.

Fortunately enough, I discovered a fruit-bearing tree. I made short work of climbing up the tree and gorged on the fruit. The fruit felt divine as I chewed through the flesh and filled my aching belly. I ate and ate as if I would never be satiated or ever know the joys of food again. This proved to be another downfall. As I devoured another fruit and then another, the ache in my belly went from hunger to overindulgence. Despite my extended stomach, I managed to climb down the tree and waddled to the nearby river. I drank my fill and lay upon the bank. Fed and hydrated, the last night’s exhaustion lulled my senses. I knew I needed to get up and either find shelter or keep making my way home, but my eyes fluttered, and I sank into sleep.

Grandfather stood before me once more, as young and healthy as I remembered from my youth. He chuckled down at me and held out his hand to help me to my feet. He scolded me playfully.

“What have I always told you, child? Follow the Macaw when you are lost. Macaw will take you home.”

I sighed and spoke to disregard his folklore, but grandfather had dissolved into a macaw and flew away.

My eyes sprang open. The dream intoxicated my senses a bit longer, and it took me a moment to register a tickling sensation on my forehead. Groggily, I reached and withdrew a macaw feather from my hair. I turned it between my fingers and felt the reel of living this moment just before.

Yellow.

Green.

Blue.

Red.

Movement brought me back to my senses, and I stared up into the nearest tree. There, a beautiful and large macaw sat pruning its feathers. As I gazed at it, it looked at me. For a pause, we held each other’s gazes before it squawked. Over and over, it spoke. I felt myself stand and move towards the bird. As I approached, it fell silent but ruffled its feathers. When I was near enough, it watched me with such intensity before squawking and flying off. Compelled, I ran after it. Through the jungle, I ran furiously, desperate to keep up with the flying bird. On occasion, it would look down upon me and give another squawk. I did not know how, but I knew it wanted me to follow it. And I willingly chased it through the trees. I ran for what felt like miles. But just as I began to choose to slow, I saw it: huts in the distance. It was the roofs of my village. Pure joy filled me, and my energy was replenished. I had made it home.

“Thank you, grandfather.”