The Scarlet Macaw

I don’t see it until it’s too late. I trip, lurching forward. Staggering a few steps, I fight to keep myself upright. Me and my cargo.

“Damnit,” I hiss. My ankle, wrenched free from the root I hadn’t seen, throbs painfully. I drop to my knees in the dust and crouch a moment, willing my racing heart to slow. My head feels woozy, and light.

I can feel Dad’s gaze on my back. “You always walk so fast,” he observes, “it’s a miracle you don’t trip more often.”

“People walk fast in the city, Dad,” I respond, a little more shortly than I intend. I’m still breathless. I grasp the pack strapped to my chest, fingers searching across the fabric. No rips, no tears, nothing broken.

Nothing broken. Breathe. Calm down.

Dad is silent, letting me catch my breath. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he eventually muses, “always rushing to get places, never taking time to appreciate the moment."

My ankle hurts, and I’m in no mood for a life lesson. “And what moment would that be?” I snap before I can stop myself, “this glorious one we’re currently having?”

“Marie,” Dad’s tone is a reprimand.

I feel my face warm. Even at this age, a chide from my father makes me feel like a child. But I know I deserved that. To snap at him on this trek, of all treks…

I will not ruin this trip, not this one.

I clamber to my feet. “Sorry, Dad,” I murmur. “You’re right. Let’s go, we have a lot of ground to cover.”

We set off again, striding through the undergrowth. The path we’re trailing is overgrown, a tangle of bushes and shrubbery obscuring a narrow dirt track. I find I’m frequently defending myself from overgrown vines and branches, reaching and tangling across the way. I think of a few choice remarks about this, but hold my tongue.

We walk on for the better part of the afternoon in silence, but it’s peaceful, pleasant. Our marching strides match evenly, as they always did. Years of hiking together put us in a perfect rhythm; it’s second nature to fall back into it. Even after so long.

Later that night, we sit around a small campfire, listening to the soft crackle and snap of the burning branches. I stretch out lazily, feeling my muscles lengthen. It feels wonderful after three days of trekking with the heavy pack.

Dad hums absently, gazing into the dancing flames. I watch him for a while, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes.

“One more day?” I ask.

His eyes snap to me. “Less than a day,” he responds. There’s a touch of excitement in his voice at the prospect. “So soon Marie, we’ll be back in La Mosquitia.”

“When was the last time you were home, Dad?” I ask, as if I don’t know the answer.

“Twenty eight years ago.”

“Tell me again, about the village. About your birds.”

Dad seems lost in his thoughts for a moment. He does that a lot. It used to infuriate me, but now I just watch in silence. My heart swells, as I look at him, my father, sitting so comfortably beside the campfire in the wilderness. Being in the wild is so familiar to him.

“Your mother and I,” he begins, “we both came from a small village, in La Mosquitia. We met young, and I knew she was the one for me. We met doing conservation work, you know. We were both trying to help save our birds.”

“The Scarlet Macaws.” I know this part by heart.

“The Scarlet Macaws,” he smiles at the memory, the firelight casting a warm, golden flow across his face.

“You should have seen them, Marie,” he breathes. “All of those birds, our birds. The most beautiful creatures. They were native to our area. Our village had the tallest trees, and they made their nests up there, high up in the treetops. We used to sit and watch them, and when their eggs hatched we used to bet who would be the first one to see the baby Macaws fly. Somehow your mother always won those bets” A soft, loving laugh.

Then his voice falters, catching, “there used to be so many.”

“Poachers,” I know this part too.

“Yes, poachers. Stealing our native birds, selling them to people as pets.” He draws in a deep breath. The firelight in his eyes flickers, an angry flame now. “They used to fly all around us. Hundreds of them. But when your mother and I left our village there were only 27 left. I counted them all.” His tone has changed from wistful to unbearably sad. I can’t stand it.

I shuffle along the fireside, to sit by him. Like I did as a child, I lean against his leg. “We’ll count them again when we see them tomorrow.”

He smiles down at me. “I’m so proud of you, cariño,” he says. “For making this trip with me. You don’t know how much it means. To me, and to your mother. She would have been so proud of you, if she could see this.”

Is it possible for your heart to burst with love, and shatter into a million pieces at the same time?

“This is important, Da. Of course I’m here.”

We speak no more than night. I fall asleep cradling the pack to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around my precious package.

I’m up with the sun the next day, packing up our camp. I take my time this morning, reluctant to miss a single passing minute. This has all gone so fast. I hoist up my pack, and pause a moment, fingers gently brushing the rough fabric. After today, there’s no going back.

Across the campsite, I feel Dad smile at me. “Let’s go, cariño.”

It’s a warm, pleasant day and the hours pass far too fast. As we walk we talk, we laugh, and we reminisce. That time mom caught me trying to open the neighbour's presents at her sixth birthday party, the time I fell off my cousin’s pony after insisting I could ride, the time I was 17 and came home believing I could fake being sober for my parents.

“You could barely stand straight!” Dad is in stitches at the memory, “and you looked us straight in the eye and said all you drank was water!”

“In my defence,” I argue, “I genuinely believed I fooled you both!”

“You’re a terrible actor.”

“I’m a phenomenal actor, thank you very much!”

“No, you’re not. Thank god you didn’t decide to go to acting school.”

I throw an elbow his way, my tummy sore from so much laughing. I wish this could last forever.

But as the sun sets, we crest the hill, and below us I see it.

La Mosquitia.

The wooden huts and houses sit in a natural basin, surrounded by a low hill, and clustered around a small jetty that protrudes into the brown river. Bright splashes of red and green roofs dotted around. Children dart between the houses, kicking a football. Impossibly tall trees circle the village, and a little way behind the village, just above the opposite lid of the basin, I can see a grassy field. There is an air of peace here. Of joy, and tranquility.

It's exactly how Dad described it. Suddenly, my eyes are burning, and I turn my face away. Wordlessly, Dad grips my arm. I squeeze his hand, and then we set off- clambering across the top of the basin towards the grassy field. The village children pause their game, curious, and some even wave.

We press on towards the grassy expanse. As we reach the hill’s crest, and peer over at the field spread out beneath us, I lose my breath. The birds!

His birds.

Dotted around the field, in the highest trees, sit the Scarlet Macaws. In the setting sun the red of their feathers glow like fire, brilliant, and untamed. Utterly regal in their wildness. One stretches out his wings as he spots us. He tilts his head back, and utters a sharp call. The field comes alive as a cacophony of responding calls crash and thunder around me.

Their beauty is astounding.

This is why we came. I cannot put off this next step. No matter how much I wish to, I owe this final respect.

"It's time, cariño."

It's hard to breathe. It’s hard to make my hands move. It’s hard to focus with tear-blurred eyes. I drop to my knees, carefully opening my pack. I reach inside, and draw out the pale grey urn from within.

The birds are silent now, waiting, watching. I draw in a deep breath, and rise to my feet. I walk slowly back and forth across the lush grass, beneath the curious eyes of the Macaws. Dad’s Macaws.

As I walk, I tip the urn, and I pray. The ashes waft up in the air, grey, then gold and pink as the last of the setting sunbeams set them alight. They dance in the air, as if they'd always been here, always been part of this magical place.

At last, the urn in my hands is empty, and the air is still once again. A feeling of peace and tranquility descends. A feeling of finality. The back of my eyes burn, my vision blurred. “Rest in peace, Dad,” I whisper, “you’re home now.”

Across the grassy field, a single Scarlet Macaw opens his wings, and soars into the sky, feathers gleaming in the light of the setting sun.