Wings of Our People

Come with me, my children. Let us take wing as I tell you the story of our people of old. We were once mighty dancers of the sky, numbering hundreds together, soaring, swooping. Our cities were vast among the tallest of the old trees, our small and secret caves within the broad tops. Now we number in the tens and our land is becoming barren.

Our lives of fruit and of insects, of water, and of clay were long, as long as the people who are both friend and enemy. Our memories are far longer. We remember what has gone before. We were hunted both for food and for our beauty. Now, mankind has forgotten the old ways, the path of caring for the earth and our people. They take us indiscriminately from the nests. They remove our tall trees and leave the ground unprotected and bare. There is no place far enough away from them to hide. As their power has produced a large and bitter fruit, ours has diminished.

The people who came before, we bear their name in part, the Red Guacamaya people. The Maya, some also would add our name, with the sound of mo. Some of us, the adopted, lived among them. They fed us and raised us, our feathers the most sought after. Travelers from far-off lands marveled at our beauty and bore some of us away to the northern parts. We were in their stories and their dances. They emulated our people, wearing our feathers around their heads, and attached to the things used to cover their bare bodies. Though featherless, they wished to return to the sky from which we all have come.

But let me return to the beginning. Our great ancestor, Vacub-Caquix, was the first mentioned among the stories of men, though he had a widespread and beautiful family long before. In the days of the great flood, he was the largest and fiercest of our kind. He brought the deluge to an end with a swoop of his long tail feathers. The colors spread across the sky from end to end. He was our sun and our moon and prince of the in-between time.

The world did not accept his reign; however, and his death was sought by two men. Vacub-Caquix slept in the branches of the great dead ceiba tree. The two men waited at the base, hidden. When Vacub-Caquix arrived, they attempted to kill him with poisoned stings devised with the arts of men of that time. The wounded Vacub-Caquix was not overcome. He ripped off the arm of one of his attackers. When they ran, he allowed them to escape, showing mercy.

Now that he was hurt and blinded by the stings to his eyes, some old people came with soft words, saying they would restore his sight. Lulled into trust, he took the medicine they offered, but alas, it was poisoned. He died, allowing the Maya and other peoples of the world to dominate the land and our beloved sky.

Our people became subject to the men of the world. As they no longer feared us, we lived among them as friends or were used by them for their own devices.

For many generations, we lived in uneasy harmony with this nation. We shared in their ceremonial offerings, for they spared no one, not even their own, from the wrath of the gods of the sky. Then, being called by their gods, they abandoned their cities to go where no one knows even today, not even we fliers. Our relationship remained intact with those who stayed and farmed.

One day, now long ago, twelve generations of our people, a change came. Men covered in hard, polished shells came, floating on giant leaves in the water. The Beetle Men we called them, though they could remove their outer shell at will. They sat on the backs of the four-footed ones. At first, the times were good, until overcome with the lust for hard and shiny things, they overcame the people. The inner red was shed, more than the red of the Maya upon the land.

This was the beginning of the great taking that has expanded and continues today. The taking of palm leaves until the trees have died, the taking of the large leaf trees, the mahogany as the people now call them. The emptying of the forest lands for corn. The taking of rocks from the ground. The taking of people of the wing. First by the hundreds, and then by the tens of thousands each season until the few, a mere remnant, remain.

Now we are brought down and humbled in our numbers, as the Maya were. Our people have been scattered, a diaspora, and the few surviving now perhaps will not see my lifetime.

I do not know whether the tide of destruction can now be stemmed or what will follow the end of our reign. It is my hope we can once again rise through the forest with the help of those of the people who hear our cries and are moved to remember the echoes of the beginning of the world. I hope we can once again pull the promise of life across the sky as did our ancestors before us, taking wing against the sun.

Here end the words of the Old One, Keeper of the Tales of the Guacamaya Roja.

*** *** ***

Thank you for reading my words.

This story was written in October, 2021 on Vocal Media to support an effort by Untamed Photographer (https://untamedphotographer.com) to raise money for The Belize Wildlife Clinic & Referral Clinic (https://belizewildlifeclinic.org). The clinic works to preserve and protect the bird and animal wildlife of Belize, including the endangered Scarlet Macaw.

If you wish to make a personal donation to the Belize Wildlife Clinic, there is a wishlist of physical treatment items they would like to acquire, as well as the ability to make a wire transfer by contacting the organization.

Cover photo: Artist unknown, Ceremonial stone axe (hacha) in the shape of a parrot, Late Classical period, 550-950 CE. Photo by Marie-Lan Nguyen October 30, 2019. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license. Sourced from commons.wikimedia.org on October 22, 2021 File: Maya parrot hacha Soleil de nuit lot52.jpg Image size 1,631 x 2,048 pixels

Mayan Stories referenced in this tale: The Mayan Creation Story: Popol Vuh

To learn more about the plight of the Scarlet Macaw, I suggest the following documentary by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.