Birdsong

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeya-! Yaak- yak – yak! The shrill cry of a bird pierced the sky. An unyielding, high, wavering shriek broken by three loud clicks; knuckles rapping on hollow bone.

The scientist opened his eyes. Light flooded in, revealing the lab—the tiled floor, the cold, sterilized air. Shoulders heavy, he sat up, mind shuffling through records and memories, trying to pin it down. Where had he heard this before? It dawned on him. He hadn’t. In all his years as a biologist, he had heard nothing like it—not in books or the field. It was new. Unique.

His pulse quickened. Important. Hands trembling slightly, he pulled out a battered, black notebook. Flipping through well-worn pages, he found a blank one. Gripping his pen tightly, he wrote with rapid, fervent strokes, capturing every detail.

The call sounded again. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeya-! Yaak- yak – yak! …Closer.

He stopped. The air around him was thick, suffocating. This could be his only chance.

His kit—pre-packed for nights like this—sat untouched by the door. No time. Carefully, he unlocked the door to the lab. Cool, damp air rushed in. He stepped out, striding towards the forest with a practiced silence of a man who had studied this forest for years.

Dusk bled into the sky, grass slick with fresh dew, shadows dragging long across the earth.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeya-! Yaak- yak – yak! The call wove through branches, beckoning. He stepped inside the forest. The dense canopy scattered the falling sun across his face. Shadows pooled at his feet, sinking his boots into the ground. Cold pricked at his skin. For a moment, he paused. The forest felt… alive. The wind blew into his eyes. The trees shifted, slowly. The grass swayed as if on strings. Petrichor filled his nose as he looked up, toward the draining sky, trying to ignore the shadows that seemed to move beneath him.

One of them moved.

At the edge of his vision. A quick flick of his eyes— Nothing. His heart crept downward. What was he doing? He’d studied this forest for— A shadow pulsed forward. Into the open. He gasped, stumbling back. His head struck a gnarled root. Pain shot through his skull. Agony flared. He was going to die—

A blur of brown spotted fur. The whoosh of air past his raised gooseflesh.

A deer.

A stunned breath. Then a giggle. Another. Laughter spilled out in half-hysterical gasps. His jagged breaths slowed. He pushed himself upright. It was watching him. “Shoo,” he spat, more bitter than he meant to be. Damn thing scared him half to death. But why was it here? As he recalled, they didn’t come to this part of the forest. Curious.

He brushed dirt off his jacket. The deer was still watching, all too steady, all too knowing. He couldn’t meet its gaze. He looked away.

Mistake.

His breath hitched as he jerked his head back. The deer had vanished. He swallowed hard. Shook his head. He was overthinking. \ He had to be. Find the bird.

Night crept in fast. The air thickened, mosquitoes already pricking at his skin. He swore under his breath. He should’ve brought the kit. There was repellent inside.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeya-! Yaak- yak – yak! The call was near.

Then—he saw it. Perched low on a branch, silhouetted against the dimming sky.

Its talons dug into a carcass. He hoped it was the deer that had scared him earlier. Good riddance. It was unique. Feathers seemed like it was made out of fabric, glossy satin and stulted wool stitched together in a mismatched whole, as if splashed with tar. Its beak stretched out like a snake; unusual for a bird of prey, he noted.

His breath slowed. This was it. His discovery.

His notebook was damp now. A pen was pulled from his pocket, clip catching momentarily on fabric. A delay—infuriating. He flipped to a fresh page. Anticipation spilled into uneven, trembling lines of ink. The sheen of its feathers, the shift of its wings, the shape of its talons. Ink bled onto the page. He hardly noticed.

As if sensing him, the bird gave a final tug at the carcass. Then, with a powerful beat of its wings, it lifted into the trees. The body fell to the ground with a wet thud, scattering leaves across the damp earth. He hesitated, then stepped forward, lowering himself beside it. It was torn beyond recognition, but his trained eye searched for familiar shapes, already lining out headings in his notebook.

Impatient, he grabbed an intact chunk of flesh. His grin faltered. He squinted. Tilted his head. Five digits stretched out into one singular handle. Smooth, white hide pressed over lifeless flesh. No fur. More like left-out wax.

That was odd. He was sure it was a deer, or rather – he smirked – the deer. Beneath the skin, nerves branched out like trees above him. It felt almost like a—

His breath caught.

The notebook slipped from his grasp, pages darkening as they hit the ground. The entry was never finished. No one would ever see the notes he had written—the knowledge it held—

And then, in that quiet moment, the bird claimed its next victim.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeya-! Yaak- yak – yak! The call echoed through the forest, growing fainter as dusk settled into night. The trees stood silent. The notebook lay open, ink bleeding into the soil, words smudged beyond recognition.

A breeze rustled the pages, flipping them back and forth before the wind died, leaving the forest still once more.

Then, from deep within the trees, another call answered. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeya-! Yaak- yak – yak! A second shadow shifted in the branches above, feathers gleaming like tar, eyes watching, waiting. It spread its wings, launching into the sky, disappearing into the growing darkness. The forest knew this call. It always had. It always would.

And somewhere, someone else would hear it, curiosity pulling them in.

It always had. It always would.