Standard Disclaimers
Thanks to JP for Betaing.
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Spring has come to Wyndaria, a land of barren wind swept plains, winding glacial lakes and dark pine forests.
This is a land of lush grasses. At least, it was a land of lush grasses, before the gansa ate them up.
The flocks of gansa are grazing on the plain. These are the largest flighted species of geese, almost as large as the flightless geese who are sometimes to be still found in the forests. (Never mind that they are actually of the duck family.) Their plumage is a brown back, grey breast with piebald heads not dissimilar to a Canadian gooses. They stomp across the grass, now flattened and slicked with green droppings. The plains have been grazed out, and the new grass has not yet begun to sprout in any quantity.
The gansa are getting enough to eat, but they are tiring of the monotony. They grumble and grunt to each other dispiritedly.
Spring is here and its time to move on to their summer haunts.
But they have to wait a while yet.
Flocks of small birds are now fluttering round the grasslands, the few trees and bushes are full of their twittering.
They have come here from various regions, the firecrests from the pine forests, the snowbuntings from the rocky mountains and the chaffinches from town gardens.
The finches gather.
They too, are going on a long journey.
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Watching all this are several ornithologists.
Not that Wyndarians take much note of birds, ones that fly, for they are creatures of earth and like to keep to their great Soil engined cities and galleried mines. But Wyndarians are ever curious and so some of them study the birds, little knowing they may be dragons in disguise.
They do this every year, for the departure of the gansa and finches is a big event in the Wyndarian bird calendar.
For one, they do not know where the giant geese and multitudinous small birds go to breed.
⌠You should follow them,■ one of the ornithologists says to his companion, a small moogle.
The moogle shrugs; he gets ribbed this way every year. Though moogles can fly it is not one of their strong points.
The past two weeks have been spent in trapping the gansas in stick pens; to examine the birds and give them bird bands.
They do this every year.
When the birds return in autumn a lot of them are missing their bands.
This is a source of many debates; the bands are of stout aluminium, riveted on the ankles of the gansa. There is no logical way the birds can remove them.
So what is happening?
Nobody seems to know.
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Dawn comes, and the gansa are increasingly restless, they stare at the sky, judging it, the weather is fine today. Time to go.
The gansa honk and the finches gather round them, the great waterfowl make short hops, flying round the fields.
⌠Looks like they are about to leave.■ Says the head ornithologist. ⌠Might as well start packing up.■
One of the chocobo yawps in farewell; the others eat grain from the trough, rather glad they do not have to share their food with silly geese. Some finches have also been purloining grain, and one was crushed by a huge bird foot for their pains, then swallowed whole.
But the other finches have left, for the gansa are flying.
All the geese are airborne now, and every gansa has a small bird on its back, some have several
They wing their way into the sky. Soon they are lost to sight.
The chocobo stare after them, somehow glad to keep their feet on solid ground.
The moogle yawns; flying is such hard work...even watching birds fly is hard work.
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The gansa fly rapidly over the landscape, the rugged mountains give way to lush valleys, which in turn are followed by a lowland of forest and glacier scoured lakes, a railway crosses the landscape, looking like a line drawn in grey pencil. Towards the horizon lies one of the great smog shrouded cities and the gansa turn on this as a landmark. They fly onward, over a land of small trees and interconnected lakes which make the land more water than earth, heading towards the next range of high alpine land, there with glaciers peeking though the valleys.
But the gansa are not heading for the mountains, not as such. In stead they use the updrafts to climb high into they sky.
They rise, and rise still further, not going any way but up, until the land is far below.
Night falls, and still the gansas climb, day breaks and now the great birds are in the clouds, they fly in loose V formation, honking to keep reassuringly in contact.
The finches chitter happily. They keep their giant friends amused during the monotony of this journey.
Night falls again, and the finches complain of the cold, snuggling deeper into their giant friend▓s feathers. The gansa are very high now, and the air is achingly thin.
Dawn breaks, a cold sun rising over a landscape sculpted of clouds. The gansa increase speed, now they can see where they are going.
The finches cheep in delight, they are nearly there. The great waterbirds no longer ascend, but now trace a random pattern over the sky. Clouds upon clouds fill they sky in dawn lit glory, but to the birds this is in no way extraordinary.
The gansa continue their random pattern; where is it? It moves around every spring...so it seems.
Suddenly the clouds part, to reveal a desolate land. The finches squeal in surprise. They never expect to find a land, right up here
Their bearers honk loudly to call other searchers to the spot. Soon the great flocks are descending to the ground. But their journey is not over yet.
The gansa wing rapidly over the terrain, it is grim stone but there are plants, trees even, in places.
In a valley are a small group of beehive huts made from shattered stone roofed with turves. Outside the huts are great rusted iron pots, and most astoundingly, moss grown bones of gigantic beasts, far bigger than anything found alive upon the lands below, though there are fossil remains of giant animals in the museums.
But this place is very much alive with two rough cloaked figures sat by a small fire.
This is a wind whaling station, littered with the bones of last year▓s harvest. One of the inhabitants points to the birds. ⌠Gansa!■
It▓s spring and that is the beginning of the whaling season, an important part of the economy of a land with little fuel or building materials.
But the birds are not there yet; they fly boldly over the land, heading for the mountains.
On the way they pass over villages built not unlike the first buildings, flocks of goats and strange grey deer, small ponds with tame geese upon them who honk in greeting.
But after greeting their smaller cousins, the gansa pass on, they have a little way to go yet.
The mountains are not the spiked youthful peaks of Wyndaria, but old and rounded, covered in shattered frost cleaved rock.
In the valleys are scrub forests their trees bent and covered with hanging lichen and ferns.
The finches whirl away to the scrubland with chirrups of thanks. They could never make this journey on their own. The gansa honk their farewells; the finches are gone and that means they are near their destination.
Over the next range of hills lies a lowland of swamp and meads. The gansa descend though the wreaths of mist, landing upon the water with fierce braking flaps and splashing. This is their breeding ground. They graze a bit and sleep after the exhausting journey, but soon they are up exploring and displaying to potential mates.
A band of bird riders arrive. The chocobo are a different breed to the ones on Wyndaria, having the speckles and feathered leggings of the extremely rare wild birds.
Their riders are a delicate boned people, huddled up in great fur cloaks against the chill.
The ornithologists would be surprised to see that the two leading riders are horned like oni; they would be even more amazed to see them wearing bird bands round their horns as ornamentation.
⌠I see the gansa have returned.■ Says the evident leader, surveying the fields.
The underlings (who do not have horns) get nets out of saddlebags and begin their work.
The geese are netted, and those bearing bird bands are divested of them. All metal is valuable in Mystaria; even more so aluminium that is beyond their technology to smelt.
Pretty soon this flock of birds have been processed, and the leading Mystarian sits by a flat rock, counting up their haul. They have pulled back their cloak to reveal shaggy hair of a startling orange in hue; the clothing under the cloak appears to match. Their gender is not readily apparent but one of the shabby dressed underlings addresses them as my lady.
The smaller companion sits beside them, evidently an offspring. He or she has hair of a lime green shade, clashing unpleasantly with their mothers.
This woman is a noble, given the lucrative contract of bird band gathering.
⌠Where do the bird bands come from, mum?■
She shakes her horned head. ⌠I▓m not sure.■ She replies slowly.
⌠People must put them on, but who, or why?■
Their mother says nothing to that.