"Red? Red... Red, are you paying attention?"
Red jumped. He had been day-dreaming off again. Of course he would be asked a question now, right in the middle of climbing the mountain... The third and final mention of his name acted as something of a bullet, swiftly released via a well-aimed shot of contempt and impatience, and it pierced him something terrible.
"Hu- Huh..? Y-Yes, Ma'am?" little Red stammered, flinching at the bite of the shot, which still stung horribly. He rubbed his wing unconsciously, as if rubbing at something physical would somehow ease the mental burn of anxiety and embarrassment.
"Red, we were just discussing the topic of our national anthem and Mighty Eagle's motto. Can you please tell us what that anthem and motto are?"
Red froze. All eyes in the classroom were upon him, including that of the teacher... whose gaze was so trained on Red that it seemed as if she hoped continually staring in his direction would somehow suck the answer right out of him. All it did was drop the temperature several degrees, however; at least, for Red it certainly seemed to.
"Um... Um... y-yes, Ma'am," he mumbled, hating the solidity of the floor beneath his feet. Mud would be much better. Or water. He could sink into it and disappear. Or maybe lava even. That would be cool. Lava was red. He was red, too. No one would even notice he'd sunk into it...
"Red...?" the teacher asked again, a tighter clench around the words this time.
"Um..."
Red shook his head forcefully and frowned. He could snap out of this. This was no time for daydreaming. And at least he knew the answer to the question this time. He took a deep breath...
"Upon this treasured mighty rock,
Were borne a great and mighty flock,
Cried out from one among the troop,
Let us establish here our coup,
'Tis then forever nestled we,
To thine own shores so young and free,
So be ye yolked to land or air,
Soar with pride and settle there,
Know to thine own self be true,
Peace to thee and strength to you."
In forced silence, Red exhaled gratefully before allowing himself a few gulps of much-needed air. He couldn't help but let the tiniest of smiles escape his beak as he stared around the room at his fellow classmates. That was the exact anthem, word-for-word, and he had nailed it. Even know-it-all Riley in the front row couldn't top that one.
"Very good, Red," said the teacher. Quiet and contained though her response was, Red could tell that she was impressed. "That was the anthem. Now could you please recite the motto?"
A bit more confident, Red cautiously released a slightly wider smile before continuing on.
"Honor, humility, bravery, and more!
That's what make Eagles worth fighting for!"
"Very good, Red! Remember that, everyone. Altogether now!"
And the class repeated...
"If you're honorable, humble, brave, and true... you've the heart of an eagle. Yes, even you!"
Red lay awake in his bed, beak facing the ceiling, wide open eyes staring up into nothingness. Both wings were clenched tightly to a soft, albeit lightly stained and sea-worn, blanket. His face wore the expression of a lost, forlorn, middle-aged man who wondered what the heck he was doing with his life and why he was lying here under a tomato-stained blanket when he knew full well that he could have a much more comfortable living situation if he put some actual effort into it. As if to find some excuse for his procrastination, he looked down at the blanket. Vaguely, he wondered where the tomato stains had come from. He didn't even like tomatoes... He also wondered what the heck it was that he was going to do today to pass the time. Nothing new; he was almost certain of that. Tired of laying there doing nothing, he got up, resolving that if he was at least going to do nothing all day he might as well get some exercise while doing it...
Creak, creak, creak.
Down the plank-wood steps he went, from the second floor of his little bachelor pad to the first, emphasizing each step by way of heavily landing on the planks. He was a bit angrier than usual this morning at having nothing at all planned to do today, and so he was taking out his anger on the poor boards. It felt good to stomp on them.
One, two, three, four...
It felt good to stamp on them steps and feel the solidity of the wood beneath his feet without a care in th-
"AHH...! OOMPH!"
... without a care in the world...
Red pried his now plastered face off the floor and shook his ruffled bed feathers before looking back over his shoulder at the now completely destroyed step. The flustered cardinal sighed deeply. Well, he hadn't exactly factored in the thing breaking, with him landing spread-eagled on the floor, but... at least it would give him something to do today. Picking himself up off the sandy ground, Red smoothed out his feathers and chuckled quietly to himself in mock disgust. He broke the step. How fortuitous. Now he could keep himself preoccupied a la fixing it, and he loved to build and fix things. This was cause for celebration...
As Red walked over to an old wooden chest beneath the stairs and rummaged in it for some tools, he hummed a little tune to himself, thankful for the opportunity to keep busy and not feel like a completely useless waste of space like he often felt. He pulled out a hammer, a small box of nails, and a halved coconut partially filled with paste before closing the chest and making his way back to the broken step. Setting his tools down, he made for the door to go down to the beach and find some wood.
Wait...
Coffee. He needed coffee.
With one foot out the door, he abruptly stopped, swiveled around, and shut the door behind him without even looking at it before lazily marching to the kitchen for a brew.
The "kitchen" actually wasn't much of a kitchen at all, but merely consisted of a short clay counter, two halved coconuts (one for holding coffee grounds; the other for housing sugar, which was rarely used), a wooden spoon, a large bucket below and to the right side of the counter... which was filled to the brim with fresh water, a cupboard below the counter of whose malnourished belly consisted of miscellaneous items for cooking with, and the smallest little fire pit you ever did see set into the counter, perfect for heating up coffee and not much else. It was this little pit of leaves and twigs that Red lit a match to before turning his attention to a small shelf set in the wall near the counter. On this shelf was a mug - a particularly nicely crafted one with a fire design set in the middle. Red had made this mug himself specifically for coffee, because only the finest coffee grounds on the island deserved only the finest of mugs and, being as picky of a bird as he was, the finest mug in the village could only possibly be designed and approved by him. And so he spent an entire day crafting a mug and that was the end of it, and it was this prized little cup that he scooped a spoonful of Premium Fire-Roasted Pecked-to-Perfection Bird Island Coffee grounds into. The most important deed done, he then pulled a round, crimson kettle out from under the cupboard, scooped some water from the bucket, and set it over the fire to heat and bubble.
Red leaned up against the counter, cheeks squashed a little as he rested his head in his arms. He stared at the fire. Despite the small size of the fire pit, the flames leaped and danced as happily as if they had an entire forest to swim in, and he could feel the heat of their dance warm and comforting against his feathers. It felt nice, resting there; listening to the crackle of the twigs by his side... and the repetitive, yet melodic, sound of the sea outside his window as its morning waves kissed and licked at the shore-line. Sometimes he wished that he were those waves. Sometimes he felt that he was them...
"Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!" blew the kettle with a shrill whistle, whipping Red back into reality. He jumped a little and quickly blew out the fire before pouring himself a hot cup of coffee.
He breathed in the fresh, bitter scent of the grounds, smiling in spite of himself, and set the cup down on the counter to let the water cool off a bit. Then he went outside, grabbed some sturdy wood from a broken log off the beach, and went back to work on the step. Best make good use of his time while waiting. He picked up a nail and...
Wait.
Music. He needed music.
Red was probably one of the few birds on the island that actually owned a record player. It was probably the one in the finest condition too, considering how lovingly he took care of it. This was usually found chilling in his treasure chest too, but not today. Plucking it out, he set it up near the stairs, returning to the chest only for a moment to pick out the perfect record to listen to while working - the kind of hammer-in-the-nails type music that would get him more in the mood for this kind of task. Steve Miller would do.
Now, angry bird though Red often was, he wasn't entirely adverse to anything and everything enjoyable. In the realm of music, it was quite the contrary, for he was something of a musical connoisseur and wouldn't turn down a good beat and meaningful lyrics if it suited his taste. "Fly Like an Eagle", in particular, was one of his guilty pleasures. Perhaps the fact that it had "eagle" in the title had something to do with it, seeing as Red was (or, at least, used to be) a great admirer of Mighty Eagle, but were you to point this out to him the first and immediate response you'd get would be a sharp glance and a firm "NO" in exasperation, followed by a rather lengthy monologue about how it was clearly the deep and powerful message coating the lyrics that caught his attention and how no random word in the title had absolutely anything to do with it. Red was convinced that this was the perfect (and, for the most part, accurate) cover up. Everyone else was not in the least bit fooled, especially one bird in particular...
It was as Red was hammering in the first nail, while simultaneously singing, "... time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'...," that said bird made his usual appearance.
"Hey, Chuck," Red muttered, without even bothering to look over his shoulder to see who was there.
The little bullet was early. Not that Red had much of a problem with this. Even though Chuck had a house, he seemed to spend more time at Red's place these days than in his own abode. Red suspected that he did this to keep him company, which Red appreciated, even though he would never dare admit it. Lately, it had become something of a routine for Chuck to pop in in the mornings, greet Red as fast as he possibly could, and ask him what he'd like to do for the day. The last few days, Red had enjoyed hanging out with Chuck and Bomb, but today, even though he had initially complained to himself about having nothing to do, he would still rather spend time alone. Some days... he just needed some private time.
"Good morning, Red!" came the quick reply, followed by sounds of slurping...
Red let his hand - and hammer - thump to the floor and sighed. He knew he was doing it. He knew he was drinking his coffee without even bothering to ask.
"Ugh. How can you drink this stuff? It's just water," Chuck exclaimed, already having downed the entire cup, one eye now peering into the mug to spot out the last few dregs at the bottom.
"It's. Coffee...," grumbled Red.
"But it's got no caffeine in it! Red, you're not supposed to drink watered coffee."
"Chuck, that's because you drink like... ten cups of espresso a day, man," Red retorted, finally easing painfully up off his knees to personally confront Chuck, hammer still in his hand.
"Ha-ha-ha. Ten... Red, you're funny," Chuck giggled, draining the last poor drops and setting the mug carefully back on the counter. Red was still walking towards him with the hammer, but Chuck didn't seem to notice. "Welp, thanks for the coffee, Red! See you later!" And he zoomed out the door...
"THANKS FOR DRINKING ALL OF MY COFFEE!" Red yelled after him.
"You're welcome!" came a distant reply.
Red groaned in utter vexation and proceeded to employ a much-needed facepalm. "Ohhhh, there's a solution!" sang out the Steve Miller Band in the background.
"Not for that bird," Red muttered in reply, slamming the door behind him... only to have it be ardently rapped upon... hard... two seconds later. "Ugh! Yes?!" he nipped back, swiveling around and promptly flinging the door wide open.
"Wanna hang out?" Chuck asked, smiling brightly as he stood in Red's doorway, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet hopefully.
"Why didn't you ask me that before?!" Red snapped, not at all in the mood for this. He just wanted to have a peaceful day of... peace, filled with Steve Miller music and preferably undrunk coffee.
"I... forgot...," replied the little yellow bird, giving a toothful and apologetic grin. "Anyway, Bomb and I are gonna go golfing and you should totally come with. Just sayin'."
"Or, actually, I could just stay here and enjoy my day like I was trying to do!" Red said. Normally, he would be coming dangerously close to boiling point, but he was more sarcastically playing with Chuck than anything. True, he was rather bummed about the coffee, and he was intending to spend the day to himself for once, but Chuck, annoying though he could be, was still one of his best friends, and he couldn't help but find his antics rather hilarious sometimes, if not altogether completely ridiculous.
"ORRRRRRR... you could come have fun with us and do something not boring, am I right?" Chuck said, flipping back the retort and nudging Red with his elbow.
"Chuck, so help me, I will use this hammer...," said Red, actually brandishing the thing in front of Chuck's face. But Chuck wasn't listening.
"Come on! Let's go!"
And he grabbed Red by the wing and pulled him out the door.
"Wait! We'll bring your music, too...," Chuck said, rushing back inside and popping out literally half a second later, record player in tow.
"Chuck, w-wait...! I...!"
"Come on!"
And without pretty much any choice at this point, Red found himself being forcefully pulled by Chuck a ways down the beach, Steve Miller Band singing, "I want to fly like an eagle... to the sea...," all the way down...
"FOOOOOOUUUUUUUUR!" Chuck yelled, his well-aimed shot hitting the ball so hard that it flew some miles out over the ocean and into the sea. "Oh... Red, do you have another...?"
But Red had already cleaned and handed Chuck another golf ball, his eighth one this hole.
"Thanks," Chuck replied, setting it down on the green and taking precise aim again.
"Why do they say, 'FOUR!' before they hit a ball?" Bomb asked, pacing around on the green to pass the time. "Why don't they say 'FIVE!' or 'TWENTY-SIX!' You know?"
"Bomb. Man. I honestly don't care," Red replied, leaning on his golf stick and enjoying the one thing he could enjoy right now: the sea breeze.
"Maybe it's 'cause the first guy who ever played golf was like... trying to get his ball into the hole and he finally got a hole-in-one on his fourth shot and he was so excited he screamed out, "FOOOUUUUURRRR!" 'cause he got it in on the fourth shot, you know?" offered up Chuck, so satisfied with his explanation that he yelled out, "FOOUUUUR!" again as he hit the ball for the eighth time. And this time... it actually went in the hole...
"Oh... my gosh...," said Chuck, actually running up to the flag to see the truth for himself. "OH MY GOSH!" he yelled from far away, running back up to Red and Bomb. "You guys! I got a hole-in-one! EEEEEE!"
"Hey, not bad, man!" Bomb said happily, offering up a high-five to Chuck... which he gladly returned, jumping up and slapping Bomb's hand with the utmost enthusiasm.
"More like a hole-in-eight. How the crap did you even get it in the hole with the flag still in there?!" Red exclaimed, genuinely surprised.
"Maybe it was a fluke?" asked Bomb, shrugging as he picked up the one golf bag they had brought and hauling the clubs down to the hole, Red stepping in sync next to him. Chuck, of course, was so excited that he couldn't keep at the same pace, but was running down to and around the hole like some little kid, occasionally looking inside to make sure that the ball was still there.
"Nice shot!" Red called to Chuck as he and Bomb drew near.
"Mmm! Thanks!" popped back the happy little bird, finally pulling the ball out of the hole, rubbing it so that it shined, and kissing it. "You're my lucky ball and you're staying with me," he said, keeping a secure grip on it as he walked with Red and Bomb to Hole 2.
"You're just gonna lose it on the next hole," Red said, rather unthoughtfully.
"Hey! Don't say that to Chucky!"
"Chucky?!"
"My ball!"
"Your ball...?"
"He didn't mean it, Chucky. No he didn't..."
"... No comment...," Red said, looking at Chuck a little concernedly.
"All right! Who wants to go first?" Bomb inquired, planting his club firmly in the grass as he looked out over the second hole. "Gonna have to watch the wind on this one..."
Red nodded, also noticing the pick up in the breeze, and stopped to look out over the green. It was quite a pretty course. Set atop one of Bird Island's cliffs, it sported a beautiful scenic view of the ocean, made all the more serene by the usual melodic swishing and swaying of the grass and tree leaves as a light breeze traveled its way through the jungle. It was, indeed, a lovely day for golfing, but Red still would rather have spent it back home...
"You guys go first. I want to spend a little more time with Chucky," Chuck mumbled, all attention focused on the little white ball nestled carefully in his wing.
"Chuck, you need help," Red let fly, a bit lost in thought himself. The ocean looked so peaceful from up here. The morning sun, bright and golden, seemed to greet the day with a long, thin veil that slipped down into the depths below, its train lifted up with watery fingers to float at the top... draped over the sea and sparkling like that of so many silvery stars. He had to admit that it was beautiful. It was beautiful... and yet... There was something about it that was unsettling; or, rather, there was something about being in this particular location, high above the water, that unsettled him. Whatever it was, he couldn't put his finger on it, and that frustrated him.
"Hey... You okay there, buddy?"
Red jumped a little and snapped out of his stupor. Bomb, always the attentive one, was usually the first to notice when something was wrong, and he was now gazing at Red with concerned, inquiring eyes.
"Y-Yeah... I'm fine. Just... a little tired is all..."
"Yeah, I know how that is. Got up kinda late myself!" And Bomb stretched to emphasize it.
Red didn't bother to correct him. Bomb was attentive, but he also missed the mark sometimes without realizing it.
"Hey! You guys gonna hit or what?" Chuck called, leaning on his club, a dry and expectant look on his face.
At 8:14 PM, Red hammered in the last of the nails and stepped back to admire his work. He squeezed the board with his wing and stepped on it to test its stability. For added measure, he jumped on it... hard. Not a creak. Nor a give. He smiled satisfactorily. Perfect.
He put his tools away and brewed up a second cup of coffee, this time keeping an eye on the mug. Not that there was any need. Chuck had had his fill of friendship for the day, and Red had had more than enough. Bomb had been shooting furtive glances at him almost the entire time they played golf... as if he would be the one to blow up this time, something that greatly annoyed Red but that he kept his mouth shut about regardless. Chuck had noticed as well that something was up, although his approach was to give Red some space and only occasionally direct a particularly concerned glance his way. Considering Chuck's nature, Red was rather surprised by this, but grateful. All-in-all, he was happy to be home.
As he sank his butt into his cozy, battle-worn chair in the living room, Red closed his eyes, held his coffee mug close to his chest feathers to warm them, and listened to the ebb and flow of the waves outside...
He opened his eyes. He had only been resting for five minutes, but something pulled him up and out of the chair and over to the window...
The tide seemed rather hesitant this evening; it was pulled back more than usual. Red rested his wings upon the windowsill and laid his head upon them as he stared out at the water, watching the nightly dance of the sea at it flowed in and out.. in and out... in and out...
Like the pull of the ocean as it latched mercilessly on to the sand, the rocks, and the shoreline, something reached its hand into the depths of Red's memory, grasped with an intensely firm grip, and pulled up from the bottom a recollection long since forgotten.
"Remember! If you're honorable, humble, brave, and true, you've the heart of an eagle! Yes, even you! Altogether now! If you're honorable, humble, brave, and true..."
"... you've the heart of an eagle. Yes, even you...," uttered Red out loud.
He'd forgotten. How long had it been since he'd recited those words? Every week in class he used to say them as a child, yet somewhere down the line... what had once been ingrained in his memory had somehow sifted down and become locked in one of the many drawers of information lining his brain. He'd like to think he had the heart of an eagle. He had done his village a great honor, after all, by leading in the rescue of the eggs. He hoped he'd shown humility through it all. Bravery, of course, was a given in said situation. And true...? Well, he rarely hesitated to voice his mind, so honesty wasn't a problem either. Perhaps he did have the heart of an eagle after all. He smiled at the thought, but it was short-lived. Something still hurt. Something still bit at him. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
And then he remembered. It couldn't have been less obvious if it was staring him right in the face. Family. He missed his family. And yet, how could he miss them? He had never known them. Perhaps longing was a better word - a longing to know what had happened. No parents had ever claimed him. Not a soul had ever come to call. The sad fact of life that he had been an orphan since birth used to eat away at him like a virus, but these days he usually kept that memory counter top washed and clean. No use digging up old bones that refused to disintegrate. But, for some reason, they had been dug up again anyway. In his heart, he knew that his true family was already right there with him - Chuck and Bomb. But that tick - that longing for some form of clarity - plucked at him anyway. Not that he hadn't done some digging of his own in the past: asking the local nursery and orphanage for information - contacts; sightings; samples; anything. His efforts had returned fruitless. No one knew what had happened, or perhaps had refused to explain further, and so the only thing to it was to search them out himself, something he'd been putting off for years... more out of fear at what he might discover than anything. But what if...?
That night, as he pulled his tomato-stained blanket close to him, Red came to a resolution. Doing nothing never got anyone anywhere. Tomorrow he was going to do a little... digging. He sighed, closed his eyes, and pulled the blanket all the way over his head. Maybe if he covered himself entirely he could completely hide from life.