NOT SUPPOSED TO BE TOGETHER

CHAPTER ONE: STUBBORN EAGLE

The mouse spotted the eagle as she flew overhead. The predator had been hoping to catch him unawares but he had happened to look up by chance and had spotted her. Now, the chase was on. The mouse searched for a place to hide. He didn't want to meet his end in the bird's beak. Perhaps a tree or a hole in the ground. There were plenty of places to hide in Central Park. He had been out looking for food at midday. Perhaps a dropped pizza slice or some spilled popcorn. Maybe a half-eaten hotdog. Whatever he'd been hoping to find for his own food, it wasn't on his agenda to be good. The teenaged eagle was good looking for a bird, but that just belied her danger to him.

Surely he would get away. He always had before when predators had come a hunting. And this one was only a teenager. Surely, she would be too green to catch him. He'd escaped predators for 50 years. This girl didn't have a chance. She'd be going home hungry. No lunch for her! He had a plan to outwit this young predator. It always had worked in the past. He made like he was heading one way, ran through underbrush, threw several pebbles forward to imitate movement, and then doubled back the other way. When he came out of the brush, he rested, panting. He didn't see any sign of the eagle. It seemed like the trick had worked. She'd been faked out and was looking elsewhere. Silly green hunter! Older and more experienced predators than her had been fooled by that little trick!

The mouse moved a few steps from the brush, beginning his search for food himself. Suddenly, something seized him from behind. He was pulled against his will up into the air, something carrying him. He couldn't move enough to see what it was. Soon, the thing rested in a tree and raised him up again, and he saw, to his horror, the teenage female eagle. Her orange and green eyes staring up at him. Hungry. Triumphant. The face of death itself!
"Well, little mouse, you played a great game of chess and I tip my wings to you for your efforts. But, you came up a day late and a dollar short. You placed the wrong bet and you lost. Sorry about this, but I need to eat. Now, prepare to meet your Maker," the eagle said to him.
The mouse sighed. At least the eagle had the decency to speak to him as something that had feelings. He made a final silent prayer, to get the last things in order. This eagle was quite formidable. If she could beat him at her young age, she was going to be quite deadly when she reached adulthood. His final thought as he was raised toward the predator's beak was Heaven help any mouse that crosses her path! Then came the snap of the beak and that was the end, his soul parted from his body.

Margalo Adler downed her now dead meal. She didn't have teeth so she just swallowed it whole. Let her gizzard chew it up. Maybe that mouse had had family: a wife, children, maybe even grandchildren. While she never attacked nesting animals, she also never inquired about the lives of those she hunted before making a kill. It was nothing personal, just business. As she felt the dead mouse land in her crop, she emitted a tiny belch, releasing the air she'd swallowed. She flew back to her nest, where her parents: Rowan and Yvetta. "Had a good hunt?" Yvetta asked.
"Oh yes, cunning little mouse thought he could get away from me. He gave me quite a challenge, but, unfortunately for him, that just succeeded in working up an appetite so that, when I caught him, I had something to satisfy it."
"Excellent job, Margalo. No rodent can escape your sharp eye!"
Rowan said approvingly.
The eagle flew off from the nest. "Where are you going?" Yvetta inquired.
"Wherever," her teenage daughter replied elusively.
"Surely you can't be off hunting, as you just ate."
"My own places."
"Like where?"
"Like does it matter?"
"Don't be a smarty beak! Where are you going?
"Around."
"Margalo Isabelle Adler, you answer me now! Don't make me have to apply a switch to your tailfeathers!"
"Ok, fine, I want to just be off on my own. I'm not happy that Dad suggested pairing me with Rambert."
"You don't like Rambert Falcon?"
"He's not really my type."
"What don't you like about him?"
"His mannerisms, his 'I'm so special because I can fly so fast' attitude. He isn't exactly the most romantic type."
"Yes, but loads of girls like him. You should feel lucky that your father has gotten him to consider courting you."
"I think he'd just want me for one reason: what's underneath my tail feathers."
"Falcon is not like that at all! He'd make a great and loving mate!"
"I'm sure he would...for somebody else." The two argued for two hours.
"Margalo, give him a chance."
"Well, I suppose..." she paused, feeling something in her throat coming up. "Excuse me a sec. Pellet coming up." She coughed up a pellet, which containing the fur of the mouse. Her stomachs had digested the bones down to a manageable level. "I suppose I could give him a chance. But I think he'll blow it. I really don't like father arranging relationships for me. I should get a say in this."
"Margalo, dear, we've been arranging relationships for centuries."
"Always a good time to stop."
"Margalo, it's not so bad. I was betrothed to your father and we're great for each other."
"So, would you have had him if you could have had a choice in the matter? Sometimes I think he's-"
"Yes, I believe I would have. And you will do well with Falcon."
"Maybe if there's an extra cold day in hell," the teenaged eagle sighed, rolling her eyes.
"If you feel that way, you should speak to your father."
"I will, but I might as well talk to my reflection in a lake. I'll get the same response. That bird is as stuck in his ways as an oak tree."

"Margalo wants to talk to you about something," Yvetta said to Rowan when they arrived back at the nest. The sun was beginning to set. Mother and daughter had continued arguing back and forth all afternoon. Now, a late March breeze blew, ruffling the two female's feathers as it zoomed past them.
"What's she done this time? Being a smarty beak again?"
"It's about Rambert Falcon and how some birds decided to just arrange a courtship without my opinion."
"Some birds, huh? That's how you refer to your parents? "
"Would you two even be my parents if they didn't make you?"
"Margalo doesn't like the tradition of arrangement."
"Why don't you just arrange me with a sign that says 'Margalo Adler: Daughter for Sale to the Highest Bidder!'?"
"We're not selling you! You are a bride, not a hooker!"
"I'm only 13. A little too early to be picking a groom anyway, don't you think?"
"Not really. It's customary that are females are wed no later than their 18th birthday."
"Well, that gives me five years before my life is over. Why rush things?"
"Stop being so overly dramatic!" Rowan snapped.
"Margalo, we'd like time to get to now any guys you marry so that when we arrange the marriage, we'll know it's a good fit."
"So, my marriage is going to be like a shock collar. You put it on me and test to see how well it fits before you feel comfortable enough to push the zap button and fry me to death!"
"You are going to need to lose that attitude young lady! Otherwise no guy will ever want you!" Yvetta scolded her.
"Oh, that's good to hear," said Margalo brightly. "That means I just really have to amp it up and my life will be free of stupid loser boys!"
"Margalo, if you remain single past 18, you'll be a disgrace to the flock. You'll shame the family name."
"Shame the family name or live a miserable life? Hmmm, which one would be worse for me?" Margalo said sardonically.
"I think you should go with Rambert. He'll protect you, feed you when you are nesting-"
"Falcon won't be nesting with this girl! He'd have to get the eggs fertilized first. And if he tries anything on me, I'll swing my talons right through his urodeum and castrate that son of a-"
"Margalo, no strong language in this nest!" Rowan bellowed, swatting her on the beak with a wing.
"Just leave me alone!" the young eagle sighed. She flew off angrily.
"Rowan, maybe we should let her decide for-"
"Decide for herself? And buck centuries of tradition! We'd be expelled from the flock! No, if she hasn't picked a mate by age 18, she can go find her own nest to live in and that's final!"
"Rowan, have you ever considered that she might do just that?"
"I think when she's a bit older and gets that head of hers out of her vent, she'll see reason."

The sun had gone down and Margalo roamed by a stream by herself, anger coursing through her. "Do they not get it? That I'm my own bird with my own feelings! Well, they're sure as heck gonna learn! The only knot tying I'll be doing is tying ropes around the stupid traditions of the flock, attaching the other end of a rope to the an anchor and dropping them off to the depths of the Hudson Bay!" She calmed down enough to snag two fish and devour them. Now she was fed for dinner. EERRRRRP! She belched. Her father had always scolded her for belching after a meal. Any of his talonpicked mates for her would no doubt do the same. Why couldn't she have a guy who'd let her be her? Was that too much to ask?

After resting for an hour, angrily hurling stones into the water with her talons, she could feel the bits of the fish she'd eaten enter her first stomach, her proventriclus, her first stomach. And while one meal was starting to digest, another had finished its course. She quickly bent into a squat and raised her tailfeathers into the air. Two seconds later, some white blotches had stained the ground. Her digestive tract had a special type of back compartment, called a cloaca that expelled her feces and uric acid out the same opening, a vent. It was amazing how quickly a bird's metabolism worked. That had, just that afternoon, been a living mouse. Now it was a pile of goop. She thought that the pile was a good representation of how she viewed the archaic traditions of the flock.

She soon decided that it was best to head back home for the night. No need to make her parents even angrier than they already were. She had time enough for that the following day. Best give it a rest for today. An hour later, as she settled down in her nest for the night, she was unsure of a lot of things about her future. Still, if you'd asked her if she'd have considered a mouse to be a possible suitor, she'd have thought you were nuts. While she thought Rambert Falcon a very unlikely candidate, she'd have believed a mouse was even more unlikely. Every mouse that had gotten too close to her had met the same fate: entering her beak as food and leaving her as a waste product.