The bird could feel them around it, nipping, sniffing, and biting lightly with small pointy teeth at its feathers. But still, it did not open its eyes.
The children knew, like their father, that the bird was strange and unusual. Unknown.
And, just like their father, it wanted it gone.
The bird stayed still for many hours, but deeply aware of its surroundings, it felt the slow rise and fall of the sun in the sky, and the coming and going of the tide. Everything was so quiet and calm, now that the wind had gone. But all day, the children of the wind, would not let the bird rest, both curious and afraid of what it was, until, as the sun went down under the horizon, the bird opened one of its eyes.
The wind was blowing hard, almost flattening the trees bordering the beach, screaming and howling at the bird, trying to ruffle its feathers and scare it into flying away. The wind did not know the bird, could not understand it, and refused to let it stay on its island. For this was the wind’s home, and it was its beach, and the bird, with its thousand eyes twinkling like stars, blinded the night where the wind was king.
But the bird remained, unmoved, its head under its wing, used to howling capricious winds that lived on islands or at the top of mountains, and it slept.
There was something calling it. Something it had never heard, but knew and recognized and felt. An urgency through its body, pushing it, tugging at it. Until it could only open its wings, grand and majestic, covering half of the sky, and fly away. And still it did not opened its eyes.
It lived on a high mountain in a nest made of bones and moss. Nobody knew where it was from, or what would happened if it opened its eyes, for they were always closed.