Chapter 37: The Time of All Living Beings – To Be an Animal 2

The first thing Elden noticed was the wind.

It moved across his feathers in delicate currents, pressing against his body from different directions and carrying scents that changed as the air passed over the surrounding landscape. He stood on a narrow branch, gripping the bark with curved claws while his head turned almost involuntarily toward every new sound. The world below him stretched across a broad forest, its canopy forming an uneven sea of green that extended toward distant hills.

He spread his wings.

The movement felt natural, yet it required a degree of coordination he had never experienced before. His feathers shifted against one another, and the air caught beneath them as he leaned forward. For a moment, he remained uncertain, his body balanced between the branch and the open space beyond it. Then something within him urged him to move, and he pushed away from the wood.

The branch disappeared beneath his feet.

Elden dropped.

His wings opened, and the air struck their undersides with unexpected force. His body lurched forward, tilted to one side, then steadied as he adjusted the angle of his feathers. The ground rushed beneath him, but the downward movement gradually became a forward glide, and he found himself traveling through the air with a freedom that seemed impossible from the perspective of his previous life.

He climbed awkwardly toward a neighboring tree, beating his wings until he reached a branch where he could land. His claws closed around the bark, and his body swayed as he absorbed the remaining momentum. For several moments, he remained still, allowing his breathing to settle.

Then he looked out across the forest.

The world had changed in a way that no amount of imagination could have prepared him for. As a rabbit, he had perceived the landscape through the shelter offered by grass, roots, and low vegetation. His attention had been drawn toward openings in the undergrowth, places to hide, and routes that allowed him to escape danger. Now, the same forest appeared as a series of connected surfaces, each offering a possible place to land, rest, or search for food.

The spaces between trees were no longer simply gaps to cross. They were part of the environment through which he moved, and the wind itself became something he could use. By adjusting the position of his wings and tail, he could change direction, gain height, or glide without expending as much energy as continuous flapping would require.

He began to understand why the air mattered so much.

Flying was not merely a matter of possessing wings and forcing them to move. It required a constant relationship between his body and the surrounding currents. A favorable gust could carry him farther than his own strength might allow, while an unexpected change in the wind could throw him off balance or force him to expend precious energy recovering control.

The sky offered freedom, but it also demanded attention.

As he practiced moving between branches, Elden gradually learned to recognize the signs of changing air. He felt the wind strengthen against one wing before it reached the other side of his body, and he began to anticipate how his movements would alter his trajectory. His eyes adapted to judging distances from above, while his body learned to coordinate the subtle adjustments required to remain balanced in flight.

He also discovered that the world was full of opportunities invisible from the ground. From the canopy, he could see patches of open land, narrow streams winding between the trees, and clusters of fruit that attracted insects and smaller birds. He could travel quickly from one area to another, escaping some dangers that would have been difficult to avoid as a rabbit.

Yet his new perspective brought different risks.

A branch that seemed secure might bend under his weight. A sudden gust could carry him toward an obstacle before he had time to change direction. The open sky exposed him to predators, while the effort required to fly made every failed attempt to find food costly.

His body was light, but it was not inexhaustible.

He needed to eat frequently, and the energy required to remain airborne made food an essential part of his daily existence. When he failed to find enough, weakness crept into his muscles, and even short flights became exhausting. The ability to move through the sky did not free him from the demands of his body; it merely changed the circumstances under which he had to satisfy them.

Elden soon learned to hunt insects among the leaves, darting after them with quick movements of his head and beak. He also discovered that some prey could be found by watching the behavior of other creatures. A cluster of birds gathering near a tree often indicated the presence of food, while the sudden scattering of smaller animals might reveal the approach of a predator.

He began to recognize patterns that would have been difficult to perceive from below. The forest was not a collection of isolated trees and animals, but a constantly shifting arrangement of movements, sounds, and opportunities. Each creature responded to changes in its surroundings, and those responses altered the circumstances faced by everything nearby.

One morning, while flying between two trees, Elden noticed a small bird struggling to maintain its position against a strong gust. It was younger and less experienced, its wings beating irregularly as the wind carried it away from the shelter of the canopy. For a moment, Elden followed its movement, watching as it struggled to regain control.

Then the wind shifted.

The young bird was driven toward a cluster of branches, where it disappeared from view.

Elden circled the area but found no sign of it. After a while, he returned to his own branch and resumed searching for food. The encounter remained in his memory, but it did not stop the day from continuing. His body still required nourishment, and the world around him still demanded that he respond to its changing conditions.

He had begun to understand that the ability to fly did not mean the ability to escape every danger. The sky was another environment with its own limitations, and every advantage it offered came with risks that had to be managed.

As the seasons changed, Elden experienced the rhythms of a bird's life. He learned to recognize the periods when food became abundant and the times when the forest offered less nourishment. He followed the movements of insects, searched for fruit when it was available, and adjusted his habits as temperatures fell and the weather became less predictable.

Eventually, he began to participate in the seasonal movement of birds across the landscape. He did not understand migration as a deliberate journey toward a distant destination, nor did he possess a map of the world through which he traveled. Instead, changes in temperature, the availability of food, and the movements of other birds gradually drew him toward routes that had sustained generations of creatures before him.

The journey was exhausting.

There were days when the wind carried him effortlessly across wide stretches of land, allowing him to travel farther than he could have managed alone. On other days, the air resisted every movement, and he was forced to land repeatedly to recover his strength. Rain obscured familiar landmarks, while cold nights made it difficult to preserve enough energy for the next day's flight.

Some birds fell behind.

Others disappeared during storms.

Elden continued moving with the rest, responding to the same environmental pressures that shaped their behavior. He did not need to understand the entire route to follow it. He needed only to respond to the conditions immediately before him, finding food when it was available and continuing when his body was capable of doing so.

Eventually, the journey ended in a region where food was plentiful and the climate more favorable. He settled among other birds, feeding and resting while the landscape around him changed with the passing seasons.

There, he experienced another aspect of animal existence.

Over the following days, he devoted himself to searching for food, avoiding predators, and finding shelter from the harshness of nature. When night fell, he tucked his head beneath his wing and rested among the feathers that preserved his body heat, only to awaken the next morning and begin the same cycle anew. He was driven by no ambition for power, no desire to uncover the secrets of the universe, and no curiosity about the meaning of life; at this stage, his existence amounted to little more than a constant response to the needs that kept him alive.

Then, one day, he found a mate.

At first, her presence was little more than another change in the familiar landscape of his existence. He noticed her movements among the branches, the sound of her calls, and the way she returned to the same part of the forest each morning. Gradually, however, their paths began to cross more frequently, until he found himself following her between the trees, bringing her food and driving away other birds that ventured too close to the small territory he had claimed. There was no deliberate decision behind these actions, nor did he stop to consider what their growing bond might mean. His behavior followed the same quiet logic that governed every other part of his life: he responded to what was before him, and through those responses, his existence began to take a different shape.

Together, they built a nest.

The process required patience and repeated adjustments. He gathered small branches, fibers, and other materials, carrying them through the air and arranging them into a structure that could withstand wind and rain. Some pieces slipped away, forcing him to retrieve them. Others proved unsuitable and had to be discarded. Gradually, the nest took shape among the branches, protected from the most direct exposure to the weather.

When the eggs arrived, his behavior changed in ways that surprised him..

He became more attentive to the area around the nest, responding sharply to movements that might previously have attracted only passing interest. He spent long periods keeping the eggs warm, adjusting his position whenever the temperature changed or discomfort forced him to move. When he left to find food, he returned as quickly as he could, guided by a persistent awareness of the vulnerable lives resting among the branches.

He had not consciously decided that these eggs were worth protecting at any cost. The change had emerged through the physical and behavioral processes that accompanied reproduction, reinforced by the circumstances of the nest and the demands of the developing young.

Yet the consequences were unmistakable.

His world had narrowed around something that could not yet move, feed itself, or escape danger.

When the chicks finally emerged, they were helpless, their bodies scarcely covered in feathers and their mouths opening whenever they sensed movement nearby. They depended entirely on the adults for warmth and food. Elden spent much of his time searching for insects, returning to the nest repeatedly to feed them before setting out again.

The work was exhausting, and the demands never seemed to end. The chicks grew quickly, their cries becoming louder as their hunger increased. Every trip away from the nest meant leaving them exposed, while every delay reduced the time available for finding the next meal.

One afternoon, as Elden returned with food, he noticed a large shadow moving across the ground.

He stopped in mid-flight.

A predator was approaching the nest.

He could not drive it away through strength, nor could he carry the chicks to safety. His body reacted with an intensity that made his wings tremble, and he circled the tree while searching for an opportunity to distract the creature from the nest. He called repeatedly, moving through the branches and exposing himself to its attention.

The predator turned toward him.

For a moment, Elden's instinct urged him to flee.

The same instinct had saved him as a rabbit, carrying him toward cover whenever a fox approached. Now, however, the nest remained behind him, and the danger had come close enough that escape would leave the chicks vulnerable.

He descended toward the predator, then veered away at the last moment, drawing its attention toward the open ground. The creature followed for a short distance before losing interest and turning back toward the tree.

Elden returned to the nest as quickly as he could.

The chicks were still there.

He settled beside them, his breathing uneven, and remained close until the immediate danger had passed. His body was exhausted, and he had gained nothing that could be measured as an achievement. He had simply responded to a threat in the only way available to him, relying on speed, distraction, and the hope that the predator would choose an easier target.

The experience remained with him long after the danger had disappeared.

The forest also seemed different now, not because its trees or streams had changed, but because Elden had become more sensitive to everything that might threaten the nest. A passing shadow could make him turn sharply in midair, while the unfamiliar call of another bird was enough to draw his attention toward the surrounding branches. Whenever a larger creature approached, he positioned himself between it and the nest, spreading his wings and releasing a sharp cry intended to warn his mate or discourage the intruder.

He was not always certain that such displays would succeed. Against a sufficiently large predator, his small body offered little protection, and there were dangers he could neither fight nor frighten away. Nevertheless, he continued to respond whenever a threat appeared.

Through these experiences, Elden began to understand a form of responsibility that required neither language nor conscious reflection. His mate depended on him, and their hatchlings depended on both of them, but the consequences of failure were not distributed equally. If he returned without food, the young would remain hungry. If he failed to notice a predator in time, they might never have another opportunity to grow. Their survival rested upon a series of ordinary actions repeated day after day, each one seemingly insignificant until the moment it was no longer performed.

Then, one afternoon, the pattern was broken.

Elden had left the nest to search for food when a sudden movement disturbed the branches above him. He barely had time to change direction before a predator struck from the surrounding foliage, its attack so swift that his attempt to escape came too late. A violent rush of air accompanied the impact, and pain spread through his body as the creature's claws closed around him.

He flapped his wings desperately, twisting and beating against the grip that held him. The forest shifted beneath him as the predator carried him away from the familiar branches, and the instinct to escape drove him to struggle even when each movement seemed only to tighten the hold upon his body. He tried to turn toward the trees, toward the place where he had built his nest, but the distance continued to grow while his strength gradually diminished.

His body could not overcome the difference between them. The predator had caught him because it was capable of doing so, just as he had caught insects because his own body allowed him to find and seize them. There was no malice in the attack, no judgment being passed upon the life he had lived, and no reason for the creature to release its prey simply because that prey had a nest to return to.

Yet as his movements weakened, his attention kept returning to the place he had left behind.

The hatchlings would be hungry again before long. His mate would return from her own search for food, perhaps carrying an insect in her beak, and find him absent. She might wait for a while, listening for the familiar sound of his wings, before eventually resuming the work that could not be postponed indefinitely. If no other misfortune befell them, she might continue feeding the young alone, making repeated journeys between the nest and the forest until they were strong enough to survive without her constant care.

Or the nest might be discovered before then.

Elden could not know which outcome awaited them. He could not return to protect the hatchlings, nor could he bring back the food he had failed to find. The life he had occupied for so long had narrowed to the pressure of the predator's claws, the fading strength in his wings, and the distant memory of the nest among the branches.

For the first time, the end of a life carried a meaning that extended beyond the creature whose existence was coming to a close. As a blade of grass, he had died beneath an animal's foot without understanding what had happened. As a tree, he had endured centuries before being cut down, leaving behind the shelter and shade his branches had once provided. But now, his death meant that other lives would have to continue without something they had depended upon.

That dependence did not make his life more valuable than the lives of the insects he had hunted, nor did it make the predator's actions wrong. The same world that had allowed him to feed his young had also given another creature the means to feed itself through his death. Both had been acting within the limits of their own existence, following needs that neither could simply abandon.

Elden struggled once more, his wings beating weakly against the air, but the movement gradually ceased as his strength failed him. The forest receded into a blur of green and brown, and the familiar sensations that had accompanied his life began to disappear.

His final moments were not filled with grand thoughts about the meaning of existence. There was no sudden revelation, no understanding of the world that arrived just as his life ended. There was only the instinctive pull toward the nest, the unfinished search for food, and the fading awareness of a life that had been bound to others in ways he had never needed to name.

Then his consciousness vanished.