A single egg, abandoned in the jungle.
No one knew where it came from, or who the parents were. But the egg sat there amidst the foliage for days. In hot and humid afternoons, and cool, chill evenings, the egg sat.
And the birds watched.
The birds of Sornieth were familiar with dragons, of course. Some befriended them; most tried to eat them. Because of this the local avians usually tried to avoid the scary giant fliers. They had never seen a dragon's egg before.
As the days passed, more and more birds gathered to watch the strange egg. It was larger than they were! Small, beady eyes blinked from branches or atop stone perches. Mothers watched from their nests, and tucked their own eggs a little further beneath their feathers.
And the egg sat alone.
On its third day there a new bird arrived. She was a heavier thing, a little paunchy, all shades of faded green. The bird landed on a nearby branch in a flurry of wing feathers. She tilted her head to the side and chirped. Could it be? Was that an egg?
This bird was special. She could lay no eggs of her own.
Something in her heart tugged at the sight of the motherless egg, not even nestled in a nest. It was all alone. And...so was she. She had longed for hatchlings of her own, tiny chicks to feed and nurture, little lives she could love and care for.
Her heart swelled.
She flew to the egg.
The other birds watched, flabbergasted, as the green percher landed on top of the egg. It was five times her size and covered in strange ridges and whorls. She had never seen an egg of this colour before.
But the little bird took a deep breath, shimmied her feathers...and began to nest.
A chorus of surprised chirps and whistles sounded from the surrounding branches. Some birds ruffled their feathers, indignant at what they viewed as heresy. The green percher glared at them defiantly.
Other birds were more understanding. They had seen the sorrow in the nester's heart as the seasons passed, and she watched egg after egg hatch...but none of her own. Moved with compassion, understanding her grief, the birds took to the air.
One by one they returned with an offering. A branch - a twig - a vine - a feather. They sang a hopeful song as they laid their gifts at the base of the egg. A tear rolled down the green bird's face as she raised her little beak, pouring her heart into her own song.
A nest began to form.
The large egg was too big for the birds to move, so instead they crafted a bed all around it. Interwoven vines surrounded a latticework of twigs. Soft feathers cushioned the delicate egg. Leaves and flowers decorated the impromptu nest, there upon the jungle floor.
And the green bird waited.
And the eyes in the jungle watched.
Morning dawned on the fifth day. The green bird sat atop her adopted egg, exhausted. She had not eaten nor slept. At night she had spread her wings and hugged the egg tight, striving to keep it warm from the cool air. During the hottest parts of the day she had fanned it with her wings, straining as wide as she could stretch, feathertips dragging across the surface of her egg.
Was it enough?
Would it work?
Would her heart survive, if it didn't?
Weary, in a sleep-deprived daze, the bird's head drooped. Her eyes blinked slowly. She began to drift.
Crack.
Her head shot up. A rustle of wings sounded from the surrounding branches, the feathered vigil rippling with surprise.
Then - silence in the jungle. Had she imagined it?
Crack!
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She shifted atop her egg, looking, hardly daring to hope.
A jagged line split the shell's surface.
She threw back her head and sang, tenderly stroking the egg with her wings. Seasons of hoping spilled forth into her voice. All the grief and pain intermingled with her love and her dreams, pouring forth in a song as sweet as springwater.
And beneath her, the egg began to rock.
The birds in the jungle took up her song. First a few voices, then more, until all of the branches were alive with birdsong. All different kinds of avians watched and waited, singing for the expectant mother.
Crack.
Crack!
CRACK!
With a last frenzied wobble, the shell burst open. A tiny hand emerged. Stretching, reaching, straining for the world beyond-
And out fell a baby nocturne.
Not a feather to be seen; only scales. Strange ridges on the face. A long, gangly, featherless tail. Awkward wings that flopped and wobbled as the hatchling struggled to rise.
The jungle fell silent as the percher hopped onto the rim of the nest.
Her daughter was the most beautiful chick she had ever seen.
Toucan never knew why she wasn't born with feathers - but she didn't let that stop her from being the best bird she could be. Under her mother's loving tutelage she learned how to fly, how to hunt, and how to groom her scales.
The nest on the jungle floor remained her home, and as she grew she expanded upon it. No tree would bear her weight - so her mother explained that she was a rare kind of bird which nested on the ground. The percher never again slept in a tree, instead preferring to stay near her beloved daughter.
And as she grew, Toucan collected feathers. Dozens - hundreds -
thousands. With jungle vines she fashioned them into wings and plumage for herself. A mismatched array of colours, from a variety of other birds, they nonetheless brought her joy.
She never knew what kind of bird she was...but she and her mother loved each other dearly, and were very, very happy together.
