Canyons rolled past beneath the majestic bird as it followed a return path toward the place where the people lived. It was a magnificent eagle, proud and strong, with a wingspan of its choosing. Today it chose to be conservative, with wings that spread to two-thirds the width of a human's arm span.
As it covered the massive desert, it spied a man seated cross-legged beneath the beating sun and decided to investigate. Its relations with others like it were confusing, as though there was something it lacked—an instinct, an understanding of ritual and how to behave. As it wheeled lower, it contemplated how to deal with the man.
Life on the Reservation had gotten to be too much for Free Bird, so he departed one day with the least determinate of intentions, aware only that he was on a quest to decide his life's direction. The search for a spirit guide often led to the discovery of great truth, and thus he entered the desert. He had no money with which to begin a new life, and in the white man's world, you needed something.
When he could walk no longer, he shunned the canteen he'd brought with him as a concession to survival and sat down to allow himself to bake in the scorching sun. He swayed back and forth. His vision blurred. But from somewhere within his heart he found the strength to pray to the spirits. It didn't take long for them to answer.
The eagle alighted directly in front of him. He was named for the eagle, and so when this bald symbol of wisdom appeared, he took it as a sign. All he was able to do was to try and croak a greeting. He lifted one trembling hand, at which point the eagle cocked its head in puzzlement and stepped closer.
It caught sight of a scorpion in the sand. The eight-legged thing scurried in the general direction of the bird, which did not act immediately, so intent was it on Free Bird. Free Bird thought the eagle should act, defend itself from the scorpion's poison at the very least.
Then he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed until a mild hysteria overtook him. The eagle, totally distracted, tried this sound on for size, and achieved a passable, if screechy, impersonation.
Free Bird ran short of breath, the original thought still in his head. Why should a spirit fear poison?
As if the fastest draw in nature, the eagle snapped its head down and snatched up the scorpion right before it touched leg to claw. Just like that, the bug was gone. This was some kind of message, perhaps. Free Bird considered the interpretation. The eagle made to take off again, and Free Bird wondered if he would ever see it again.
The eagle alighted in the midst of a throng of people to snatch up a worm from a busy street, then soared away again to land in a nearby alleyway. Its form slowly began to change. Feathers were drawn into flesh, wings and legs grew and changed, and this was all accompanied by a loud grinding sound. The eagle, meanwhile, felt immense pain during this transition. It did not cry out, for this came naturally to it, an exclusive instinct. When it was over, the eagle was a man.
The man walked into the town and surveyed it. He was naked, without the feather-equivalent which men used. They looked at him strangely, and he recognized that mingling among their species might be just as complicated as mingling among his own.
No matter. He had done it before. It was what he was born to do, whether he knew the reason or not.
Some charitable person donated a spare set of clothing to him which bore feathers atop the cap. They were not eagle feathers.
“You lose a bet?” the person asked. He did not understand the question.
“No.”
The person stared at him for a moment, then shook his head.
With his new skin, he accompanied this new friend into a public nest, where the two of them sat down in front of a felled tree and were approached by a third man who occupied the third side all by himself.
The eagle plucked a bug off of the tree with his newly-acquired fingers and popped it into his mouth. The man opposite them changed the shape of his face to reflect a reaction and said, “The bugs are free, so I hope you want something costs a bit of cash.” He had never seen a man eat a bug before.
“Whiskey,” the eagle said immediately. It was one of the calls he had learned which this species used. It was a way to request an ingestible liquid. When one person made this call, the other produced the liquid.
His new friend stared at him. “Yeah, uh, get whatever you want.”
They drank in silence for a time, the eagle's instincts telling him this was poison, but also that it was what this species consumed to survive. He let it not matter, and then his new friend attempted more communication.
“Where you from, friend? How is it you come to have no shirt on your back?”
The eagle blinked at him without comprehension. It sensed that they were in peaceful coexistence—a mutually beneficial partnership that would contribute to their survival. The problem was that the eagle didn't understand his series of calls, and eagles did not travel in flocks.
“Friend,” it repeated, the only word it came close to comprehending.
“Yeah—friend. Guess your tribe don't know a whole lotta English. Whatever, pal.” He placed some metal on the tree. “Drink's on me.”
The eagle watched him leave. He then studied the metal and found, to his delight, the image of a man on one side, and the image of an eagle on the other! But where did they find this magnificent piece? The eagle quickly closed its fist around the piece, and the man on the other side said “Hey! That's for me!”
Though his words were unclear, his sentiment was easy to understand. They were to fight over this treasure, which they could use to attract females. But was it the combat or the trinket that was meant to grab their attention? It had to be the trinket—there were no females here. So the man launched himself over the tree and onto the body of the eagle, who promptly rolled and threw him off. The eagle gave a shriek which stunned the man, and it followed this with a head-butt which knocked him senseless. While he was stunned, the eagle dug its fingers into his clothing and pulled him into another, harder head-butt which left him out cold.
The atmosphere had changed. The room was quiet, and all the people looked at him. He sensed that they would soon become hostile toward him for attacking one of them. It was time to go. He ran for the door, the coin clutched in his sweating hand, and took refuge in the same alley as before. When the mob got there, all they found were his clothes.
Free Bird had a spectacular vision when he sat in the desert. He had been an eagle, soaring across the heavens in search of purpose, nature and truth. It was a view he had not experienced before, and the power and grace of the eagle were like a pair of the finest moccasins. It felt so real, so pleasurable, that when he came to with a sudden gulp of air, he was forced to wonder if he was a man who had dreamed he was an eagle, or an eagle who dreamed that he was a man.
As if on cue, out of the setting sun flew, perhaps, the very bird he had been. Despite his overwhelming thirst, he pushed himself up and put one hand to his forehead to shield his eyes so he could watch this majestic creature. If it brought wisdom, he wished to be prepared.
A glint of light appeared beneath the eagle's claw as it passed overhead. He couldn't figure out where it had come from until he heard an object land at his feet. A coin.
The eagle had left him a coin and departed. He picked it up and looked it over, bemused. Then he smiled. On one side was one of those dead men the white man admired so much. The opposite side displayed an eagle.
A man and an eagle. Two sides of the same coin. Equal but opposite. Free Bird pondered this message for a time, then he realized the obvious connection: He needed to head into town and buy a drink before he passed out! With a private chuckle, he trudged forward.
As it covered the massive desert, it spied a man seated cross-legged beneath the beating sun and decided to investigate. Its relations with others like it were confusing, as though there was something it lacked—an instinct, an understanding of ritual and how to behave. As it wheeled lower, it contemplated how to deal with the man.
Life on the Reservation had gotten to be too much for Free Bird, so he departed one day with the least determinate of intentions, aware only that he was on a quest to decide his life's direction. The search for a spirit guide often led to the discovery of great truth, and thus he entered the desert. He had no money with which to begin a new life, and in the white man's world, you needed something.
When he could walk no longer, he shunned the canteen he'd brought with him as a concession to survival and sat down to allow himself to bake in the scorching sun. He swayed back and forth. His vision blurred. But from somewhere within his heart he found the strength to pray to the spirits. It didn't take long for them to answer.
The eagle alighted directly in front of him. He was named for the eagle, and so when this bald symbol of wisdom appeared, he took it as a sign. All he was able to do was to try and croak a greeting. He lifted one trembling hand, at which point the eagle cocked its head in puzzlement and stepped closer.
It caught sight of a scorpion in the sand. The eight-legged thing scurried in the general direction of the bird, which did not act immediately, so intent was it on Free Bird. Free Bird thought the eagle should act, defend itself from the scorpion's poison at the very least.
Then he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed until a mild hysteria overtook him. The eagle, totally distracted, tried this sound on for size, and achieved a passable, if screechy, impersonation.
Free Bird ran short of breath, the original thought still in his head. Why should a spirit fear poison?
As if the fastest draw in nature, the eagle snapped its head down and snatched up the scorpion right before it touched leg to claw. Just like that, the bug was gone. This was some kind of message, perhaps. Free Bird considered the interpretation. The eagle made to take off again, and Free Bird wondered if he would ever see it again.
The eagle alighted in the midst of a throng of people to snatch up a worm from a busy street, then soared away again to land in a nearby alleyway. Its form slowly began to change. Feathers were drawn into flesh, wings and legs grew and changed, and this was all accompanied by a loud grinding sound. The eagle, meanwhile, felt immense pain during this transition. It did not cry out, for this came naturally to it, an exclusive instinct. When it was over, the eagle was a man.
The man walked into the town and surveyed it. He was naked, without the feather-equivalent which men used. They looked at him strangely, and he recognized that mingling among their species might be just as complicated as mingling among his own.
No matter. He had done it before. It was what he was born to do, whether he knew the reason or not.
Some charitable person donated a spare set of clothing to him which bore feathers atop the cap. They were not eagle feathers.
“You lose a bet?” the person asked. He did not understand the question.
“No.”
The person stared at him for a moment, then shook his head.
With his new skin, he accompanied this new friend into a public nest, where the two of them sat down in front of a felled tree and were approached by a third man who occupied the third side all by himself.
The eagle plucked a bug off of the tree with his newly-acquired fingers and popped it into his mouth. The man opposite them changed the shape of his face to reflect a reaction and said, “The bugs are free, so I hope you want something costs a bit of cash.” He had never seen a man eat a bug before.
“Whiskey,” the eagle said immediately. It was one of the calls he had learned which this species used. It was a way to request an ingestible liquid. When one person made this call, the other produced the liquid.
His new friend stared at him. “Yeah, uh, get whatever you want.”
They drank in silence for a time, the eagle's instincts telling him this was poison, but also that it was what this species consumed to survive. He let it not matter, and then his new friend attempted more communication.
“Where you from, friend? How is it you come to have no shirt on your back?”
The eagle blinked at him without comprehension. It sensed that they were in peaceful coexistence—a mutually beneficial partnership that would contribute to their survival. The problem was that the eagle didn't understand his series of calls, and eagles did not travel in flocks.
“Friend,” it repeated, the only word it came close to comprehending.
“Yeah—friend. Guess your tribe don't know a whole lotta English. Whatever, pal.” He placed some metal on the tree. “Drink's on me.”
The eagle watched him leave. He then studied the metal and found, to his delight, the image of a man on one side, and the image of an eagle on the other! But where did they find this magnificent piece? The eagle quickly closed its fist around the piece, and the man on the other side said “Hey! That's for me!”
Though his words were unclear, his sentiment was easy to understand. They were to fight over this treasure, which they could use to attract females. But was it the combat or the trinket that was meant to grab their attention? It had to be the trinket—there were no females here. So the man launched himself over the tree and onto the body of the eagle, who promptly rolled and threw him off. The eagle gave a shriek which stunned the man, and it followed this with a head-butt which knocked him senseless. While he was stunned, the eagle dug its fingers into his clothing and pulled him into another, harder head-butt which left him out cold.
The atmosphere had changed. The room was quiet, and all the people looked at him. He sensed that they would soon become hostile toward him for attacking one of them. It was time to go. He ran for the door, the coin clutched in his sweating hand, and took refuge in the same alley as before. When the mob got there, all they found were his clothes.
Free Bird had a spectacular vision when he sat in the desert. He had been an eagle, soaring across the heavens in search of purpose, nature and truth. It was a view he had not experienced before, and the power and grace of the eagle were like a pair of the finest moccasins. It felt so real, so pleasurable, that when he came to with a sudden gulp of air, he was forced to wonder if he was a man who had dreamed he was an eagle, or an eagle who dreamed that he was a man.
As if on cue, out of the setting sun flew, perhaps, the very bird he had been. Despite his overwhelming thirst, he pushed himself up and put one hand to his forehead to shield his eyes so he could watch this majestic creature. If it brought wisdom, he wished to be prepared.
A glint of light appeared beneath the eagle's claw as it passed overhead. He couldn't figure out where it had come from until he heard an object land at his feet. A coin.
The eagle had left him a coin and departed. He picked it up and looked it over, bemused. Then he smiled. On one side was one of those dead men the white man admired so much. The opposite side displayed an eagle.
A man and an eagle. Two sides of the same coin. Equal but opposite. Free Bird pondered this message for a time, then he realized the obvious connection: He needed to head into town and buy a drink before he passed out! With a private chuckle, he trudged forward.
