...continued from part II
This morning bird starts to sing. This species isn't mentioned in any of the books in their library of saved books, and so they call it chawkerr, because that's the sound it makes. It starts with "chaaaaawwwwwww" and ends it with "kerrrrr". It's not clear how it makes the "ch" and "k" sound, but no one here has bothered to catch one and dissect it to see. He has seen many in the mornings when he went looking for fruits. It's a big bird with a huge beak, also a fruit eater like him. Black back, bluish white in the chest like the morning sky, and deep, leafy green streak on the sides that run to its beak. The male has a distinct red cap that flairs up during mating dance. He sometimes observe them from one of the top branches, and they have gotten used to him that they don't fly away all the time.
After the beautiful, foreign woman left, he sits on his improvised bench a little while more, listening to the morning calls of the chawkerr. He, for some reason, notices his toes sticking out of his pair of worn out homemade shoes. He notices his shoes too. Boy, they are worn-out! He then looks at his shins, full of dirt and scars, and his eyes proceeded to observe upwards until his palms. He remembers the feeling of her hand. So soft. Not like any hand he has ever touched. In fact, not like anything he has ever touched. He touches the back of his right hand with the finger tips of his left, and vice versa. Then he runs his finger tips up his rough and dirty lower arms, and then he embraces himself, sinks his head between his knees. It's a strange feeling, feeling to recognize yourself. Sometimes he sees himself in the reflection of the bucket of water but he never really recognizes himself in the poor reflection; whoever is in it is some transient shadow with ever changing features and no color. He read about mirrors, but wasn't too interested in it because it was used for things he didn't care about, like cosmetics, fashion, or whatever else that came after he decided to change the chapter of the encyclopedia. But now he felt himself, his own being, physically. His first acknowledgment of himself comes in the form of rough skins, dirty feet, all contrast to what he saw in that woman. His hair is cut regularly, but he can see the longer strands, and in this midmorning sun he could see nothing spectacular.
Then in between his knees he could smell his legs, his arms, his face as it rubs off his knees. It's not the smell of the forest, though originating from it. It smells a bit like stale fruit, stale moss, but not something unique and foreign, like her scent. He then pokes his head halfway out of his wrapping arms just enough for his eyes to look at the distance while his face is still hidden in his embrace. He see the canopy spreading out to the ocean that he has never seen from close. He was told by friends that it is awesome and loud. He read about it in the books, understands a little about what it's like, what lives in it, what it can do and have done, and that the ancestors were pushed from yonder into this green world. In this moment of self-reflection, he suddenly wonders where his place is in this world of oceans and the island. He wonders where this angel had fallen from. The sky? With a machine? From where? Is there land in the skies as mentioned in some books? Is there land in those waters over there? When it got cloudy he sometimes wondered if there were people living in the clouds. There were books about people living up there in palaces, but he wasn't sure if they were stories or real. There are many contradictions in the books in the library.
But there is never any mentioning of the darkness below. And like a racing car slamming into a wall, his thoughts come to a halt when he thinks about the dread below. The fantasy of his existence and possibilities beyond suddenly vanishes into irrelevance. And from the thought of the darkness comes the reminder that he needs to get the fruits. It is getting late. He has been sleeping in his thoughts for too long. The chawkerrs have stopped singing and now the cicadas are screaming in the late morning heat. He gets up and grabs his pole. And as he marches on his usual path he fights the resurgent thoughts about that woman, her face, her scent, the touch of his soft hand. It is going to be a hard day.
