Mrs. Robin's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

The young hawk left before dawn. Mrs. Robin woke to find the rim empty, the bandage she'd wrapped now pressed into the woven grass where the hawk had rested. She touched it once, then tucked it beneath a layer of nest lining. Her babies were still asleep, warm and safe in the center. She flew down to gather worms, working her way toward the swamp where the ground stayed soft. Wooden posts with metal bands marked the safe paths through the mud—she'd seen animals follow them carefully, stepping only where the posts showed it was solid. But this morning, something was wrong. The water near the posts rippled in a pattern, like something large was moving just beneath the surface. Mrs. Robin landed on a low branch and watched. A massive catfish broke through the murky water, its whiskers trailing behind it as it swam along the marked path. It wasn't hunting. It was traveling, deliberate and steady, heading toward the base of her tree. Mrs. Robin's chest tightened. The catfish couldn't climb, but it didn't need to. If it stayed near her tree, it would draw other predators. Larger ones. She thought of her babies still asleep in the nest, unaware of what was coming. She couldn't fight a catfish. She couldn't move it. But she could try to understand what it wanted. She flew closer, staying just above the water. The catfish didn't flee. It stopped near a wooden post and surfaced, its yellow eyes fixed on her. Mrs. Robin chirped once, sharp and clear. The catfish didn't move. She waited, her wings ready to bolt, but it just floated there, calm and still. Then she saw it—a rope bridge stretching between the trees above the swamp, leading to a cabin on stilts. Someone lived here. Someone who might know why the catfish was moving through the marked paths. Mrs. Robin flew to the cabin's wooden railing and called out. No answer. She looked back at the catfish, then at her tree in the distance. Her babies were still safe, but she couldn't leave this unresolved. She landed on the cabin's porch and pecked at the door, hard enough to be heard. A moment later, it creaked open. An old turtle blinked at her, surprised. Mrs. Robin stepped back and chirped again, pointing her wing toward the swamp. The turtle followed her gaze, saw the catfish, and nodded slowly. "He's lost," the turtle said quietly. "The wind tore up his den. He's been following the safe paths, looking for shelter." Mrs. Robin's fear shifted. Not a threat. Just something small and displaced, like her babies could have been. She flew back to the catfish and called to it, then led it away from her tree, toward a deeper part of the swamp where the turtle said it could rest. The catfish followed. When it finally settled into the shadows, Mrs. Robin returned to her nest. Her babies were awake now, chirping for food. She brought them worms, one by one, and said thank you out loud. The world wasn't only cruel. Sometimes it was just lost.