Many days had passed after the cleansing flood, and Fig cared for the pale-shelled egg dotingly. The days were stifling and she paid close attention to the heat of her shaggy, root cloaked body against which the slumbering babe basked – she could not let it get too hot after all. In the vast rainforests of Prim’sylva, those in particular in which her respective genus grew, occasionally a monsoonal storm or freak wind event dislodged young birds and eggs from their nests in the boughs of towering trees. Those that fell particularly from the canopies of the Arborun were retrieved and not left to the (oftentimes) cruel circle of life. They were nurtured and cared for by the gentle Lignea and thus they returned later to nest, and raise their families again in safety, and the fond care of the benevolent, ancient giants.

Never did they trap or seek to tame wild creatures.

That particular morning, beneath a cloudless sky and bathed in gloriously invigorating sunlight, Fig slipped from the company of meandering forest shadows and began a slow journey towards the beach just beneath her home. Her lush, glossy canopy had grown considerably since her return to the cliff-top kingdom – thriving on pure, sweet water – and she often found herself tangling with native timber as she worked to find passage through the region. There was a particular path she travelled however that had become rather a blessing. It skirted just to the south of the herd’s business district unfortunately, so she found herself less able to participate in all that went on; but it bothered her little, and she spent most days slowly ambling along, tracing the glass-littered borderline and following the sun’s cycle into the western horizon.

As she ambled along, Fig hummed a soft tune for the egg wrapped beneath her Body Plant’s curtain-like roots. It was a wordless fable, well known by the Arborun, and passed down from her mother (Fig) when she had been only a sapling. Though her coat was thick, matted and sweat lathered across it, the shaggy tree-girl could feel the orb squirming, pulsing, and smiled brightly, imagining that the creature within was enjoying the song. She failed to notice the pipping, the thin fracture running down the fine casing, and for a good while continued along obliviously (in recent days the egg had grown rather more active). It was only as she paused between changing landscapes – old forest wood was turning into smooth, lean palm trees – and turned her thick neck to access the nest, that she realised what was happening.

“Oh you are hatching!” she crooned brightly and her hairy features lifted with joy. Thick ears tipped forward, eagerly awaiting the first tiny peep of the feathered babe yet to appear, and warm brown eyes searched keenly between draped roots for the widening cracks. She encouraged with gentle whines and soft, billowing breaths, and flake after fake, the shell fell away. Soon, all that remained was the pasty complexion of a rather swollen, odd looking chick, but she said nothing of it and pressed tender lips to the bird’s supple face.

Certainly she had seen nothing of his kind in the world from which she hailed!

“I will raise you dear child – it is the way of the Lignea, you see. When your feathers are full in length and your beak...” The kind tree-girl paused, fixing her eye to the pointed face which bore little semblance (no doubt) to the avian who had birthed him, and laughed softly. “Well, it will be a long time before any of that.” Fig thought too quietly, that she might wait to name the blubbery-babe because it was really quite difficult to spot his type. Regardless of any peculiar traits, she moved the roots slumped about him carefully to create a little more space – but not so much that he might fall from safety. Curiously, the chick curled himself into a small ball like no bird she had seen before, and yawned. “I will find food for you. Sleep now though...” she soothed delicately, and sure enough the baby slipped into slumber. The young Lignea continued then along her way and the taste of salty surf lay thick upon the air.

fig