Born With The Knowledge

Roo-kai spots two grass-green blobs, in the saltmarsh.

He flies down.

Mother! squawks one grass-green blob.

To be fair, it looks less like a grass-green blob and more like a parrot, close up.

And it has an orange belly patch.

As does the other.

I can't be your mother, says Roo-kai. 

Can you be mine? asks the other one.

Nor yours, says Roo-kai. For one thing, I'm an oystercatcher.  For another, I'm a male of the species.

You see, says the grass-green parrot to the other, we should have paid more attention.

Gaius arrives, out of breath.

Wonderful! says Gaius. A pair of orange-bellied parrots. Well done Roo-kai.

He's not our mother, says the first orange-bellied parrot.

I did not mean to imply that he was, says Gaius. But he has found you, which is wonderful.

Thank you, says Roo-kai.

We heard that the other orange-bellied parrots have left for Tasmania. says Gaius.

Who told you that? asks the second one.

Me, says Roo-kai.

And who told you? asks the first one.

The Bartailed Godwit, says Roo-kai. Why? Isn't he reliable?

It's not that, says the first orange-bellied parrot. We don't even know him. But he might tell us more about Tasmania.

I can do that, says Gaius. Tasmania is where you orange-bellied parrots go to breed, after wintering here in South Australia.

What is breed? asks the second one.

You will know when you get there, says Gaius.

It comes naturally, says Roo-kai. 

Okay, says the first one. How do we get there? 

Were you not born with the knowledge? asks Gaius. 

The orange-bellied parrots look at one another.

They were hatched at the Adelaide Zoo. And released recently.

They shake their heads.

I see you were not, says Gaius. If you would like our assistance, come with us. We have maps.

We're in the middle of eating, says the first parrot.

Don't let us stop you, says Gaius. We shall return to our colleagues. You can follow our footprints, when you're ready.

He and Roo-kai set off, back to where Camus, Terence and Waca are contesting with flies.

Get them away from me! cries Waca. I'll be infested with maggots!

They keep on returning! says Camus.

Kill them! yells Terence.

What with? shouts Camus.

This is ridiculous. If Camus can't deal with flies, what good is his philosophical background?

He takes a moment.

Yes. Bien sur! Scrape off the icing and cake crumbs. Set it aside on the sand, some way off. Wash Waca. Start again with something else orange, but less attractive to flies.  

What might that be? Rien! He will deal with that later.