The Lonely Weewoo
He was born late in the Month of Storing, in a small nest on the highest branch of the tallest Snow Covered Tree in Happy Valley. It was the last sunny day that Happy Valley would see for months when the tiny White Weewoo’s beak pecked its way out of his egg’s shell. The first thing the baby bird saw was the sun. He squinted his brown eyes as he peered up through the tree branches of his home tree, ruffling his feathers as melting snow drip-drip-dripped onto his head. Only one thought crossed the newborn’s mind: where is my mommy?
The Weewoo’s mother was nowhere to be seen. He chirped and tweeted, trying to call his mother home, but she never came. He hopped around the nest, craning his neck up to see through the tree branches and stretching to peer over the low edges of his nest.
He bent over too far one day and tumbled out of the nest. He flapped his wings desperately as he fell. The snow covered ground rushed up quickly – too quickly for the Weewoo to stop himself – and he struck the ground in a whirl of feathers and cheeps.
The Weewoo’s wings hurt him very much after the fall. No matter how much he tried, he just could not get his feet off the ground. He strained to flutter his little baby wings, but to no avail. He simply could not fly.
After his fall, the Weewoo hobbled around the trunk of his home tree. He wondered every day where his mother was and when she would come back for him. Was there something wrong with him? Why did his mother not want him?
One cold day in the middle of the Month of Celebrating, he found himself outside of a Happy Valley Neohome. The White Weewoo stared in wonder at the festive colored lights that lined the roof of the house. Bright red bows were tied to the windows and a full, green wreath hung on the door. Best of all, a Weewoo Bath sat prominently in the front yard of the Neohome. Snow was piled around the bottom of the yard piece, but perched in the center was a magnificent Weewoo. The Weewoo in the Bath’s beak was poised open, water frozen midstream into the basin below.
Thinking the stone Weewoo in the Bath was his mom, the tiny White Weewoo chirped and jumped, messing up his feathers, trying to get its attention. He flicked delicate flecks of snow up at the other Weewoo and paced. Notice me, he urged. It took me this long to find you, the least you could do is say hello!
Eventually, the White Weewoo gathered the strength to jump high enough to land on the brim of the Bath. Wide-eyed, he softly tiptoed around the stone bird. I finally found my mother! he thought gleefully. She can teach me how to fly again and we can leave Happy Valley for Krawk Island and live with all of the other Weewoos! No more snow, only sun and sand and wind beneath my wings!
All the White Weewoo wanted from then on was to get attention from the stone Weewoo.
He spent his days on the ground, pecking furtively for grubs hidden away, deep below the frozen soil. He gathered twigs to fashion a nest identical to the one in which he was born, hoping the burrow would help to keep them both warm. He snuggled up against the stone bird when the night winds howled and shaded its eyes when the sun peeked through the cloudy skies overhead.
A terrible snowstorm attacked Happy Valley one day. The White Weewoo nestled against his surrogate stone mother, trying to protect her, but the wind was too strong. With one mighty gust of wind, a sharp twig embedded itself into the White Weewoo’s wing and the stone Weewoo was broken off her pedestal in the Bath. She toppled over and shattered into a million little pieces.
The White Weewoo mourned the loss of his stone mom with a sorrowful lullaby, for which Weewoos were known. The young Weewoo cried for the stone bird, despite never receiving any attention from it. He had lost his mother again, and this time she would not come back. He hooted his gloomy song all day and carried his grief stricken tune well into the wee hours of the morning. He cried for his mother, his home, and the pain in his wing caused by the stick.
The song drifted across Happy Valley, piercing through the heavy wooden door of the Neohome whose yard housed his Weewoo Bath home. A blue hand gently grasped the wispy curtains at the window overlooking the yard and a Faerie Draik peeked through the glass. Eisian watched as the little White Weewoo nuzzled the fallen bird with his beak. “Weeeeeeewoooooooo,” he howled. He lifted his injured wing a little and covered the largest bits of rubble that was once his companion. The wind blew so hard that it was blinding to anybody who ventured outside their homes. It howled in the moonlight like a hungry Kadoatie, eliciting creaks and moans from the buildings below. The Weewoo's faint shadow, however, could be spotted against the nighttime shine of Kreludor.
Eisian felt a well of pity bubble up from the pit of her stomach. She let the curtain fall from her grasp silently and turned from the window.
Her thoughts remained centered on the unfortunate sight of the bird in the Bath for hours. It was so cold outside, she thought, and Weewoos were not native to Happy Valley. The bird was far from Krawk Island and who knew how much longer he would be able to survive the harsh winter. She knew it was up to her to help him out.
Eisian grabbed her coat off of its peg and fastened the buttons quickly. She pulled her boots and gloves on and wrapped a long, woolen scarf around her neck. Wind was raging so hard outside her Neohome that the door was nearly ripped off its hinges when she opened it. Carefully, she made her way to the frozen Weewoo Bath.
As the Faerie Draik got closer to the little bird, concern rose inside her. She could see his makeshift nest, which was in a disheveled pile from the storm. Her pink eyes traveled to the thorn that was stuck in the Weewoos wing.
“What happened to you, little one?” she cried. “How long have you had this spike in your wing?”
Eisian gently scooped the bird in her arms and carried him back to her Neohome. She sat him down on a table and rustled around in a desk drawer. She exclaimed triumphantly when she found a pair of tweezers. With a gentle tug, she pulled the splinter out. Setting the apparatus aside, she tore a sliver of her royal gown sleeve and tied it around the Weewoo’s injured wing.
“I do hope that did not hurt you too much,” she worried. The girl soothingly stroked the bird’s snowy neck.
“Would you like to rest?” she inquired.
The petpet nodded tiredly, ruffling his wings with appreciation. He felt like he could sleep for a year. The aching had died down in his wing since the Draik’s extraction and the excitement from the day made him sleepier than he had ever been before.
“You can stay with me,” she announced.
The Weewoo, named Bliss, became Eisian’s petpet, and he realized that she was the only mother he would ever need. He grew to know what love and friendship was. He even got to feel the wind beneath his wings as her perched on Eisian’s shoulder while she soared high over Happy Valley.