My Island.

You often hear in the human news that new species are constantly being
discovered on planet Earth. Remote islands, removed from larger
ecosystems for thousands of years, are treasure troves of diversity
and odd mutations. The island I grew up on would have your scientists
gibbering like excited kookaburras.

It's a volcanic island, far off the Pacific coasts of New Zealand. It
was born of a particularly massive eruption countless eons ago and is
shaped like a bowl whose rim goes way, way up, then curves inward at
the top. The outer surface of the bowl is extremely craggy, sharp, and
all manner of dangerous. The horrendously steep slopes, unstable shale
and gaping cracks encountered there would deter all but the most
hellbound of climbers. It is home only to some extremely misshapen
seabirds who tirelessly build and re-build ugly little nests and the
occasional lost crab who has clawed his way ever so slowly up and up
the ominous heights.

The inside of the bowl however...you have not understood the word lush
in your life until you have glanced it once.

It's a true tropical paradise, isolated from the prying eyes of the
outside world by means of both terrain and a little technological
magic. Over the top of the bowl lies a special screen that from below
is nearly invisible but from above looks like the roiling pit of an
active volcano, complete with swirling magma and explosive bursts of
flame. Nowadays, human satellites capture the image and it deters all
but the most determined scientists, who make their way to the edge of
the volcano, look down, get vertigo, and  decide to go home. We worry,
though, that one day one will fall in, land on the screen...and
then...well we don't know what will happen, but we always dread the
worst. More on that in later posts.

The buildings on our island look like upside down pagodas. There are
large platforms all around the sides of each level, making it easy to
take a running leap into the air. (Our species cannot take off from
the ground as we cannot reach running speeds fast enough, though I
suspect that standing atop a moving vehicle would be sufficient to get
us airborne.) The top tiers of the buildings, warmed by the sun, are
reserved for the revered elders and leaders of our society. The
housing units in the “pillars” all have doors facing inward and
outward, and you can reach any of them by elaborate spiral escalators
down the middle of the buildings.

There are tunnels, some pre-existing, that allow seawater to flow in
and out freely into little bays near the sides of the bowl where we
fish and play. The volcanic black sand coupled with the sunlight heats
the water so that it is always comfortable. The entrances to the
tunnels are cleverly disguised through natural means and protected by
rock spikes surrounding the opening.

As you can imagine, agriculture thrives in our fertile soil. We use
very simple ingredients and flavor them with natural sea salt.

We have a few very large fans on the island, powered by thermal vents.
They help keep the air in the bowl circulating so we can both 1) stay
aloft easier and 2) not bake in our humid environment. Of course, we
do have smaller misters and things around our buildings that help keep
us cool as well. For fresh water, we have dug wells around the island.
The rich volcanic soil naturally filters the water most of the way. We
also collect plenty of rainwater during storms. We are mostly
protected from the wind by the side walls of the island, but it does
get bad enough that we sometimes have to issue a no-fly warning.

My Birth.

My existence began not unlike yours. I started out fragile, grew rapidly in the womb, and exited my mother's life tunnel into the light. The main difference is that I was not exposed to the air at that point...

In my species we grow in the womb to about 3/4 the size you do, then we are "sac-born". We emerge covered in a thick membrane attached to a biological apparatus that works like a billows, reacting chemically with the air and pumping up the membrane away from our infant frames. A mixture of fluid and gases cushions us and gives us more room to develop for 2 months more. The outer surface hardens slightly for protection, becoming very much like an eggshell. Then, when the time is juuuuust right, we break free of our brittle prison and stretch our limbs for the first time.

Tradition in our culture says you never speak the baby's name aloud before they are sac-born. It's bad luck. You may choose a name, pointing to names that are written down. Hopefully your spouse thinks you are pointing to the same name they are; there are reports of some confusion when the name is finally spoken on sac-day and the spouse disagrees with the choice.

The tiny nubs on the infant's back and calves that develop before being sac-born are now free to advance in their growth within the membrane. The nubs on the legs become rudders for steering. The ones on the back stretch forth, acquire joints, and finally little slats, like a fan made from individual strips. These slats have a strong membrane between them like the webbing between fingers. These special adaptations are what set us apart from most beings our size on this planet. They allow us to fly.

My parents agreed on a name for me long before I was conceived. They had heard a sound that is all at once beautiful and melancholy, a sound found in the natural world outside the small island where we worked out our living. Most of the people in our society are named after bird calls; that is, you have to make the bird's call to speak my name. The name chosen for me was the call of the mourning dove.

How ironic...how could they have known how appropriate that name would be for me?