Among the high plateaus of the interior west, there persists a legend of a bird whose wings stir the clouds and whose cry cracks the earth. The Thunderbird. A creature of judgment. A harbinger of storms. The kind of myth, Shaw insisted, that survives because something once deserved the name.
“A prehistoric apex flier,” he speculated. “Perhaps a relic species. Atmospheric in range. Predatory in disposition.”
“Or a very large bird guarding something valuable,” Duff replied, raising his binoculars.
From a ridge some distance off, we spotted the nest—perched atop a bluff of melted shale and sun-blasted bone. The trees nearby had been struck cleanly in half, blackened but standing. The nest itself was vast and circular, woven of ironwood and scorched sage, and lined with a yellow vapor that did not move with the wind.
In it: three eggs. Roughly the size of field helmets. Pale gold, faintly aglow.
“One for study,” Shaw said.
“One to finance the study,” Duff added.
“And one for the assistant, apparently.”
Our assistant was already scaling the bluff before either of us had finished the sentence. He was eager, under-experienced, and had a frustrating habit of volunteering before being asked.
We scrambled our way to the bottom of the bluff.
“Try not to agitate the vapor,” Shaw called up.
“What?” he shouted, now standing ankle-deep in it.
“Ten seconds,” Duff said quietly, watching the sky. “Maybe less.”
That was when the air collapsed.
First the silence—so total we heard the shifting of dust. Then a distortion in the light above the bluff, as if the sun had changed its mind. And then she dropped.
The Thunderbird.
Wings like stormfronts. Feathers crackling with residual charge. Her cry fractured the ridge face.
Our assistant lifted an egg in triumph. A moment later, it left his hands—tossed? Dropped? We never quite saw. It arced cleanly through the air.
One egg tumbled from the nest’s edge—Duff caught it without breaking stride. Shaw caught the other as it fell, cradling it like an unexploded shell.
We didn’t speak. We ran.
When the dust settled, our assistant was no longer visible. Only his hat remained, resting upright in a scorched patch of wildgrass.
We paused long enough to build a cairn and say a few words.
“What can be said about—”
“Kevin,” Duff offered.
“Yes. Kevin. He climbed bravely. He vanished… decisively. And he will be remembered.”
“Especially by whoever finds his notes,” Duff added.
We returned to camp with two eggs. Slightly cracked. Intact enough.
Shaw believes the shell compound binds citrus oils to a protein matrix in a way previously undocumented in either natural or confectionary sciences. Duff believes they’ll retail well near coastal resorts.
We both agree: the taste is bright, smooth, and faintly electric—lemon kissed by cream, chased by the distant memory of thunder.
Eat with reverence. And for Kevin.
—From the Red Bluff Expedition Notes, Vol. II
