"I won't do anything to that thing, Coot," the hoarse voice on the other side of the telephone chuckled. "They are a protected group of people. As...pragmatic as I am, I have my code of conduct. I am still a professional."
On the outskirts of the jungle, Clinton Coot stood beside a wall-mounted telephone inside a village hut. He held the receiver close to his ears, as the person on the line continues.
"We are still professionals. I believe you will know what is the right thing to do with it."
"It is a young man, a him," Clinton retorted. "And he has a name."
"Clinton, I am not trying to play semantics with you. Nor am I trying to sound condescending," the voice softened, if only for just a bit. "You...really shouldn't be getting too close to that boy. You know you won't be there to stay."
"I know what I am doing," Clinton argued.
"Then I urge you to think again," the voice plainly replied, before breathing out heavily. "This is your last expedition, Coot. We both know you don't have much time left. You could drop dead anytime, anywhere. Whether you can really find those artefacts is an unknown in itself, let alone bring them home."
Clinton's grasp on the receiver tightened, his beak pursed into a slight frown. The voice paused, as if able to see the recipient's response, before continuing.
"In fact - and I should have asked you way earlier - why are you even doing this? A set of artefacts, usable only by descendants of three families. Out of - I don't know - so damn many families in the whole entire world. I know yours is one of them, but isn't there enough magical stuff for your family members? The artefacts aren't particularly powerful either."
Clinton closed his eyes, listening to the questionings of his colleague, against the backdrop of heavy rain falling outside and onto the hut.
"You are really in this alone, Coot. With so little help, so little clue. For what? No one else will go after them, nor will anyone congratulate you even if you do successfully return from your jungle adventure with your spoils.
"You know this is only going to be a labour of love, right?"
"I do," Clinton firmly stated. "And love...is exactly why I am doing this. For...someone in my family, I have to do this. I want to do this."
A sigh passed through the unstable telephone connection, but the sentiment conveyed was clearly received.
"You've always been too good of a researcher, Coot. You started this trip for someone's sake, and now you are phoning me for another person's," the voice sounded genuinely concerned. "I won't pry what you don't want to talk about, just as you never pried anything about me. However if this expedition is really because of your love for a certain family member, shouldn't you be spending your last few years - or months - with them?"
"I would rather do something that will benefit the rest of his life. Even if I spent all the rest of my time with him, doing so wouldn't change that child's fate," Clinton replied, remembering the promise he had made to himself the last time he met his great-grandson.
"This discovery can't change his cruel fate either, I know that. However, if only for his smile, I would do anything. Even if it's just a transient happiness with no guarantee, I would give it to him. If one day he discovers this artefact, and with it someone that understands him, someone that walks with him in his life...even for only a chance of that happening, I would do it.
"Just like the Caballeros: Someone who fights alongside you, no matter how cruel fate is. The companionship is what I wish to preserve and pass on."
"Then think about this aracuan bird you have been talking to me about. How's that any different?" The voice argued, almost immediately. "One day you will leave this jungle. One day you will leave this world, and we both know that day will come sooner than later. You will leave him. And how will that make him feel?"
Clinton unconsciously turned his head to the bedroom beside the living room, where he knew a young, pink bird was struggling to sleep alone in the thunderstorm.
"Of course I knew our time together is borrowed, but...what else can I do?" Clinton cursed himself for not having a sound reason to argue back. "I...I see my great-grandson in him: A young child, tormented by the cruel hand of fate, crying for something that is not their fault for a single bit. I can't leave him alone. I...can't. If our encounter could change his life for the better, this will all be worth it."
"And that's where the problem is, Coot. Before, he had always been alone. Now you enter his life, have him become attached to you, make wonderful memories, experience what it is like to be cared and loved...and then you leave?" The voice retorted, before becoming silent. Only the sound of occasional, deep breathing indicated the call was still ongoing.
After a deafening minute passed, the speaker restarted the conversation with another heavy sigh.
"Coot, you know I care for no one. Not you. Not the aracuan bird. I am the worst person you can ever ask for help from. If you still want to continue, let me say this. And although it will sound coldhearted even coming from me, I mean this in the most factual, impassive way possible," the voice warned.
"To you, he should be just a tool. For the sake of you and him, treat him as such."
In response to this, Clinton felt he had long prepared the words to retaliate with.
"If only for a single person to feel like they are not just a tool, I will give my life."
Clinton could feel his opponent shrug through the telephone line.
"I wish you good luck then, Coot," the voice returned to its nonchalant, business tone. "I will be waiting to meet this aracuan bird in person. Should he ever come to the Institute, I will make sure he is properly taken care of. Before then, let me know if you need any additional help in your journey. You must be really desperate to seek refuge in an unknown village in a strange jungle."
"Thank you for your offer, Sheldgoose," Clinton replied, his tone also reverted to a faux professional one. "Although, I believe Ari and I can handle the rest ourselves. You've given me enough help."
"I see. Ari, eh...?" Baroness Von Sheldgoose snickered. "I pray you can really change his life for the better. Show him he is not just a tool the world views his people as. I have no respect for neither good nor evil. But what I have respect for, is a person's perseverance in pursuing good or evil.
"I pray you will stick to your words to the very end. Although, having known you for so long, I believe I need not worry.
"You really are a kind soul, Clinton."
Sheldgoose softened her voice for that last sentence, to the point Clinton would have thought she had handed the telephone to someone else.
Before Clinton could say anything in reply, the call hung up from the other side. Listening for a few moments to the beeping sound of an ended phone call, he returned the receiver to the telephone on the wall.
His eyes drifted once again to the sleeping aracuan bird, through the slightly opened door. Ari twisted and turned in his sleep, especially whenever a thunder echoed from afar.
Remembering his meeting with the lonely aracuan bird on the jungle floor for the first time, Clinton's determination burned only brighter.
"If only I can save a single soul from despair, this life will be worth it."
(23-7-2025)
