Mataya hummed and skipped, then stopped to pirouette, her arms and wrists poised delicately above her head.  She spoke in the fractured language of traditional ballet, articulated with feminine charm, and with an accent that native speakers would find exotic.  She raised the hem of her gown, skidded as she decelerated
the corner, then tiptoed down the corridor of her apartment towards the luxurious bathing chamber, all quiet-like.  She opened the door slowly, ever so gently, then leapt inside, whooping and laughing loudly, hoping to startle Poor Pierre, but not enough to ruin the surprise by causing him to faint and fall from his perch.  This, however, was nearly impossible as Mirameese Parrots have an acute sense of hearing — a defense mechanism necessary for the survival of their species in the steamy, predatory island jungles from whence Pierre’s ancestors came.

Pierre, always the good sport, could be counted on to play along with the charade by pretending to be sound asleep, snoring conspicuously with eyes closed, awaiting patiently for just the right moment to burst forth with a blood-curdling squawk with wings fully extended and his small but formidable beak and sharp powerful talons poised and ready to strike.  A shameless braggart, Pierre frequently boasted that his talons were so deadly that he was required to register them with the local magistrate as lethal weapons.  So utterly terrifying was he that even the black panthers of the Mirameese jungle would soil themselves if they ever engaged Pierre face-to-face.

The door flung open and Mataya burst into the room.  “Boo!”

Ordinarily, Pierre leapt to his feet and threatened to retaliate with a furious attack.  Then, each would stand down, laughing and congratulating themselves, claiming victory.  However, this time, Pierre lay motionless.  His beak slightly ajar.  His tongue extended.  His eyes, dull and lifeless.

“Pierre?  Pierre!  Yeah.  Ha ha.  Very funny.”  Mataya approached slowly, concern written all over her face.  Had she finally done it?  Had she finally frightened the poor bird to death?  She should have known better.  He did, after all, suffer from extreme anxiety.  Mataya bit down hard on her lip.  “Oh, no!  What have I done?!”  She could just hear the Mistress’ voice warning her of the inevitable consequences of her childish mischief:

One of these days — in his condition — his little heart will give out.

Mataya felt deeply ashamed and struggled to reassure herself.

Don’t be silly!  Pierre will live to be 150 years old.  He will outlive us all.

Mataya had never considered the idea that she would outlive Pierre, for in one thoroughly documented case, a male Mirameese Parrot in captivity lived to be 198 years old.  Yet she could not quash the words of warning that had been impressed upon her time and time again.

If he dies, you will be responsible.  You will be a murderer.  And then what will you do?  How will you live with yourself?

Mataya hated that word.  It was perhaps the most terrifying word in the entire language:

Responsible

“Oh, Pierre!  What have I done?  And today of all days!”

Mataya fell to her knees and scanned Pierre’s body for signs of life.  She tucked her hair behind her ear and lowered her head down to his voluminous chest.  Her own heart beat so loudly that she was unable to discern any sound from Pierre’s tiny heart nor lungs.  Instead, she positioned her palm several inches away from Pierre’s beak attempting to detect the moisture and heat of his breath.  She felt nothing.  He was not breathing.  She had murdered him with her childish mischief just as she had been warned.

Just then, Pierre leapt to his feet, cackling triumphantly.  Mataya shrieked.  With one hand over her heart and the other covering her mouth, she bowed down to the floor.  She sat up and put her hands on her hips.  “Pierre!  Lords darn you!” 

Pierre danced triumphantly.  “Pierre wins … always wins!”

“No you didn’t,” Mataya protested.  You cheated!”

“Pierre is best … always best.”

Mataya smiled, and sighed.  “Darn you, Pierre.  You are so clever.  Why, I believe you are the most clever Parrot that has ever lived.”  She tickled him with both hands underneath his wingpits.

They had played this game for years, but each time felt as if it were the first.  On more than one occasion, Pierre had carried the charade one step further, hoping to trick Mataya into performing mouth-to-beak resuscitation.  However, he eventually learned his lesson after being treated with a bucket of ice-cold water dumped straight on top of his head.

After enjoying a good laugh, Mataya stroked Pierre with affection from the top of his head down to the tip of his tail feathers.  Then, as she worked her way back up, she penetrated his layer of feathers with her fingertips and massaged as if kneading bread dough.  Enjoying her displays of affection, Pierre closed his eyes, reclined his head, and gently hissed.

“Pierre, your feathers are so soft.”

“Pierre is soft … very soft.”

“And they are the most exquisite shade of emerald green that I have ever seen.”

“Pierre is green … very green.”

“And your feathers.  They are so clean.”

“Pierre is clean.  Very clean.”

“Why, you are absolutely, positively, the most handsome and beautiful Parrot in the entire world.”

“Pierre is very.  Pierre is.”

Then, sadly, Mataya’s sweet, happy thoughts were interrupted and replaced by the sharp painful reality of their separation.  Pierre would be wrought with sorrow.  The unbearable idea penetrated her chest and pierced her heart, causing pain more severe than that inflicted by Pierre’s own talons.

I cannot delay any further, Mataya thought to herself.  I must tell him today.  He deserves to know.

Mataya had already procrastinated far too long.  She must have the talk with Pierre.  Today.  It would be unfair to keep the news of her trip to the Eyrie a secret from Pierre any longer.  But she was afraid of his reaction.  He was very sensitive.  Too sensitive for the cruel world in which he was borne.  Would he not see it as abandonment?  Is not abandonment the ultimate form of betrayal?  She gave him an extra long massage while rehearsing a proper speech.  She must choose her words very carefully.

He can take it.  He is truly brave after all.

The bathing chamber was naturally dark.  Only a sliver of natural sunlight found its way into the chamber through a pair of small vents designed to allow moisture and heat to escape.  As a young girl, frightened of the dark and unable to manage a vast arrays of candles and fearful of dangerous of oil-burning lamps, the room was specially fitted with an intricate and expensive system of mirrors that collected, amplified, and distributed light throughout the room.  The devices themselves were concealed between enormous palm trees and other tropical plants which, besides looking very cool, served to make Pierre feel as if he were at home in the hot steamy jungle.

Mataya kissed Pierre on the top of his beak, then retrieved a box of wooden matches.  A mere two candles was all that was required to provide ample illumination.  The flame of each candle was placed at the focal point of a parabolic mirror that collected and projected the rays upwards in a concentrated beam of parallel light.  Then, these narrow beams passed through prisms constructed from precisely cut and multi-faceted polished crystals, typically clear white.  From the prisms emerged light not of a single color, but a sparkling rainbow which contained every shade of color that the human could detect.  Finally, the rainbow of light was cast upward onto a set of circular convex mirrors and broadcast in all directions.  Shiny glass and metallic trinkets and reflective novelties hung from the ceiling and sat atop the wall’s many shelves, constructed similar to that of a garden terrace.  The net result was that any given ray of light leaving one of the candles could reflect hundreds of times before finally striking a non-reflective surface, painting it with intensely vivid colors.  Ultimately, every ray of light originates from one of two flickering candles.  The net effect was that the illumination was not in a constant steady state.  Rather it constantly spun, danced, flickered, and flashed.  Occasionally, it would explode as a miniature fireworks were being displayed indoors.  And thus, gloomy darkness was transformed into the shimmering and scintillating daylight of a dense jungle.

The resulting display was particularly enjoyable while bathing as the light chamber filled with steam which exposed translucent beam of light in every direction and the surface of the water was alit with multi-colored shining bubbles. The end result was a dramatic optical theater which, at times, was as explosive and dynamic as a bonfire; while at other times, was intricate, fine, and geometrically predictable, similar to the color patterns of a kaleidoscope.

It was a wonderous place to relax.  It was hypnotic.  It was intoxicating.  Inebriating.  It was where Mataya and Pierre spent their evenings, sharing their spiritual
journey of altered state of consciousness.  Pierre, stimulated by the pulsating metaphysical energy, would sway, contort, and writhe, as if dancing to the rhythm of mystical music that only he could hear while Mataya would hum as she sank into the steaming bath up to her neck with dimmed eyes, pondering the meaning of the life, the vastness of the universe, and the role she was destined to play.

Her evening bathe with her unconventional yet loyal companion to keep her company was without a doubt Mataya’s favorite part of the day.  It was her nighttime ritual that helped her cope with daily stress and regulate emotions.  It was cathartic.  It was a release.  A time when she could breathe, and think, and just be.  There, she would wind down and prepare for slumber during which she could enjoy wonderous dreams of her own design.

Mataya pulled up a stool next to Pierre’s perch and offered Pierre her left arm.  Pierre shuffled his feet towards her, burst into a few steps of soft-shoe, then hopped onto the back of her outstretched arm.  With wings extended, swaggering like a drunken pirate, he grappled up her arm and situating himself comfortably on her shoulder.  Mataya turned her neck just as Pierre leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  Not possessing lips per se, a kiss from Pierre amounted to a gently pecking with his rounded break and thick black tongue.  Despite the fact that Pierre possessed no lips, the gesture was no less intimate than any other kiss.  They were tender moments.  Expressions of genuine love.  This was their time.  Girl-parrot bonding time.  In Pierre, Mataya had a confidant with whom she could share her innermost thoughts and desires without fear of being judged.  One with whom any secret was safely kept.

Mataya leaned her head to the side and nuzzled her cheek with the top of Pierre’s head.  She reached around with her left hand and ruffled the feathers just below his neck.  Pierre closed his eyes and gently hissed.  The resulting sound was as soothing as the purring of a kitten.

“Does that feel good?”  Mataya sing-songed.

“Pierre good.  Very good.”

Mataya’s bathing chamber was Pierre’s permanent home.  In fact, he had not ventured outside of the chamber for several years due to an unfortunate incident with a wayward cat that had snuck its way inside Mataya’s chambers.  Ever since then, Pierre suffered horribly from a condition the doctors referred to as IHS (Irritable Heart Syndrome).  It was a serious and debilitating medical condition, one that was not very well understood, common amongst those who had seen action in the military, and notoriously difficult to treat, particularly with birds who had suffered vicious attacks from real-life monsters.  The general thinking of the time was that desensitization therapy was the most effective treatment.  It was recommended that Pierre be locked in a cage surrounded by several hundred cats for one month.  Mataya, however, did not agree and would not allow it.  It would be a case of the cure being worse than the ailment, she argued.  Thus, her bathing chamber became his entire world and any subsequent attempts to remove Pierre from his de-facto domicile were met with violent resistance accompanied by severe physical and emotional breakdowns.

On several occassions, Pierre’s nervous system became so overwhelmed that his entire body seized.  Flat on his back, wings spasming, his two legs sticking straight up into the air, quivering, and shaking as if he were a puppet to a unknown puppet-master.  One priest believed that Pierre was possessed by an unholy spirit and prescribed exorcism.  Once again, Mataya would not hear of it.  It was a ridiculous notion and she would be the one left to deal with the resulting trauma.  Just to be certain, one day she sprinkled holy-water on top of Pierre’s  head.  When he failed to burst into flame, Mataya felt assured that he was not possessed by an evil demon, just an eccentric and mercurial fowl.    

Ruling out possession, Mataya used her father’s reputation and social standing to solicit the expertise of the most reputable psychiatrists that she could procure. Unfortunately, time-after time, their treatments, often equally bizarre and inexplicable, did nothing to improve Pierre’s paralyzing condition.  In the end, it was agreed upon that Mataya’s bathing chamber would serve as Pierre’s permanent home.

Mataya did her best to decorate the chamber with palm trees and exotic flowers that reminded Pierre of his childhood home.  The chamber itself was well-suited as it was typically warm and moist, a climate similar to the jungle.  In time, Pierre grew to accept and even appreciate his small but comfortable prison and he especially enjoyed the deluge of daily attention, sympathy, and pampering which he received from his beautiful and blessed benefactress.  No Parrot anywhere in the world received such individualized care, or so Pierre fancied.  He was, after all, very special, a fact which he expressed nearly each and every day.  Pierre is special.  Very Special.

And just to be certain that no no further traumatization occurred, a sign was prominently hung just outside the door to Mataya’s bathing chambers:

Upon pain of death.
NO CATS ALLOWED!

Mataya had also grown to appreciate the arrangement, unorthodox as it may be.  From her point of view, she now had a companion with whom she could share the details of her day.  In Pierre, she had found the most excellent confidant.  He was an superb listener, he rarely if ever argued, and Mataya had the utmost faith in Pierre’s discretion.  To Pierre, she could divulge her most deeply personal and intimate fantasies.  She was completely free to bare her very soul, to share her private and innermost thoughts and feelings without any fear whatsoever that her secrets would be betrayed. How many people in the world could make a similar claim?  Especially amongst young female adults.

And besides being an excellent listener, he was a good speaker as well.  He spoke with economy, and he always got straight to the point.  He had a quite the knack for expressing complex ideas with sentences composed of no more than four words.  His speech was succinct.  Its complexity lie in its simplicity.  And he was a bird and therefore was very wise and gave most excellent advice.  Pierre was certainly wise.  Very wise, indeed.  Wiser than any owl, crow, or sparrow.  And he was unusually loquacious, even for a parrot.

“Time for bath.  Time for bath!”

Mataya, with Pierre balanced on her shoulder, leaned over and rotated an iron wheel attached to the wall.  Steaming hot water flowed into a deep, rectangular, porcelain basin.  The tub was built with steps creating several depths depending on whether one wished to comfortably sit or lie submerged.  Mataya deposited Pierre onto his perch, twirled her finger, and began to disrobe.

Soon, the room filled with a swirling haze of waxy smoke and thick steam.  The mirrors clouded from the humidity.  Daylight turned into the moonlight.  Pierre closed his eyes and inhaled deeply believing that hot steam was good for his sinuses.  Or so he had been told.  His head rose as he inhaled and drooped as he exhaled.  His beak quivered and his tongue distended as he hissed with pleasure.  After an entire day of feeling just a bit chilly and suffering from a dry nose, mouth, and throat, the heat and humidity was intoxicating.

“I have so much to tell you, Pierre,” Mataya tentatively begun.  “Pierre?  I have news.  It is wonderful news.  Really it is.  Really.”

Pierre, despite his intelligence, lacked the ability to recognize the subtle nuances of the human voice and therefore failed to detect from Mataya’s tone
that bad news accompanied the good.  His interest piqued, he rotated towards Mataya with his head bobbing back-and-forth and side-to-side with excitement and curiosity.  “News for Pierre.  Wonderful news.”

Mataya felt a pang of guilt shoot down her throat and into her stomach.  She paused to try and collect her thoughts.  She knew all day long that this moment would come.  Why had she not carefully prepared her words?  How could she explain to Pierre that she would be leaving him and claim that this would good news?  Good for whom?  Certainly not good for Pierre.  To Pierre, they were a whole.  A singular entity.  Inseparable.  He would not be able to comprehend the idea that something could be good for one and bad for the other.  He was the cleverest of birds, yet there were limitations to that which he could comprehend.  By his way of thinking, they were together and always wood be, and therefore what was good for one must be good for both.

He was certain to take the news badly.  At first he would feel profound confusion.  In time, his feelings would be badly hurt.  He may even assume that he had done something wrong and that he was being punished.  Worst of all, he may conclude that he was being abandoned by the one whom he loved the most.  Mataya realized that this was going to be much harder than she had previously believed.  As hard as she tried, she could not say the words.

Pierre danced with joy.  “Wonderful news.  Tell Pierre news!”

As the water level rose nearly to the top, Mataya leaned over to turned off the hot water.  As she leaned back, she discovered that Pierre had hopped down from his perch and climbed up the steps and climbed onto her left shoulder.  Her smooth soft skin was already soapy and slippery.  Pierre tightened his grip and shifted his weight maintain his balance.  He dug his sharp talons into the tender skin just below Mataya’s neck.  As painful as it was, she did not protest.  Together, they combined and coordinated their movements with great instinct as if they moved as one.  The choreography of their movement was unconscious.  It was second nature.  Their relationship — symbiotic, poetic, and just a touch romantic.

“Tell Pierre news.  Wonderful news!”

Mataya sat down and gripped the side of the tub allowing Pierre to slide down her arm and hop onto the edge.  He walked along the edge as if were a tightrope with his wings extended.  Then, he performed several fantastic feats.  He turned facing Mataya, lifted one leg while balancing on the other.  Then, he switched legs.  He looked to Mataya seeking approval.  Mataya clapped enthusiastically.

“Tell Pierre news!  Wonderful news!”

Pierre began circumnavigating the edge of the tub, showing off to Mataya as if he were a circus daredevil.  When he reached the rounded corner of the tub, he spread his
wings, planted his right foot, extended his left leg upward to nearly a ninety-degree angle, then spun around one full rotation plus an additional ninety degrees.  Then, with the grace of a prima ballerina, he leapt to the adjoining edge of the porcelain tub, a maneuver assigned a high degree of difficulty.  He tucked in his wings, lifted his beak high in the air, and stood tall and proud, awaiting ovation.

He waited.  Waiting.  Still waiting.  Waiting some more.  Still waiting. 

Confused and perturbed, the fine plume of feathers on Pierre’s head stood erect.  He hissed, although this time with an entirely different tone.

Mataya, fully distracted, noticed Pierre’s agitation and proceeded to applaud and cheer.  “Pierre, that was wonderful.  You are the most graceful and talented parrot in the entire world!  Oh, whatever would I do without you, Pierre?”  The words flowed from her tongue out of pure habit.  The stabbing pain of guilt in her gut immediately returned, this time with greater intensity.  She turned her head to the side and lowered her gaze to the floor.  Her smile melted into confusion, shame, and despair.

Pierre, oblivious to her consternation, continued to bask in the glory of self-admiration, much of it coming from his vivid imagination as he fantasized of performing before a large crowd of the genteel parrot intelligencia.

“Pierre practice hard.  Very hard.”

Mataya twirled her finger at Pierre, indicating that he needed to turn around and divert his eyes so that she could rise from the tub.  Begrudgingly, Pierre turned his eyes away.  Once satisfied that her ornery feathered friend wasn’t planning to sneak a peek, she rose up and grabbed several small bottles placed on a shelf just out of reach.  With one hand gripping three tiny bottles and the other to steady herself, she lowered herself back into the tub.

First, she added lavender oil.  Its wonderful smell instantly filled the room.  Then she sprinkled an enchanted powder across the surface creating a menagerie of multi-colored and magnificent-sized bubbles.  She spread the contents of the third bottle into her left hand, set the bottle aside, and used both hands to rub thick lotion over her face.   Then, she rinsed off her hands and tied her long auburn hair into a knot on the back of her head.  Finally, she submersed herself into the exquisite concoction.

With urgency, Pierre motioned for her to wait. Then, gripping hard with his left claw and steadying himself with his wings and tail, he carefully penetrated the bubbled surface of the bath water with his right index claw-toe. Alarmed, he immediately removed it and turned to address Mataya, his neck moving side-to-side with no rotation, a gesture he often used to express danger.

“Water is hot.  Very hot!”

Mataya, her arms crossed in front of her, turned sideways, removed her right arm from across her chest, and poked the surface herself, immediately pulling her finger out of the water, placing it inside her mouth.

“Ouch!”

In reality, the water temperature was just right, but Mataya played along, not wanting to hurt Pierre’s feelings.  She removed her finger and used it to tickle Pierre under
his beak-chin.  “Oh, Pierre.   What would I do without you?  You are such a gentlefowl.  So gallant.  So very, very, brave.  Have I ever mentioned that you are the bravest
Parrot in the entire world?”

“Pierre is brave.  Very brave!”

As his pranced around the edge of the tub, he lifted his beak as high up into the air as his body and neck would physiologically permit.  Basking in the glory of the moment, he had forgotten all about the important news.  Although wise, and eloquent, Pierre lacked short-term memory and therefore was easily distracted — a fact which Mataya often exploited to her advantage.

Mataya, waiting until Pierre was fully distracted, submersed herself up to her nose and eyes.  She stared across the surface of glowing bubbles, studying the reflecting and refracting light, focusing on the infinite number of sublime colors.  Then, watching as they popped, melted away, or divided into two or more smaller bubbles.  As her mind cleared, her thoughts flowed such that the passage of time began to decelerate until finally it stopped altogether.  She fell into a deep state of relaxation, her mind empty of worry, aggravation, rid itself of people, places, and things that existed outside of the room and tub.  She had fallen into a pleasant trance.

Then, a singular buoyant thought rose to the surface of her mind.  One that she could not shake off.  One that she could not meditate away.  Slightly cogent , she made a difficult decision.  One more day, she decided.  I’ll tell Pierre tomorrow.  For she did not want to spoil such a wonderful moment.  The time wasn’t right, she decided, although part of her understand that the time would never be right.  Nonetheless, she needed to enjoy the company of her brave companion just this last time.  She needed her last memory together with Pierre to special.  So, she adroitly changed the subject.  As she bathed, she told him all about her day, updating him on all
of the latest girly-gossip.  It was Pierre’s guilty pleasure.  Pierre loved girly-gossip, but what he really loved was gossip about other Parrots who weren’t nearly as brave, talented, or beautiful as he.

Several times Pierre interrupted the conversation, remembering that Mataya had important news to share, but each time, Mataya would sit up, rest her shiny arms on the edge of the tub, and respond in a coquettish drawl that Pierre so enjoyed.  “Pierre.  Have I ever told you that you are the bravest Parrot in the whole entire world?”

“Pierre is brave.  Very brave!”

And then,  yet again, Pierre forgot all about the mention of important news.

Once Mataya finished telling Pierre all about her day and ran through all of the latest juicy gossip, she sat back in the tub, the foamy water tickling her neck, and infiltrating her hair.  Her thoughts flowed and rebounded as freely as waves across the surface of the water.  Pierre sat on his perch in the Lotus position, chanting calmly.  Together, their spirits journeyed through the transcendental.  It would be the last time they took this journey together for a very long time.  Perhaps the last for ever.