Scenes From the Early Muricene, Part 2

A small herd of kiwis patrols a beach somewhere in western Loxodia. A meeting place for all sorts of grass lineages, the dunes are dotted with a great diversity of flora. Skystalks and giant rat-grasses tower above the sand, while salt-tolerant basket-grasses grow at the high-water line. A palm-grass provides shade at the top of the hill, while shorter tropical turfgrasses lie low to the ground. One species of small rat-grass grows nearer to the water, its tissues well-adapted to filter out the salt and algal toxins it finds in the local substrate. Thick mounds of algae adhere to sand, rocks, and roots; during high tides, they are buoyed up and forced up onto the land. This evening, when the water falls again, the dinoflagellate mass will be pulled and stretched down onto the dry seabed. Small patches of green are visible throughout the red tide, especially around the margins of a small window, chewed meticulously from the dense mat by thousands of hungry copepods.

Two female birds browse the dunes and shore for isopods, sifting through the loose sand and detritus. While they don't normally eat anything besides plant matter, their growing chicks need the protein, and so they abandon their ordinarily plant-based diet. Their plumage is mottled with specks of brown, yellow, and gray, helping them avoid detection by the rats who might try to steal their offspring. The chicks follow close behind one of the adults; as kiwis only lay a single egg per clutch, one of them must belong to the other female. Babysitting behavior is nearly universal in Apteryx species that live in small groups like this; the female currently watching the young trusts that the other will return the favor at a later date. The babies watch their elder intently, learning to find hidden food in the seemingly barren sand. 

The patriarch of the group, a large male sporting long, black feathers on his shoulders, tail, and head, stands at attention on the hillside. A shy species by nature, A. furtivus would usually never leave the safety of their pseudoforest home further inland. At the moment, however, it's the breeding season for the local predatory rat species, meaning the birds can make their excursion while their would-be killers are preoccupied. Another danger looms, though; the male spots a dark cloud not far offshore, approaching with worrying speed. His own mother was killed by just such a storm, washed away by a flash flood none of her herd had seen coming. While any conscious memory of the event has been lost to time, the experience has implanted in his mind a deep fear of thunderstorms. He pauses, not wanting to sound a false alarm, for the chicks are hungry and they've traveled for days to reach this spot. His family won't forgive him if he interrupts their breakfast over nothing; he's already lost three females of his former harem to a rival male.

Indecisive, he remains still, listening to the sounds of thunder grow louder with each passing minute. Maybe the storm will pass over the herd without incident, leaving him embarrassed at his misplaced fear. Maybe he'll give in to his phobia and usher the others away from an imagined threat, losing his companions as a result. Maybe the floodwaters will come and he'll lead his partners and children to safety in the nick of time, proving his worth as a mate and father in the process. Or maybe the five of them will be swept out to sea, sinking to the bottom and becoming food for the abyssal Gambusia. In this moment, though, he's too paralyzed - and his family too oblivious - to do anything to change their fates.