Story originally written as a response at r/WritingPrompts (u/PrimitivePrism)
Prompt:
Wherever you go, the birds fall silent and watch. They stare at you with red, glowing eyes. The only exception are Red Robins, which cover their face with their left wing.
Response:
They have a legend of their origin, and we have ours.
The Red Robins speak to each other in the fanned branches of oaks, in the towering maples, in the fragrant depths of the lilac bush. They tell of how they got their mark.
The robins know they were once sparrows, distant cousins to those that exist alongside them today. This was before the Great Flood, when the ice sheet still pushed down from the north, blanketing the land.
At the far southern terminus of the ice sheet, where it towered jaggedly above the last and greatest of the northern forests, the robins’ drab grey ancestors flitted among the tops of those towering trees, discussing the advance of the ice and the the grinding of once-verdant land beneath its implacable bulk.
In that antediluvian wilderness there lived another animal, which claimed the ground as its territory. These were the lynxes, who typically preyed on bird and rodent alike. The grey sparrows and the lynxes reached an agreement: the lynxes would not climb the trees to hunt the sparrows, and the sparrows would not bother the lynxes by descending to the earth.
As a chilly spring set in, however, and the ice sheet continued its advance unabated, freezing the trees of the frontier to ice and then shattering them under its weight, the sparrows grew hungry. They realized they had been tricked by the lynxes, for though they had survived the winter eating berries, now they were in need of worm meat. They knew, however, that they risked doom in the lynxes’ claws, and perhaps a war, if they were to descend to the ground to dig up the fat worms that writhed beneath the soil.
The sparrows knew that the other birds were more accustomed to eating berries, seeds and nuts all year round. They were adept at catching flying insects in the air, without ever needing to land on the forest floor. Thus they went to the other birds to request their help, as their feathered cousins.
The sparrows asked the other birds to post a watch, keeping an eye on the location of all lynxes, in order to coordinate times when it would be safe for the sparrows to secretly land on the ground and pluck juicy worms out of the earth. They agreed upon special calls they would make to communicate this, which would sound like mellifluous nonsense to the big cats.
The lynxes were especially cunning, however, and had anticipated such a plan from the birds, thus they regularly patrolled the grounds of the great forest in such a way that they, too, knew the whereabouts of all sparrows, and gave them no chance to land.
The other birds waited patiently, loyal to the grey sparrows. Grosbeaks, bluejays, chickadees, woodpeckers and more all stared from the branches at the lynxes, waiting. The lynxes left no ground unseen for enough time for the birds to alert the sparrows to their chance, but still they watched. They watched until blood pooled behind their eyes, turning them red, then leaked out. Their red eyes glowed with anger as they slowly realized that the lynxes, so arrogant and clever, had outsmarted them.
The bravest of the sparrows, admired by all its fellows, decided in its hunger that it had no choice but to risk landing. It knew that if it succeeded, it might inspire all the other sparrows to do the same, and they would eat at last.
At what it determined to be the safest moment, it flew down to the ground, plucked a fat worm from the soil, and lifted off, just as a lynx caught sight of it and came flying at it with claws outstretched. In its rush to reach the higher branches, the brave sparrow scrapped its underside raw against the trunk of a tree, its belly feathers becoming soaked in blood.
“I have robbed your precious soil!” it cried in triumph from the trees, its blood stain growing all the while. That stain stayed forever, but the other sparrows were inspired, and stole from the lynxes until the ice sheets were melted and the Great Flood consumed the forest. That was how the robins came to be.
My legend of their origin is mostly the same, except for the most important part. The brave and foolhardy sparrow was caught by the lynx before it could escape. Already in the lynx’s jaws, it begged, “Spare me! I couldn’t live on berries alone!”
The lynx released it from its mouth and held it between its claws, snarling down at it. “You have tried to rob us, little sparrow. I will let you live, but let this forever be a reminder of your mischief.” And with that, the lynx raked its claws across the sparrow’s belly, spreading a great blood stain there, and released it back into the trees, where it would become the first Red Robin.
On that day in the ancient wood, the eyes of the other birds glowed blood red with their anger and judgment as they watched the lynx mete out its justice. They look at me with such eyes, still, as I prowl the land–always silent, with nothing to report or speak to each other. We lynxes are forever observed.
I know, beyond doubt, that our version of the legend is true. Our ancestor, that cunning lynx, caught and shredded the breast of the foolish sparrow. That is why Red Robins lift their left wing in our presence, and hide their faces in shame.
