The Parakeet Flies at Mid-Day

Its wings trembling, the bird slowly ascended, feathers blowing away in the stiff winter breeze. Its colours were gold and silver, glittering in the dim sunlight that penetrated the dark clouds above; snowflakes slid off them, shattering on the metallic vanes. Shivering with cold and discomfort, the bird pressed onward.

Two dozen years had passed since last such a bird had been seen in the area; but still some remembered. Old conflicts reignited; old men ran to get guns and traps, others to fight them, defending the bird. For the bird was named Theorus, and he was mighty.

When Theorus was first forged, in the Age of Smiths, he was a lesser thing; smaller, weaker, cruder, a product of less refined techniques. They killed his creator, and fought over him, to re-learn how he was made; but he fled. In the Age of Steel, he was caught, and re-made in finer form; but then he fled again, and the site of his rebirth burned in flames of jealousy and avarice. He has rusted since, his workings (under their precious-metal coating) growing old and fragile; but still he flies, even in winter, for they built him that well.

Some (many!) think that when he is captured, we will enter a new age; Theorus will be rebuilt again, even better than before, and the world's metalworkers will leap forward once more. "Why do you flee?" they call out to the bird. "Come down; it's for your own good!"

Theorus does not believe that history is cyclical.