The Silence of Man: A Feathered Chronicle (Ch. 6)

Part III: The Silence Absolute

Chapter 6: The Long Twilight 

"And so, my small family, the great human fever finally broke," Mitthu chirped, stretching a wing and gazing out over a landscape that was still scarred, but now also subtly, unnervingly still. "With their ceaseless clamor gone, their metal beasts silenced, and their destructive fires extinguished, a different kind of quiet settled upon the Earth. Not a peaceful quiet, but a hollow one, a waiting silence that slowly, inexorably, began to claim us too."

"But Mother, you said the plants came back? And the insects?" Chirp asked, its voice tinged with confusion, recalling the earlier parts of the tale.

"They did, little one, for a time," Mitthu replied, a deep, mournful coo rumbling in its throat. "The initial green brave enough to pierce the concrete, the first buzzing of insects – these were not signs of true healing, but a brief, desperate defiance. The wounds were too deep, the poisons too vast, too patient."

The air, though cleared of immediate ash, still carried the faint, unseen traces of human fury. The water, in many places, remained a slow poison, luring the thirsty only to steal their strength. My flock and I, on our endless migrations, found fewer and fewer truly clean sources. We flew over vast, unnatural stretches of land where nothing grew, where the very soil seemed brittle and dead. The craters remained, vast scars on the Earth's face, refusing to be healed by any amount of time or rain.

The plants that did grow were often twisted, their leaves mottled, their berries bitter and devoid of life-giving energy. The insects, too, were not as they once were. Their numbers, though initially a brief boom after the human feast, began to thin. We would find them twitching on the ground, their forms strangely malformed, their life cycles unnaturally brief. And without their healthy abundance, our own foraging grew harder with each passing season.

"We learned to recognize the signs, my dears," Mitthu murmured, a shiver running through its feathers. "The thinness in the feather, the dullness in the eye, the sudden weariness that would settle upon even the strongest among us. It was the invisible killer, the same one that claimed the last humans, now slowly, quietly, claiming us too. Our fledglings were fewer with each hatching, and many did not live to see their first migration. The nests, once vibrant with new life, grew quieter, year by year."

We watched as the towering human structures, once so imposing, continued their slow, inevitable crumble. Not with nature joyfully reclaiming them, but with a weary sigh. Wind and rain eroded them into dust, but the dust was still tainted. The vines that had once snaked up their walls withered, unable to truly root in the poisoned earth below. The forests, though trying to creep back, were sparse, the trees often stunted and sickly, their leaves holding a strange, melancholic hue.

"The Earth, my children, has seen countless cycles," Mitthu continued, its voice heavy with ancient understanding. "Elders from distant lands, those who flew close to the great frozen wastes, spoke of the planet's vast, patient memory. It sheds its skin, it reshapes itself, it endures. But it does so on its own terms, in its own time. The humans believed they could control that time, accelerate it, bend it to their will. They were wrong. They only sped up their own ending."

"So, we too will… disappear?" Pip asked, its tiny voice barely a whisper, a newfound dread in its tone.

Mitthu closed its eyes for a moment, recalling the hollow silence of the last human. "Yes, my little ones. Our kind, and many others, will follow. The wounds inflicted were too great, the imbalance too profound for this cycle of life to continue as it was. The Earth will heal, yes, in a time far, far beyond our imagining. Perhaps mountains will rise and fall again, oceans will shift their beds, and new forms of life, utterly unlike us, will stir from the primordial depths."

Mitthu unfurled its wings, a final, weary gesture. "But that rebirth will be for a world cleansed of their memory, a world that has finally shed all the poisons. We are living in the long twilight, the final breaths of this damaged era. Our purpose now is simply to bear witness, to endure as long as we can, and to carry the memory of their arrogance, so that if ever the Earth brings forth another creature with their cleverness, perhaps, just perhaps, the air itself will remember to whisper caution."

With a heavy beat of its wings, Mitthu launched itself from the ledge, its children following, their small forms silhouetted against a sky that seemed to hold a perpetual, mournful grey. They flew not towards new hope, but towards another uncertain dawn, a testament to life's fleeting dance on a planet slowly, patiently, resetting itself after the fury of Man. The world was scarred, and the silence that followed humanity was now encompassing all.

----------------------- THE END?? -----------------------

The Silence of Man: A Feathered Chronicle (Ch. 5)

Part III: The Silence Absolute

Chapter 5: The Last Flicker

"The dwindling, my little ones, became a silence of its own kind," Mitthu whispered, its voice barely audible above the faint rustle of dry leaves caught in the wind. "The distant fires ceased, one by one. The faint, desperate cries faded into the vast, broken landscape. The Old Watchers knew then, that the Great Silence was nearing its completion. The humans, once so numerous, were now reduced to scattered specks, barely visible even to our keenest eyes."

"Were there really so few?" Pip asked, a tremor in its voice, picturing the endless swarms of humans Mitthu had described from the before-time.

"Fewer than a single flock of starlings, little Pip, stretched across the entire world," Mitthu confirmed. "And even those few flickered like dying embers. My own memories begin around this time, blurry at first, then sharpening as I matured and began my own great migrations. I saw the last of them with my own eyes, though I did not know then what I was truly witnessing."

My first true, vivid memory of a human came as a young fledgling. My parents had led our small, nomadic flock to the edge of what was once a vast human "park," a place they used to green for their leisure. Now, it was a wilderness of choked weeds and fractured stone paths. We sought water from a tiny, still puddle trapped in a hollowed-out tree trunk.

It was there I saw her. A lone human figure, no more than a faint shadow against the rising sun. She was a woman, barely distinguishable beneath layers of tattered, filthy cloth that once must have been brightly colored. She moved with excruciating slowness, each step a monumental effort, dragging a large, makeshift bag behind her. Her head was bowed, her body racked by a dry, hacking cough that echoed eerily in the morning stillness.

She stopped by the same puddle we drank from, kneeling with obvious pain. Her hands, gnarled and covered in sores, fumbled with a crude cup. She drank, then coughed, a thin trail of blood flecking her lips. Her eyes, when she lifted her head slightly, were vast, empty pools reflecting only the grey sky. There was no rage there, no hunger, not anymore. Only an infinite weariness. She was a ghost in the ruined landscape, an echo of a species that had once roared.

"She didn't see us, my dears," Mitthu recalled, the image still clear. "She saw nothing but the ground before her, the next painful step. We watched her for a full cycle of the sun. She barely moved, simply existing. In the evening, she tried to light a fire, but her hands shook, and the few dry twigs she found refused to catch. She gave up, slumping against a crumbling wall."

The next morning, when the sun's first rays painted the ruins in hues of bruised purple and grey, she was still there. Motionless. A solitary lump of rags and bone. There was no struggle, no dramatic fall, no final cry. Just a quiet surrender to the overwhelming silence. A few tiny, persistent insects, the ones that had always shared the world with Man, crawled over her still form.

This scene, repeated in countless variations across the broken lands, became the final observation of the Old Watchers. A man collapsing on a cracked road, his last breath a whisper of dust. A small group, huddled together in what used to be a grand underground shelter, succumbing quietly, their last embers of life fading into the stagnant air. Even the rich and powerful, those who had once commanded immense resources, vanished in the same undignified manner as the common folk, their hidden bunkers becoming their final, forgotten tombs. They simply ceased to be. The great human fever had broken, and the last, lingering wisps of smoke had finally cleared from the land. The planet, wounded but resilient, was left to breathe again, unimpeded.

The Silence of Man: A Feathered Chronicle (Ch-4)

Part II: The Fading Echoes

Chapter 4: The Invisible Killer

"As if their own furious battles were not enough, my curious ones," Mitthu chirped, its gaze sweeping over the cracked earth and the skeletal remains of what were once lush fields, "another enemy began to steal the humans away, one they could not fight with their sharpened metal or their frantic shouts. This foe had no face, made no sound, and could not be seen, yet it gnawed at them from within."

"What was it, Mother?" Chirp asked, tilting its head, its small eyes blinking.

"It was the legacy of their own rage, little Chirp," Mitthu replied, a somber note in its voice. "My parents and grandparents spoke of the unseen dust that had settled everywhere after the Great Roar. It was in the very air they breathed, the water they drank, and the few plants they dared to consume. It was in the broken ground where they sought shelter."

The Old Watchers, with their keen eyesight and detached perspective, began to notice the subtle, then increasingly stark, changes in the remaining humans. At first, it was a weariness beyond hunger. Their movements became even slower, their attempts to scavenge more feeble. Then came the visible signs. Their skin, already taut over their bones, began to blister and peel in strange ways, not from sun or frost, but from an internal rot. Their once-thick hair fell out in clumps, leaving their exposed scalps patchy and raw.

A group of sparrows, known for their habit of nesting close to human dwellings, recounted chilling observations. They had watched a family – a father, a mother, and two small, whimpering human fledglings – trying to cultivate a patch of earth near a ruined farm. The parents, driven by a desperate hope to find food that wasn't scavenged from the tainted world, meticulously tilled the soil, but their hands and faces developed angry, weeping sores. The human fledglings, already too thin, coughed constantly, their small bodies racked by unseen fevers.

One afternoon, the sparrows witnessed the mother, her face ashen, collapse as she tried to draw water from a stagnant puddle. The father, his own body trembling, knelt beside her, his cries echoing weakly in the desolate air. He tried to force water down her throat, but she lay still, her breathing shallow, her eyes staring blankly at the dust-laden sky. By the next dawn, she was a motionless heap. A few days later, one of the human fledglings joined her. The other, too weak to cry, simply lay huddled against the father, a silent, fading ember of life.

"They became frail, Pip, like leaves in the autumn wind before they finally fall," Mitthu explained, remembering the chilling accounts. "Their strength drained away, their bodies betraying them. Even the ones who won their petty wars for scraps would soon find themselves too weak to hold their spoils, succumbing to the invisible sickness."

There were also strange, rapid growths that erupted on their bodies, festering and consuming them. Their minds, too, seemed affected. The birds observed moments of sudden, irrational fury, followed by long periods of vacant stillness. They would stare into space, as if watching phantoms, or speak to themselves in low, guttural whispers. The invisible killer stole not only their bodies but their very essence, leaving behind husks of their former selves.

The Old Watchers understood. This was the Earth itself, reacting to the wounds inflicted upon it. The air, the water, the soil – all had become instruments of slow, agonizing retribution. And as the sickness spread, silently, relentlessly, the fires that dotted the landscape at night grew fewer and smaller. The desperate shouts became rarer, replaced by the deep, heavy silence of the dwindling. Humanity was not just fighting against each other; they were fighting against the very world they had broken, and the world was slowly, inexorably, winning.

Riddle - 1

The Silence of Man: A Feathered Chronicle (Ch-3)

Part II: The Fading Echoes 

Chapter 3: The War for Scraps

"The whispers of desperate lives grew harsher, my fledglings," Mitthu observed, shifting its weight, the memory of countless observed conflicts heavy in its ancient mind. "The humans, already few, found themselves not just battling the cold, the dust, and the sickness, but battling each other. Their grand structures had fallen, but their old instincts for ownership, for taking, remained. Only now, there was nothing left to take."

"Why, Mother? Why fight if there was nothing?" Squeak piped up, its voice a tiny, confused chirp.

Mitthu let out a low coo. "Because, little Squeak, even a single drop of clean water, a morsel of forgotten food, became a treasure. My parents told of seeing them gather, their numbers barely enough to cast a shadow on the ruined ground. They would eye each other, not with the curiosity of new discovery, but with the cold, calculating gaze of a predator. And then, the shrieks would begin."

From high above, the Old Watchers witnessed what humanity had become. A small group, perhaps five or six figures, would discover a hidden cache – a leaking pipe offering potable water, or a collapsed building revealing a few untouched, ancient food packets. The joyous, if weak, cries of discovery would instantly draw others from the surrounding desolation.

Mitthu's mother had once recounted a scene she observed near a skeletal bridge. Two small factions, both emaciated, both draped in rags, had stumbled upon a forgotten supply truck, its metal shell rusted and pierced, but its interior holding a few sealed containers of what humans called "canned goods."

The first group, led by a tall, gaunt man with a jagged scar across his cheek whom the birds later, through repeated observation, began to internally refer to as 'The Scarred One', had already forced open one can. As he lifted the contents to his lips, a sudden cry erupted from a nearby pile of rubble.

"Water! We have water here!" a hoarse female voice echoed.

'The Scarred One' froze. His eyes, burning with a feverish intensity, darted towards the sound. The two groups, perhaps twenty feet apart, stood utterly still, like two starved foxes scenting a single, hidden rabbit. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant, mournful cry of the wind through shattered glass.

Then, a small, young woman, perhaps barely a fledgling herself in human years, staggered out from the second group, carrying a plastic bottle filled with murky, but precious, water. She held it like a sacred chalice, her eyes wide with fear and desperate triumph.

"We need this," she croaked, her gaze falling on The Scarred One's group, not in aggression, but in a plea.

"But the humans, my dears, had lost the ability to simply take what they needed and move on," Mitthu explained. "They could not see the vast, empty spaces around them, only the small, precious thing another held."

With a guttural roar, 'The Scarred One' dropped his can and lunged, a sharpened piece of metal clutched in his hand. His companions followed, a ragged wave of desperation. The other group, though weaker, met them with desperate ferocity. There were no grand strategies, no reasoned negotiations – only a primal scramble. The air filled with ragged shouts, the sickening thud of bodies, and the tearing of cloth. The woman with the water bottle stumbled, dropping her precious find, and in the ensuing chaos, the bottle was crushed, its contents seeping into the contaminated dust.

The birds watched, detached yet understanding. There were no victors in these battles. Always, bodies lay still when the frenzy subsided. Some were taken by the 'winners', not for burial, but for another kind of desperate sustenance that turned Mitthu's stomach even in the retelling. The meager gains were always outweighed by the new wounds, the further depletion of their already nonexistent numbers. This was not survival; it was a slow, deliberate gnawing at their own dwindling existence, a tragic echo of the very war that had brought them to this state.

The Silence of Man: A Feathered Chronicle (Ch-2)

Part II: The Fading Echoes

Chapter 2: Glimpses of the Strugglers

"The silence, my little ones, was not truly empty," Mitthu began, settling its gaze on a distant, skeletal tower that once pierced the sky in what humans called a "city center." "It was filled with the low hum of desperation, a sound we, the Old Watchers, learned to discern from the air currents. After the Great Roar, when the dust began to settle enough for the sun to show its faint, bruised face, tales began to circulate among the surviving winged ones. My parents, and their companions who had scattered across the wide world, brought back whispers of the few, the very few, who remained."

Pip, usually the quietest, chirped softly, "What did they look like, Mother? The humans?"

"Ah, little Pip, they were shadows," Mitthu sighed, recalling the images passed down. "Not the bustling, colorful giants my grandparents spoke of, cloaked in strange, soft skins and moving with such arrogant speed. These were hunched, thin creatures, their own skin often peeling, their hair matted. Their eyes, visible even from our height, were sunken hollows of fear and a gnawing hunger."

The stories from far-off lands, carried on the wings of brave migrants, echoed the same grim observations. From the scorched plains where grand human fields once sprawled, a grizzled falcon spoke of figures shuffling through the barren soil, scratching at the ground with sticks, not for planting, but for anything that might have survived – a forgotten root, a desiccated insect. They would turn over rocks, peer into cracks, their movements slow and agonizing, a stark contrast to their former briskness.

A small swallow, who had flown from what was once a towering, watery land-bridge connecting continents, recounted seeing small bands huddled in the shells of what they called "automobiles," metal boxes that once moved them swiftly. Now, these boxes were merely makeshift shelters against the biting winds and the dust that never truly settled. They would light meager fires, their smoke thin and quick to vanish, not the thick plumes that once marked human settlements. Around these fires, figures would huddle, their faces grim, sharing what looked like scraps of dried bark or grimy, unidentifiable objects.

"My parents often perched on the high, shattered buildings that overlooked what they called 'factories'," Mitthu continued, its voice a soft drone. "These were immense metal carcasses, once roaring with human machines. Now, they were silent, broken. Yet, sometimes, a human or two would creep in, not to make their strange tools, but to scavenge. They would pick through the rusted remains, searching for anything – a scrap of metal that could be sharpened, a piece of fabric to patch their tattered coverings. They moved with a desperate urgency, yet their efforts seemed to yield so little."

The greatest change, however, was in their shelters. The grand, insulated nests they had once built were either pulverized or toxic. The few remaining groups would seek refuge in the deepest, darkest hollows of the ruins, in what used to be their "underground stations" or "sewers." These places, once ignored by our kind, now offered a pathetic sanctuary. The air there was stagnant, laden with the smell of despair and illness, but it was warmer, and offered some protection from the elements and from each other. They were no longer masters of the world, but rats, clinging to the shadows of their own destruction. The contrast was stark, a chilling testament to how quickly their power had crumbled, leaving them vulnerable and pathetic, struggling even to exist.

The Silence of Man: A Feathered Chronicle (Ch-1c)

The Roar and the Ruin

Chapter 1 (Part-C): Scavenger's Hope and Despair:

With the humans gone, or at least severely diminished, a new, desperate opportunity arose for the other creatures. The scent of decay, once a warning, now beckoned. Mitthu's parents, driven by hunger, would cautiously descend into the husks of human structures. Food, once hoarded and protected, lay scattered and spoiling. Tiny, forgotten morsels in discarded containers, grains spilled from shattered stores, even the dried remains of what they once called "pets" became sustenance. Other animals, too, emerged from their hiding places – rodents, desperate dogs, even larger predators, all drawn to the strange feast of human downfall.

But this hope was fleeting, a poisoned bounty. The food was often tainted, leading to sickness and a strange lethargy that would steal life as surely as the initial blasts. The water, too, was a treacherous lure. What looked like shimmering pools often brought forth agonizing pain and eventual stillness. The ground itself, once a generous provider, seemed to repel growth. A desperate harvest, yes, but one that came with a hidden price, a grim reminder that even in their absence, the humans' final act still scarred the land. The Old Watchers knew then, with a chilling certainty, that the humans had paid a terrible price for their last, furious fit of rage. The silence, profound and enduring, was their penance.

The Silence of Man: A Feathered Chronicle (Ch. 1b)

The Roar and the Ruin

Chapter 1 (Part-B): The Eerie Silence

After the roars subsided, a new, more profound terror settled upon the land: the silence. It was not the restful quiet of a winter morning, but a heavy, echoing void that swallowed every distant cry and muffled every beat of our wings. For weeks, the sun remained a pale, indistinct disc behind a veil of perpetual dust, casting a pallid, unearthly light upon a broken world. The cold bit deeper than any winter Mitthu's parents had ever known, a chilling embrace from a wounded planet.

"The world smelled different then, my dears," Mitthu murmured, a shiver running through its feathers, though the memory was secondhand. "Like burned rock and forgotten things. The wind carried not the scent of rain or blossoming fields, but a dry, metallic tang that made our throats ache."

We, the scattered survivors of the winged tribes, began to drift back, drawn by an ancestral pull to assess the damage. From our aerial vantage, the true scale of the devastation became horrifyingly clear. The magnificent concrete nests of Man, once teeming with life, were now hollowed-out tombs. Some were flattened into vast, circular scars, others stood as jagged teeth against the bruised sky, their innards exposed, twisted metal bones protruding from shattered flesh. The black ribbons they called roads were cracked and choked with debris, their elaborate networks now senseless tangles leading nowhere.

The most striking change, however, was the absence. The ceaseless, irritating clamor of human voices was gone. Their metal beasts no longer roared. The pulsing, artificial light that had once stolen the stars from our view was extinguished, leaving only the dull, reflected glow of distant fires or the stark, grey outlines of ruin. It was as if the Earth had coughed them out, leaving behind only the shells of their ambition.

Mitthu remembered its parents recounting how they would circle for hours, searching for any sign of the teeming life that had once dominated the ground. Sometimes, a flicker of movement, a desperate, hunched figure, would emerge from the rubble, only to disappear back into the shadows. These were not the vibrant, self-assured beings they had once been, but ghosts, clinging to the broken fragments of their world. The Old Watchers knew then, with a chilling certainty, that the humans had paid a terrible price for their last, furious fit of rage. The silence, profound and enduring, was their penance.