ARAAK & EE-EK

Ever since primeval amoeba evolved a strategy for externalizing their reproductive capabilities into a dyad arrangement, females have had to deal with unwanted male attention. Flying creatures are no exception. This fantastical account is based on the writer’s introductory aerobatics in a US Navy T-34 high above the Florida panhandle, his subsequent observations of a lady eagle fighting off an aggressive suitor whilst perched high in a fir, and two crows engaged in aerial combat involving barrel rolls, locked talons and inverted flight… 

by William Thomas

Oh that I could soar forever unmolested above this endless inland sea beneath a far bright star blazing through cerulean air no longer a sulfurous green. But after another day aloft, even a ground-shy pterodactyl must alight on a tropical coastline hairless apes would later call Fossil Beach. Ee-ek stalks me there. 

“Araak!” he screeches in predatory delight, scribing twin trails in the sand as he drags his immense half-folded wings towards me. “Mate. Me. Now.”  
“No want,” I scream back, bristling. “Go. Now!”

Ee-ek shakes his anvil head, sending small amphibians skittering back into the salty waters they had so briefly escaped. 

“Submit. Me. NOW!”

A great shadow passes overhead, dark then light again on the other side. We both look up.
“Oraak!” I cry. My love. My life. Have you noticed me at last?

His proud comb, that perfect turn — I nearly swoon over his masculine magnificence and my own rush of relief as Oraak sweeps steeply toward us in a dive so low Ee-ek squawks and ducks. 

“Leave! Alone! Now!” my rescuer shrieks, banking for another pass.

“Make. Me.” Ee-ek shouts at the sky. “We. Fight. You. Die.” 

A strong onshore breeze carries the chill tang of not-so-distant glaciers. Pivoting into the wind and using the elbows of his bended wings as massive springs, my antagonist vaults into the sky. But   Ee-ek is still too low and too slow to evade a primal thunderbolt. 

Oraak can end it right here, close above this already archaic shoreline. But my honourable hero turns away, permitting his challenger to gain height with each slow downstroke of his vast wings. And then they are orbiting above me in a ritual as old as courtship. And duels to the death. 

On stiffened wings, they circle opposite each other at fifty meters distance, each daring the other to commit. Once. Twice. Three-times wary. Then Ee-ek’s outside wing lifts high. His move is immediately mirrored by Oraak’s turn inside. The fight is on!

Helplessly, hopefully, I watch those two great fliers close head-on at a combined velocity mere thought can neither absorb nor relate. At the merge, I turn away. When I look again, Ee-ek is diving steeply towards Oraak’s six. But my guardian climbs, dropping a wing and turning into his opponent with effortless grace in a 180-degree reversal.   

Ee-ek has anticipated the move. Going inverted, he pulls through and rolls out, still behind his quarry and overtaking fast. 

Oh no!  

In growing horror, I see what must happen next. Passing below Oraaak, Ee-ek will bank vertically, the cruel claw at the tip of his upraised wing eviscerating his rival in a spray of blood and spilling entrails. Nature red in tooth and claw indeed! 

Before Ee-ek can complete his killing stroke, Oraak spots the telltale glint of deflected flight surfaces. Pulling up steeply and rolling hard right, my champion evades the thrust and parries. Wings folded, locking talons, both adversaries tumble toward the sea. 

This time I do not look away.  

Down down they plunge, earthsky earthsky rotating across their vision. Neither appears willing to relinquish the other. Timing his final effort with life-or-death precision, despite disorientation beyond my imagining, Oraak waits — waits! — until their next gyration flips him nearly upright. Who will believe me when I relate how, just three meters above those flashing crests, my interceder frees his grip. 

Unable to regain equilibrium in the instant that remains, Ee-ek strikes the water in an eruption of foam and spray. For one long moment I absorb his panicked cries, while watching his fast-weakening struggles with a wild mix of joy and grief. Such a needless death! Is it fair to condemn instinct’s most insistent demand? 

Yes, I decide as massive jaws explode from the sea, fasten around Ee-ek, and drag that great flying reptile beneath the indifferent waves. Yes, when blind impulse involves an unwilling consort’s pain. Once bereft of agency, even a pterosaur becomes victim. And this I reject with every sinew and fiber of my proud yet transient being.

I know what you’re thinking. We intercontinental soarers are certainly fine fishers. Skimming the next fluid interface to spear frantic needlefish with our jutting, small-tooth-filled beaks, we must take care never to become immersed. No ptero has ever escaped the ocean’s clutches. Once pasted to gulf or lagoon by our waterlogged four-meter span, that last glimpse of a fast-shrinking sun cannot come quickly enough for final mercy.

Enough of this! I remain inviolate. And ALIVE! 

“Aaaagk! Aaaagk! Aaaagk!” shrieks Oraak, barrel-rolling once, then again in triumph. “Araak! Araak! Araak!”   

“Come. To. Me.” I call.

 wenty-million years later, a little girl exploring a rock-strewn headland on Hornby Island stops and points. “Mommy! Mommy! Is that a fossil?”

Sources:

Hammerstone, Pterodactyls, Boyd, Sky Monsters & Flying Monsters (videos)

Illustrations

Pterosaur in the Crataceou -prehistoricsaurus.com

Duelling pterosaurs -Pinterest

Aarak on Fossil Beach -from 'Prehistoric Planet,' a Stunning New Series