The Casavi Secret.

It’s midnight. It always comes at midnight. I am sitting on my bed in complete darkness; the blanket wrapped around me rustles at every expansion of my lungs. I’ve been waiting. I wait every night since after its first visit.1

       “Casavi,” I softly call. It replies with a scratchy guttural growl, like a chain smoking old woman clearing her throat. The sound is accompanied by its feathers pushing through the hole on the screen window. I breathe nervously, my heart beating fast, as if I was standing next in line at the counter where this cute guy named Jeff works. But, perhaps, with more anticipation. I’m always afraid that my movements, my eagerness would have this creature running back out into the night.2

       It makes the same growl from deep in its throat. Slower and longer. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I think it’s trying to reassure me. Slivers of moonlight falls on my bed as the casavi disturb the blinds. Its silhouette appears before me. A long, thin, scaly leg stretches out and dips it onto the folds of my bed, followed by the other leg. It crouches on its hind legs, and stills. It has a huge round body, and with its feathers slightly standing makes it look even larger than usual. 3

       I free myself of the blanket, ignoring the half-stifled breeze from the window. Slowly, carefully, I move towards the foot of the bed. Its small black button nose rises up in alarm and sniffs to make sure it’s me. I guess it recognizes my cherry-almond lotion and freesia shampoo because it gives a low moan and lowers its head back down to rest on its folded front legs. Tentatively, I reach out to touch its short horns, ivory towers that emerge from its forehead, like two diverging small curled crowns at each side of its head. It’s still small now, but it might grow bigger.4

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       The smell of wet grass mixed with fresh feces assaults my olfactory. I wince, my tenderness for the animal withstanding my inclination to recoil and vomit. It stays still and its black eyes gaze at me warily. 6

       My hand sweeps its feathered neck to its feathered body. Iridescent shades of blue against my tan skin entrances me. I wish I could say that this creature is my secret. All mine. I could bend my head down and hide a smile when my roommate asks, “What’s up?” 7

       But it’s not my secret. It comes and goes as it pleases. I don’t doubt that for a second. It is at its whim that it comes to me. Maybe it’d be more correct to say I’m its secret. 8

       The clock blinks 1:13 from the corner of my eye. The casavi ignores me. My right hand moves to scratch its ears. It doesn’t have long ears. It sort of looks like a cat’s, but instead of soft skin covered in short fur, the casavi has stiff hard stubs covered in scales, like the ones on its legs. The feather on its face is different from its body. It’s short and fluffy and soft. Almost like cotton. 9

       When did it begin visiting? I don’t remember. Does it only come to me? I rein my jealousy. It’s stupid. It’s just an animal. I think I might have even seen it in the Discovery Channel. 10

       “You’re nothing special,” I murmur, taking my hand back, and resting my back against the cold hard wall. I rub my hands together for warmth, and I feel it. Wet. Urine? No. It doesn’t smell like it. I shrug and wipe it on the blanket. I’ll be washing it tomorrow, anyway. 11

       I open the blinds to let in more light, just to get a better look at my seemingly asleep companion. I had gone to the library yesterday to learn about the casavis. They are supposed to be the link between birds and dinosaurs. I don’t know. It looks like a dog to me. Casavis are supposed to inhabit the caves of Madagascar. Is that why it comes to me? Does the darkness and the hollowness of my room call to it? Does it feel like home? It has black eyes, surrounded by white soft feathers. It’s so black that it doesn’t reflect anything, not even light. Maybe in its evolutionary path draped in darkness, eyesight is considered inefficient use of energy. The subtle changes in the air molecule are enough to disturb its sensitive feathers. Maybe.  12

       California is a long way off from Madagascar. Is it feeling lonely? It stands up and stumbles next to me, without any grace that other animals have. We both know it’s wounded. It raises its front paw and scratches my arm to get my attention. My arm doesn’t bleed, but I know from past experience the scratches will sting and bubble when exposed to hydrogen peroxide in the morning. 13

       I look closely at its side. The wound is still raw. The small amount of information I got from the library didn’t say if casavis flew or not, but I think this one did. I think this one flew before it had both its wings torn off. 14

       I take a handful of the chopped apples I have in my pocket and hold it out to the casavi. And just like every night, it takes it, the sharp teeth scraping my palm. I feel so sorry for this creature. I don’t want to know what happened to it, or what will happen to it. I am afraid that it’ll come again tomorrow. I am afraid it might not come again.15

       I am going to fall asleep with my back against the wall. The casavi is going to run back out before the sun rises. And I’m going to find blood on my blanket. But I shouldn’t think about that.16