Migration by Mason Martinez
Atop a douglas fir, a shrill cry breached through the night.
The Foster Reservoir trickled as the cries echoed through loosening leaves; the end of summer mere days away. Maverick only needed to survive for three more days. It was funny, he thought between the burning in his thighs, the water dripping down an already bruising neck, he’d never thought he was just trying to survive.
But now, he ran, stacking miles between himself and Shea’s Point where life peaked four tiny heads out of their delicate shells, ready to embrace a cruel, new world.
“Mave!” Ezra called, doused with worry. When he was underwater, Ezra called to him like that too. He wondered if Osprey did the same when they left the nest.
Ahead, a tree’s trunk covered in Oregon’s moss glittered beneath the moonlight. Maverick collapsed against it, draping his body in a way that could have been carved into marble and posed at The Met where his mother worked, where marble was his only idea of peace. But like all havens, Maverick thought as Ezra’s voice got closer, they were never meant to last.
Breaking through low hung branches, Ezra appeared, sweat pressing his hair down like cut-too-short bangs, the yellow ropes that once fixed him to the fir now dragged along behind him.
It was funny, Maverick thought again as he looked at the boy he had grown to love, how much they’ve changed.
Things used to be simple. They used to be simple. When Maverick told his mother he wanted to spend his summers across the country at the Junior Wildlife Reserve Program and study birds, she looked at him inquisitively, the way she looked at someone she didn’t quite understand. He needed to leave the city that left him lonely in the midst of thousands of people, where it was easy to go unnoticed.
That first day climbing out of the small bus, the strap of Maverick’s duffle bag came undone and clipped the back of Ezra’s foot. Instead of scolding him—Ezra lifted the bag, fiddling with the strap before giving it a tug for reassurance. He carefully placed the strap back onto Maverick’s shoulder, lifting his dark brown eyes against the sun to look at him. His smile was warm and kind, “That’s better.”
From then on, Ezra taught him everything from riding kayaks, to reading trailheads, to the Ospreys they were tracking. At the end of their first summer they set out for the birds’ nest, hiking with their elbows brushing, cheeks blushing. Ezra told him that Ospreys kept life-long commitments and always found a way back to each other, no matter the distance. He eased his steps, turning, and when their eyes locked—Maverick knew. He knew as soon as their lips touched. As their need and want spilled out of them, as they stumbled to the ground, kissing, becoming one. As his eyes fluttered open and Maverick saw it—a crown above Ezra’s head—the Osprey nest.
It was meant to be.
They spent three summers together, watching the crooked-winged birds dive thirteen inches deep for their prey. Seventy-one days of walks through the woods. Seventy-one days of being preyed upon.
Maverick never realized it, but now, it was all he noticed. Late night trips to the neighboring town for drive-in movies to sit unseen, the wing-spanned distance between them when Ezra’s brother, Nathaniel, was around. It was all clicking into place and he resented Ezra for it.
The look must have been obvious because Ezra crossed the distance with tears and pleads that didn’t make it to Maverick’s ears. Inside he was sinking all over again.
He could hear the gurgling water in his ears, the tightness of his breath as seconds turned into minutes. For a moment, he blamed himself—how could he have prevented it? Was he not careful enough? What if it were him tied up to the tree, watching the Osprey's make their soft noises? Would Nathaniel have done the same to his brother? Would he have wrapped his talons into the collar of his shirt, hold him down in the water until he squirmed?
“Mave, look at me, please,” Ezra begged, his voice straining. Maverick couldn’t help it, part of him wanted to wipe his tears away and say it’s okay, that it wasn’t his fault, only his brother’s. But it wasn’t true.
Cupping both sides of his face, Ezra frantically whispered sweet nothings, any gesture to remind him that he was here, that things would be okay, but they weren’t. They weren’t fucking okay.
Maverick pushed him off.
“Please, let me help—”
“Help?” Maverick yelled. After their first kiss, Ezra asked him to keep it a secret. He said his family wouldn’t understand—and maybe that’s what got Maverick, that feeling carried him states away, but he was so caught in the high of being wanted, of being loved. Maverick kept his secret, their secret, because being someone’s was better than being no one’s. “What your brother did to me isn’t okay.”
“I know that,” said Ezra, and yet there was a “but” hanging in the air.
Maverick felt his face burn.
“We can’t tell anyone,” Ezra started. He moved closer to touch him, but Maverick’s look of disbelief sent him startling back harder than any push could have ever done.
“He just tried to drown me—”
“I know that!” Ezra repeated, his voice cracking. “But if we say something it’ll only make it that much worse, don’t you understand?”
Maverick blinked slowly. “So, you’re going to let him get away with it?”
Ezra sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Maverick watched his mouth form shapes and words that never came. He imagined the Osprey soaring through the sky, circling its prey before diving face first. They submerged themselves fully to claim their victory.
“I won’t let him hurt you again,” Ezra said.
Maverick felt water dripping down his spine, fully aware of how cold the world had become in a few short hours.
“You already did.”
“Migration is a piece that I truly believed in when I initially wrote it. I felt captivated by the environment. I dived deep into Osprey research and now I'm obsessed with them. However, after four rewrites and what feels to be an endless amount of rejections, I feel weighed down by this piece and if it doesn't make it here, I think it's time to let it go.”
Mason Martinez (they/them) is a Latin, queer writer from New York. When they're not writing, they're spending time getting lost in the woods. Their work has been featured in Gandy Dancer, The Institutionalized Review, and more. You can follow them on Twitter: @masonnatj