Laurel had been forced to drop out of school when her parents both died. Shunned by her community, no path to a more hopeful future existed for Laurel, no room of her own in which to dream or paint or write or compose, certainly no "Gift of Freedom Award." And then suddenly, a stranger appeared.
The day before our group left Peru, my friend Roxanne and I wandered into a museum courtyard in Cusco. We were quickly drawn into a side room by a Peruvian Quechua man. On the walls of the room, encased in glass, were ancient pre-Incan flutes. Spread out on a table were dozens of replicas, made by this man and his family. One by one, he picked up the flutes, showing us how to hold them to our lips, how to warble and whistle, how to make the sounds of hummingbirds and frogs and parrots and parakeets. Most of the flutes were made of fired clay, though one was carved of a condor's leg bone.
As I was reading The Cove, I thought of Ulla's flute music and of the ancient flute music of Peru. I thought of the old Finish tradition Ulla had told us about. "In my country," she said, "when a warrior returns home, it is music that brings his soul back into his body." And just now, as I was researching the Carolina Parakeet, I discovered that the last two known living parakeets were mates that lived together for 32 years. Lady Jane died in 1917, and the male died shortly after. His name was Incas.