Chapter Five: First Steps
Nair awoke to a gentle warmth—not from the sun, but from the soft heat of feathers—nestled beneath the mother hen's wing. He opened his eyes slowly as golden strands of dawn light filtered through the palm fronds, spreading across the straw‑paved floor of the nest.
"Day Three…"
The number felt significant. Yesterday was the day of balance; today—if all went as planned—would be the day of the first real step.
He felt not only excitement but caution. He was no longer the impatient chick who had rushed into movement without understanding; he was now more aware of his body and determined to avoid another fall.
"One step… lightly… steadily… that's what I need today."
He mapped out his training in his mind, then crawled out from under the mother's wing to the flattest patch of straw—the least uneven spot in the nest.
The straw under his claws provided warmth and softness but also posed a challenge: an unstable surface requiring precise balance. His feet felt as if walking on a cushion of feathers, where the slightest slip meant an inevitable tumble.
Still, here he would take his first true steps…
He began his morning with the simple exercises he had mastered yesterday. He focused on repetition, knowing that only habit would turn control of his new body into pure instinct.
He settled into the "perfect chick posture"—legs folded beneath him, wings tucked at his sides, head held high—and centered his attention on a new challenge: his head. First, he moved it slowly to the right, noting the unfamiliar sensation of his new neck. Then he turned gradually to the left, tilted upward toward the open sky, and finally looked down until his beak nearly touched his chest through the thin veil of feathers he never imagined feeling.
He recalled reading about owls, which can rotate their heads nearly 300°, while humans are limited to about 180°.
As for him, he had expanded his range to nearly 200°—enough to glance at his left wing, then twist further to see behind his back.
It was a moment of tasting freedoms unknown to humans, and he realized that this unique advantage of being a chick could open new horizons of movement and exploration.
True freedom, he thought—freedom his human body never knew. Humans can only turn their heads roughly 180°—right, left, up, and down—peeling against the limits of their necks.
Managing to look down far enough to see his own belly was a small triumph born of curiosity after his success standing yesterday. But—as the saying goes—curiosity killed the cat. As soon as he bent beyond his balance threshold, his center of gravity shifted, and he executed an unplanned somersault, landing on his back in dramatic fashion. He wavered for a moment, his little legs flapping as he struggled to right himself—an embarrassingly clumsy sight.
When he finally steadied, he cleared his throat inwardly and vowed, "All right, I won't try that again until I've mastered standing like a circus balancing expert." He mentally labeled that move as "advanced level," alongside the double wing‑flap.
It wasn't just about head rotation; his new neck differed completely from his human one. It was far longer relative to his small body and remarkably flexible. He could extend it several extra centimeters forward or retract it until it nestled between his shoulders, as though a living spring responding to his will.
Nair immersed himself in exploring these new abilities, thrilled by a range of motion he had never dreamed of. That supple neck, twisting with astonishing fluidity, felt like a gateway to a new world of bodily awareness.
He decided to begin the morning with the simplest, most valuable exercise: moving his head in every direction while remaining perfectly still, focusing on testing his neck's elasticity without budging his body even a hair.
"Wow… this is incredible," he thought in wonder as he repeated the motion again and again, savoring the power to control joints he never knew could flow so freely.
After a long period of cautious yet awed practice, he felt his movements growing smoother and his neck obeying without hesitation.
As the sun climbed higher and the birds' chorus grew louder overhead, Nair became aware of the time. He lifted his head slightly, drew a deep breath, rested for a moment, then rose with determination.
"It's time to move on to the next stage of training…"
He adjusted his posture, sensing the difference between yesterday and today. His stance was no longer haphazard or tense but smoother and more secure—his head no longer wobbling with every movement. He was beginning to feel his body respond, bit by bit.
"Time to walk."
He focused, gazing at the ground before him as if it were a steep slope. His goal was not distance but a single correct motion: one step without falling.
He lifted his right foot slowly, keeping it aligned with his body, then extended it forward with hesitation. Its tiny toes splayed instinctively in search of balance, while his left toes gripped the straw lightly, pushing him ahead.
The movement was slow but precisely measured. The aim wasn't merely to step but to understand the step itself—its weight, its balance, the ground's response beneath it.
Nair felt like a surgeon performing a delicate operation on an open chest. Every muscle, every breath, every thought was concentrated in that moment.
His human mind tempted him to spread his wings for better balance—like a tightrope walker—but he resisted.
"No… that's not necessary."
He remembered that chicks did not do that, and he mustn't act like a human in this new body. He lifted his right foot, then set it down in a carefully timed motion before losing balance.
His front toes touched first, spreading wide to widen his base, and as his back claw pressed into the straw, he gently curled his toes to anchor himself, as if searching for roots.
He exhaled a soft "Cheep!" without realizing it, his concentration so intense it had slipped out involuntarily.
"Did… did I succeed?"
The thought echoed faintly in his mind, but he already knew the answer. Yes… he was stable. He hadn't fallen. One step—just one—but it was the beginning: his first real victory.
He held the pose for a moment, trying to solidify his balance… until his body wobbled and he slid sideways, collapsing into the straw.
Yet he felt neither sorrow nor disappointment. On the first day, he couldn't even stand—and his legs collapsed the instant he lifted one. Now? He had managed to lift one foot and hold the other steady for several seconds.
One simple step, yet a world of difference to him.
Although chicks are born with an innate ability to stand on one leg while lifting the other, Nair had not inherited that instinct. His body knew what to do, but his mind was still learning. After all, when had he ever had a bird's instinct? If he had, he wouldn't have stumbled so awkwardly.
"Let's try again."
He readjusted his posture and repeated the attempt. The first step succeeded, just as before—but he didn't stop. This time, he intended to go further. He lifted his left leg to complete a second step—and fell before he could place it down.
"Again."
He rose quickly and tried steadily… and fell. A third time.
"Once more."
He didn't hesitate. Despair was not an option. He tried again, this time moving his motions a bit faster, hoping to reach forward before collapsing. First step—success. Second lift—fall.
He persisted: stand, step, fall. He even tried starting with the left foot instead of the right—no difference.
Over time, it seemed as if his body was remembering something, or learning at its own pace. After roughly two hours of this back‑and‑forth—standing and falling, trying and failing—Nair finally succeeded in completing his second step.
Although he fell as soon as his foot touched down, that tiny instant between the two steps—brief as it was—felt like a genuine victory.
Nair toppled again, but this time a hidden smile played within him. He'd taken two steps, not just one. Progress, however small, had become real.
"Now the third."
he told himself, as if it were a challenge, not merely a number.
He rose again, eyed the ground before him, adjusted his balance, tensed his legs, then made the first step with greater confidence. The second flowed more smoothly, as if his body were finally grasping the idea. The third… he extended his foot lightly and, with careful precision, held it in place. One… two… three.
He lost balance and fell—but inwardly, he laughed. This fall wasn't failure but a mark of fatigue and a partial triumph. He lifted his head and looked at the light filtering through the palm fronds. This nest was not a cage, he realized, but his very first arena… the field of his small victories.
Then he began again.
One… two… three… and now the fourth.
He nearly flapped his wings this time but resisted the urge. He wanted to walk with his legs, not his wings.
"If I can't walk, I'll never fly later."
Although his kind couldn't truly fly, chicks' dreams know no bounds.
On around his twenty‑fifth attempt, he succeeded in stringing together four steps before collapsing into a pile of straw.
He lay there for a moment, gasping—even though his breaths were no longer human. This exhaustion was more mental than physical, for every step had been a battle, and every advance forged by sheer will rather than instinct.
Then he stood up again.
His control over this new body had improved steadily since the moment he hatched. Yet genuine challenges remained—chief among them, his new legs. They shared only name and function with his human legs; in almost every other way, they were different.
It wasn't just outward appearance: the very mechanics of his body had changed. His "knee" no longer sat midway down the limb as it had in his human frame. It was hidden beneath feathers, close to his torso; the joint you see in his leg isn't the knee at all but the ankle. This structural shift posed extra challenges for balance and movement.
Muscle distribution had changed, too. Where once his human power was shared between thigh and calf, now most strength and flexibility clustered in the upper leg, near the body—altering entirely how he used his limbs.
As a human, he'd relied on his soles for steady balance; now he had to fine‑tune stability through precise control of his toes and claws.
Each foot bore four digits: three pointing forward, and one longer "thumb" pointing backward, providing a vital anchor point. Master these claws, and they could become a real advantage, not a burden.
Chicks—and most birds—possess an extraordinary natural balance, able to stand steadily on a thin wire or swaying branch without faltering.
Nair pressed on without pause, striving not to fight what he felt but to listen to his new legs and grow accustomed to the strange sensations these small, powerful, unfamiliar limbs bestowed upon him.