Part OneIt was morning, and the new sun
sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.
A mile from shore a fishing boat chummed the water,
and the word for Breakfast Flock flashed through the air, till a crowd of
a thousand seagulls came to dodge and fight for bits of food. It was
another busy day beginning.
But way off alone, out by himself beyond boat and
shore, Jonathan Livingston Seagull was practicing. A hundred feet in the
sky he lowered his webbed feet, lifted his beak, and strained to hold a
painful hard twisted curve through his wings. The curve meant that he
would fly slowly, and now he slowed until the wind was a whisper in his
face, until the ocean stood still beneath him. He narrowed his eyes in
fierce concentration, held his breath, forced one ... single ... more ...
inch ... of ... curve .... Then his feathers ruffled, he stalled and fell.
Seagulls, as you know, never falter, never stall. To
stall in the air is for them disgraced and it is dishonor.
But Jonathan Livingston Seagull, unashamed,
stretching his wings again in that trembling hard curve - slowing,
slowing, and stalling once more - was no ordinary bird.
Most gulls didn't bother to learn more than the
simplest facts of flight - how to get from shore to food and back again.
For most gulls, it is not flying that matters, but eating. For this gull,
through, it was not eating that mattered, but flight. More than anything
else, Jonathan Livingston Seagull loved to fly.
This kind of thinking, he found, is not the way to
make one's self popular with other birds. Even his parents were dismayed
as Jonathan spent whole days alone, making hundreds of low-level glides,
experimenting.
He didn't know why, for instance, but when he flew
at altitudes less than half his wingspan above the water, he could stay in
the air longer, with less effort. His glides ended not with the usual
feet-down splash into the sea, but with a long flat wake as he touched the
surface with his feet tightly streamlined against his body. When he began
sliding in to feet-up landings on the beach, then pacing the length of his
slide in the sand, his parents were very much dismayed indeed.
Why, Jon, why?" his mother asked. "Why is
it so hard to be like the rest of the flock, Jon? Why can't you leave low
flying to the pelicans, the albatross? Why don't you eat? Jon, you're bone
and feathers!"
"I don't mind being bone and feathers, Mum. I
just want to know what I can do in the air and what I can't, that's all. I
just want to know."
"See here, Jonathan," said his father, not
unkindly. "Winter isn't far away. Boats will be few, and the surface
fish will be swimming deep. If you must study,. then study food, and how
to get it. This flying business is all very well, but you can't eat a
glide, you know. Don't you forget that the reason you fly is to eat."
Jonathan nodded obediently. For the next few days he
tried to be behave like the other gulls; he really tried, screeching and
fighting with the flock around the piers and fishing boats, diving on
scraps of fish and bread. But he couldn't make it work.
It's all so pointless, he thought, deliberately
dropping a hard-won anchovy to a hungry old gull chasing him. I could be
spending all this time learning to fly. There's so much to learn!
It wasn't long before Jonathan Gull was off by
himself again, far out at see, hungry, happy, learning.
The subject was speed, and in a week's practice he
learned more about speed than the fastest gull alive.
From a thousand feet, flapping his wings as hard as
he could, he pushed over into a blazing steep dive toward the waves, and
learned why seagulls don't make blazing steep power-dives. In just six
seconds he was moving seventy miles per hour, the speed at which one's
wing goes unstable on the upstroke.
Time after time it happened. Careful as he was,
working at the very peak of his ability, he lost control at high speed.
Climb to a thousand feet. Full power straight ahead
first, then push over, flapping, to a vertical dive. Then, every time, his
left wing stalled on an upstroke, he'd roll violently left, stall his
right wing recovering, and flick like fire into a wild tumbling spin to
the right.
He couldn't be careful enough on that upstroke. Ten
times he tried, but all ten times, as he passed through seventy miles per
hour, he burst into a churning mass of feathers, out of control, crashing
down into the water.
They key, he thought as last, dripping wet, must be
to hold the wings still at high speeds - to flap up to fifty and then hold
the wings still.
From two thousand feet he tried again, rolling into
his dive, beak straight down, wings full out and stable from the moment he
passed fifty miles per hour. It took tremendous strength, but it worked.
In ten seconds he has blurred through ninety miles per hour. Jonathan had
set a world speed record for seagulls!
But victory was short-lived. The instant he began
his pullout, the instant he changed the angle of his wings, he snapped
into that same terrible uncontrolled disaster, and at ninety miles per
hour it hit him like dynamite. Jonathan Seagull exploded in midair and
smashed down into a brick-hard sea.
When he came to, it was well after dark, and he
floated in moonlight on the surface of the ocean. His wings were ragged
bars of lead, but the weight of failure was even heavier on his back. He
wished, feebly, that the weight could be just enough to drag him gently
down to the bottom, and end it all.
As he sank low in the water, a strange hollow voice
sounded within him. There's no way around it. I am a seagull. I am limited
by my nature. If I were meant to learn so much about flying, I'd have a
falcon's short wings, and live on mice instead of fish. My father was
right. I must forget this foolishness. I must fly home to the Flock and be
content as I am, as a poor limited seagull.
The voice faded, and Jonathan agreed. The place for
a seagull at night is on shore, and from this moment forth, he vowed, he
would be a normal gull. It would make everyone happier.
He pushed wearily away from the dark water and flew
toward the land, grateful for what he had learned about work-saving
low-altitude flying.
But no, he thought. I am done with the way I was, I
am done with everything I learned. I am a seagull like every other
seagull, and I will fly like one. So he climbed painfully to a hundred
feet and flapped his wings harder, pressing for shore.
He felt better for his decision to be just another
one of the flock. there would be no ties now to the force that had driven
him to learn, there would be no more challenge and no more failure. And it
was pretty, just to stop thinking, and fly through the dark, toward the
lights above the beach.
Dark! The hollow voice cracked in alarm.
Seagulls never fly in the dark!
Jonathan was not alert to listen. It's pretty, he
thought. The moon and the lights twinkling on the water, throwing out
little beacon-trails though the night, and all so peaceful and still...
Get Down! Seagulls never fly in the dark! If you
were meant to fly in the dark, you'd have the eyes f an owl! You'd have
charts for brains! You'd have a falcon's short wings!
There in the night, a hundred feet in the air,
Jonathan Livingston Seagull - blinked. His pain, his resolutions,
vanished.
Short Wings. A falcon's short wings!
That's the answer! What a fool I've been! All I need
is a tiny little wing, all I need is to fold most of my wings and fly on
just the tips alone! Short wings!
He climbed two thousand feet above the black sea,
and without a moment for thought of failure and death, he brought his
forewings tightly in to his body, left only the narrow swept daggers of
his wingtips extended into the wind, and fell into a vertical dive.
The wind was a monster roar at his head. Seventy
miles per hour, ninety, a hundred and twenty and faster still. The
wing-strain now at a hundred and forty miles per hour wasn't nearly as
hard as it had been before at seventy, and with the faintest twist of his
wingtips he eased out of the dive and shot above the waves, a grey
cannonball under the moon.
He closed his eyes to slits against the wind and
rejoiced. A hundred forty miles per hour! and under control! If I dive
from five thousand feet instead of two thousand, I wonder how fast...
His vows of a moment before were forgotten, swept
away in that great swift wind. Yet he felt guiltless, breaking the
promises he had made himself. Such promises are only for the gulls that
accept the ordinary. One who has touched excellence in his learning has no
need of that kind of promise.
By sunup, Jonathan Gull was practicing again. From
five thousand feet the fishing boats were specks in the flat blue water,
Breakfast Flock was a faint cloud of dust motes, circling.
He was alive, trembling ever so slightly with
delight, proud that his fear was under control. Then without ceremony he
hugged in his forewings, extended his short, angled wingtips, and plunged
directly toward the sea. By the time he had passed four thousand feet he
had reached terminal velocity, the wind was a solid beating wall of sound
against which he could move no faster. He was flying now straight down, at
two hundred fourteen miles per hour. He swallowed, knowing that if his
wings unfolded at that speed he'd be blown into a million tiny shreds of
seagull. But the speed was power, and the speed was joy, and the speed was
pure beauty.
He began his pullout at a thousand feet, wingtips
thudding and blurring in that gigantic wind, the boat and the crowd of
gulls tilting and growing meteor-fast, directly in his path.
He couldn't stop; he didn't know yet even how to
turn at that speed.
Collision would be instant death.
And so he shut his eyes.
It happened that morning, then, just after sunrise,
that Jonathan Livingston Seagull fired directly through the centre of
Breakfast Flock, ticking off two hundred twelve miles per hour, eyes
closed, in a great roaring shriek of wind and feathers. The Gull of
Fortune smiled upon him this once, and no one was killed.
By the time he had pulled his beak straight up into
the sky he was still scorching along at a hundred and sixty miles per
hour. When he had slowed to twenty and stretched his wings again at last,
the boat was a crumb on the sea, four thousand feet below.
His thought was triumph. Terminal velocity! A
seagull two hundred fourteen miles per hour! It was a breakthrough,
the greatest single moment in the history of the Flock, and in that moment
a new age opened for Jonathan Gull. Flying out to his lonely practice
area, folding his wings for a dive from eight thousand feet, he set
himself at once to discover how to turn.
A single wingtip feather, he found, moved a fraction
of an inch, gives a smooth sweeping curve at the tremendous speed. Before
he learned this, however, he found that moving more than one feather at
that speed will spin you like a rifle ball ... and Jonathan had flown the
first aerobatics of any seagull on earth.
He spared no time that day for talk with other
gulls, but flew on past sunset. He discovered the loop, the slow roll, the
point roll, the inverted spin, the gull bunt, the pinwheel.
When Jonathan Seagull joined the Flock on the
beach, it was full night. He was dizzy and terribly tired. Yet in delight
he flew a loop to landing, with a snap roll just before touchdown. When
they hear of it, he thought, of the Breakthrough, they'll be wild with
joy. How much more there is now to living! Instead of our drab slogging
forth and back to the fishing boats, there's a reason to life! We can list
ourselves out of ignorance, we can find ourselves as creatures of
excellence and intelligence and skill. We can be free! We can learn to
fly!
The years head hummed and glowed with promise.
The gulls were flocked into the Council Gathering
when he landed, and apparently had been so flocked for sometime. They
were, in fact, waiting.
"Jonathan Livingston Seagull! Stand to
Centre!" The Elder's words sounded in a voice of highest ceremony.
Stand to Centre meant only great shame or great honor. Stand to Centre for
honor was the way the gulls' foremost leaders were marked. Of course, he
thought, the Breakfast Flock this morning; they saw the Breakthrough! But
I want no honors. I have no wish to be leader. I want only to share what
I've found, to show those horizons out ahead for us all. He stepped
forward.
"Jonathan Livingston Seagull," said the
Elder, "Stand to Centre for shame in the sight of your fellow
gulls!"
It felt like being hit with a board. His knees went
weak, his feathers sagged, there was a roaring in his ears. Centred for
shame? Impossible! The Breakthrough! They can't understand! They're wrong,
they're wrong!
"...for his reckless irresponsibly," the
solemn voice intoned, "violating the dignity and tradition of the Gull
Family..."
To be centred for shame meant that he would be cast
out of gull society, banished to the solitary life on the Far Cliffs.
"...one day, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, you
shall learn that irresponsibly? My brothers!" he cried. "Who is
more responsible than a gull who finds and follows a meaning, a higher
purpose for life? For a thousand years we have scrabbled after fish heads,
but now we have a chance, let me show you what I've found..."
The Flock might as well have been stone.
"The Brotherhood is broken," the gulls
intoned together, and with one accord they solemnly closed their ears and
turned their backs upon him.
Jonathan Seagull spent the rest of his days
alone, but he flew way out beyond the Far Cliffs. His one sorrow was not
solitude, it was that other gulls refused to believe the glory of flight
that awaited them; they refused to open their eyes and see.
He learned more each day. He learned that a
streamlined high-speed dive could bring him to find the rare and tasty
fish that schooled ten feet below the surface of the ocean: he no longer
needed fishing boats and stale bread for survival. He learned to sleep in
the air, setting a course at night across the offshore wind, covering a
hundred miles from sunset to sunrise. With the same inner control, he flew
through heavy sea-fogs and climbed above them into dazzling clear skies...
in the very times when every other gull stood on the ground, knowing
nothing but mist and rain. He learned to ride the high winds far inland,
to dine there on delicate insects.
What he had once hoped for the Flock, he now gained
for himself alone; he learned to fly, and was not sorry for the price that
he had paid. Jonathan Seagull discovered that boredom and fear and anger
are the reasons that a gull's life is so short, and with these gone from
his thought, he lived a long and fine life indeed.
They came in the evening, then, and found Jonathan
gliding peaceful and alone through his beloved sky. The two gulls that
appeared at his wings were pure as starlight, and the glow from them was
gentle and friendly in the high night air. But most lovely of all was the
skill with which they flew, their wingtips moving a precise and constant
inch from his own.
Without a word, Jonathan put them to his test, a
test that no gull had ever passed. He twisted his wings, slowed to a
single mile per hour above stall. The two radiant birds slowed with him,
smoothly, locked in position. They knew about slow flying.
He folded his wings, rolled, and dropped in a dive
to a hundred and ninety miles per hour. They dropped with him, streaking
down in flawless formation.
At last he turned that speed straight up into a long
vertical slow-roll. The rolled with him, smiling.
He recovered to level flight and was quiet for a
time before he spoke. "Very well," he said, "who are you?"
"We're from your Flock, Jonathan. We are your
brothers." The words were strong and calm. "We've come to take you
higher, to take you home."
"Home I have none. Flock I have none. I am
Outcast And we fly now at the peak of the Great Mountain Wind Beyond a few
hundred feet, I can lift this old body no higher."
"But you can, Jonathan. For you have learned. One
school is finished, and the time has come to another to begin."
As it had shined across him all his life, so
understanding lighted that moment for Jonathan Seagull. they were right.
He could fly higher, and it was time to go home.
He gave one last long look across the sky, across
that magnificent silver land where he had learned so much.
"I'm ready," he said at last.
And Jonathan Livingston Seagull rose with the two
starbright gulls to disappear into a perfect dark sky.
Part TwoSo this is heaven, he thought, and he
had to smile at himself. It was hardly respectful to analyse heaven in the
very moment that one flies up to enter it.
As he came from Earth now, above the clouds and in
close formation with the two brilliant gulls, he saw that his own body was
growing as bright as theirs. True, the same young Jonathan Seagull was
there that has always lived behind his golden eyes, but the outer form had
changed.
It felt like a seagull body, but already it flew far
better than his old one had ever flown. Why, with half the effort, he
though, I'll get twice the speed, twice the performance of my best days on
earth!
His feathers glowed brilliant white now, and his
wings were smooth and perfect as sheets of polished silver. He began,
delightedly, to learn about them, to press power into these new wings.
At two hundred fifty miles per hour he felt that he
was nearing his level-flight maximum speed. At two hundred seventy-three
he thought that he was flying as fast as he could fly, and he was ever so
faintly disappointed. There was a limit to how much the new body could do,
and though it was much faster than his old level-flight record, it was
still a limit that would take great effort to crack. In heaven, he though,
there should be no limits.
The clouds broke apart, his escorts called,
"Happy landings, Jonathan," and vanished into thin air.
He was flying over a sea, toward a jagged shoreline.
A very few seagulls were working the updraughts on the cliffs. Away off to
the north, at the horizon itself, flew a few others. New sights, new
thoughts, new questions. Why so few gulls? Heaven should be flocked
with gulls! And why am I so tired, all at once? Gulls in heaven are never
supposed to be tired, or to sleep.
Where had he heard that? The memory of his life on
Earth was falling away. Earth had been a place where he had learned much,
of course, but the details were blurred - something about fighting for
food, and being Outcast.
The dozen gulls by the shoreline came to meet him,
none saying a word. He felt only that he was welcome and that this was
home. It had been a big day for him, a day whose sunrise he no longer
remembered.
He turned to land on the beach, beating his wings to
stop an inch in the air, then dropping lightly to the sand. The other
gulls landed too, but not one of them so much as flapped a feather. they
swung into the wind, bright wings outstretched, then somehow they changed
the curve of their feathers until they had stopped in the same instant
their feet touched the ground. It was beautiful control, but now Jonathan
was just too tired to try it. Standing there on the beach still without a
word spoken, he was asleep.
In the days that followed, Jonathan saw that there
was as much to learn about flight in this place as there had been in the
life behind him. But with a difference. Here were gulls who thought as he
thought. For each of them, the most important thing in living was to reach
out and touch perfection in that which they most loved to do, and that was
to fly. They were magnificent birds, all of them, and they spent hour
after hour every day practicing flight, testing advanced aeronautics.
For a long time Jonathan forgot about the world that
he had come from, that place where the Flock lived with its eyes tightly
shut to the joy of flight, using its wings as means to the end of finding
and fighting for food. But now and then, just for a moment, he remembered.
He remembered it one morning when he was out with
his instructor, while they rested on the beach after a session of
folded-wing snap rolls.
"Where is everybody, Sullivan?" He asked
silently, quite at home now with the easy telepathy that these gulls used
instead of screes and gracks. "Why aren't there more of us here? Why,
where I came from there were..."
"... thousands and thousands of gulls. I
know." Sullivan shook his head. "The only answer I can see,
Jonathan, is that you are pretty well a one-in-a-million bird. Most of us
came along ever so slowly. we went from one world into another that was
almost exactly like it, forgetting right away where we had come from, not
caring where we were headed, living for the moment. Do you have any idea
how many lives we must have gone though before we even got the first idea
that there is more to life than eating, or fighting, or power in the
Flock? A thousand lives, Jon, ten thousand! And then another hundred lives
until we began to learn that there is such a thing as perfection, and
another hundred again to get the idea that our purpose for living is to
find that perfection and show it forth. The same rule holds for us now, of
course; we choose our next world through what we learn in this one. Learn
nothing, and the next world is the same as this one, all the same
limitations and lead weights to overcome."
he stretched his wings and turned to face the wind.
"But you, Jon." he said, "learned so much at one time that you
don't have to go through a thousand lives to reach this one."
In moment they were airborne again, practicing. The
formation point-rolls were difficult, for through the inverted half
Jonathan had to think upside down, reversing the curve of his wing and
reversing it exactly in harmony with his instructor's.
"Let's try it again," Sullivan said, over and
over: "Let's try it again." Then, finally, "Good." And they
began practicing outside loops.
One evening the gulls that were not
nightly-flying stood together on the sand, thinking. Jonathon took all his
courage in his head and walked to the Elder Gull, who, it was said, was
soon to be moving beyond this world.
"Chiang..." he said, a little nervously.
The old seagull looked at him kindly. "Yes,. my
son?" Instead of being enfeebled by age, the Elder had been empowered
by it; he could outfly any gull in the Flock, and he had learned skills
that the others were only gradually coming to know.
"Chiang, this world isn't heaven at all, is
it?"
The Elder smiled in the moonlight. "You are
learning again, Jonathan Seagull," he said.
Well, what happens from here? Where are we going?
Is there no such place as heaven?"
"No, Jonathan, there is no such place. Heaven is
not a place, and it is not a time. Heaven is being perfect." He was
silent for a moment. "You are a very fast flier, aren't you?"
"I... I enjoy speed," Jonathan said, taken
aback but proud that the elder had noticed.
"You will begin to touch heaven, Jonathan, in the
moment that you touch perfect speed. And that isn't flying a thousand
miles an hour, or a million, or flying at the speed of light. Because any
number is a limit, and perfection doesn't have limits. Perfect speed, my
son, is being there."
Without warning, Chiang vanished and appeared at the
waters edge fifty feet away, all in the flicker of an instant. Then he
vanished again and stood, in the same millisecond, at Jonathan's shoulder.
"It's kind of fun," he said.
Jonathan was dazzled. He forgot to ask about heaven.
"How do you do that? What does it feel like? How far can you go?"
"You can go to any place and to any time that you
wish to go," the Elder said. "I've gone everywhere and everywhen I
can think of." He looked across the sea. "It's strange. The gulls
who scorn perfection for the sake of travel go nowhere, slowly. Those who
put aside travel for the sake of perfection go anywhere, instantly.
Remember, Jonathan, heaven isn't a place or a time because place and time
are so very meaningless. Heaven is..."
"Can you teach me to fly like that?" Jonathan
Seagull trembled to conquer another unknown.
"Of course, if you wish to learn."
"I wish. When can we start?"
"We could start now, if you'd like."
"I want to learn to fly like that," Jonathan
said, and a strange light glowed in his eyes. "Tell me what to do."
Chiang spoke slowly and watched the younger gull
ever so carefully. "To fly as fast as thought, to anywhere that
is," he said, "you must begin by knowing that you have already
arrived..."
The trick, according to Chiang, was for Jonathan to
stop seeing himself as trapped inside a limited body that had a
forty-two-inch wingspan and performance that could be plotted on a chart.
The trick was to know that his true nature lived, as perfect as an
unwritten number, everywhere at once across space and time.
Jonathan kept at it, fiercely, day after day,
from before sunrise till past midnight. And for all his effort he moved
not a feather-width from his spot.
"Forget about faith!" Chiang said it time and
again. "You didn't need faith to fly, you needed to understand flying.
This is just the same. Now try again..."
Then one day Jonathan, standing on the shore, closing
his eyes, concentrating, all in a flash knew what chiang had been
telling him. "Why, that's true! I am a perfect, unlimited gull!" He
felt a great shock of joy.
"Good!" sad Chiang, and there was victory in
his voice.
Jonathan opened his eyes. He stood alone with the
Elder on a totally different seashore - trees down to the water's edge,
twin yellow suns turning overhead.
"At last you've got the idea," Chiang said,
"but your control needs a little work..."
Jonathan was stunned. "Where are we?"
Utterly unimpressed with the strange surroundings,
the Elder brushed the question aside. "We're on some planet, obviously,
with a green sky and a double star for a sun."
Jonathan made a scree of delight, the first sound he
had made since he had left Earth. "IT WORKS!"
"Well, of course it works, Jon." said Chaing.
"It always works, when you know what you're doing. Now about your
control..."
By the time they returned, it was dark. The
other gulls looked at Jonathan with awe in their golden eyes, for they
have seen him disappear from where he had been rooted for so long.
He stood their congratulations for less than a
minute, "I'm the newcomer here! I'm just beginning! It is I who must
learn from you!"
"I wonder about that, Jon," said Sullivan,
standing near. "You have less fear of learning than any gull I've seen
in the thousand years." The Flock fell silent, and Jonathan fidgeted
in embarrassment.
"We can start working with time if you wish,"
Chiang said, "till you can fly the past and the future. And then you
will be ready to begin the most difficult, the most powerful, the most fun
of all. You will be ready to begin to fly up and know the meaning of
kindness and of love."
A month went by, or something that felt about like a
month, and Jonathan learned at the tremendous rate. He always had learned
quickly from ordinary experience, and now, the special student of the
Elder Himself, he took in new ideas like a streamlined feathered computer.
But then the day came that Chiang vanished. He had
been talking quietly with them all, exhorting them never to stop their
learning and their practising and their striving to understand more of the
perfect invisible principle of all life. Then, as he spoke, his feathers
went brighter and brighter and at last turned so brilliant that no gull
could look upon him.
"Jonathan," he said, and these were the last
words that he spoke, "keep working on love."
When they could see again, Chiang was gone.
As the days went past, Jonathan found himself
thinking time and time again of the Earth from which he had come. If he
had known there just a tenth, just a hundredth, of what he knew here, how
much more life would have meant! He stood on the sand and fell to
wondering if there was a gull back there who might be struggling to break
out of his limits, to see the meaning of flight beyond a way of travel to
get a breadcrumb from a rowboat. Perhaps there might even have been one
made Outcast for speaking his truth in the face of the Flock. And the more
Jonathan practised his kindness lessons, and the more he worked to know
the nature of love, the more he wanted to go back to Earth. For in spite
of his lonely past, Jonathan Seagull was born to be an instructor, and his
own way of demonstrating love was to give something of the truth that he
had seen to a gull who asked only a chance to see truth for himself.
Sullivan, adept now at thought-speed flight and
helping the others to learn, was doubtful.
"Jon, you were Outcast once. Why do you think
that any of the gulls in your old time would listen to you now? You know
the proverb, and it's true: The gull sees farthest who flies highest.
Those gulls where you came from are standing on the ground, squaking and
fighting among themselves. They're a thousand miles from heaven - and you
say you want to show them heaven from where they stand! Jon, they can't
see their own wingtips! Stay here. Help the new gulls here, the ones who
are high enough to see what you have to tell them." He was quiet for a
moment, and then he said, "What if Chiang had gone back to his old
worlds? Where would you have been today?"
The last point was the telling one, and Sullivan was
right. The gull sees farthest who flies highest.
Jonathan stayed and worked with the new birds coming
in, who were all very bright and quick with their lessons. but the old feeling
cam back, and he couldn't help but think that there might be one or
two gulls back on Earth who would be able to learn, too. How much more
would he have known by now if Chaing had come to him on the day that he
was Outcast!
"Sully, I must go back," he said at last.
"Your students are doing well. They can help you bring the newcomers
along."
Sullivan sighed, but he did not argue. "I think
I'll miss you, Jonathan," was all that he said.
"Sully, for shame!" Jonathan said in
reproach, "and don't be foolish! What are we trying to practise every
day? If our friendship depends on things like space and time, then when we
finally overcome space and time, we've destroyed our own brotherhood! But
overcome space, and all we have left is Here. Overcome time, and all we
have left is Now. And in the middle of Here and Now, don't you think that
we might see each other once or twice?"
Sullivan Seagull laughed in spite of himself.
"You crazy bird," he said kindly. "If anybody can show someone
on the ground how to see a thousand miles, it will be Jonathan Livingston
Seagull.: He looked at the sand. "Good-bye, Jon, my friend."
"Good-bye, Sully. We'll meet again." And with
that, Jonathan held in thought an image of the great gull-flocks on the
shore of another time, and he knew with practiced ease that he was not
bone and feather but a perfect idea of freedom and fight, limited by
nothing at all.
Fletcher Lynd Seagull was still quite young, but
already he knew that no bird had ever been so harshly treated by any
Flock, or with so much injustice.
"I don't care what they say," he thought
fiercely , and his vision blurred as he flew out toward the Far Cliffs. "There's so much more to flying than just flapping around from place to
place! A.....a....mosquito does that! One little barrel-roll
around the Elder Gull, just for fun, and I'm Outcast! Are they blind?
Can't they see? Can't they think of the glory that it'll be when we really
learn to fly?
"I don't care what they think. I'll show them what
flying is! I'll be pure Outlaw, if that's the way they want it. And I'll
make them so sorry..."
The voice came inside his own head, and though it
was very gentle, it startled him so much that he faltered and stumbled in
the air.
"Don't be harsh on them, Fletcher Seagull. In
casting you out, the other gulls have only hurt themselves, and one day
they will know this, and one day they will see what you see. Forgive them,
and help them to understand."
An inch from his right wingtip flew the most
brilliant white gull in all the world, gliding effortlessly along, not
moving a feather, at what was very nearly Fletcher's top speed.
There was a moment of chaos in the young bird.
"What's going on? Am I mad? Am I dead? What is
this?"
Low and calm, the voice went on within his thought,
demanding an answer. "Fletcher Lynd Seagull, do you want to fly?"
"YES, I WANT TO FLY!"
"Fletcher Lynd Seagull, do you want to fly so
much that you will forgive the Flock, and learn, and go back to them one
day and work to help them know?"
There was no lying to this magnificent skilful
being, no matter how proud or how hurt a bird was Fletcher Seagull.
"I do," he said softly.
"Then, Fletch," that bright creature said to
him, and the voice was very kind, "Let's begin with Level
Flight..."
Part ThreeJonathan circled slowly over the Far
Cliffs, watching. This rough young Fletcher Gull was very nearly a perfect
flight-student. He was strong and light and quick in the air, but far and
away more important, he had a blazing drive to learn to fly.
Here he came this minute, a blurred grey shape
roaring out of a dive, flashing one hundred fifty miles per hour past his
instructor. He pulled abruptly into another try at a sixteen-pint vertical
slow roll, calling the points out loud.
"...eight ...nine ...ten
...see-Jonthan-I'm-running-out-of-airspeed ...eleven
...I-want-good-sharp-stops-like-yours ...twelve
...but-blast-it-I-just-can't-make ...thirteen ...these-last-three-points
...without ...fourteen ...aaakkk!"
Fletcher's whipstall at the top was all the worse
for his rage and fury at failing. He fell backward, tumbled, slammed
savagely into and inverted spin, and recovered at last, panting, a hundred
feet below his instructor's level.
"You're wasting your time with me, Jonathan! I'm
too dumb! I'm too stupid! I try and try, but I'll never get it!"
Jonathan Seagull looked down at him and nodded.
"You'll certainly never get it as long as you make that pullup so hard.
Fletcher, you lost forty miles an hour in the entry! You have to be
smooth! Firm but smooth, remember?"
He dropped down to the level of the younger gull.
"Let's try it together now, in formation. And pay attention to that
pullup. It's a smooth, easy entry"
By the end of three months Jonathan had six
other students, Outcasts all, yet curious about this strange new idea of
flight for the joy of flying.
Still, it was easier for them to practice high
performance than it was to understand the reason behind it.
"Each of us is in truth an idea of the Great
Gull, and unlimited idea of freedom," Jonathan would stay in the
evenings on the beach, "and precision flying is a step toward
expressing our real nature. Everything that limits us where we have to put
aside. That's why all this high-speed practice, and low-speed and
aerobatics..."
...and his students would be asleep, exhausted from
the day's flying. They liked the practice, because it was fast and
exciting and it fed a hunger for learning that grew with every lesson. But
not one of them, not even Fletcher Lynd Gull, had come to believe that the
flight of ideas could possibly be as real as this flight of wind and
feather.
"Your whole body, from wingtip to wingtip,"
Jonathan would say, other times, "is nothing more than your thought
itself, in a form you can see. Break the chains of your thought, and you
break the chains of your body, too . . ." But no matter how he said
it, it sounded like pleasant fiction, and they needed more to sleep.
It was only a month later that Jonathan said the
time had come to return to the Flock.
"We're not ready!" said Henry Calvin Gull.
"We're not welcome! We're Outcast! We can't force ourselves to go where
we're not welcome, can we?"
"We're free to go where we wish and to be what we
are," Jonathan answered, and he lifted from the sand and turned east,
toward the home grounds of the Flock.
There was a brief anguish among his students, for it
is the Law of the Flock that an Outcast never returns, and the Law had not
been broken once in ten thousand years. The Law said stay; Jonathan said
go; and by now he was a mile across the water. If they waited much longer,
he would reach a hostile Flock alone.
"Well, we don't have to obey the law if we're not
a part of the Flock, do we?" Fletcher said, rather self-consciously.
"Besides, if there's a fight, we'll be a lot more help there than
here."
And so they flew in from the west that morning,
eight of them in a double-diamond formation, wingtips almost overlapping.
They came across the Flock's Council Beach at a hundred thirty-five miles
per hour, Jonathan in the lead, Fletcher smoothly at hi right wing, Henry
Calvin struggling gamely at his left. Then the whole formation rolled
slowly to the right, as one bird ... level ... to ... inverted ... to ...
level, the wind whipping over them all.
The squawks and grockles of everyday life in the
Flock were cut off as though the formation were a giant knife, and eight
thousand gull-eyes watched, without a single blink. One by one, each of
the eight birds pulled sharply upward into a landing on the sand. Then as
though this sort of thing happened every day, Jonathan Seagull began his
critiqué of the flight.
"To begin with," he said with a wry smile,
"you were all a bit late on the join-up . . ."
It went like lightning through the Flock. Those
birds are Outcast! And they have returned! And that . . . that can't
happen! Fletcher's predictions of battle melted in the Flock's confusion.
"Well, O.K., they may be Outcast," said some
of the younger gulls, "but where on earth did they learn to fly like
that?"
It took almost an hour for the Word of the Elder to
pass through the Flock: Ignore them. The gull who speaks to an Outcast is
himself Outcast. The gull who looks upon an Outcast breaks the Law of the
Flock.
Grey-feathered backs were turned upon Jonathan from
that moment onward, but he didn't appear to notice. He held his practice
sessions directly over the Council Beach and for the first time began pressing
his students to the limit of their ability.
"Martin Gull!" he shouted across the sky.
"You say you know low-speed flying. You know nothing till you prove it!
FLY!"
So quiet little Martin William Seagull, startled to
be caught under his instructor's fire, surprised himself and became a
wizard of low speeds. In the lightest breeze he could curve his feathers
to lift himself without a single flap of wing from sand to cloud and down
again.
Likewise Charles-Roland Gull flew the Great Mountain
Wind to twenty-four thousand feet, came down blue from the cold thin air,
amazed and happy, determined to go still higher tomorrow.
Fletcher Seagull, who loved aerobatics like no one
else, conquered his sixteen-point vertical slow roll and the next day
topped it off with a triple cartwheel, his feathers flashing white
sunlight to a beach from which more than one furtive eye watched.
Every hour Jonathan was there at the side of each of
his students, demonstrating, suggesting, pressuring, guiding. He flew with
them through night and cloud and storm, for the sport of it, while the
Flock huddled miserably on the ground.
When the flying was done, the students relaxed on
the sand, and in time they listened more closely to Jonathan. He had some
crazy ideas that they couldn't understand, but then he had some good ones
that they could.
Gradually, in the night, another circle formed
around the circle of students - a circle of curious gulls listening in the
darkness for hours on end, not wishing to see or be seen of one another,
fading away before daybreak.
It was a month after the Return that the first gull
of the Flock crossed the line and asked to learn how to fly. In his
asking, Terrence Lowell Gull became a condemned bird, labeled Outcast;
and the eighth of Jonathan's students.
The next night from the Flock came Kirk Maynard
Gull, wobbling across the sand, dragging his left wing, to collapse at
Jonathan's feet. "Help me," he said very quietly, speaking in the
way that the dying speak. "I want to fly more than anything else in the
world . . . "
"Come along then," said Jonathan. "Climb
with me away from the ground, and we'll begin"
"You don't understand. My wing. I can't move my
wing."
"Maynard Gull, you have the freedom to be
yourself, your true self, here and now, and nothing can stand in your way.
It is the Law of the Great Gull, the Law that Is."
"Are you saying I can fly?"
"I say you are free."
As simply and as quickly as that, Kirk Maynard Gull
spread his wings, effortlessly, and lifted into the dark night air. The
Flock was roused from sleep by his cry, as loud as he could scream it,
from five hundred feet up; "I can fly! Listen! I CAN FLY!"
By sunrise there were nearly a thousand birds
standing outside the circle of students, looking curiously at Maynard.
They don't care whether they were seen or not, and they listened, trying
to understand Jonathan Seagull.
He spoke of very simple things - that it is right
for a gull to fly, that freedom is the very nature of his being, that
whatever stands against that freedom must be set aside, be it ritual or
superstition or limitation in any form.
"Set aside," came a voice from the multitude,
"even if it be the Law of the Flock?"
"The only true law is that which leads to
freedom," Jonathan said. "There is no other."
"How do you expect us to fly as you fly?"
came another voice. "You are special and gifted and divine, above other
birds."
"Look at Fletcher! Lowell! Charles-Roland! Are
they also special and gifted and divine? No more than you are, no more
than I am. The only difference, the very only one, is that they have begun
to understand what they really are and have begun to practise it."
His students, save Fletcher, shifted uneasily. They
hadn't realized that this was what they were doing.
the crowd grew larger every day, coming to question,
to idolize, to scorn.
"They are saying in the Flock that if you are not
the Son of the Great Gull Himself," Fletcher told Jonathan one morning
after the Advanced Speed Practice, "then you are a thousand years ahead
of your time."
Jonathan sighed. The price of being misunderstood,
he thought. They call you devil or they call you god. "What do you
think, Fletch? Are we ahead of our time?"
A long silence. "Well, this kind of flying has
always been here to be learned by anybody who wanted to discover it;
that's got nothing to do with time. We're ahead of the fashion, maybe.
Ahead of the way that most gulls fly."
"That's something," Jonathan said, rolling to
glide inverted for a while. "That's not half as bad as being ahead of
our time."
It happened just a week later. Fletcher was
demonstrating the elements of high-speed flying to a class of new
students. He had just pulled out of his dive from seven thousand feet, a
long grey streak firing a few inches above the beach, when a young bird on
its first flight glided directly into his path, calling for its mother.
With a tenth of a second to avoid the youngster, Fletcher Lynd Seagull
snapped hard to the left, at something over two hundred miles per hour,
into a cliff of solid granite.
It was, for him, as though the rock were a giant
hard door into another world. A burst of fear and shock and black as he
hit, and then he was adrift in a strange strange sky, forgetting,
remembering, forgetting; afraid and sad and sorry, terribly sorry.
The voice came to him as it had in the first day
that he had met Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
"The trick, Fletcher, is that we are trying to
overcome our limitations in order, patiently. We don't tackle flying
through rock until a little later in the programme."
"Jonathan!"
"Also known as the Son of the Great Gull,"
his instructor said dryly.
"What are you doing here? The cliff! Haven't . I
. . . didn't I . . . die?"
"Oh, Fletch, come on. Think. If you are talking
to me now, then obviously you didn't die, did you? What you did manage to
do was to change your level of consciousness rather abruptly. It's your
choice now. You can stay here and learn on this level - which is quite a
bit higher than the one you left, by the way - or you can go back and keep
working with the Flock. The Elders were hoping for some kind of disaster,
but they're startled that you obliged them so well."
"I want to go back to the Flock, of course. I've
barely begun with the new group!"
"Very well, Fletcher. Remember what we were
saying about one's body being nothing more than thought itself . . .
?"
Fletcher shook his head and stretched his wings and
opened his eyes at the base of the cliff, in the centre of the whole Flock
assembled. There was a great clamour of squawks and screes from the crowd
when first he moved.
"He lives! He that was dead lives!"
"Touched him with a wingtip! Brought him to life!
The Son of the Great Gull!"
"NO! He denies it! He's a devil! DEVIL! Come to
break the Flock!"
There were four thousand gulls in the crowd,
frightened at what had happened, and the cry DEVIL! went through them like
the wind of an ocean storm. Eyes glazed, beaks sharp, they closed in to
destroy.
"Would you feel better if we left, Fletcher?"
asked Jonathan.
"I certainly wouldn't object too much if we did .
. . "
Instantly they stood together a half-mile away, and
the flashing breaks of the mob closed on empty air.
"Why is it, " Jonathan puzzled, "that the
hardest thing in the world is to convince a bird that he is free, and that
he can prove it for himself if he'd just spend a little time practising?
Why should that be so hard?"
Fletcher still blinked from the change of scene.
"What did you just do? How did we get here?"
"You did say you wanted to be out of the mob,
didn't you?"
Yes! But how did you . . ."
"Like everything else, Fletcher. Practice"
By morning the Flock had forgotten its insanity, but
Fletcher had not. "Jonathan, remember what you said a long time ago,
about loving the Flock enough to return to it and help it learn?"
"Yes!"
"I don't understand how you manage to love a mob
of birds that has just tried to kill you."
"Oh, Fletch, you don't love that! You don't love
hatred and evil, of course. You have to practise and see the real gull,
the good in everyone of them, and to help them see it in themselves.
That's what I mean by love. It's fun, when you get the knack of it.
"I remember a fierce young bird, for instance,
Fletcher Lynd Seagull, his name. Just been made Outcast, ready to fight
the Flock to the death, getting a start on building his own bitter hell
out on the Far Cliffs. And here he is today building his own heaven
instead, and leading the whole Flock in that direction."
Fletcher turned to his instructor, and there was a
moment of fright in his eye. "Me leading? What do you mean, me leading?
You're the instructor here. You couldn't leave!"
"Couldn't I? Don't you think that there might be
other flocks, other Fletchers, that need an instructor more than this one,
that's on its way toward the light?"
"Me? Jon, I'm just a plain seagull, and you're .
. ."
". . . the only Son of the Great Gull, I
suppose?" Jonathan sighed and looked out to sea. "You don't need
me any longer.. You need to keep finding yourself, a little more each day,
that real, unlimited Fletcher Seagull. he's your instructor. You need to
understand him and to practice him."
A moment later Jonathan's body wavered in the air,
shimmering, and began to go transparent. "Don't let them spread silly
rumours about me, or make me a god. O.K., Fletch? I'm a seagull, I like to
fly, maybe . . ."
"JONATHAN!"
"Poor Fletch. Don't believe what your eyes are
telling you. All they show is limitation. Look with your understanding,
find out what you already know, and you'll see the way to fly."
The shimmering stopped. Jonathan Seagull had
vanished into empty air.
After a time, Fletcher Gull dragged himself into the
sky and faced a brand-new group of students, eager for their first lesson.
"To begin with," he said heavily, "you've
got to understand that a seagull is an unlimited idea of freedom, an image
of the Great Gull, and your whole body, from wingtip to wingtip, is
nothing more than your though itself."
The young gulls looked at him quizzically. Come on,
they thought, this doesn't sound like a rule for a loop.
Fletcher sighed and started over. "Hm. Ah . .
very well," he said, and eyed them critically. "Let's begin with
Level Flight." And saying that, he understood all at once that his
friend had quite honestly been no more divine than Fletcher himself.
No limits, Jonathan? he thought. Well, then, the
time's not distant when I'm going to appear out of thin air on your beach,
and show you a thing or two about flying!
And though he tried to look properly severe for his
students, Fletcher Seagull suddenly saw them all as they really were, just
for a moment, and he more than liked, he loved what it was he saw. No
limits, Jonathan? he though, and he smiled. His race to learn had begun. | 