The Ornithologist and Teddy Roosevelt by Jen Mengarelli

The Ornithologist and Teddy Roosevelt by Jen Mengarelli

The space between them was vast. Wren was lost in her binoculars, searching the treetops for feathered fantasies. Skin would never suffice. Noah cast his line again and again, the fly flitting through the air soothing like a balm. He caught his reflection in her binoculars—the river’s current rippling between them and the fishing line drawing back and forth like an iridescent pendulum. The universe seemed to function as a sentient being as he watched reflection in reflection pulsate life all around them; then sudden silence fell, and everything went black.

& & &

Noah woke to birds chirping loudly. He blinked to clear his vision and spotted Wren sleeping in the grass, binoculars loose in her open hand. He had been half in love with her for half his life, but he had never seen her sleeping. She was beautiful, hair flowing out from a face at perfect peace. Her eyes opened lazily and his stomach pulled. How could the mere act of opening one’s eyes be so irresistible?

“Noah?” Panic flooded her voice as she noticed the birds that filled the sky behind him. She pulled her binoculars to her face then tossed them aside and stood, spinning in a slow circle as she looked at the sky.

“Are those—?” he began.

“Passenger pigeons,” she said.

“But aren’t they—?”

“Extinct!” she exclaimed.

He stood with her, and she grasped his hands. “There’s been a push to revive them! Someone must have successfully cloned their DNA, but I haven’t seen anything about this in the scientific literature! Do you realize what this could do for the ecosystem?”

Wren was an ornithologist. She pulled her phone from her pocket, presumably to look for data to support what she saw. She tapped, swiped, tapped, swiped. “No signal,” she said. “Weird. It’s like it’s on airplane mode. Nothing’s working.”

“Wren, those trees? Those don’t belong here either.” Birds were her thing; trees were his. Chestnuts were functionally extinct. There were no large chestnut forests like this anymore. 

“Ahoy!” A teenage boy dressed in an old-fasioned fisherman costume approached along the river.

“Hello,” Noah and Wren automated.

“What’s this, then?” he looked at them oddly, at the phone in Wren’s hand.

She held it up. “No signal.”

He cocked his head. “What is it?”

“My phone?”

“Your phone?”

“Wren.” Noah was the one panicking now. “Doesn’t he look like a young—”

“Teddy Roosevelt?” she whispered.

The boy grinned. “Theodore, actually. Have we met?”

Noah and Wren looked to the skies again, at the circling passenger pigeons.

“Theodore,” Noah trepidated, “what year is it?”

“1875.”

Noah sank back to the grass, and Wren followed.

“What do you know about time travel?” Noah asked the young Teddy Roosevelt.

“Rubbish and hogwash,” the boy replied confidently.

“Yes, well.”

“Noah,” Wren interrupted, “we have to figure out how we got here, so we can get back.. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I was fishing,” he said simply, and she sighed as she looked down the river for a better answer.

The young Teddy Roosevelt picked up Noah’s fishing rod and slid his fingers up and down the length of it reverently. “What is it made of?” he asked.

“Graphite,” Noah answered, then turned back to Wren.

“I remember the perfection of the moment,” he clarified, reaching for her hands, a tether to reality. “You were watching your birds, and I was casting my line, and the river was flowing . . . and I saw it all reflected in your lenses. The universe as seen through your binoculars was . . . magic. It’s like everything had life and movement and purpose.”

She smiled slowly. “Noah. This may be the weirdest day we’ve ever experienced. Want to make it even weirder?”

She tilted her face to his. He met her halfway, and as he felt the softness of her lips, Noah glimpsed eternity . . . strawberries sweetening early spring, cherries ripening summer, and the heated spice of autumn lingering into the cozy warmth of a winter fireside.

“Are we dreaming?” her voice was a feather across his lips.

“If we are, let’s keep on.”

She abruptly bit his lower lip, and he startled.

Her eyes twinkled. “We’re awake then? You felt that?”

He licked his lip, tasted blood. “Yes. Yes, we’re awake.”

Wren turned to the young Teddy Roosevelt, who was watching them curiously.

“Time travel is rubbish,” he said but was gripping the fishing rod like a question.

“Teddy—Theodore— listen to me,” Wren said. “You are going to do great things for the natural world! There’s also a whole presidency. But, those birds?” She pointed to the sky. “By the time you’re president, they will be extinct. Gone. No more. But I think you can save them! As president, you’re going to establish the first laws protecting natural resources. Do it for them, too. As soon as you have the power, before it’s too late, put protections in place for the passenger pigeon.”

“Bully!” the young Teddy Roosevelt exclaimed, looking at the birds in flight in wonder.

But Wren was pale, her lips having turned blue after her long speech.

“We need to get back,” Noah said. “How?”

“The same way we got here, probably.” Wren swiped a drop of blood from his lip with her thumb. “Noah, if we’re truly awake but just in the wrong time, let’s get back. Let’s try to go home, the same way we came.” She held her binoculars to her face and looked to the sky.

Noah took his fishing rod from the young Teddy Roosevelt, who held up a hand in salute.

“Godspeed, travelers! From wherever you hail, may you find your way safely back.”

Noah gazed at the current moving the water, then at the face of the woman he had long loved, half-hidden by her binoculars, and began to cast his line.

& & &

Noah woke leisurely, as from a long nap. Wren knelt over him, her tears wetting his face, her thumb on his lower lip, gently rubbing the wound she had inflicted. There were chestnut trees as far as the eye could see, combined with other hardwoods, and they were filled with birds of all species. He didn’t know birds like she did, but there was one standout he easily recognized. The treetops were filled with roosting passenger pigeons.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Jen Mengarelli 2025