Rocco's Wings (13 page)

Basalt – bent over, clutching his stomach.

‘The Air Marshals are coming!’

Foul smelling vomit wafted up as Rocco grabbed Basalt’s shoulder. Magma scrambled out into the grass beside Basalt and he too began to heave. Now? They were getting separation sickness, at this very moment? Iggy and Vesta appeared, both holding their stomachs.

‘Are we dying? Is that what’s happening?’ Iggy’s face contorted as he released a spray of puke into the grass.

‘Did you hear me? Air Marshals! A whole fleet of them!’

The four remained where they were, kneeling and heaving into the grass.

‘It’s just… the separation sickness,’ gasped Basalt. ‘Our punishment for leaving.’

‘It feels like I’m dying.’ Iggy’s voice dropped woefully as his head fell forward again.

‘Come on!’ Rocco could see stars straight up over the clearing. Maybe they were urvogel wings, he thought, thinking back to the night he’d seen that slant of light in the trees along the Ebo River. Things looked different in the dark.

Pushing at the backs of his kneeling friends, he pleaded, ‘You can’t stay here! You have to get in! They’ll be here any minute!’

Were they deaf? Why weren’t they moving?

‘How far –?’ Vesta’s face was covered in sweat.

‘Just there, in the trees!’ Rocco waved his hand. ‘The smallest sliver of light will call them down – we’re like beacons out here!’

Instead of getting up immediately, Vesta turned and puked again.

They weren’t moving. They were stunned. How could an upset stomach cause them not to care if they lived, died or got captured?

Rocco ran again to the clearing. The sky was clear, except… a pair of wings, white and glowing crossed overhead. Another pair followed.

Looking across, his friends were just as visible. Racing back, he began to coax and prod Basalt, Vesta, Magma and Iggy.

‘Throw up inside, if you have to! Here, take this piece of moss,’ he said, thrusting a grassy scrap into Basalt’s arms.

With the moss in one hand, Basalt slowly drew his other arm across his mouth. Giving Rocco a dazed look, he shuffled toward the treehouse. Magma, Vesta and Iggy traipsed in behind him, sick and way too casual for the threat they were under.

At least his own wings were dark. Rocco kicked sand over the puke. Pulling the brambles across, he knelt down. The treehouse stunk like vomit and farts.

Where was the medicine? The vials of amber venom were inside Magma’s flying belt – which he’d left on the flat rock.

Separation sickness

Creeping back outside, Rocco scanned the upper tree storey. As soon as another pair of Air Marshal passed from sight, he ran across the clearing, grabbed Magma’s flying belt, and returned inside the treehouse. Panting hard, he pulled the stopper out of a vial of amber venom.

‘How much?’ he asked.

The white robes only groaned. Kneeling at their heads, he tipped three drops into each of their mouths. They were limp, swallowing half-heartedly and sealing their eyes shut. Was it contagious, separation sickness? His mother had never mentioned the disease, but maybe the name was different.

He crawled outside and sat with his back to the tree. The sword was in his hand; he was ready for an urvogel attack or whatever else might come leaping out of the trees. Scratching noises erupted in the dark. A bird called. It sounded like an owl. The night passed in short, fitful stretches of sleep.

After what seemed an eternity, rays of light began to filter down. Instead of flying up through the clearing, he found a dense stand of trees. Up he flew, past trailing vines and gardens of colourful flowers nestled amongst the thick branches. Finally he pushed his head above the canopy.

An eagle was wheeling around a kilometre away. He ducked down, watching through the leaves. The bird just looked as if it was having fun, surfing an air current. Was it a spy bird?

The eagle swooped and soared. There weren’t any Air Marshals around. Perhaps they were sleeping in the forest below. He returned to the ground. Basalt, Vesta, Magma and Iggy were still soundly asleep. Not one of them stirred as he rolled them to one side.

He pulled out the moss, which was putrid-smelling and full of gunk. Working swiftly, he laid another layer of fresh moss in its place. He did the same on the other side.

The lake was open to the sky, but the stream was covered in overhanging branches and vines. He sat down beside the large rambling blackberry bush. He ate some bread and cheese and a handful of the dark plump fruit.

Wading out to the middle of the stream, he washed himself and refilled his waterskin. Returning to the bank, he flapped his wings until his feathers and clothes had dried.

What would happen if he got injured or sick? What if he went too far looking for food and couldn’t find his way back? More and more disasters appeared in his head.

‘Stay away. Stay away.’ He had not previously talked to Death, but he did so now, throwing up his words as a shield against the dark presence that hovered over him.

The white robes were even more soundly asleep than before, if that was possible. No fresh vomit on the moss. Their faces were sweaty, their breathing laboured.

‘Iggy, wake up.’ Rocco prodded the small urvogel’s shoulder. Not even a blink or a groan. Basalt, Vesta and Magma failed to stir.

He couldn’t very well give them amber venom to swallow. They’d choke. He knew what to do; he’d watched his mother. Pulling out the vial again, he dropped the amber venom into their lower lips, rubbing it so it would seep in slowly.

Returning to his post, outside by the door, he sat down. How long were they going to sleep? A long slow flap cracked in the trees. His back arched.

A second flap caused his neck to stiffen.

Slowly he turned his head. The sound was coming from the lake. He sat very still. A pair of boots crunched on the stones that lay along the lakeshore.

‘Probably dead by now.’ An Air Marshal’s rough voice floated over. More long strides crunched the stones.

Picking up his sword, Rocco crept to the edge of the trees. An Air Marshal was standing on top of the flat rock. A second one, squatting on the lakeshore, spat into the water before drawing a gloved hand across his face. ‘Whoever heard of white robes living in the Badlands. It’s laughable.’

The Air Marshall got to his feet. ‘I’m not carrying back a corpse,’ he said, as he relieved himself against the trunk of a tree.

Scraps of bread and cheese were still lying on the ground from where the scavengers had been feasting on Magma’s food supplies the night before. Were they going to notice?

Had something else fallen from Magma’s flying belt, something Rocco hadn’t noticed? A piece of fruit, a sack of grain? He should have scoured the area more thoroughly after the sun came up.

The Air Marshals were walking side by side along the shore. Every few strides they stopped talking and looked out over the water. Throwing a final glance back at the flat rock, one of the Air Marshals cracked his wings and lifted off. The second Air Marshal followed him up.

With a burst of exhaled air, Rocco fell to his knees. His legs were wobbly, but he needed to see. He crept into the clearing. He still couldn’t see them, so he ran, crouching down behind the flat rock. The Air Marshals had reached the other side of the lake. As Rocco watched, they disappeared into the woods.

Were they safe now? Surely it was a good sign that the Air Marshals had come, searched and left the area. Hopefully they wouldn’t be back, he thought, staring at the wall of trees.

* * *

It was hot outside and even hotter in the treehouse. But the white robes were shivering. He’d been checking on them on and off all day. They were getting worse. Three more drops of amber venom disappeared into Basalt’s lower lip. Rocco massaged Basalt’s jaw.

The heat was good, Basalt had said, but they needed air. Pushing aside the brambles, Rocco fanned in one gust after another. After a half hour of fanning, he returned inside.

Small blisters had begun to form on Basalt’s lips. Vesta’s too. Magma’s face was red, but the blotch on his neck was even brighter. Tiny beads of sweat had formed on Iggy’s upper lip.

Perhaps he was giving them too much amber venom, he thought, holding the half empty vial of amber venom up to the light. Or what if he was giving them too little?

Cutting off his leggings, he ripped them into pieces. He poured water from his waterskin into the fabric. One by one he began to wash their faces. His hands looked like someone else’s – his mother’s. Not just the repetition of the wiping, but the shape of his fingers and the bend of his wrist.

When he was small, on evenings when the fire was lit, he would hold his hand against his mother’s. For a period their hands were roughly the same size. Recently his hands had grown bigger.

He wiped Vesta’s brow. His mother had taught him how. She was there, in his head, showing him how to do things. He didn’t even have a picture of her. Would he, one day, forget her face?

By nightfall the forest had cooled. He’d gone to bed early, tired. It was safer inside.

Basalt’s teeth began to chatter. As if on cue, Vesta’s began to clack, then Magma’s and Iggy’s. There wasn’t enough room inside the treehouse for a fire, so, opening his wing wide, Rocco rolled over. The limb was large enough that it reached all the way to the far wall, covering all of them perfectly. Slowly the sound of their teeth waned and stopped altogether.

The next morning, the white robes’ bodies had stiffened.

‘Iggy! Iggy! Wake up!’ Rocco pushed Iggy’s leg. Iggy lay rigidly in his spot. Didn’t they have to eat or pee? He pinched the fleshy part of Iggy’s arm. Not a lash flickered on Iggy’s face. Rocco laid his head on Iggy’s chest.

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Finally a thump.

Had they gone into some kind of hibernation?

Outside he found a tree bough. He rolled Basalt onto it, and dragged him out to the clearing, then did the same with the others. With the air and sun stirring over their skin, Rocco washed their arms and faces. He remade the bed of moss, and returned them inside. Taking out his knife, he cut three notches in the bark of the tree, small and up high under a leafy branch. Twenty-five days left, he said to himself.

The flat rock sat in the water, but the side stuck over the shore like a ledge. Under the ledge Rocco built a small fire. He caught and cooked a fish, flapping away the thread of smoke. With the fish still stuck on a stick he sat down on the flat rock.

How long would it take to get to Shale? Two, maybe three days? Once they got there, they’d need time to tell Belarica everything, and more importantly, they’d need time to get an army organized to fly back.

He took a bite of fish.

Shadows flitted over the water. The shoreline was marked, a long jagged line. Black even in the brightest sun.

What if Basalt, Vesta, Magma and Iggy never woke up? He couldn’t very well leave them here alone. But what about Feldspar and the other white robes waiting to be rescued? They were going to lose their wings if someone didn’t bring Belarica back before the trials began.

He set the fish down, half eaten. He’d lost his appetite.

* * *

Rocco stood in the middle of the stream. He was washing out the vials of amber venom. The medicine had run out yesterday, day six. He’d been giving the white robes water instead.

What would happen to them now? Would they die?

With the vials full of water, he stepped to the bank. If only he knew what was in the venom, he might be able to make some more, he thought, casting an eye around the hundreds of foreign-looking plants growing along the stream. Shoving the vials in his pocket he walked back through the trees. He’d left Basalt, Vesta, Magma and Iggy lying in the sunlight.

As he neared the clearing a curious brown ball looked up from where it was sitting near Basalt’s head. Not a hedgehog, but something shaped like one, only much much bigger.

He ran forward, a lump of fear rising in his throat. In his bird eye vision he caught sight of a monster rising from the bushes, about to attack. Rearing up, three or four metres tall, it snarled and struck out with a paw the size of a shovel. The blow fell short. The monster had only managed to graze his thigh. Rocco stumbled back. With a commanding roar, the creature reared up again.

‘Get off!’ Rocco barely recognized his own voice. It was high and screechy. Blood streamed down his thigh. The animal was armed, not with a sword, but with razor-sharp claws. Its paw, easily able to crack his head, swatted his shoulder, sending him skidding over the ground. Landing several metres away, he looked up.

The monster, a brown furry animal about the size of two or three men, had turned to check on the small ones, obviously her offspring. The twins, or cubs, were sitting under a tree, clasping each other while watching their mother’s attack.

Rocco staggered up. His wings flapped open as the animal dropped to all fours and charged.

‘Get away!’ Rocco yelled as he flew up. At least his wings worked.

Two more strides and he was out of reach. Could this be the animal, the legendary bear, whose picture hung in Meerkat Tavern in Gogogamesh?

Swinging her head from side to side, the bear glowered up over her dog-like snout. Basalt, Vesta, Magma and Iggy were lying defenseless on the ground.

Beating hard, Rocco swung over the mother bear’s head. Too low, because the bear reached up and swung again, almost catching his foot.

He flew at the cubs. All mammals acted the same, didn’t they? She would react, as she’d already done, to protect her cubs.

Rocco’s heart beat violently. The inside of his head began to buzz. He had to get the mother bear away from his friends. She had teeth and claws – the tools of a meat-eater.

One cub squatted at the bottom of the tree, continuing to watch its mother. The other cub had scrambled up the tree where it clung staring back at Rocco fearfully.

‘Get away! Get off!’ Rocco swooped at the cub in the tree. With a deafening roar, the mother bear lunged. She was fast, much faster than her size suggested. She galloped over the white robes. They might have been logs lying out in the sun; she seemed not to know or care that they were flesh and blood.

Rocco cracked his wings, again and again. ‘Here! This way!’ He bobbed up and down, a wing’s length away from the cub. As the mother bear drew near, Rocco sprinted to the next tree.

The bear’s fur, loose-hanging like a mantle, flopped around her limbs. Careening past her cubs, she crashed into the underbrush directly below Rocco. Snorting and roaring she stood up again, swatting the air.

‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ His throat was open again. The full tenor of his voice had returned.

The ground sloped down. Flying low enough to engage the bear, but not so low that she could strike him again, Rocco continued into the ravine. The mother bear followed, stopping for her cubs as they waddled behind.

Rocco continued to the bottom, but the mother bear stopped halfway down. She didn’t want to follow him anymore.

She was still too close to the treehouse.

He would herd them like goats then. Zooming up, he flew behind the bear and her cubs. They galloped into the ravine.

‘That’s right, go on, get away from here.’

Giving his wings a decisive snap every so often, Rocco drove them along the gully. As they rounded a bend, the ravine came to an end. A bluff arose, higher than the treetops, with a jutting ledge way at the top. The bear and her cubs rambled into the trees.

Flying up, he landed on the precipice, a rocky shield with low-lying shrubs and grass. He sat down, hanging his legs over the edge. The bear was gone, swallowed up in the forest next to the ravine.