Rocco's Wings (15 page)

Swords flashed brightly

‘How long were we asleep?’ asked Vesta. It was morning and all five of them were seated on the flat rock. Vesta and Basalt had crawled outside just as the sun came up. Rocco helped them over to the flat rock. They’d been drawn to the sun, which rose like a golden fireball above the trees.

As soon as the clearing got sunny, he’d make them move. But for now, it was so very nice seeing their eyes open and perplexed, tired, happy, curious about all that had passed.

Iggy had dropped a heap of nuts, leaves and mushrooms in front of Vesta. It was her job to say what was fit for eating. Their other food was largely spoiled. Vesta had her book out, comparing the items to her collection of flattened leaves.

‘How long?’ Vesta pressed him again.

‘Twelve days, said Rocco. Vesta’s wings were shockingly bright. Were they visible from the other side of the lake?

There were only sixteen days left, he was about to add. Their eyes were open, but they weren’t really focused yet. He’d wait until later today, or tomorrow, to remind them how little time they had left to rescue Feldspar and the others.

‘Is there any amber venom left?’ asked Basalt. He was stretched out on his back with his wings extended, platinum except the tips were ruby.

‘It’s been gone for days,’ said Rocco, glancing again at the wall of trees on the distant shore.

‘How did we survive then?’ asked Vesta.

‘We don’t know everything about separation sickness,’ said Basalt. ‘I talked to Dolerite about it before we left. Scholars in all the colonies are investigating the illness, trying to find a better cure. Could be a lot of things. Maybe it helped that we were all in the same crèche.’

They were all sitting together at last. When he wasn’t checking the trees on the distant shore, Rocco gazed intently into his friends’ faces. Their eyes were dancing and lit, alive and nuanced as a fire.

If only their wings weren’t so frightfully bright.

‘We should move,’ said Rocco, getting up decisively and pulling a branch down.

‘I’m not moving.’ Magma didn’t even bother looking up from his stack of bones.

‘As soon as we get better, in a day or two, we’ll fly out of here,’ said Basalt. ‘What is it, two, three days flight to Shale?’

Rocco hadn’t meant
moving on,
he’d meant
moving off
the rock. He nodded back at Basalt anyway. They were awake but their mind spirits were sluggish.

Sitting down again, he told them about his encounter with the bear. When that story was done, he told them how he’d given them water once the amber venom ran out. Finally, he recounted his sightings of the Air Marshals, including the few he saw regularly across the lake.

They hardly seemed to be listening.

Vesta threw a handful of mushrooms in the bushes. ‘I
told
you, Iggy, no fungus.’

‘Some of them are good,’ said Iggy.

‘Maybe so. But they haven’t any leaves. I can’t tell one from another. Some are poison, others are a sleep potion. Sleep is the last thing we need.’

They sat in silence as Vesta continued sorting the pile.

‘I know why our wings changed colour,’ said Magma, looking up suddenly from his pyramid made of bones. ‘We’re like leaves, gold and red, like the ones in Wildergarten and also on the side of the mountain, just before it snows. They’re brightest just before they die out.’

Basalt groaned. ‘We’re not leaves.’

‘Maybe not, but we’re on the verge of death. All this colour just means we’re getting ready to die.’

It was the same thing Rocco had thought of before. But they hadn’t died. They’d awakened, and now they were getting better. Couldn’t Magma see that?

‘Why do you have to throw scat on everything?’ said Vesta.

‘I’m just being realistic,’ said Magma.

‘I’m blue,’ said Rocco. ‘I mean, underneath all this mud and stuff, my feathers are blue. And I’m – I’m not dying.’

‘Leaves aren’t blue anyway,’ said Magma.

‘It can’t be true,’ said Iggy. ‘Say it, Basalt! Say we’re not dying.’

Basalt waved his arm.

‘Maybe we’re tainted,’ said Magma. ‘Did you ever think of that?’

‘Tainted? Like that stinky cheese in your flying belt?’ asked Vesta.

‘Maybe it’s our crime,’ continued Magma. ‘We lost our white feathers because we ran off. We’re going to decay or else turn into some kind of mud-skinned animal.’

No one spoke.

‘Maybe you weren’t even white before,’ said Rocco, getting up and pulling the branch down again. It kept bouncing back up.

‘We were always white,’ said Magma, pointing at the feathers bobbing along the shore. ‘It’s the purest colour.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Basalt. ‘My wings sort of look familiar. I thought I’d feel – well – more surprised by the colour, but I’m not.’

‘You were brighter, whiter, when you came out of the courthouse that day. Maybe there’s something in Harpia’s wing dust that made you white,’ said Rocco, thinking back.

‘Harpia’s dust washes off. Any urvogel knows that.’ Magma sighed. ‘I wish I was still white. I can’t stop seeing this odious green!’ As he stuck his elbow out, he clipped the edge of his pyramid. The bones clacked into disarray.

He swore.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Basalt.

Magma shrugged. ‘My head hurts, that’s all.’

‘Harpia’s wings aren’t white,’ said Vesta, picking up the thread of the discussion.

She was right. Harpia’s wings were dark, but there was something else Rocco wanted to ask.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Surely they wouldn’t mind a private question, after everything they’d been through together.

‘What?’

‘You’re against wing-cutting –‘

Vesta looked up.

‘But in the courthouse that day, it seemed like you were celebrating every time an urvogel got his wings cut off.’

No one said anything.

‘We couldn’t help ourselves.’ Vesta’s cheeks flushed slightly.

‘I was just curious, that’s all,’ said Rocco. ‘Was it some kind of spell you were under? Was it all that wing dust Harpia kept spewing all over the place? I mean you were upset about Py, but the others… well, you didn’t seem the least bit sorry.’

‘We can’t help it,’ said Basalt. ‘It’s sort of like sneezing. You do it and after it’s done.’

Not a very satisfying answer. Perhaps they didn’t remember. They’d been dopey-eyed after.

Vesta stood up. Her wings, magnificently yellow in the sunlight, opened wide.

What was she doing?

Iggy hopped up beside her. Most of his wings were covered in mud, but a few purple feathers shone out.

A gust caught Vesta and up she flew.

‘Vesta!’ Rocco jumped up, yelling.

Laughing merrily, Iggy followed Vesta out over the lake.

‘I told you. Air Marshals might be watching! Are you trying to get us caught?’ Should he fly over? More wings over the water would attract more attention. Plus Iggy liked being chased. He’d think it was a game.

Vesta’s wings screamed with colour.

Rocco flapped up. ‘Vesta! Iggy! Come back!’

They were positively giddy, the way they were wheeling around. Iggy tumbled into a roll. Hovering above, Vesta waved.

Pulling his brows together, Rocco beckoned angrily.

Vesta dropped down. She was saying something to Iggy.

Continuing to beckon, Rocco flew out a bit farther. He squinted at the distant shoreline. Was it the light bouncing off, or had something glinted?

He swung back to the rock. With his feet firmly planted, he turned around again. Two Air Marshals were flying out of the woods. Their swords flashed brightly as they crossed the water, heading straight for Vesta and Iggy.

‘Don’t move.’ Rocco’s voice was low. He raised his wings, half hiding Basalt and Magma.

Vesta and Iggy had seen the flash. They were confused, looking at each other and then back at the rock.

Two more Air Marshals had emerged from the woods. Four were now flying rapidly over the water.

Vesta and Iggy were flying back, but the first pair had already closed the gap. An Air Marshal threw a sky net. A piece hit Iggy. Iggy yelped and pulled away.

‘Oh no,’ groaned Basalt.

He and Magma stared over the top of Rocco’s wing.

Glancing briefly in the direction of the flat rock, Vesta grabbed Iggy’s arm. She turned east, away from the rock.

Another Air Marshal threw a second net, this time snagging Vesta’s wing. Iggy was captured too. Shrieking loudly, both Vesta and Iggy struggled. They were weak and out there without any weapons; they didn’t stand a chance.

Rocco could go after them, but he wouldn’t be able to fight four armed Air Marshals. Basalt and Magma weren’t able to help. They could scarcely fly.

Within moments both Vesta and Iggy were tightly bound. Vesta’s yellow bundle hung between two Air Marshals who had turned and were now flying back to the opposite shore. The other two followed with Iggy.

‘We can’t stay here,’ said Rocco.

Magma’s face had been pale before but now it was ashen.

‘I’ll go after them but first we have to clear out of here – before they come back for us.’ Rocco leapt to the ground. ‘Can you fly at all?’

Basalt and Magma were nodding, but they didn’t look very sure of themselves. Rocco hurriedly helped them cover their wings with the mud that he kept in a hollowed-out spot at the edge of the lake.

‘Come on!’ He headed back to the treehouse. Basalt and Magma were awake, but they kept looking at him as if they didn’t know what to do.

Once inside Rocco strapped on his gear. He helped Basalt and Magma strap theirs on, choosing at the last moment to carry their waterskins and flying belts.

‘Here, you’d better take these,’ he said, thrusting their swords into their arms.

They stepped outside.

‘I’ll lead the way, but listen close. See if we’re being followed.’ Rocco darted into the trees. He flew along the ravine, pausing every few wing strides so Basalt and Magma could catch up. Their faces shone with sweat.

Turning left at the end of the gully, Rocco flew to the top of the trees.

‘There’s a cave up there!’ He pointed to the pinnacle. ‘I’ll go first and whistle when the coast is clear.’

Climbing slowly, he ascended the bluff. He was exposed, out there in plain view, but at least his wings blended in, brown against the mottled rock face.

Having reached the top, he whistled low like a bird. Basalt and Magma flew out of the trees. They flew up and landed beside him. The three gazed down to the forest below.

‘Where are they?’ asked Magma.

Nothing stirred.

Rocco showed them the cave. Basalt and Magma, panting and sweating profusely, collapsed on the floor.

‘It stinks in here,’ gasped Magma.

The cave smelled of water. A drip echoed.

Rocco dropped everything but his own sword and waterskin. ‘I’ll be back when I’ve found them.’

Magma’s eyes grew wild. ‘You can’t just leave us here!’

‘I have to go,’ said Rocco. ‘You – you can barely fly. I’ll be back. I promise.’

Magma said nothing further as Rocco returned outside. Leaping over the edge of the precipice, he glided down. Were Vesta and Iggy okay? Surely the Air Marshals hadn’t chopped their wings off already. Harpia would want to see them, gloat over their capture.

But what if the Air Marshals had orders to kill them on sight and just bring the wings back as evidence? He had to find them. He had to. They had only just woken up. It had seemed, at least for a few hours that morning, that they actually had a chance again.

Oh why did everything have to turn out wrong? Maybe their heads were muddled from their long sleep, but what was his excuse? He should have insisted that they move off the flat rock. Maybe then Vesta wouldn’t have been tempted to fly out over the water.

Once into the trees he flew along, midway between the forest floor and the tops of the giant redwoods. He would stay deep enough in the branches so as not to be spotted himself, although it was tiring, dodging branches and weaving in and out of the massive trunks.

He came to the spot directly across from the flat rock. Concealed in the first row of trees, he could almost see the spot where they’d been sitting an hour ago. For sure he recognized the top of the treehouse.

Having located the spot where the Air Marshals had disappeared with Vesta and Iggy, he flew into the woods. The dressing on his leg had come off. His thigh was bleeding again, not a lot but enough that it needed tending. He found some leaves and covered the wound, tying everything in place with some vines.

Off he set again, flying north. By late afternoon, he had covered long tracts of forest, but he had found no clues. His wings were heavy. The throb had returned to his thigh. His waterskin was dry.

Spotting a pool of water, he flew down. He knelt in the soft earth, flapping his wings against the mosquitoes that were thick in the heated understorey. As he pushed his waterskin into the water, he noticed several large green leaves on the ground. Some were ripped.

Above his head a branch was hanging, cracked but not broken. Something, or someone, had passed that way in a hurry. Rocco flew up. Several metres ahead, another branch was sticking out oddly. A closer inspection revealed that the branch was freshly fractured.