Rocco's Wings (16 page)

More ripped leaves were scattered randomly below. Had Vesta or Iggy managed to stick a hand out and grab the leaves as they flew by?

Following the trail, nearly losing it several times, Rocco came at last to the end of the trees. An expansive field of tall grass opened up in front of him. On the other side, in a clearing surrounded by more trees, stood a camp of black tents.

Air Marshals’ camp

Peering out from behind a tree, Rocco stared across the field. An Air Marshal came out of a tent and started a fire.

Darkness began to gather. More Air Marshals were now seated around the fire, which glowed brightly in the middle of the camp. They’d been hunting. Their voices, increasingly loud and boisterous, rang through the air.

No sign of Vesta or Iggy, but they had to be there. Crouching low, Rocco crept through the grass. Where the grass was short, he pulled himself along on his stomach. Arriving at the end of the field he parted the stalks and stared out.

Sparks from the Air Marshals’ fire shot into the night. A dead animal, a grass-eater, turning on a spit, hung over the flame. Its skewered head glared down from the end of an upright spear.

Air Marshals had been eating and drinking around the fire. Three were asleep. One lay flat on the ground. Two others were sitting upright with their backs against a log, chins resting on their chests.

Twenty metres of stones and short tufts of grass separated Rocco from the camp. There was nothing else to do, but run across it. Pulling his wing up over his head, he bolted out. Blood beat in his ears, pulsating and terrifyingly loud, but they couldn’t hear it at least. The Air Marshals were having their own merriment.

Once across the field Rocco ducked behind the nearest tent. Crouched down, he remained still. No shouts erupted. He breathed deeply again. Creeping around a tent, he stared out. He counted. Nine Air Marshals were seated around the fire. Vesta and Iggy were nowhere to be seen.

Stepping gingerly along the back of the tents, he stumbled over a pair of boots. His wings gave a startled flutter as he looked down. An Air Marshal was stretched out on the ground. His eyes were closed. He was snorting like a pig.

With a long stride, he passed swiftly over the Air Marshal and bent his ear to the back of the next tent. Silence inside. He proceeded on, bending his ear and listening carefully each time.

A jangle, familiar but faint, was coming from somewhere close by.

He carried on, stopping when the sound erupted again. The sound kept getting drowned out by all the laughing and guffaws going on by the fire.

The sound wasn’t much more than a tinkle, erratic, cutting out for long moments, but then ringing faintly again. Arriving at the last tent, he heard the jangle again. He held his breath.

Taking out his knife, he cut a small slit in the back of the tent. His heart almost leapt through the hole as he peered in. Vesta and Iggy were sitting on the ground in a pool of dull yellow light. Their wings were lashed, and they sat back to back with the tent pole between them.

Rocco smiled. Their wings were intact. They could fly.

A falcon sat on a two-metre-high perch by the door. Two mat beds lay on the floor. Heaps of armour and clothes filled the corners.

Enlarging the hole in the tent, Rocco tossed a pebble in. Nothing happened, so he threw in another. Still no response, so he pushed his head inside.

‘Pssst.’

Vesta looked up. Her eyes were dull at first, but they quickly turned feverishly bright. She began to squirm, elbowing Iggy until his head bounced up. By then Rocco had extended the slit, stepped inside and moved over to where they were seated.

‘I knew you’d come,’ Iggy whispered.

Rocco began to untie Iggy’s restraints. The falcon, silent up to that point, gave an ear-shattering screech. Rocco clapped his hands over his ears. No, better to hear what was going on. He dropped his hands.

The laughing out by the fire stopped.

The bird screeched louder.

His hands trembled over the knots. What was he doing? He took out his knife, dropping it twice as he slashed through the tethers.

‘Hurry! Hurry!’ Vesta pleaded.

‘I’m going as fast as I can!’

‘Someone’s coming,’ said Vesta.

‘I don’t hear anyone.’ All he could hear was the damned bird.

‘Can’t you make it shut up?’ hissed Rocco.

‘How am I going to do that?’ said Vesta.

The last strap fell to the ground just as heavy boots thumped outside. Vesta and Iggy returned to their former spots on either side of the pole. Rocco jumped through the hole in the back of the tent. Pulling up the flap he had just cut, he held the piece in place, taking care to overlap the fabric so the moonlight wouldn’t shine in through a crack.

‘What’s all this ruckus?’ A gruff Air Marshal voice sounded. ‘Shut up!’ He was talking to the bird. A flurry of short, frantic wing flaps ensued, then silence.

Would the bird give them away – start prattling in urvogel?

The falcon only squawked in her native tongue.

‘What are you two almost groundlings up to?’ The Air Marshal again.

‘Nothing.’

Vesta’s voice was even, almost a little sarcastic.

‘Keep it down, or you can go to bed hungry.’

The door of the tent flapped again. The Air Marshal was gone, his heavy footsteps stumbling away. Dropping open the back of the tent, Rocco stepped inside again. The Air Marshal had silenced the bird. Sitting on its perch, its head and eyes were covered in a tiny hooded cap.

‘Let’s get out of here!’ Vesta whispered.

Rocco ran to the tent’s actual door and stared out. The grass-eater’s eyes flickered eerily in the firelight. The Air Marshals’ silhouetted shapes were hunkered down. They were talking again.

‘All clear,’ said Rocco, turning back.

Vesta’s bangles jingled softly.

‘Take ‘em off!’

Vesta pulled the bangles off. She set them noiselessly on the ground. She did the same with the ones on her wrist. The three crept to the back of the tent where Rocco finished cutting out a large square, which he draped over Vesta’s wings.

‘Walk in front, Iggy. You’ve a bit of light coming off of you, too.’ Rocco motioned for Iggy to exit first. A moment later they were all outside, walking across the stones and tufts of grass. Iggy led the way, followed by Vesta holding her mantle of tent fabric. Rocco took up the rear, holding his dark wings wide.

A pack of wolves howled from somewhere deep in the woods. The Air Marshals were quieter now, their voices fallen to a murmur by the fire.

Rocco, Vesta and Iggy began to run. They had only taken a few long strides when an Air Marshal’s head popped up, four metres in front of them.

His mouth fell open. He’s out here emptying his bowels, thought Rocco. Likely his leggings were down around his knees.

‘What’s this?’ The Air Marshal gaped, but didn’t move.

‘Let’s go!’ Rocco cried aloud.

Iggy bent down, picked up a rock and hurled it. The stone hit the Air Marshal squarely in the forehead. With a grunt he fell backwards.

‘Good work, Iggy.’

Rocco grabbed Iggy’s and Vesta’s hands. They fled across the field. One, two, three steps and the Air Marshal still hadn’t shouted. Was he drunk? Passed out? Confused?

No one was calling them from behind. No wing strides of anyone giving chase. Iggy must have hit the Air Marshal just right, thought Rocco as they reached the trees.

‘You two okay?’ he asked, coming to a halt.

Iggy nodded.

‘Where’s Magma and Basalt?’ The small fret line hovered between Vesta’s brows.

‘They’re okay. They’re in hiding.’ Rocco grabbed Vesta’s and Iggy’s hands again. They ran through the trees until they came to a muddy spot. Rocco opened his waterskin and poured out the contents. Using a stick, he mixed a small slick pool of mud. Vesta threw off her mantle. They slathered her wings with mud, after which they touched up Iggy’s.

‘Least now you’re not a firefly, Vesta!’ said Iggy.

‘Ready?’ Rocco spread his wings.

Vesta’s eyes darted through the shadows of the underbrush. ‘What was that?’ she whispered.

Rocco and Iggy peered into the darkened trees.

‘Probably nothing,’ said Rocco, lifting off. ‘Let’s get as far away from here as we can.’ His wings had been so heavy earlier, when he’d been watching from the edge of the forest. Glancing behind him, he felt a sudden jolt of energy. He’d done it – he’d actually saved them!

He soared higher. They had just reached the thickest part of the canopy when Vesta stopped again. She turned, gazing back the way they had come. ‘I think we’re being followed,’ she whispered.

A slight ghost-like figure appeared in between the trees, airborne and about level with them. It stopped, flitting up and down, hovering, seeming to watch them.

‘How long’s it been there?’ asked Rocco. The figure, whatever it was, didn’t look particularly threatening. It was slender, silvery grey in the dim light.

They set off again, watching over their shoulders. The creature continued to follow, but it remained several metres back, pausing when they did but not seeking to lessen the distance. It seemed frail, moving with the slightest breeze and struggling to stay on course.

Whatever it was, it didn’t appear threatening. It could scarcely fly.

The three stopped regularly so Vesta and Iggy could rest. They were weak. The creature behind them also stopped. It would immediately vanish, only to reappear when they were on their way again.

‘Should we try to lose it?’ said Rocco. ‘I mean, do we care if it follows us all the way back?’

‘There’s five of us and only one of it,’ said Iggy.

‘If it was going to hurt us it would have done so already,’ said Vesta.

They came to the lake. After scouting the area thoroughly they flew to the redwood treehouse. Vesta and Iggy collected their gear. Turning west, Rocco found the ravine and the rock face. With Vesta and Iggy trailing behind he climbed the steep ascent to the ledge. Vesta and Iggy landed. They turned to watch the mysterious creature. It made several slow turns before fluttering down into a tree some distance below.

‘What d’you suppose it is?’ asked Rocco.

‘It looks familiar.’ Vesta’s voice caught slightly.

Rocco flew down. Immediately the creature fluttered away. As soon as Rocco returned to the ledge, the creature circled around again before coming to rest in a scraggly tree growing out of the face of the rock not more than twenty metres below the pinnacle. Getting down on their stomachs, Rocco, Vesta and Iggy peered over the edge.

‘It’s –‘ Vesta didn’t finish her sentence. She was gone, flying head first to the scraggly tree.

In the soft moonlight the creature looked almost urvogel, thought Rocco. It had wings, but it was huddled against the branch, barely alive, gaping up with hollow eyes and a hairless head.

Vesta drew near. The creature’s wings flickered.

Iggy’s body jerked. He let out a cry.

Vesta had settled into a branch. She held her arm out.

‘Come, Py… it’s me, Vesta. Don’t you recognize me?’

Bathed in moonlight, the creature was almost bald. Its body was gaunt, a sack of bones held together by a thin sheath of skin. Was it really Pyroxene?

Vesta continued to call but Py – if indeed it was him – only darted suspicious looks at her and up at the others, hanging over the edge. Whenever Vesta moved closer, the creature shrank away.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Basalt as he exited the cave with Magma. Getting down on their hands and knees, they gazed down. Basalt held out his arm.

‘Is it really Py?’ asked Rocco. ‘He’s barely alive.’

‘Come Py, it’s us,’ said Basalt, beckoning.

Py flapped feebly.

Vesta continued calling Py’s name, but the creature wouldn’t let her come any closer. Finally, she flew back to the ledge.

‘You sure it’s him?’ Rocco asked.

Vesta nodded. ‘Hatchlings know each other.’

They took turns for the rest of the night, sitting in the tree trying to coax Py up to the ledge. He wouldn’t budge. When morning came they could see the creature was dead, its arms and legs wrapped tightly around its last hold on life, a bony branch of a tree.

Iggy had been sitting with Py at the last. He began to cry. Vesta flew down. She pried Py’s arms and legs away from the tree and carried him up to the ledge. Tears fell from her eyes. ‘He didn’t have to die.’

A few fire-coloured hairs still clung to Py’s head.

‘I’m surprised he could even fly,’ said Basalt, stretching out a wing tattered and punctured with holes.

‘He wanted to be near us,’ said Iggy.

Magma kicked a stone. It bounced off the ledge and clattered to the ravine below.

‘Harpia killed him,’ said Basalt. ‘She severed him from the colony. She knew it was a death sentence.’

‘If only we’d found him earlier, a day or two, maybe he would have survived,’ said Vesta.

They carried Py’s body to the forest below and laid him to rest under a forever green tree.

‘We can’t make a fire,’ said Basalt. ‘It’s too risky.’

Instead, they gathered rocks which they used to make a grave.

The sky had become heavy again, pressing down forcefully as it had done when the white robes had been asleep.

Rocco laid a stone on Pyroxene’s grave. He stood up. A draught shot up his spine. Shaking his arms and wings, he gazed dizzily into the rock grave. Py’s eyes were closed. He was dead, gone forever, leaving behind a gaping hole, a rip in the fabric of Terrakesh. Did urvogels become stars like the dead of Lower Terrakesh?