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>When you make it out of the sewer, the first thing you hear is the morning songs of birds in the the aspen and maple, once belonging to front yards but now whose roots bulge beneath the sidewalk; whose branches stretch well-past normalcy
>Wild blackbirds and robins, the occasional morning dove singing its melancholy song in the brush call out to you
>You climb, bones aching with pain, muscles bruised and battered from falling onto ancient concrete
>You flop out onto the asphalt like a suffocating fish as you finish clawing your way out of the bowels of the city
>With some effort you roll onto your back, chest heaving with exhaustion
>After a few dizzy seconds, your eyes flutter open, and you blink a few times
>Pink clouds doze above, patches of sunlight straying through gaps – a light barely fifteen minutes old
>Dawn
>Then, the smell of fresh, CLEAN air hits your saturates your senses, like a riptide dragging you away from the city and into the depths of the underbrush;
>You smell rainwater and steam
>Oh Ancestors, that smells good. It smells like growing things; wet asphalt, sodden concrete; like rust; like honeysuckle and lavender overgrown in the front yards; like rain dumped all over Purgatory the night before.
>This is better than any potion or meal, so you suck down huge, greedy lungfuls of it
>It’s not safety, lilacs and lavender; but it certainly isn’t rank sewer gasses, centuries of waste and death and smoldering anaree flesh
>Gullen crawls out of the manhole cover behind you in short order, gasping for fresh air himself
>He crawls next to you and collapses in a dramatic heap
>”One more minute down there and I might have lost what little food remains in my belly,” he says on his back, chest heaving, lungs swelling with fresh air
>”It smells like flowers. Where in the damned city does it smell like flowers?”
“The suburbs, and the gardens downtown,” you sit up on your palms and glance around, a weary attempt to get your bearings
>Homes with slant roofs and A-frames rise up around you, stretching for what seems like miles in all directions
>Like a maze
>In between some streets there are copses of wild grass; an explosion of forest in the middle of suburbia untamed; but most of it is all concrete and decaying homes with yards stormed by weeds and wildflowers
>You know you’re in the burbs — the outskirts of the city proper…
>But where? The burbs could be south… close to Enclave
>East, close to Ciril, your destination
>North, by Ohm, Varagas, and more…
>Not west
>Not against the mountains, though you’ve heard there are still-standing homes out there
>You turn your head west towards the mountains
>The city is a shadow against the backdrop of the foothills, silhouetted in fading dark; its outline traced in the flame of a new day; a forgotten predator brooding over what should have been its kill
“I… I think we are on the north-eastern side of the city, but it’s difficult to tell from here,” you remark
>”We have not the the rations left to get lost a second time,” Gullen crosses his arm over his eyes, as if fighting back horrible visions of reality
“We’re out of food?” You say, standing and taking a quick survey of the area
>”Correct,” Gullen says as he sits up, watching you search what remains of your pack. “No seeds, no meat, no berries, no jerky, no bread, no nothing.” He hangs his head. “There may be some monk root left. We could have tea.”
>“Tea does not fill my belly like seed cake,” you sigh with defeat
>You haven’t eaten since mid-afternoon yesterday
>With all the panic and excitement you forgot about it
>Again
>Your stomach rumbles in protest
>You lift your gaze and eye Gullen
>More specifically, his chemical rifle
“Have any bullets left, brother?”
>The raven gives pause and pats himself down
>After a moment of searching he come up with a loose assortment of tipped and non-tipped brass shells
>“A few remain. The rest I will leave to Purgatory.”
“Then we shall hunt for our breakfast like the heathens of old. Surely you can land a rabbit or deer?” you extend a finger towards him, as if questioning his ability
>He studies it for a second with a slight scowl
>”Why do you always wear gloves?” he wonders aloud. “None of the other crows I’ve worked with wear gloves, even beyond the walls of Ciril.”
>You panic and offer a quick lie — an old standard, actually, like a rehearsed song
“Precautions for when I’m out in the field,” you offer
>Gullen pats you lightly on the back as he walks past you, onto the sidewalk
>”Come little crow,” he says, grabbing his rifle, “my hunger can demand no more of me. Let us break our fast.”
>As you travel the neighborhood, your senses alert you to something in one house to your right
>You pause, and a few steps later, Gullen pauses alongside you, perhaps drawn to the same thing
>Before you stands an old Victorian-built home, very out of place in this neighborhood of slant a-frames and traditional suburban homes crawling with weeds and rot
>You hear idle chatter, gales of laughter, and… loud, upbeat swing music pouring out of the strange Victorian house
>Blue light flickers light bottled lightning from behind the curtained windows
>Somehow….
>…you feel like…
>The door creaks open, pushed by an invisible hand
>As if the home beckons you in
>…you need to go inside and see what’s so entertaining
>Find out what all the laughter is about, and why can’t you be a part of it for once, instead of being its subject?
>You’re so entranced by the raucous noise coming from the house that you don’t realize you’re walking down its chipped, concrete pathway
>Until you feel Gullen tugging you by the collar of your shirt
>Gentle momentum carries you backwards, away from the laughter, the warmth, the closeness of family
>You turn and see Gullen shaking his head
>”Come, sister. I want no more dealings with anaree; let us walk the other side of this path,” he says, tugging you along like an overgrown, impatient toddler
>You don’t resist – unable to, in fact
>But that powerful, flickering blue light casting from the windows and the open door… why does it seem so familiar to you?
>As if someone is trying to tell you something?
>You put the thought out of mind as Gullen at last releases his hold on you on the other side of the street.
>The desire to enter that house fades like fever when you catch his Gullen looking at you, impatient with hunger
>The two of you find and shoot a deer with one of Gullen’s last few rounds non-alchemical munitions, the report of his rifle like a concussive snap of thunder that bounces between houses and echoes down the street
>The deer drops in spray of blood, a pained whine hissing out of its throat
>You wait and watch the corpse for a few minutes from your blind to see if anything shows up to steal your kill
>The poor thing — fanged, and feral, hungry for flesh — kicks as the last of the electrical impulses fire through its nervous system
>Crimson blood puddles beneath it from a hole in its side
>And at last
>It dies
>Gullen retrieves the deer after some assurance from you that it’s safe to do so
>He slings the carcass with ease over his brawny shoulders and walks towards you, a tall, feathered shadow of early morning light
>You kindle a small fire in a run-down home, one with a caved-in ceiling that allows you to off-gas smoke
>The weak light of the sunrise slants in through the broken skylight
>Pieces of moulding, destroyed wooden furniture, and long-faded books serve to fuel your cooking fire
>Intellectually, you know it’s morning. But you’ve been awake for so long that a part of you think it’s about to be dusk
>You yawn, exhaustion settling in now that you have a brief respite to actually feel it
>It’s morning
>You’re not…
>…dreaming?
>At the thought that you might have dozed off, or slipped into a dream at some point after getting out of the sewers, you rush upwards and make for the door
“Need to see details,” you hiss you to yourself, breathing hard. “Dreams never have strong details. Everything up close is gibberish.”
>You throw the old front door of the house open, now in a panic, the door colliding with the drywall
>Gullen is outside, dressing the deer with his bayonet
>He’s covered in blood up to his elbows
>The raven gives you a gentle, confused salute
>Ignoring that, you rush over to the grass in the yard, which has grown wild and tall
>Morning dew gleams on the blades of grass, the sweat of the night condensed into sweet droplets on the flowers, the branches
>The yards
>As if on cue, morning birds flutter in from overhead, landing in the treetops that line this neighborhood
>Magpies roosting and signaling to one another as life goes on for them as it always has for centuries
>Bluebirds and sparrowhawks struggle against one another
>You think you even hear a crow somewhere
>The wind does not feel as cold as it did in the city last night, either
>The sky is a brilliant, almost nuclear pink now
>“Sister, come help me for a-” Gullen begins
>Pretending not to hear, you spin on your heels and sprint back inside, shouting something about the fire – a half truth
>You catch your breath for a second, and then, with some determination, you slip your talons from the gloves
>And you hold your scaled talons to the fire
>To the point it starts to hurt
>Yep
>Not dreaming
>Gullen drags in the remainder of the deer’s carcass while you put a layer of canteen water on the fire for tea,
>A trick mom taught you: put the tea on before the meat flavors the wood and greases up the smoke
>While Gullen is busy carving slabs of meat out of the deer, you make your comrade a tin cup of monk’s root tea; the last of what you had in your bag, as a matter of fact
>”Thank you, sister,” he says as he accepts a mug of the green, floral-smelling tea, blood and viscera dripping off him. “I’ll need this to keep me going today,” he sighs, trying to clean himself of blood
>“The road ahead is long But once we determine where we are, we can use my map to find Ciril again.”
>Gullen takes a meager sip of the tea and suppresses a gag
>You tilt your head, eyeing him with a mischievous grin
>He relents with a blush, and says, “I don’t suppose you have any honey biscuits on you? I usually take my tea sweet.”
>A smile breaks across your beak
“Honey biscuits?” you parrot back to the raven, using his own voice to mock him
>“W-What’s wrong with asking for honey?” Gullen stammers
“Nothing at all. I merely thought ravens enjoyed things for the misery they cause?”
>Gullen flashes an embarrassed look
>”I-I just like sweet things, is all,” he stammers in quick reply, a warm blush now glowing on his cheeks
“There will be honey-seed bread waiting for us when we return, brother,” you remind him
>However,
>You know, deep down, in your heart, that probably won’t be the case
>So, really, it’s a comforting lie for him.
>As the deer meat roasts over open flame, Gullen sits down on the floor and sighs a tired sigh
>He turns his attention to you after a moment of silence
>You sit cross-legged on the opposite end of the fire, watching the meat sizzle and drip, stoking the fires of hunger in your belly
>”If we keep traveling east we should see the prairie — and hopefully someone or something that can point us to Ciril,” Gullen sighs, “Maybe the Ancestors will guide us home.”
>You shift with uncertain energy
“We are closer than you might think, brother,” you add in, “Do you recall the night we set off the city together?”
>Gullen nods
“I recall these homes like the one we’re in now arranged on the outskirts of the city.”
>“There are countless houses in the suburbs, sister. Surely you cannot know if we are close to the south-east.”
>Your breathing hitches as excitement builds
“But! Do you remember the blue light we saw from the hill before we went south?”
>”I do… but you told me to think nothing of it, and I agreed that was wise. If we chased every light in Purgatory we’d be back down beneath it in an hour,” he says with finality
“Yes, yes, you are right. However, that dwelling you stopped me from going into earlier… I think that is the source of the same light we saw from a distance.”
>Gullen sits up sharply
>”So you think…?”
>You smile in response, as if answering his question with you lips
“We are not but a day’s travel outside of Ciril; If we aim our compasses south east I’d guess we arrive home by dusk.”
>At that Gullen starts to laugh
>Thick, joyful, laughter
>Laughter that makes you feel… redeemed after all
>Like all of what you just went through might have a happy ending
>”Good eyes, Elia,” he says with a hearty swig of his monk root tea, a smile plastered across his face. “Though journeys like this make me miss the stags. I do not look forward to the walk home.”
“Oh Ancestors no, I do not either,” you say as you leaf through what remains of your personal notes and journals
>You pull out some notes and scan your ornate handwriting; something about the demon’s language that you wanted to mark down
>There’s a header in your notes where you started writing ‘Oath — to swear to the demon god that you will accomplish a task in his name’
>Humming, you flip the leaf of paper over and uncover something – a relic of your older self
>A hand-drawn sketch of a fox – vulca – feathered in with leaded pencil and pen
>Dated to when you were twelve years old
>You do not smile when you recall your past
>Those memories are either bittersweet, or outright traumatic
>It’s easy to tell from this drawing alone, if you look at it in the right context
>It has all the hallmarks of your adolescence:
>Shaky, infirm line work from anxious talons gripping an instrument
>Proportions are amateur at best from never having seen a vulca, or only getting to seem them in passing
>The weight of your line stroke changes, inch-by-inch, as if you started and stopped constantly
>Like you were on the move constantly
>…which actually was the case back then
>Ancestors… this is from six years ago
>Was this before or after your cowardice caused your par-
>No
>NOPE
>You shake your head loose of the negative voices
>You won’t allow yourself to go there right now
>Your blue eyes turn down again, towards the page, trying to extract joy from your discovery like drawing blood from a stone
>But
>Without going into too much detail, despite your unfortunate personal relationship to Vulcada and vulca, they…
>Absolutely fascinate you
>Perhaps in the same way a terribly poisonous snake fascinates someone
>Enough to try drawing one of their service animals in your limited downtime, you guess
>You continue leafing through your old notes
>Gullen sips his tea
>You’re lost in your own little world when Gullen draws your attention out of your memories
>”Sister,” he says while shifting his posture a little, adopting a slouched, comfortable position
>Your eyes flick up from your old notes to Gullen, across the fire.
>“I’ve wanted to ask you something – something I’ve meant to ask you for some time” your comrade says, leaning forward, cupping his mug with both of his huge talons
>Your heart skips a bit, and you snap your journal shut
>You hate when conversations start this way
“Shoot,” you try with a false smile of confidence
>The fire crackles
>Smoke chimneys out of the hole in this home’s roof
>The two logs you found for the fire rest against each other in the flames, shifting as they’re worn
>Gullen’s focused on the fire, too.
>His eyes fill with dancing light, as he travels inward – and back in time
>”Do you remember a particular rainy night some months ago – the night you joined our flock at Ciril?” He says
>Uh oh
“Vaguely,” you offer, trying to sound like you believe in your own words
>But you do in fact remember that black night
>Oh, you remember it well
>Just like all your ‘hopeful new beginnings’
>Sheets of rain spat down on you cold and slanted; thunder roamed overhead like a wild pack of hunting dogs
>Low flashes of lightning in the sky threw your shadow fifty feet tall against the gates of Ciril as you stood in front of those great iron slabs, alone, soaked through with rain water, nothing but what you could carry and some food given to you
>You had no lantern — no need of it
>After some time, a raven, his rifle drawn appeared at the top of the walls; the only guard on duty to hear your caw over the thunder
>He planted an everflame lantern on the wall; used it as like a search light as he scanned the prairie below
>His face is handsome; body young;. His yellow eyes burning with fervor for the cause so firm you can see them from the ground
>You know he wants to – must do – what is just for the flock, which is to turn away exiles, traders, and others during weather
>For whatever reason, you see him hesitate atop the wall, gears spinning in his skull
>The raven drew his chemical rifle and aims it at you
>You’ve done this routine so many times that it barely fazes you
>”State your name and business in Ciril,” he commands, his voice competing with the pelting rain, “or leave, under pain of death.”
>Two figures, alone at this hour, stare at one another from a great and rainy distance
“Elia Longfeather,” you called up to him, “I seek shelter and…”
>Home?
>Peace?
>Acceptance?
“… to serve this flock,” was your answer
>Minutes later…
>The gate groaned open, and Gullen was there, his rifle aside, to bring you in to the barracks
“I- I remember. You were the one who let me in the gate,” you reply in a soft voice, drifting back to the warm memory
>Gullen shifts, grappling with the memory and his part in it
>”You were lucky I was on gate that night — the others would not have been so…” he trails off, searching for the word
>Full of pity?
>No
>Not pity
“Kind?” You say, turning to him, unsure of your words, as if using them in this way for the first time
>”Kind…” Gullen says, cocking his head at the word, an unfamiliar, foreign word to him. “Perhaps ‘kind,’ yes. But I knew by your name you were crow. We always have need of your kin,” he offers in return, attempting to reduce his act of pity to a mere act of service. “It was merely a practical choice on behalf of the flock.”
“Among the ravens I’ve scouted with, you are among the kindest, brother.”
>”A raven cannot afford kindness often,” he whispers, his voice small and contemplative as he studies the dancing flames
>“I didn’t think of it at the time — maybe because of the rain — but I wonder it now…” he turns his attention to you
>“Whenever there is travel between the cities by our kin, it is done in groups for safety. And by way of stag, for transporting goods.”
>You shrink just a little into yourself. “So? What’s your point?”
>“You came alone. On foot.”
>Feathers
>You start to concoct a lie for Gullen, jaw working
“I- I was travel-”
>Gullen carries forward
>“Why were you alone that night you joined us?” he turns to you, eyes serious, glare hard.
>…
>…
>You’re hesitating again
>Why?
>Because there is a truth to speak here; a brave truth; a vulnerable truth?
>One that opens old wounds scabbed shut?
>Undoes stitches you’ve sewn with careful hands?
>Exposes parts of you that you’ve kept drawn suppressed, under venerable lock and key?
>A chance to open the door?
>And let another in?
>Then there is half of the truth — the heavy shield you wield against all disappointment and pain
>It’s not a lie, but not the exact answer either
>You don’t trust people when they say ‘they mean nothing by it’ — that is a lie, whether they know it or not
>No matter what they say, nothing means everything
>You lift your heavy shield again, weary from using it to cover for your inadequacies
>Your eyes go soft
>Gullen turns the meat again, checks it over with hunger
“I am a coward, Gullen. Despite what you may think, deep down, I am a coward.”
>The raven looks over at you, confused, tongues of flame licking up at the roast meat
>He says something
>You don’t hear his voice
>You hear your father’s low, rattling voice in Gullen’s throat
>And then you’re twelve again
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qFWp_j9JQI&list=PL9aXlzDRA49Rmp4y6Z9Si9dS2LvmTNY7S&index=11
>”You’re not a coward, Elia. You’re the bravest, bravest girl I know.”
“I’m a freak. A monster. There’s a curse in my blood, and we all know it.”
>“You deal with a lot — and you handle it all so well,” dad tries soothing your hurt
>Bitter, frustrated tears cascade off your short beak, lost in the drizzling rain
“If not for me, we’d still be living in Ohm. If not for my… my… my ‘condition’ we’d still have a home. I should have just come out and said what I am when they were asking at Seminary,” you bite back
>“Come, little one, nobody expected them to check. That’s a burden a child should not have to carry.”
>You groan internally
>Dad doesn’t seem to get it
>Neither does mom, who chirps up alongside dad
>”You’re- you’re not sick, little one,” mom says with a worn breath. “You have an incredible gift from the Ancestors, and we love you, no matter what you say about yourself. ”
>Her voice is a ragged, exhausted squawk, brought about by days of hard travel – most if through sheets of rain
>Your wrapped talons churn the dark soil beneath you into mud as the three of you struggle down the left side of the highway
>Thunder wheels in the poisoned skies above, a mad harvester stomping about the clouds
>You travel behind mom and dad, head on a nervous swivel, looking for any signs of danger
>Anaree
>Tochta
>Harvesters
>…Demons
>This is your first time outside the walls, after all
>By the Ancestors, you only barely scratched the surface of your Seminary studies on Purgatory. You’re as good as useless out here compared to your parents
>So you feel less like a scout on her first field trip, and more like some kind of sacrificial lamb, lead to the slaughter even with the best of intentions
>Your first time outside the walls shouldn’t be like this — not filled with such shame and sadness all centered on you
>You feel like you’ve not slept in days. There’s no peace out here; no ease. Only burdens to lift and carry
>So you haven’t relaxed, not with tochta wandering up from the south, harvesters from the east, and heretics, always slipping through the nets of the ravens patrolling the northern corridors
>“Elia,” mom says to you, breathless from climbing with her back so burdened by her old life. “Elia, come walk next to me for a bit.”
>Being much smaller and weaker than your parents, you carry what little you can on your back
>Which isn’t much
>Dad has the gun and half the supplies
>Mom has the other half
>You? You just have your own personal things: books on Purgatory, some loose sheets of paper, a well-read copy of _The Adventures of Aaron Ringo_, maps, little drawings and poems you wrote,
>A pair of gloves, a dream journal, and all the warm clothes your little arms could stuff into your messenger bag
>Sighing, you stomp through the muddy prairie next to your parents, joining mom on her left
>”That’s my girl,” your mother coos in a gentle breath
>She wraps a talon around your shoulder for a second, breathing hard. Warmth blossoms inside of you, a flower’s petals unfold, the bareness of a mother’s touch warms you — even through the cotton filter of your sweater
>The unconditional love of others waters the wilted flowers within you, even though you protest
>You can feel your gloom lifting like rain clouds scorched into sunlight and steam
>”Remember when you first told me you could dream walk? You came bursting into our room in the dead of night with your little friend — you were so excited to tell me!”
“So young, and so foolish” you remind her. “I didn’t know there was something wrong with me back then. Of course a little hatchling thought it was amazing she could visit her friend while she was dreaming”
>Your mother — a notoriously patient crow — sighs, looking over to her husband for help, rainwater dripping from her beak
>”Matia,” she whines, “By the Ancestor, speak some sense into your daughter.”
>”Elia,” your dad says, his voice firm, yet still buoyed by love. He forges ahead as he speaks. “You’re not a coward or a monster, or a freak, or any of those things you and Ohm think you are. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re our daughter, and we will find a new flock to call home. I promise, little feather.”
>“Just pretend we’re on your first visit to the field, and everything happening is all part of your training,” mom chirps
>Your eyes roll to the back of your head
>You’re twelve-years-old
>You’re not buying this hopeful junk. You’re too old for blind optimism already; too old for trusting in the words of other birds, especially adults
>You brows slope into a discontented scowl
>Knuckles flex and tense in your suede leather gloves
>It feels like there’s a bottomless well of sorrow and self-hatred in your stomach, and the sky is trying to fill it with rain water
>You plod along in the mud next to mom, silent and sullen, not responding, absolutely catered and-
>Oh!
>The rain is letting up
>Night arrives as you unpack your things in the shelter of a ‘highway rest stop’ — words whose meanings have long-since forgotten by the peoples of the present
>To you and your kin, those embossed shapes and letters on the wall of the smooth-stoned, metal-roofed building mean:
>Shelter
>Safety
>It was a chilled, damp night
>The ground outside the rest stop is a minefield of mud and puddles. The air clings to your lungs and feathers like dew clings to a flower in the morning
>The three of you set up camp — or more accurately, mom and dad set up camp inside, while you stand around looking lost, trying to warm up
>Despite your best efforts, you can’t stoke your temperature any higher with self-flagellation
>Though it does make you choke up a little bit to remind yourself that this is all your fault
>So instead of being productive and useful, you shiver, soaked to the feathers with rainwater, wishing you had a fire to warm yourself against
>Wishing you had the wooded floors of your old house, instead of concrete or mud and prairie grass
>”Elia?” Dad calls as he unburdens himself with his baggage, grunting from the weight. “Come here a moment.”
>You shake your head as if to shake those thoughts of self-hatred loose
>”Yes, father?” you say, plodding through the mud to him
>He bends down to your meager height, his knees popping as he does so
>A warm smile spread across his features, just a touch of mischief twinkling in his blue eyes
>”I’ve a quest for you – a mission; one you’re perfect for.”
>You cock your head to the side. “Mission?”
>It was as if he had spoken a foreign word, like something in your books on the humans
>”Yes indeed, a mission for Elia the nimble. A very important one too.”
“Dad, I don’t know-“
>Matia shushes your doubt with a whisper. “There’ are quite a few drainage pipes beneath the road back the way we came, remember how I pointed them out?”
>You nod
>“Back in my scouting years, I’d use those drainage pipes to find kindling for fires as a last resort – it’s an old crow’s trick. No matter the weather, there’s always some debris in those pipes that’ll burn. Pushweeds, branches, leaves… easy to carry for small arms. Do you understand what I’m saying?” he says, punctuating the suggestion with a playful wink
>Your sullen blue eyes widen in confusion
”You want me to go look for kindling for the fire tonight?” you blurt out, perhaps a touch too loud
>Is dad really giving you responsibility after everything you’ve put this family through?
>Where’s the punishment? The retribution from your parents whose lives are similarly ruined?
>Why do they still love you?
>Before you can respond to dad, mom clears her throat and raises her head
>”I heard that!” she chirps, now pacing over to you and dad, her tongue clicking in her mouth with audible disapproval
>”Matia, you’re not seriously thinking of sending our daughter out alone at night, right? She’s too young!”
>Matia, ignoring his wife, leans over your shoulder, the family’s old map in his hand
>”Look, it’s easy – just follow the road we’re on for two miles south. Do you see that line there?” he points with a talon towards a small line on the map of Purgatory — a line marked ‘I-twenty-five’
>You nod along, still lost in disbelief
>”That’s the route we’re taking to our new home — the road we’re on right now. If you just go the opposite direction of us, keep your eyes peeled, you’ll find ‘em. I spotted a couple of large pipes beneath the roads as we were headed this direction. Whatever is in them is probably dry or at least close to it. Bring it back and we’ll get a fire going. We can even have din-”
>”Matia!” Mom cuts in, her concern honed to a razor’s edge. “She’s too young to be out on her own beyond the walls! Have you lost your mind? What if a harvester sees her? What if there are Vulcada nearby?”
>”Nonsense,” Matia says, dismissively, “There are no harvesters out here right now. We’d hear them well before they see us.”
>”She has little training , her instincts are still that of a hatchling’s outside the walls!” Denica snarls, her arms crossed across her chest as she towers over your father
>Okay, ow
>That one went a little deep
>You did well in Seminary
>”And so were ours,” Matia fires back in a calm, tempered voice. He rises to her height. “Were we not about the same age when we began outwalling? The nights we spent, skating by on the Ancestor’s grace, alone? Remember when the Ohm city guard caught-”
>”Matia, this is not the time for stories and tales of the past. We need to be rational here,” Denica says, gaze narrowing
>”I am being rational. Personally, I think it’s a wonderful opportunity to build her skills and boost her mood a bit,” dad replies. “Besides, it’s perfectly safe out here right now. However, just so you’re not worried…”
>Dad retrieves a small bottle of ink and a pen from the bag of supplies he was carrying
>”I’ll even mark our camp on the map.”
>He draws a large ‘C’ on the map and circles it on the amber-colored paper
>You squint at the old map. Now that you finally get to see the map, you’re confused – there are places marked that you didn’t learn about in Seminary
>…
>Are you guys using the right map?
>”Now she can find her way back if she can just find the road,” dad remarks, victorious
>Mom is silent, like a leaden statue. Though it’s dark now (mostly trivial to your kin), you can see her posture shifting from rigid to pallid; a slump of the shoulders, a drop of the neck, a tired roll of blue eyes
>Sensing he might not have won the battle just yet, dad springs into action with another hasty plan plan
>”There’s… also something I wanted to talk to you about, Denica,” dad says, standing to full height, turning his attention to his wife. ”What do you say, a quick mission for our girl? We need to talk about where we’re living next, among… other things.”
>Denica flashes a disgruntled look, but at last sighs relents — not to the truth of her husbands words
>But travel exhaustion
>”Fine. Go. Bring us back some kindling. Ancestor’s grace, how I long to warm my feathers and sit somewhere dry.”
>You grunt as you hoist yourself into the drainage pipe, spindly arms shaking and bowing inward as you complete one half-baked pull up
>The drainage pipe is small — small enough for a little crow such as yourself to squeeze inside, but not tall enough to fully stand
>And when your eyes finally convert the darkness into a thin, milky light, you see your prize further down
>Heaps of dried pushweed and old, brittle leaves forced to the far end of the drainage pipe, pushed there by the wind
>Ancestors be praised; this will only take a little bit
>You inch forward on your hands and knees as you scour your way down the length of the drainage pipe
>Nearly at the middle, you reach out with one gloved talon to scoop an armload of kindling down behind you
>You think you can get most of it back if you work like this
>Your parent’s map is in the back pocket of your trousers, so you know the way to camp, too
>This isn’t so bad
>You know what? By the Ancestors, you think even a freak like you could accomplish something like this
>Something do to — a way to contribute in light of your abject failure
>As you push the kindling down, you feel your heartbeat starts to quicken, like a sprinter reaching the apex of their stride in a split second
>Too young to realize what your body is trying to tell you
>You pause to catch your breath, but it doesn’t feel like you can get enough air into your lungs to bring you into the moment
>You’re…
>You’re going to suffocate in here!
>WHERE IS ALL THE AIR
>Why…
>…why do you feel so anxious?
>It feels like something is dreadfully wrong; like a bullet speeding your direction, harvesters on your scent, cross builders pinning your arms down — an inevitability just a heartbeat away
>Gah!
>To harvesters with this one; there are other drainage pipes
>Just a simple matter of getting out of this one
>You tighten up your body into a compact ball of feathers and adolescent muscle and force yourself towards the night air, shimmying as quick as you can
>But that heart-gripping anxiety isn’t going away as you work yourself to the very edge of the pipe
>Because you hear something- something foreign to your sensitive
>You swallow a few deep breaths of wet air and start forward again, fortifying yourself with a small prayer
>And, you think the Ancestors have turned their favor towards you
>Until…
>”Hey, Ben, let me ask you something.”
>A gravely voice above you, speaking in a language you barely know, pierces your ears
>A voice deep and masculine, yet scratched raw, as if from breathing smoke
>”Shoot,” another voice says
>This one is young — but not young enough to be your age. Male. But rich with something you find only in your parents:
>Kindness
>Openness
>A sense of ease
>Still…
>…the voices above you sound nothing like your kin. Nothing at all. Words and consonants and pronunciation are all wrong; couldn’t be Corvish
>Their sentences and pronunciation sound so… jagged; flinty even. Obtuse and tough to sound out even in the safety of your mind
>”When was the last time you heard from Mary? One of my buddies at base camp, Devon — curly red hair works the mess — said the sixth order Lightbringers got delayed again. Apparently the city is fucking FULL of cross builders again, so no mail for another week. God above, can you believe that?”
>”Hey Rich, no blasphemy in Enclave, no blasphemy out here either. And besides, I’d rather be in this part of Purgatory than in the city right now.”
>”Yeah, but what a kick in the balls. I know base camp is a couple days from the nearest supply chain, but we’re not as far out as the Easterlings. The post has to come through.”
>”They’ll come through, alright. We pay them enough for them to make it happen.”
>Heavy footsteps from above resonate down into the pipe, like concussive bombs against your sensitive ears
>”They damned well better. I’m living on stale bread and the letters my girl writes. She told me she spritzes a bit of her perfume on them before she seals them. God almighty, I’m getting antsy thinking about not hearing from her already.”
>From the sound of the voices, they’re almost directly above you
>”I know what you mean. The last time Mary and I talked, we talked about having kids. Putting a bookmark on that page was hard.”
>“Woof, tough subject.”
>”Tough? No, not at all. Her and I agree on almost everything. And to be honest, I… I’ve always wanted to be a father. I just never got the chance to tell Mare.”
>”No kidding. Boy or girl?”
>There’s a bashful pause, one even you can feel from below
>”Can I tell you something a little soppy?” Ben says, his voice quieter
>”How come you Foxers can never seem to give me a straight answer? Fine, go ahead,” the other adds with a sigh
>”Whenever I shut my eyes, and I think about Mary and I — we’re married in this fantasy, mind you — I always see a little girl running up to us, full of laughter. Her name’s Charlotte. She has these adorable freckles from her mom, but she has my eyes. So, I think I want a daughter. I’d be alright with a son, but I grew up with two brothers. A change in scenery would do me good.”
>The metallic snap of an everflame lighter’s lid flicking open
>The scratching sound of a flint wheel catching steel, throwing sparks against a wick
>There’s a brief pause as the smell of those weird smokey sticks you read about clears away the mossy, earthen, smell of fresh rain over Purgatory
>The odor is offensive to your nose almost instantly
>”I wouldn’t say this about a lot of the Foxers I’ve paired with, but Benny boy… you’d make a decent father. You’ve got a gentle side that I think many in the Church don’t have.”
>”C’mon, Rich. A guy opens his heart to you, and you start to tease him?”
>”No, I meant it. You may be one of the kindest Foxers I’ve met in almost eight years of service. It’s amazing you’re not dead yet. Kindness will get you killed out here, you know?”
>That wins a friendly chuckle from Ben
>”Just put me in front of a damned heretic and I’ll show you gentle,” he says
>’Foxer’
>You know that word
>That evil, horrible word in the demon’s tongue
>To you, it is a cursed word. A word with the weight of a rainstorm
>That word is ‘Vulcada’ to your people
>‘Foxer’
>Ancestors… there’s Vulcada RIGHT above you!
>HUMANS
>SCOUTS
>THE ENEMY OF YOU, MOM, DAD, AND YOUR ENTIRE RACE
>DIRECTLY OVERHEAD
>So what’s your next move?
>You’re twelve years old
>In a drainage pipe
>Several miles from your mom and dad, at least
>At night
>Directly beneath horrible demons who probably want nothing more than to torture and murder you in the name of their evil god
>…
>You turn your beak down as tremors settle into your synaptic muscles
>Your heartbeat pounds like a tribal hunting drum in your skull; hot blood thrums in your veins as your vision starts to collapse
>Clouds of dark stars begin to overwhelm your dim sight
>Is it getting harder to breathe again?
>Ancestors, you’re going to have a panic attack down here
>A voice from above almost forces a surprised gasp out of you
>You cover your beak with your hands
>”Lucy! Hey, stop fidgeting and let me put your collar on,” Ben says, voice rising into a commanding shout
>”Why’s she so wound up? Did you forget to feed her again?”
>”I think it’s the cigarette smoke. She sometimes does this when I smoke, too.”
>”Well, I’m not wasting this one. I just lit it!”
>Decision time, Elia. Time to unfreeze your joints, thaw your muscles, and get out of here as quietly as you can. Slip into the night, a shadow on a shadow, a phantom in the starlight
>You start forward, crawling through the pipe on your hands and knees
>You work with the speed of a frightened rat, and all the grace of one, too
>Ancestors, you hope they don’t hear you down here
>With a sudden, harsh cry, you hear the Vulcada shout, “LUCY! Get back here!”
>Your ears key in to something moving through the damp brush outside the pipe
>NO TIME TO DECIDE
>SOMETHING IS ON YOU
>You heave yourself out of the drainpipe with incredible effort, gasping for fresh air…
>…bellyflopping on your way down…
>…and crashing right into the mud, face first, tasting rich soil and brittle buffalo grass in your mouth, the scent of fresh ozone and growing things in your nose
>Ow
>A dull pain starts to throb in your head
>You lift yourself with your palms and turn your beak up-
>Vulca
>A fox
>And it’s sitting right in front of you, on its hind legs, like some kind of obedient dog
>Its fur is feathered a slate gray, like bruised skies before a storm
>Its bushy tail flickers with agitation and impatience
>Head cocked left, then right, then left again, as if it’s never met a crow, much less a corvid
>You sit up on your palms trying with every single ounce of your meager soul to contain a terrified scream
>Unfortunately, one of the demons screams for you
>“LUCY!” Ben says, “God above, why’d you run off like that, girl?”
>And then you see him at last:
>A demon
>The first you’ve ever seen — putting an image to what the words in your Seminary texts tried to convey
>The Foxer slides down the muddy embankment, his rifle bouncing off his back. He doesn’t seem to have spotted you
>He sports a drab, olive uniform — mostly a tucked, collared shirt, bearing a faint orange hue
>Most prominent is his orange scarf, bearing two bars of white on the tail end
>But it’s when he looks over at you
>And it’s when your eyes meet
>Do you really see the face of the man who altered the course of your life
>He’s young, smooth in the face except a faint outline of a beard
>Medium-length brown hair; warm, earthy-brown eyes, like small lakes of amber
>Thin, pink lips that tremble with the foundations of a shocked scream
>But he doesn’t scream
>”H-Heretic…” he stammers, voice a panicked hiss. He swings his chemical rifle into his shaking hands. “Heretic! Richard! Get down here, Goddamnit!”
>You scramble to your feet
>There’s a flash of light as the other demon appears, brandishing an everflame lighter in one hand
>You shield your eyes from the touch of the light, cutting a terrified squawk in the process
>Lucy the fox yips in excitement, her tail sweeping the brush
>In a flick, she’s back beside her Foxer, barking her head off
>You’re about to bolt hard to the left and make a run into the open prairie
>It’s night — the demons can’t see at night, like you can
>The muscles in your prominent haunches tense up, compressed like the springs in landmines
>However
>In a blur, Ben racks his chemical rifle’s bolt-action, the distinct metal click you recall from the times dad took you out shooting
>The Foxer’s hands work in tandem with your heart to slip a brass shell into the weapon
>You don’t know if it’s truly loaded or not, but you’re not about to find out
>You freeze in place, your blue eyes shot wide with panic, body wracked with tremors, never once dreaming of encountering anything like this before your first mission at fifteen
>With trembling arms, the Vulcada trains the weapon on your small body
>And for a few seconds, there’s this confused silence that settles in the air between you three
>Nobody moves
>Despite the ringing in your ears, you can hear the demons drawing ragged, exhausted breaths of air
>You even hear the vulca panting from exertion and excitement
>And you can hear your own heart beating like a hunting drum in the tight confines of your skull
>”Well?” the other human – Richard – says, his round face glowing red from a blush of adrenaline and physical strain. He looks at his Foxing partner and scowls, as if he had the authority to give orders
>Ben squints down the sights, he scarf almost slipping off from around his neck
>His index finger trembles against the trigger
>”What are you waiting for?! Shoot the damn thing!” Richard demands
>But, ”It’s a crow,” is all Ben can say, his voice quiet, his chest heaving with indecision
>”So what? There’s plenty of other crows to bring home! This one probably belongs to some nearby warband-”
“…she’s just a kid. Looks like she couldn’t be older than ten or eleven,” Ben replies under his breath, still training his rifle at your center mass despite his own reasoning
>Right at the sweater mom made for you last year
>The gray one that mom made for you for your twelfth hatching day
>Mom sewed this garment with her careful hands, every gentle stitch infused with maternal devotion
>And now you’re going to die in this sweater
>Worse, you’re going to stain it with your disgusting, cursed blood
>You’re going to ruin it
>Like you ruin everything
>Odd thoughts at the end of one’s life
>”If we let her go, she grows up a little and eventually she kills a Zealot or Lightbringer,” the other demon reasons. He draws his face close to Ben’s. “What about a Foxer? One of your order?”
>Ben never takes his eyes off you
>“What about this? She might be the one who drives a bayonet through Mary.”
>“Shut up, Rich-” Ben starts
>The Zealot cuts him off
>“Your future daughter, even.”
>And after that?
>Silence
>You watch Ben’s chest heave
>Hear the demons gasping for breath
>You have no idea what they’re saying. You only have one question:
>‘How am I still alive?’
>And yet
>After a few moments
>The Vulcada lowers his weapon
>Ben pulls back on the bolt-action and withdraws the round that was meant for you
>He draws heavy gulps of wet night air into his lungs as he tugs at his orange-and-white scarf, off-gassing heat from beneath his uniform
>You haven’t moved an inch since he started aiming that gun at you
>But now?
>You feel your muscles begin to thaw
>A trapped breath of air leaks out of you
>”I’m not gonna kill a kid,” the Vulcada says with finality
>The Zealot does not take kindly to this news
>“Are you INSANE!?” Richard barks, “Listen, Ben, I don’t want to kill a fledgeling either, but it- it’s heresy to let her live! You know that as well as I!”
>”No,” Ben says as he pulls his arm through the strap of his weapon, slinging it against his back. “We’re not going to kill this one. I won’t do it.”
>Lucy yips in agreement and leaps from her Foxer’s shoulder
>The fox lands gracefully in the mud
>”Fine, then I’ll do it,” Richard says as he slips his arm out of the strap holding his chemical rifle to his body
>At that, Ben’s demeanor shifts entirely – like someone pouring black poweder onto everflame
>And for a second, you see the protective rage
>Of your father
>”Listen to me: touch one feather on that little girl, and you’re walking home through the anomaly fields ALONE,” Ben snarls through clenched teeth
>Richard takes another look at you; eyes you like a cat told not to play with a near-dead mouse
>The Zealot deflates with an exhausted sigh
>”Fine. Fine. Then what do you propose we do with her then? We can’t just cut her loose. She could tell her flock, or the warband she’s with.”
>You have only a slight idea of what they’re saying
>Something about the Vulcada going through something alone? Or was it the other rounder one, the Zealot, who will navigate a dangerous path?
>You’re drawn out of your analysis by a familiar word spoken to you by the Foxer
>The last thing you’d expect a murderous demon to say to you
>’Hello’
>”Chii,” Ben says, looking at you
>You tilt your head a bit
>Ben — the Vulcada who was just aiming his chemical rifle at you — just said ‘hello’ in Corvish
>He then approaches you, his vulca pacing alongside him, looking sniffing at you expectantly
>The Foxer drops to one knee, as our faces level with one another
>And your eyes meet
>And then…
>…there’s a sudden cascade of sensory data; centuries of primal knowledge and understanding suddenly poured into your skull as if injected into your cranium
>Not knowledge of man and beast; of Corvid or demon
>Something far deeper and far more personal to your own history crosses the invisible gap between you and this human, inches apart in reality but miles between your minds
>The sudden exchange of understand forces you to look down at his hands
>This human… unlike the other human… he wears…
>Gloves?
>The other human certainly isn’t
>And you think — just for a heartbeat, a loose, sparking thought — that this particular demon might be someone like…
>…you?
>”Chii? Uhh… Choo? Damnit, I probably should have brushed up on my Corvish at camp last night. Sorry if this is wrong but I need to try…”
>He takes a deep breath and then
>“Chii skaa. Skaa jasish Corrcorvas?”
>You blink a few times, disbelief forcing you to jaw for a response
>’Hello, I am speaking Corvish?’ iIs what he said
>You open your beak to answer, but something cold and wet jabs at your exposed ankles, distracting you
>Your eyes flick down to your wrapped talons
>Lucy the Fox jabs her wet nose at your trousers, inhaling your foreign scent
>“That’s Lucy,” says. “Don’t mind her. She likes to get to know people.”
>This vulca… fox…
>It’s not biting or ripping your flesh, as you’ve been taught
>It’s just circling you, drinking your foreign scent
>So, you summon a response as best you can, in a tongue you hardly know
>Because the Foxer did it for you
“C-Corvish… is… umm… yes… uh… you?” you stammer in reply, turning your beak to face the demon.
>While you’re on the topic of language, you better let these demons know the extent your grasp on English, with an eloquent sentence like:
“I say… uh… small demon…”
>A friendly smile breaks across Ben’s face, his pink lips spreading to show a row of unfamiliar white teeth
>Funny, you were always told the demons had mouths packed with fangs, like the tochta who inhabit the city
>This one must be young; he’s yet to file his teeth down into jagged flints, clearly
>“You speak some English?” Ben replies. “That’s good. English Baanta.”
>’Baanta’
>’Good’
>Though you protest in your heart, you feel pained tears spring into the corners of your eyes. A vise chokes your response into a fractured stammer
>You’re sure they’re just doing this to keep you calm, a verbal sedative before they make you turn around so they don’t have to look you in the eyes as they blast holes in your chest cavity
>”N-Nii katha,” you say, voice shaking in desperation. “No… death…’
>Frustrated tears begin to work their way down your face, despite your inner pleading
>The Vulcada frowns
>Perhaps operating now on protective instinct, Ben brushes away your tear with a gloved finger
>You cheep in surprise when you feel his surprisingly gentle touch against the plumage of your dark, feathered cheeks
>A minor infusion of comfort – like the warm sunset of bell flowers sap in your veins – travels to your core
>But despite his opiate-like touch, all the comfort in Purgatory can’t distract you from one little fact:
>He…
>He’s wearing gloves?
>Why isn’t the other one wearing gloves?
>And why do you feel you know this person so well?
>Ben takes your talons in his own gloved hands and squeezes them tight, like a father reassuring his anxious daughter
>And when your hands touch — even through the leather gloves — electric currents arc up your spine like a lightning rod
>You feel…
>Scared, on the brink of a panic attack?
>Yes
>But more than that, you’re overcome by a macabre sense of… understanding… from this demon. It’s as if he knows something about you that the other demon doesn’t — can’t
>Like he’s peered inside of you and seen the secret you keep close to your heart, and promised not to tell
>When you look down, you see that both hands are gloved in the same brown suede leather, almost impossible to tell apart when pressed together
>”You wear gloves just like I do, aye?” he says with an observant click. “Why’s that, bird? You don’t seem old enough for scouting, so you probably don’t need em.”
>You tilt your head in confusion
>“Hand- talons cold?” Ben tries, pointing at his own gloves. “Cold?”
>His words all sound like a ball of yarn; completely tangled together
>You tilt your head again
>”Ben, quit making friends with it and let’s figure out what our plan is, damnit,” Richard whines. “I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer to end this mission next to a campfire — back at base camp, INDOORS.”
>The portly Zealot snaps shut his everflame lighter, killing off the warm, orange light, which made the demon’s seem a lot more…
>Friendly?
>Suddenly, Ben’s face is washed clean in the starlight; heavy shadows drip off his young jawline, making him look predatory; jagged
>Richard seethes in the dark, his helmet shadow cast across his face, obscuring most of his features
>”Get your fox ready to move, and figure out what you’re going to do with the heretic. God above, we’re making this too complicated as it is,” he moans
>The Vulcada spins and yells something to his comrade, something that sounds like, “I’m working on a plan here!”
>But you don’t understand him; only some fragments of his English are firm to you
>More for any girl your age, though
>Truth be told, demons always fascinated you when the subject came up in Seminary. You spent maybe a little too much time trying to learn their language and studying their culture, instead of pointing your efforts towards something useful, like navigation, or physical training
>So your understanding isn’t the worst…
>”You probably don’t know all of what I’m saying, do you?” Ben says with a tired, slightly defeated laugh
>…it’s also not the best
>You stare directly at the human, tremors rocking your small body, mouth quivering with the genesis of a sentence in half English
“Is uhhh… small… word…” you repeat, hoping to convey that you grasp on the demon’s tongue is fleeting at best
>Feathers, you hope that’s correct English
>”Good enough for me,” he unclasps his hands from yours and stands to his full, impressive height (at least compared to you)
>”What’s your name, kid?” Ben says,
”Name?” you parrot back in the Vulcada’s voice
>Lucy tilts her head and peers up at you, as if awaiting a command from you and not her Foxer
>Instead of unnerving and frightening the demon as intended, Ben laughs. “That’s a superb impression for a fledgling. My name is Benjamin, but most people call me Ben.” He throws a casual thumb over his shoulder. “That fellow over there with the lighter is my Zealot-pair, Richard.”
>You can only stare, your jaw unscrewed as you suck in shallow gasps of air
>By the Ancestors, what did this demon just say to you?
>After a few moments of awkward silence, Ben shrugs
>”Probably not old enough to have learned functional English. No problem. Let me try a different approach.”
>He clears his throat, and says, “Cu anim…? Is that how it’s pronounced? Ay-nim?”
”Oh!” you chirp in surprise
>The demon was close with his pronunciation, but not quite on the mark. Still, his Corvish isn’t bad, for human standards
>It’s ‘ah-nim,’ by the way
“Skaal anim… my name… skaal anim Elia?” you repeat, tongue stumbling over the foreign word ‘name’
>At that the Vulcada breaks into an excited grin, and throws his arms up to the sky “Praise God, you understand!” he exclaims
>You flinch at the volume of his voice and strangeness of his words
>But, excited, he looks back down at you
“So your name is Elia, is that right?”
>You nod fervently, pointing at yourself with one finger, sensing that you are millimeters from breaking through to him, reaching a primitive notion of the idea of understanding one another
>And maybe that’s how these these things are meant to unfold – that understanding between two foreign peoples is not bought or stolen with coins or weapons, but built together over time and experience; a monument to your new found kinship
>With a budding sense of you, smile a little
“Skaa Elia!” you chirp, practically jumping with relief. “I Elia! I Elia!”
“Elia, huh? I think that’s a pretty name for a bird,” Ben remarks
>You bob your head, nodding fervently to his every word. You have no idea what he just said outside of your name and the word ‘bird’
>A plan takes root in your fertile mind – an adolescent, poorly-thought out one
>But a plan
>If you just play along, they’ll let you go, cast you off into the night as a lost, forgotten orphan or something like that
>Instead, Ben asks you a question that arrests all your previous momentum
>Smothers the idea of hope like a boot stomping out the embers of a dead fire
>”Elia,” he says, fiddling with his gloves.
>You turn your beak up at him, sensing a question
“Hai? Umm… skaa vo desa ‘yes?’”
>Ben pulls on the ends of his leather gloves, tightening them against his body, as if preparing to leave
>“Where is the rest of your family?” he says, pulling on his gloves, tightening them as if preparing to set off somewhere. “Your flock?” He pauses. “Is that your people’s word for family? Honestly, I can’t remember what that damn word is.”
>He leans in close – uncomfortably close – so much so that you sense a shift in your panic, bubbling to the surface like a geyser of scalding water
>“Essentially what I’m asking is: where are your mom and dad? Daka? MInn?”
>Now THAT sentence you understood
>Flock
>Family
>Daka
>Minn
>Your heart sinks into your gut, as if encased in lead
>“You look a bit too young for scouting,” he says, appraising you. “And you’re not dressed for life outside the walls. So you’re either traveling with parents, or you’re some kind of vagrant. A runaway, maybe?”
>Before you can cobble together a response, something pokes at your rear-end – specifically your back pocket
>You let slip a startled squawk and spin to try and defend your parent’s map
>But you stop short of dropping the literal gloves when you see who’s behind you:
>Lucy, her tongue rolling out of her mouth, her chest heaving, eyes fixed on you like you’re withholding something tasty from her
>Her posture is restless, shifting in place, as if waiting for the next opportunity to lunge at yo
>She must sense something about you – on you, maybe
>You have no food with you
>No weapons
>Just…
>…the map
>Is the vulca drawn to your parents map?
>But- But- vulca are trained to seek out artifacts and anaree
>Not maps!
>Unless…
>You spin to face the Vulcada again, using your arm to fend off Lucy from behind
>There is absolutely NO WAY you can tell these monsters where you’re camped
>That’d lead them…
>…to mom and dad
>Nope
>None
>Zero
>Not gonna happen
>So, what do you do to save your feathers from savage demons?
>You lie
>You lie
>You lie
>YOU LIE
“Nii… flock. Not… familah,” you say butchering the pronunciation on the human words
>The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, dry like ashes from the campfire last night
>You hold up one talon, and then point at your chest in a poor attempt to convey that yes, you are alone; a poor orphaned crow evicted from her nest, now at the mercy of strangers
“Nii familah. Skaa Elia!” you shout, your falsities rolling off the tongue like shards of glass
>Ben looks like he’s following as you try to cobble together the right assemblage of words to sell your lie
>But it looks like he’s… he’s not following the direction you want him to go…
>He nods along with you, arms crossed across his chest
>A slight, sardonic frown points his lips down
>Feathers
>That’s the same things dad does when he knows you’re lying to him
>You recognize all the signs
>You heart can’t beat any faster; panic flushes through your system as if injected with a syringe of it
>You try to continue in what little English you know, but when Ben just keeps nodding along, disbelief across his face like an impatient mask, panic overwhelms you
>You switch to Corvish
“Skaa Elia. Nii ‘family’” you use Ben’s voice, hoping it wor-
>Lucy, who’s had enough of your bad acting, cuts an impatient yip and launches herself at your backside
>You spin in time to dodge the vulca, but in doing so, you expose a fold of your parent’s map – just a small corner sprouting from out of your back pocket, jostled loose from the scramble to get out of the drainage pipe
>The Vulcada reaches out, snags the corner of the map, and plucks it free from your pocket like pulling a weed
>Oh feathers
>“You’re kidding?” Ben sighs a deep, disappointed sigh as he begins to unfold the map. “This is why Lucy’s all worked up?”
>You can’t tell if he’s disappointed at the map – or you
>The Cree stomps over to Ben, his lighter blazing hard against the night once more
>“What in God’s name is that?” He says, leaning close, snaking his neck to see around Ben. “It looks older than Enclave itself, if I had to guess.”
>”This is…” Ben squints as he draws close to the map, “…this is something that the heretic had on her. I think it might be a relic of some kind, given how Lucy reacted to it.”
>As if on cue, Lucy propels herself up towards the map, which the Foxer easily keeps far from her reach
>”A relic?!” Richard seethes, peering down at you, face twisted into a snarl. “You mean the little bitch is keeping relics from us?”
>“I can’t be sure-”
>“What do you mean you ‘can’t be sure’?” Richard shouts. “You’re a Foxer – it’s your job to be sure!”
>“No, what I’m trying to say this map is all wrong, so I don’t know if this is a relic or not! God’s grace man, give me more than five seconds to look at this damned thing.”
>Richard side eyes you, still huffing. ”What’s strange? The map?”
>“Yeah, I can’t make sense of it at all. Here, take a look.”
>The Zealot brings the everflame lighter dangerously close to the map, and you want nothing more than to snatch it out of the Vulcada’s hands right now
>Not even for your own potential return to camp, but to protect the one thing your parents entrusted you with
>”The geography is all correct, but there’s all these towns on here – definitely ones that I don’t recognize. Like, Littleton, Northglenn, Aspen, Pueblo down south… and look here!”
>Ben practically jams a finger through the map itself
>“The city has finally has a proper name. Denver!”
>“Look here,” the Richard says pointing to a spot on the map. “Read that.”
>Ben pauses in disbelief
>He squints and draws close against the map
>The Vulcada only says one word
>A word that has meaning to you in prayer
>A word – a place – you learned in seminary
>“Amberose.”
>Amberose
>A fallen city of myth
>They say it never existed
>But apparently
>On mom and dad’s map?
>It’s still there
>“How outdated is this thing?” is all Ben can say after that
>”Can’t be that outdated” Richard says, dragging his stubby finger across the parchment, landing on a black ‘C’
>Encircled by the hand of your father
>”Someone’s drawn on this recently,” Richard concludes, “and I have an idea as to where that will lead us.”
>The Foxer peers down at you from behind the map, brows sloped, brown eyes narrowed in disappointment – the type a father experiences when his daughter is caught in a lie
>”’C’ for ‘Camp’” I’d bet,” Ben says with a disappointed sigh, still looking at you
>You have no clue what they’re talking about — all you can focus on is the map
>That’s YOUR FAMILY’s map
>Your ONLY way back to camp
>So…
>…why aren’t you fighting back?
>You don’t get the chance to draw your talons, because the tone of Ben’s voice freezes you in place
>”Elia,” the Vulcada says, his voice commanding and tempered with distrust, just a decibel above the echo of your heartbeat in your skull
>A spray of birdshot against the voices in your mind that tell you to fight
>There’s a catch in your throat — like you swallowed a hummingbird, or a butterfly, or some other wild creature that’s fighting to break free
>But then…
>…the Foxer does something that your feeble heart did not expect
>He folds the map, and extends it towards you, a parchment peace offering
>“You bring us back to your camp, and we’ll leave you there. Safe.”
>Again, his words are mush to your ears
>You’re only half-focused on his command, anyway
>Your blurred eyes fixate on your parent’s old map
>In a flash, you snap the map out of the Foxer’s grasp and unfold it
>You scan it over, as if it was a forgery, as if they had desecrated it with their disgusting touch and ruined it
>But it’s still your parent’s map
>Dad’s ‘C’ is still just a mile or two down the road, scratched onto the thick paper
>The city of amberose pressed up against the flatiron mountains
>Feathers, you think you can get at what the demon is asking you to do. They must have seen dad’s mark
>Your blue eyes flick between the two demons
>Their faces are hard, jawlines cast in shadow, firelight from the lighter flickering beneath their dark chins
>Predatory eyes, fixed on your small form, cold and hungry for answers and obedience
>Nope
>No
>No way
>You shake your beak side-to-side in a definite refusal of the proposal
>Richard grunts with annoyance
>”This is a waste of our valuable time, Foxer. I won’t babysit this little brat if she’s going to be dead weight. I say we simplify this and kill her now,” he grumbles
>Your focus bounces between the two humans
>You try in vain to piece together what they’re saying, but it’s like trying to shape water, or hold smoke
>They talk too fast and use too many strange words, obtuse words for your ears
>”Try to show a little more composure, Rich. We’re not going to kill the damned hatchling, and we’re not going to kill her family either,” Ben says, reason slipping from his tone
>The Zealot stammers back with an angry reply
>”So we just- just- leave her at her camp? A good deed paid towards the enemy? What’s that gonna do for us except let the rest of her warband know where we are?”
>Ben shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be so hasty in extinguishing life, especially one so young.”
>”Don’t feed me those lines like some kind of heretic yourself! She’s the enemy!” Richard cries. “Am I the only one who has the will to do the Lord’s work here!?”
>Suddenly, the Foxer grabs hold of Richard by the collar of his waxed, canvas-green fatigues and jostles him with sharp tug
>The Vulcada’s face glows red with barely-restrained anger as he draws his face close to the Zealot’s
>”Think about it for a moment you fucking idiot — they don’t send kids outside to scout for relics. And look at her!”
>The Zealot side-eyes you, appraising you
>”She’s in plainclothes,” Ben says, his fury gated behind his clenched teeth. “I think this one’s an exile. Chewed up and spit out by the system for one reason or another. As good as dead,” Ben concludes, releasing his hold on the Zealot
>”So what’s it matter if she’s wanted or not?” Richard says, fixing his crumpled shirt collar, smoothing it over with his pale hands. “That’s al the more reason to get rid of her.”
>”No point in wasting bullets on exiles. Getting booted is a death sentence by itself; their little quorum just won’t admit it. Exiles wander Purgatory until something puts them out of their misery. But it looks like this one clearly has some kind of special map on her,” Ben says. “And I’d be willing to bet the family – or whoever she’s traveling with – might also have more relics with them, like the map. So here’s my plan:”
>“Just get on with it before I start walking back, compression anomalies be damned.”
“We have Elia here lead us back to her camp. We frighten her parents a little, take whatever holy relics they’ve stolen, and then we leave. Them? Scared and hugging each other. Us? Heroes. How’s that for a plan?”
>”It’ll do,” the Zealot grumbles. “The only issue is in getting this kid to cooperate. She doesn’t seem too interested.”
>”Oh, she’ll help us,” the Foxer says, flashing a quick, confident smirk. “Watch this.”
>Then, as if channeling his younger self practicing rifle drills in his dorm, Ben shifts his chemical rifle into his hands, feeding a thin, brass sliver of metal into the chamber with mechanical smoothness
>He cranks the bolt action forward and levels the rifle at you
>At that, the corked geyser within you gives
>And you finally start to cry
>Real, gut-heaving sobs spill out of you as you squawk your childish plea in your native tongue
”Nii! Nii katha!” you beg
>Your small body contorts into a self-defensive shells, arms and the map shielding your face as you prepare to have your brains evicted from your skull
>You HAD to realize this was coming at some point, right?
>Once you’re no longer useful — if you were never useful to begin with — is when they dispose of you
>It all makes sense if you thought for just five seconds
>Of course they’d kill you
>These are not your kin
>These are demons
>Scenes of your short and pointless life play out in your mind
>Time stretches itself to an infinite length, losing all meaning, as you see…
>…climbing practice with mom and dad…
>…first day at Seminary when you cried so hard that the teachers made your dad pick you up….
>…dream walking for the first time during a sleepover with your friend Kina
>…the happiness of the time spent alone, the golden hours spent leafing through the pages of your parent’s copy of Scout’s Field Guide…
>…fireworks at the harvest festival, their phosphene sparks fluttering down like flower petals against the tepid night sky
>You wanted to catch one when you were young and foolish
>…these moments and memories condense into tears, tears that roll off your feathers and cascade down your beak like glass raindrops…
>So you tense up, ready at any moment for the sharp crack of the rifle, and the end of all things
>…that is…
>…until you hear a hollow metal click; the resonate ping of a chemical rifle’s safety catching
>You’re still in tears
>Still clutching your last breath against your ribs
>But, with some hesitation, your posture slowly uncoils from itself, blue eyes breaking open
>The Foxer still trains his rifle on you, one eye squinting down its iron sights, rifle socketed firm against his shoulder
>Lucy the fox perches atop Ben’s left shoulder, gray ears pasted against her skull
>Panting hard, as anxious as an animal can be
>”Next time,” Ben says with a rising chest, his voice devoid of color or warmth, “the safety won’t be on.”
>He then motions with the iron barrel of his chemical rifle for you to walk up the embankment and get back on the road
>Like the weakling you are, you comply without a second thought as to where this all might lead
>Only your survival – hanging on by a thin strand of obedience – matters
>In a flash, you scramble through the brush and overgrowth, scampering up the hill, churning soil into mud as your talons at last scrape onto the shattered asphalt road
>The demons join you in short order, their clunky boots slipping in the wet
>Only Lucy is able to meet your pace
>A gray streak who runs ahead of you and waits to catch up, as if she was the one with the map, leading you all
>You turn to see the demons surmount the small embankment and clunks onto the shattered asphalt
>”See? Sometimes you just have to be stern with kids, even if you don’t really mean it,” Ben laughs, his scarf dangling from his neck
>”Whatever suits you,” The Zealot says in a strained puff, as he follows up behind the Foxer, breathing hard
>When the Zealot is at last standing, the first thing he does _isn’t_ clean himself of mud and wet grass
>Or even stop to catch his breath
>He slings his chemical rifle – bayonet fixed – into his grasp, and glares down at you, eyes piercing your composure like bullets shot into a brittle statue
“As for me? My safety’s off. If the hatchling, or any of the other birds she’s traveling with try something clever, I’m putting holes in them.”
To be continued in Travels: Part Two
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmYPkIaRJns&list=PL9aXlzDRA49Rmp4y6Z9Si9dS2LvmTNY7S&index=37
Oliver Hart
Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.
Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall