Rocco's Wings (12 page)

Great stands of trees with branches sloping down like feathers – forever green trees – stood in rows so dense the ground was nowhere to be seen. A wondrous tangy spice odour wafted up. Sometimes the terrain jutted up or down, revealing a treeless rock or a crack in the mountain’s surface.

Rocco listened. He knew Iggy’s wing stride and also Basalt’s. It wouldn’t be long before he could tell Vesta and Magma apart. Close behind him, they flew up, higher and higher, gaining altitude as the air grew cold.

At the very top of the slope they came to a flat rock. Hovering over it, they gazed back. The lights of Krakatoan twinkled, as if the place was cosy and full of welcome.

‘Do you think we’ll ever see home again?’ Iggy’s voice was thin, like a weathered reed.

‘When we arrive here again, it will be with Belarica,’ said Basalt. ‘Hang onto that, Iggy.’

‘We barely made it over the wall,’ said Magma. ‘If that mob of birds hadn’t come along, we’d be captured by now.’

‘Look,’ said Vesta, ankle bangles chiming in the wind. ‘We’re not even at the top yet.’

Treehouse

Rocco scanned the mountainside. They weren’t at the top at all. More jutting peaks rose in the distance, each one higher than the one before it.

‘Ready?’ he asked, watching his breath puff out and circle away. They had to get moving. But they’d done it; they’d actually escaped. Surely that was the hardest part, following through on the decision to run.

The moon, which had been bright before, was covered in a veil of clouds. Hopefully it wouldn’t rain, or snow. He’d never seen snow before but the scholars in Gogogamesh talked about it: cold white flakes that looked like sugar but were neither ice nor water.

Rocco moved into the slope. The tops of forever green trees rose silently below: such neat rows. They dipped into a ravine, rising again as they came to a new wall of trees.

‘We can’t fly this close,’ Rocco called back over his shoulder. ‘It’s just going to make our journey longer.’ He pulled higher. As soon as the others joined him, he climbed another twenty metres.

Basalt and Iggy were flying on his right, by his shoulder. Magma and Vesta were on the other side, flying in a ‘V’ formation, just like migrating geese.

Hill after hill stretched ahead, dark swollen humps hunkered down in the night.

If he ever saw Cirrus again he’d have to thank her. She was responsible for organizing the birds. How else did they know to fly into Wildergarten at exactly that moment?

As they passed each darkened ridge, more bluffs, ravines and tree-lined slopes came into view. On and on they flew.

‘It’s big, isn’t it?’ Basalt called over.

Rocco nodded. Upper Terrakesh was massive, also completely uninhabited by urvogels. They had not seen a single light in the trees below.

His shoulders were heavy but they didn’t stop, not until the sky began to lighten from blue-black to gold. They were dead on course, with the sun rising directly behind them. They had to find somewhere to sleep. Iggy could hardly keep up. Rocco’s own limbs were wooden.

Small lakes dotted the mountain forest below.

‘Come on, Iggy!’ Vesta kept calling.

A lake came into view, larger than the others and surrounded by the same dense trees they’d been passing over the entire night. Rocco dropped altitude. A large flat rock sat at the end of the lake, a perfect place for landing. He swooped down.

His feet hit the rock. Knees buckling, he almost slipped, he was so tired. Basalt landed, then Magma. Their faces were haggard, their eyes circled in shadows. With a thud Vesta and Iggy came to a stop.

‘This place is scary,’ said Iggy, looking around.

‘There’s no one here. Not a single urvogel anywhere. It’s up to us now.’ Rocco dropped his gear. His back ached something fierce. Maybe a swim would wake him up. He jumped in. The lake snapped back, or so it felt, the water was so bitingly cold.

‘What’s the matter?’ Basalt asked, gaping down from the flat rock.

‘It’s freezing.’ Beating his wings, Rocco jumped out again.

‘Do you think anyone followed us?’ asked Iggy.

‘I didn’t see any Air Marshals,’ said Basalt.

‘Me either,’ said Vesta.

‘There’s nothing here but trees,’ said Magma, scouring the woods.

A small clearing separated the forest from the lake. They couldn’t very well sleep out in the open. They needed some kind of shelter, in case it rained, or to protect them from whatever meat-eaters might be roaming the woods. It didn’t seem like the kind of jungle lions might like. They were too heavy to ramble along in trees – at least the big male lions.

Rocco’s limbs were already stiffening up, but he forced himself to fly to the edge of the trees. So tall, they were, he couldn’t even see the tops. From the ground they appeared to be two or three times taller than the biggest trees in Krakatoan. With a sharp crack of his wings, he headed into the grove.

‘Do you think it’s safe?’ asked Magma, his eyes wide open as he looked around rattling his pocket full of bones.

‘Nothing’s going to jump out and scare us,’ said Rocco. ‘If that’s what you’re asking.’

Animals weren’t crazy. The forest was infinitely green which meant there was lots to eat. Grass-eaters ate the green stuff, and the meat-eaters came along and ate them. That’s how it worked.

Just to be safe, Rocco cracked his wings again.

‘I don’t have the leaf,’ said Vesta. A few steps into the giant trees she had stopped to pick up a leaf, which she was now comparing to the other leaves in her book. ‘But I think it might be a redwood.’

‘What are we looking for, anyway?’ asked Iggy, pushing in behind Rocco who had been moving from one tree to the next, inspecting the lower boughs.

‘A branch big enough to sleep in,’ answered Rocco, stepping over a log and around a patch of flesh-coloured mushrooms.

‘You ever sleep in a tree before?’ asked Iggy.

‘Yeah. A few times.’ Touching the trunk, rough and solid beneath his hand, he proceeded around its considerable girth. A hole, a door of sorts, appeared on the far side. Basalt, Magma, Vesta and Iggy followed him in.

The interior of the tree was hollow and as large as a room. The floor was empty and flat, except for several large roots sticking up.

‘It’s a perfect place to roost.’ Basalt flapped his wings. A waft of cool air blew in.

‘It’s filthy!’ Magma kicked a stone. ‘And the air isn’t moving. We’ll suffocate!’

The floor was a bit dusty but perfectly fit for sleeping on, thought Rocco.

‘Where else are we going to sleep, Magma?’ Vesta’s voice was strained.

‘I don’t know but I’m not sleeping here!’ Magma was still wearing his sword. Pulling out the blade, he began whipping it through a cobweb, barely missing Rocco and Iggy who were forced to duck.

‘You’re going to hurt someone!’ Basalt clamped a hand on the hilt of Magma’s sword. ‘Take it outside!’

‘I will!’ Magma stomped out.

He was in a rage, or some fit of temper. Couldn’t he control himself? Stepping outside, Rocco began searching in the undergrowth for leaves and moss, anything to make the floor of the treehouse softer.

‘He’s not used to it, being out here in the wilds,’ said Basalt stirring a pile of leaves with his foot. The four gathered up several armloads of spongy moss, listening all the while to Magma’s footsteps as he tromped around in the underbrush.

‘Magma! Come and help!’ Vesta shouted. Magma’s footsteps would stop, but as soon as they started talking again, the stomping resumed. Soon the floor of the treehouse had been lined with a soft bedding. They found a thicket of blackberries over by a stream deeper into the woods. Cutting off large pieces, they assembled a door, which they opened and closed with the tips of their swords.

Basalt, Vesta, Iggy and Rocco carried their gear into the treehouse and stacked it against the wall.

‘Is he coming?’ Rocco asked. Magma hadn’t done a bit of the work, but they couldn’t very well leave him outside. Rocco laid his head down on his waterskin, which he had half-filled from the stream. Half-filled so his head would nestle into it, like a pillow.

Basalt and Vesta were stretched out, preparing to sleep.

Iggy crawled to the opening.

‘Aren’t you tired, Magma?’ he called through the brambles. ‘We’re going to roost now.’

The crunch of Magma’s footsteps stopped.

‘Magma!’ Iggy called again.

The footsteps started again.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Rocco.

‘He’s just tired.’

Rocco could barely keep his eyes open. The moss smelled sweet.

A scratching sound erupted near his head. Magma was coming in. Rocco sat up to let him pass, pulling the brambles back into place before he plopped back down.

‘Tomorrow, we’ll look for Py,’ said Vesta sleepily.

‘Can’t even breathe in here. We’re worse than animals,’ Magma muttered as he flopped down between Iggy and Vesta.

‘If we fall into a stupor, keep us warm, okay Rocco?’ Basalt sounded worried. ‘We’re not warm-blooded like mammals, but we’re not cold-blooded either. We’re in between.’

So not like a human, and not like a crocodile either. ‘Okay,’ said Rocco.

‘The Alchemist always keeps a fire going in the rooms of the sick Air Marshals,’ said Basalt. ‘I think it’s important, the heat.’

Rocco knew he should ask more but with his body falling asleep he sensed that Death had entered the hollow. It was hanging above his head. He closed his eyes.

* * *

Iggy had been crying. His cheeks were streaked. Rocco reached over and pushed the hair from Iggy’s eyes.

Rolling over to his knees, Rocco poked the brambles away with his sword. The forest was dark, the light of the moon couldn’t even penetrate the leaves. They’d slept the whole day and into the following evening.

Something crackled in the underbrush, likely a rodent.

There had been no sign of urvogels living this deep into the Badlands. Whatever creatures lived in the forest weren’t used to eating urvogels. They ate other things.

The ground was vibrating. He could feel it up through his knees. He crawled outside. With his sword firmly clenched in his hand, he stood up. Why was he so afraid? Lots of animals smaller than him lived in the trees. He only had to get used to the dark and the way everything smelt.

Most of the mud had fallen off his wings from taking that dip in the lake. Now they glowed brightly. Waving the sword by his side like a walking stick, he fought his way back to the clearing. A dozen green eyes flashed up from the flat rock. The animals were round and fat, but their tails were ringed like a lemur’s.

‘Go on, shoo.’ Rocco flapped his wings. They were brazen. The animals, whatever they were, weren’t even used to seeing urvogels and here they were staring at him like they owned the place.

Well, maybe they did.

What if they had lethal fangs like a viper?

Why was he even thinking
that?
They were furry and round and all together in a cluster, which meant they were pack animals. Not predators. Prey. He took a step closer.

Still the animals didn’t move.

He flapped his wings, sharply so they’d crack as he approached the rock.

One animal peeled off. Nails scampered over the stony surface and suddenly the whole caboodle had disappeared into the underbrush.

A silver cup and a wooden bowl lay on the flat rock.

The contents of Magma’s flying belt were strewn about: eating sticks, a jar of pickled ginger, bread and cheese with small bites missing. A pouch of rice had been gnawed open.

As Rocco moved around picking up Magma’s stuff, his toe kept hitting something on the ground. Not a stone, but a smooth, round object. What was it? He bent over and retrieved a vial.
Amber venom
was etched on the side: the white robes’ cure for separation sickness. He found three more.

After packing up Magma’s stuff, he slathered mud on his wings, then flew up; it was a long, long way to the top.

The moon was up casting a bright glow over the treetops, which were thinner near the roof of the forest, and gently swaying. After some shifting around, he nestled into a branch with its own pad of moss.

He must have drifted off. His eyes were open; something had startled him, but what? A voice? A bird’s wing flapping? Whatever it was, it had set his teeth on edge. Sitting forward, he clenched his wings.

In the distance, ten Air Marshals were advancing down a tree-lined slope. They were some distance away, but he could almost hear them talking. Sounds carried far in the night breeze.

A pair of Air Marshals disappeared into the treetops. Another pair followed suit. Moments later their wings bobbed into sight. They were scouring the forest floor, criss-crossing in giant sweeps.

Harpia’s hunting party - headed directly toward them. His heart was already beating wildly, but now his throat swelled up. This was it. They had to get through this next bit, or they were finished.

Taking one last hard look, he skidded out of his branch. The way down seemed to go on forever. His feet hit the ground. He began to run. Every instinct urged him to call out, but he held his tongue.

Cracks of light stuck out from the trees. He’d sort of lost track of the treehouse. Continuing on foot, he hurried into the redwood grove, squinting and trying to make sense of a silhouette stooped in the bushes. The shape was unnatural, hunched over.