Winged

Two: At Least There's A Dog

The wind in my face is blissful and perfect. Every strand of cold wind flicks over my cheeks with startling clarity, curving smoothly around my wings. Wings sore with the strain of muscles working hard after being still for so long, and I know that once the sun disappears I will likely fall asleep too. But there is nothing here to rest upon unless I were to roost in a tree like a bird. Although it's certainly warm enough. 

I had been flying for what seems like hours, headed generally so that the burnt place and the tower behind it face my back. The land is a repetitive cut-and-paste of everything I saw ten minutes go. At least flying is far faster than walking; It's not bad, and I don't tire as easily as I would have taking a leisurely stroll, although my back has already begun to burn. I try and put the thoughts of screaming and ashes behind me but of course as soon as I think that-

Children were in the village. I saw their bones. Children who burned, going up in flames like kindling.

I shake my head and realise that I've stopped mid-air. The break in the tree line draws my attention to a gaping hole- a circular clearing ringed with tall trees. I head toward it, drawn by it's strangeness with curiosity. 

The clearing Is littered with autumn leaves that make a satisfying crunch when I stomp on one.  A tall tower and an unnaturally thick tree penetrate the skyline, breaking the symmetry. As I fly closer to the area, I see them in more detail. The tree isn't just a tree, but a tree house, complete with a rickety ladder and an extremely large structure in the center of the mythical oak. Windows are grotty, and nothing can be seen through them. The door, even, is broken, fallen to one side like an elderly man leaning wayward on a cane.

The other building reminds me of a fantastical tower. The old brick is built smoothly and delicately, varying in multiple shades of grey and cream. An arched opening is located at the underside, and a small window sits at the top- also grotty with misuse. Vines tangle over the brickwork, making strangely intricate and beautiful patterns. 

I land, leaves blown away, making space for my feet to touch the overgrown grass that reaches my thigh silently. I start my way towards the tower to take a closer look but I jump at a low and vicious growl, astonished to hear life in this barren place. I find myself already in the nearest cover- tucked away in the shadows underneath the tree house's wooden veranda. 

I thought I was alone. 

"Shut up!" I hear the cruel voice and I wince at the harsh bite in the words. I can even picture the spit flying from his mouth as he yells- it's one of those yellers. Slobbery with fury. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I stand taller on my toes, pressing one ear up against the splintered floor to eavesdrop. No-one can see me under here. 

I hope. 

"Leave her alone, you asshat!" An older voice cuts through the grumbles, sharp as ice. If a cat had been given a bath outside in winter and could talk, that is what she would sound like. Angry. Ferocious. 

"I'll do it, Paul." Another man grumbles. A resounding 'Crack!' echoes, catching me off guard as much as the screaming. More murmurs are heard overhead, all female from what I can tell. A jumble of; "Twatwaffle!" , "I'll use that fucking whip on you!", "You can't kill all of us," and "Please stop."

The please catches me off guard, and the voice is undoubtedly the youngest. It's high pitched and wobbly, unsure. I feel a tang of compassion for the little girl. But clearly the men don't. 

"Shut up all of you, or you all get the whip! Once- on the face- for every word!"

In the span of a few short breaths, all the above noise freezes abruptly, and I would have thought time itself had stopped if not for the panting of what could only have been dogs. A muffled sob reaches my ears and I nearly crumple beneath myself out of pity at the sad story in front of my eyes. Probably slave traders. 

I think for a split second about leaving- Surely nobody can help these girls now, but as I quietly creep over to the edge of the veranda, boots clomp out the door and start climbing down the ladder. I freeze, then throw myself behind the trunk, breathing fast. They can't see me, they won't see me! I can't be whipped, I-

"Here, Carl." 

I peek around the trunk, immediately swinging my head back when I see his face. Not looking at the trunk- thank maker, but back at the veranda at his comrade, probably. Unless there are more of them. Their voices all sound identical to me.

I can feel my face flushing with shame in the shades of blotchy scarlet. Leave them here? How could I do that? Maybe if these men are leaving...

This one's face is covered in dirty stubble, his eyes a dull brown-orange.  He is reaching up for one of the dogs, it's muddied front paws just visible. Even in wait, his lips are fixed into a thin sneer, but other than all that he's not bad looking. Uncanny for someone with such a foul persona. The sight of him makes me shiver despite the heat, and I do not wish to see either his face or his companion's again, so I keep behind my trunk until I can't hear their mumbled arguing as they, I assume, stalk back off to where they came from.

I wait another skittishly long five minutes, counting the seconds on my fingers and listening as closely as I dare for any more noises. At every thump I jump, and each time someone presumably kicks on the floor I fall back in surprise. As you would, I mean who kicks the floor?  

It just doesn't add up is all. Why leave their trade unattended? I'm being ridiculous. They're chatting openly. No-one's been yelled at since the others left. 

Then, using as much courage as I can muster, I climb the ladder. It is surprising the old beams don't give under my weight. They look as if they could crumble away to dust at any given moment. 

Crawling onto the veranda that is as old and cracked as the ladder leading up to it, I slither over to one of the grubby windows, peering through. As I make out the many shapes and figures, my back stiffens to a rod in surprise, and all I can do is stare, biting my lip again.

There is no sentry, but a circle of chained girls. And not just slaves, either. 

They have wings, like me.