Winged

Six: Moth to a Flame

Water escapes through my loosely clasped hands and down my chin as I drink. Here, by a slow riverbed, the sun cuts through foliage to brighten the ground and warm my skin. From where I crouch on the lip of a rock overhanging the stream, I can see my blurred reflection. Deeper still are pale fish the size of my finger.

They move as one, grouped in a cluster for protection. They scatter upstream, startled by an orange leaf fallen from a tree above.

I lower myself down, clothes peeled away, into the shallow water. My wings press against the sand, holding me up as I lay suspended, staring at the sky. Tension leaks from every muscle and pore with each exhale, and with every inhale, I listen to the forest. The birds squawking. The river gurgling. The trees swishing. The air, crisp with a touch of rotting undergrowth.

With a large inhale, I kick at the rock, leaving the shore. The weight of my wings brings me to the sand. My eyes flutter open. The water stings, then softens to show a blurred view of blue, white, orange and green.

I exhale slowly, watching as small bubbles form at my lips, dance to the surface and disappear.

Crawling back to the shore, I pull my dripping hair from my face and twist it into a loose knot. I stand and toe my way over sharp pebbles, making my way back to my clothes. In this weather, they dry almost before I splay myself on the rock overhanging the water, basking in the sun.

There I lie, deeply breathing in the rich pine scent of the trees as I close my eyes and silence my mind.

꧁꧂

I awake in the late afternoon because something is on fire.

I sit bolt upright, wiping the sweat from my brow and rolling out of the sun onto the grass. The scent of smoke is faint, but I shiver anyway; reminded of the burnt-out town and its desolate ghosts.

Drowsy from sleep, I pack my few things and prepare for departure. Out here in the dry autumnal season, I can't risk being caught by the writhing tendrils of a flame. With that in mind, I hastily blink the sleep from my eyes and wipe away their crust.

My peace has been broken,

And yet I can't help but feel excited, ready for wherever this fire leads me.

I locate the smoke, a single pillar in the sky.

The trees are difficult to climb. Every branch juts out to catch my wings, but the foliage is too dense for a proper take-off from the ground. I reach a suitable height within moments.

I pause.

The smoke- It isn't in the dry bushland, spreading into the greenery. It's in a clearing.

It's in The Clearing.

Something is very wrong.

I am struck with worry for the only six people I know, the only people who contribute to my identity, my only link to this world. My only friends.

And for my friends, I race to the end of the branch and I jump, diving into the smoky afternoon.

My wings catch me at the apex of my bounce and propel me higher.

I race towards the pillar, nose and eyes already burning.

And I know, without knowing how,

That I am racing towards an enemy.

꧁꧂

I stood here a day ago. The thick stump of the treehouse provides suitable cover from which to scan the clearing. Behind me, the trees are dense and hide me well. Before me, I can see two figures, silhouetted by a grand, burning pyre.