Clipped Wing

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 

    It was midnight as I stared across the empty library. The limestone walls curved over the enormous room. Shimmering white and smooth, they formed a dome and left a gaping hole in the middle of the ceiling. Through it, you could see a beautiful view of the sky, blueness and stars. Night air swirled down from above and settled against the floor. I relished in the breeze. It helped me with my worries, and, trust me, there were a lot of them.

    The ground of the old library was cushioned by a carpet of clouds, probably luxurious enough for even God and the three archangels who always walk upon the finest tufts. Fog crept up and created a dense mist several feet off the ground. I looked like I was missing legs, nestled deep within it. Even the library bookcases pierced through a thin layer of grey clouds.

   This massive reading place could make anybody feel small. But I’d been coming here since I was eight so it had that familiarity and warmth that things from your childhood always seem to have.

    I sat at a mahogany desk in the corner against a wall of the heptagon room. That was always my seat, cool limestone prickling my back. In a hurry, I scanned the desk. On it were sheets of parchment, my glasses, stacks of manuscripts in dead languages, and a bottle of ink almost dried from overuse. The glossy black ink had already congealed. It smelled awful. Still, enough liquid remained to blot out a message. I prayed it would reach him.

    The stylus I wrote with was made of bamboo and not quill feather. And that was definitely a good thing because to my people birds were sacred creatures. It would have been a sin to pluck their feathers and sully them in ink. We praised birds as these songstresses of dawn, floats of vibrant color peppering the sky, but the real reason we guarded them and offered our protection is a lot less sweet and innocent. You see, my kind and birds have so much in common. The wings. The pride. The sleeping in nests made out of straw. And finally, the way we treat humans.

    Birds wanted to have faith in the humans, creeping up to them slowly with timid hops and nestled feathers and perching beside them on a ledge. Even offering chirps and whistles to try and serenade them. But, despite it all, birds were wary of the danger in man. They saw humans make the same mistakes over and over, and pass on those mistakes to their children and their children’s children. So birds were skittish and cautious and never sure enough to bridge the distance of the ledge. I’m afraid that despite all of our oaths, we didn’t trust humans either.

    The night air grew suddenly colder and I rubbed my hands over my arms and shoulders to try and keep warm. I moved the chair forward from the limestone and removed the now icy metal-linked chain that hung from my neck. A ball of nerves, I wound and unwound the necklace between two fingers, gauging its weight. I knew he was alright. The soul chain was just as heavy as yesterday and the days before.

    Still, I wanted reassurance. Slipping on my reading glasses, I couldn’t help but laugh at my image reflected in the mahogany desk. The glasses were almost the size of my face. The frame reached from the top of my forehead to the bottom of my cheek. They were a garish orange color. For good reason, they’d been the only pair at the market the lady couldn’t sell.

    I discovered then that, yes, I was capable of feeling sorry for an inanimate object. At the time the glasses called out to me like the only child at a party of adults.Stranded. To make matters worse, I grew accustomed to wearing them grandmotherly low on my nose and peering down through the lenses. If Mother had caught me like this, she would’ve sailed into a speech about the benefits of being an attractive and delicate lady. I received that speech one too many times.

    Parting my rosebud lips, I took the bamboo stylus to my tongue and wetted it. Then I dipped deep into the jellied ink and pressed the pen firmly against the rough and texturedpage. I tried to make the handwriting presentable. I always tried to make him proud. The first word scrawled out, slow and neat.