Aeolia

24: Seasons' Spiral

It didn't take long for the birds to deposit Ravine onto the cracked surface of the savanna.

     Once she had gotten hold of her shaking limbs and mind, she set forth—to the east. The flock's shadow moved along with her. She was grateful for its presence, but already missed Spire. His little clenched talons were ghosts on her shoulders.

     "Spire!" she called.

     The songbird happily spiraled down from the sky and lit on her shoulder. The woman felt relief wash through her body. "Could you maybe just stay with me?" she asked. "At least for now?"

     Spire nuzzled her hair. "I'm here, always. I don't know how I ended up in that forest of demons, but the whisperers meant for me to. The birds of Aeolia meant for me to. I am your guardian. And I suppose you are also mine."

     Ravine smiled.

     "It is strange," Spire remarked.

     "What's that?"

     "When you found me in the forest I didn't remember a thing. I was just as lost as you were. Then as time went on I knew we had to find Aeolia, and I knew it was as east as east can be. Then I started remembering things. I knew that I was your guide, and that the birds would come when we were close to our destination. But as we came to the cliff I was unsure. Had we come far enough? How would we get down the cliff? Was this where the birds were to meet us?"

     "Evidently everything you did led us to the right place, Spire."

     "Yes, I suppose you are right."

     "Do you remember anything about Aeolia?" Ravine asked after they had traveled in silence for a while. "When you were younger, before all this happened?"

     Spire cocked his head. "I remember very little," he admitted. "I remember my mother and our nest. I don't know if I had siblings or a father. My mother always let me watch the sunrise. I remember we would..." He tried to think.

     "Would...?"

     "We'd go somewhere. To a river, I think. And then when I spoke, I could...I don't know. The memory is too distant. But I do remember the winds that would sweep throughout our canopy, and the whoosh of the leaves. And then I wasn't there anymore. I was in a dark coniferous forest. And you came and picked me up, and we ran to a meadow. You fell asleep. Our minds were linked—somehow we both saw what one of us was thinking, or dreaming...."

     "The whitewashed world," said Ravine. "I saw a world of complete white, and distant mountains. I think it was in your head—when I woke up you were asleep, and everything around me had changed."

     Spire blinked rapidly. "What else?"

    "What?"

     "What else do you remember, from this strange meadow?"

     Ravine halted and sat down to rest. The cloud of birds paused, lazily hovering above.

     The woman felt hesitant to recall her memory, but the urgency in Spire's voice pushed her to. "I remember when I fell asleep, I dreamed I was in this place. I was in this canopy, and the trees' fruit were stars. I could tell it was about to rain."

     Some knowledge hidden deep inside Spire began to slink to the surface. "Kingfisher," he whispered, treading air, "Kingfisher and Viper."

     Ravine gasped and stood. "What did you say, Spire?"

     "Kingfisher." The songbird's voice was lethargic, as if he'd just awoken from a deep sleep.

     No, the other word, Ravine thought. But kingfisher  interested her as well. "What does kingfisher mean to you, Spire?"

     Spire shook his head. "I don't know yet."

     They walked on in silence, until a bird from above dived in front of them. Her greeting was swift and curt. "I am Honeybee, the Aeolian forecaster," she said. "We are nearing the end of the savanna and approaching Seasons' Spiral. High levels of discord and unbalance will abound. Extreme temperatures are imminent." Stormclouds and autumn leaves roiled along with her words. "Please, be cautious." The gray bird wheeled upwards, about to rejoin the flock.

     Ravine bit her lip in worry. "Wait, your name is Honeybee?"

     The forecaster glanced back.

     "Could you tell us more about Seasons' Spiral?"

     Honeybee perched with a sigh on the woman's other shoulder. Now that the bird was closer, Ravine and Spire noticed she had flecks of amber scattered throughout her feathers, pieces of the rising sun.

     Suns. Reflections in rivers. A land of still, reverent trees.

     Spire shook his head again. Why was his memory all coming back now, but only in fragments?

     "Seasons' Spiral is a perilous place," Honeybee said, dark torrents of rain beginning to fall around them. "At the end of the world, many fibers of the earth begin to panic and fall out of synchronization. Take the Spiral as an example—the place where the seasons struggle against each other, with minds of their own." Now the rain stopped abruptly, following at its heels, snow—light snow that dusted Ravine's hair, Spire's plumage. The forecaster launched into the sky.

     The snow continued. In a matter of minutes, it progressed from gentle flurries into steady whipping flakes. Ravine and Spire looked up. Honeybee was busy at the head of the flock, directing the other birds into formation. The woman caught whistles that sounded like air drafts and thermal complications and general off-balance.

     Strange. From weeks of hearing Spire's chirps and seeing his images, Ravine assumed she had simply learned their language.

     The forecaster saw the pair watching her from below and called down to them. "Ravine! Hold Spire tightly. Make sure to walk in a steady diagonal. Lean into the winds. If the gale becomes too strong, sit in a curled form and shelter Spire inside. Close your mouth and eyes for cautionary...."

     A howl of bitter wind blew Honeybee's last few words away. The flock scattered into layers to navigate the dysfunctional breezes. Ravine and Spire were left to stagger through the cacophony alone.

     "Wait!" Ravine cried after the birds. "What happens when the sun comes back? Will I burn?" She tried to calm herself, to still her rapid breathing, to just look around her at the fighting seasons.

     It was a marvelous spectacle, if one could just set aside their fear.

     A sheet of lightning spread its fingers across the sky to the south. A wildfire flared up a dozen feet away, feeding off the tormented savanna earth. Not a minute later a downpour broke in the sky, sending plumes of black smoke hissing into the air. Ravine's clothes stuck to her in the humidity. Spire let loose a stream of unintelligible screeches. The rainclouds writhed in indecision and began to melt to a soft gray. Soon the snow had begun to fall again. Cold stole over the savanna, wrapping the charred ground in pillowed white. The woman and bird found themselves trudging through a raging blizzard. Ravine grew exhausted.

     She collapsed into the snow and sheltered Spire underneath her.

NOTE: Readers like notes from the author, right? Well, here is a note from me. The author.

I hope you've enjoyed  Aeolia! Thank you for reading this far. Please, if you like it, feel free to vote or comment. My morale would love to be boosted by your kindness! And of course, constructive criticism is always welcome.

--KingfisherBirdLady