Wing & Nien

by Shytei Corellian

  A sound near Joash’s feet caught his attention. He glanced down.

  The long rope securing the last of the big timbers for the completion of the roof was trailing along behind Wing’s right foot. Joash looked up.

  Wing was carrying another, slightly smaller timber, and had not seen that his foot had become caught up in the rope securing the larger timbers.

  “Wing, STOP!”

  Wing only took one more step but it was enough — a resounding crack rang in Joash’s ears as the slipknot on the first timber slid free. They were tied in such a way to be released from above by means of the slipknot without having to be under the log, enabling them to move it down the roof in a controlled manner. But Wing’s foot had undone it from below and had released all three timbers from their bundle at once.

  A shot of clear panic raced through Joash. And then he was moving.

  Ahead of him, Wing had sprung into action as well. There would be no outrunning the timbers and so Wing had decided to run at them.

  Joash paused just long enough to see Wing leap and clear the first one. Wing somehow managed to stick the landing, gaining sufficient traction to leap the second one. It rolled away as well beneath his feet. But the rope was still tangled about Wing’s ankle and, from there, to the last of the three timbers. This one snapped as it reached its end and, with a wrenching yank, flung Wing down.

  Barreling towards Wing, Joash cringed at seeing his son’s face connect with the roof. He knew there would be no stopping the timber at the end of the rope but he might be able to catch Wing before he was dragged over the edge. Ripped by the weight of the great timber, Wing was twisting back and forth, clawing madly at the roof, as Joash threw himself at him. Wing reached out — a desperate grab for Joash’s hand. But the timber had a different idea…

  Their gloved fingers brushed. And missed.

  “Fa!” Wing cried out.

  Joash scrambled, leaping for Wing again. His knees struck the roof and he skidded. Wing hurled himself over in a desperate attempt to change his trajectory. It was not enough. He vanished over the edge of the roof.

  Joash gasped, lost his footing and slid sideways, bound now as well for the edge of the roof.

  Joash dug in with the toes of his boots and managed to stop his descent, hands clutching madly at the roof timbers under him.

  Stopped at last, Joash snapped a sharp breath and pushing himself up began to crab-crawl toward the edge of the roof over which Wing had disappeared — a spot that was the very worst point possible for his son to have been dragged over. By the Vanc’s request, the back side of the house had been built on a steep pitch overhanging the river that flanked the northing end of Rieeve. It was a long plunge to the rocky-banked and swift-flowing river.

  Heart beating unnaturally in his chest, Joash had fallen into a state of panic and disbelief so acute he couldn’t feel or think at all, he was only moving because he had to, because what he knew had just happened could not possibly have happened.

  As Joash moved to the edge of the roof, however, he was able to notice one thing: He had not heard what he knew he should have heard — the reverberating crack of the timber as it broke upon the mutinous side of the cliff before tumbling into the river below.

  Silence filled the space around him. A silence the Mesko Tender knew well.

  In the Mesko forest after he, Wing, and Nien had severed the trunk of one of the giant trees, it would remain standing for that moment, as if its memory of life briefly overrode the fact that its lifeline had been cut.

  But, just as the tree would inevitably accept its fate and crash to the forest floor, Joash’s breath returned to him in a cacophonous thunder and he was forced to consider what had happened.

  Except that it hadn’t.

  There had been no crack of splintering wood, no splash of water, no resounding echo.

  Choking, wanting but unable to cry out, Joash forced himself to continue to the edge of the roof where he could look over, where…

  Joash heard an odd, impossible sound. The sound stopped him in his tracks. Surreally placed, it slipped through the numbness in his head like a thin blade.

  And then he heard it again, a soft grunt followed by a ragged breath.

  “Wing!”

  Rushing the rest of the way, Joash caught sight of something that shocked his heart with complete surprise: curled tightly into the ditch of an unsealed spline were Wing’s leather-gloved fingers.

  Joash dropped to his belly and, reaching over the edge of the roof, grabbed Wing around the forearms. Wing’s head sagged against the side of the roof as Joash looked down. The roof timber still hung from Wing’s leg, swinging sickeningly at the end of the rope over the chasm below.

  Raising his head, Wing found his father’s eyes.

  The look there cracked in Joash’s heart like a thunder clap.

  “No!” he barked at Wing. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just hang on.”

  Wing shook his head ever so slightly, the look in his eyes saying: It’s no use.

  “Come on,” Joash said, ignoring what was evident between them. “You can do it. Just pull yourself up a little. Get yourself up here enough so I can release the rope.”

  “I can’t,” Wing muttered, and swallowed. His arms were trembling so badly Joash was having a difficult time hanging onto him.

  “Come on!” Joash barked at him. “Do it now!”

  Joash knew he was asking the impossible. It would have been difficult enough for Wing to managed the feat with just the weight of his body, but the weight of the timber log as well…

  Joash was not about to let go.

  “Come on, son, just get an elbow up here, come on.”

  The blood vessels in Wing’s temples jumped out stark and livid as Wing drew a breath and, with Joash pulling up on his arms, managed to release the fingers of his left hand long enough to push his arm forward, locking his elbow just over the edge of the roof. It was clear the change in position wrought a huge relief in Wing as Joash threw his body over Wing’s arm, pinning it down.

  “All right,” Joash said, breathing hard. “Now, get your other arm up here.”

  He could feel Wing about to protest, but he did not.

  Come on, son, Joash thought, you can do it. Like himself, Wing had the strength of a lifetime of difficult physical labour in his bones and body. Joash hoped it would be enough.

  With an effort that ripped a cry from inside him, Wing managed to uncurl the fingers of his right hand out of the spline and hitch his other arm over the roof.

  The sound coming from his throat was that of a man whose bones were being slowly ripped apart, ligament by ligament.

  “E’te, good. Now, come on,” Joash said above him, sliding one of his hands around the back of Wing’s upper arm. “Heft yourself up here, come on, you can do it.”

  Wing seemed beyond the ability to protest.

  Joash felt Wing’s chest rise in anticipation of the effort, and then Wing pushed mightily with his elbows.

  For a brief spark, Joash thought they’d done it…

  And then Wing’s other elbow slipped. Joash threw himself down again, grunting as Wing’s weight fell against his hands, crushing Joash’s hand beneath his left arm.

  Wing was almost back to where they’d started — one elbow upon the roof, the rest of his body hanging free.

  Sweat pouring down their foreheads, the men held on — Wing to the house, Joash onto Wing.

  “We’ve got to get that rope free,” Joash said. “Can you untangle it or do we need to cut it?”

  Even looking down at his foot seemed a precarious proposition, but Wing did so, slowly.

  “It’s…wrapped…twice,” Wing said, his words grinding out through his teeth like flour.

  My knife, Joash thought. He wriggled a little, pressing one hip and then the other into the roof, trying to feel which pocket it might be in. He didn’t feel it on either side.

  “Sech’nya,” he swore, “my knife’s not there.” He lo
oked at his son. It was clear Wing knew what he needed to do. It was also clear he thought it impossible.

  “If…I…let…go…” Wing muttered.

  “I’ve got you,” Joash said. He felt sick but sure. He had to be sure. He would hold his son or go over with him.

  Joash gripped Wing as best he could, his head pressed next to Wing’s, one of his hands latched under Wing’s armpit, the other reaching around to grip Wing’s ribcage.

  With a shuddering breath, Joash felt Wing let go with his left hand. The feeling of half of his son’s body hanging free into thin air was terrifying…

  And electrifying.

  He felt Wing’s body strain as he attempted to bring his leg up high enough to reach the rope tangled around his ankle. He managed to get a hand on the rope but was unable to budge it with the weight of the timber pulling it tight. He’d begun to shake so badly Joash felt the quakes move through his own body.

  “Breathe, son,” Joash admonished. “Breathe.”

  He felt Wing breathe and, looking down over Wing’s shoulders, saw Wing get a finger under the rope. Joash prayed as Wing managed to lift just enough of the rope to release one coil. But the effort took Wing in a violent spasm, his muscles protesting, his belly crutching on him. Wing’s leg dropped, the weight of the log tearing him, joint and sinew. He grunted, gasping, a strangled cry issuing from his throat.

  “E’te, it’s all right, you got it,” Joash said, the strain in his voice belying the confidence of his words. “One more try, you got it.”

  But Wing didn’t respond immediately and Joash feared he was losing him. If Wing passed out they would be done for. Feeling the slack in Wing’s body, Joash snapped at him: “Wing, reach down and get that rope off your foot! Do it now!”

  Wing flinched under him.

  “Come on, son, I’m not letting go so you have got to get that rope off your foot!”

  Like an animal willing to tear its own leg off to get free of a snare, Wing recovered with a surreal growl, desperation and anger imbuing him, as he reached down once more for the rope. Drawing his legs up, he got his fingers under the rope again, and pushed. The rope slid — a bit, just over the rim of his boot, and caught again. Wing snarled deep in his throat, crying out as he shook his leg with a fit of frustration and rage. The rope slipped across the leather of the heel, and then, miraculously, it was sliding free. It ripped through the air with a sharp hiss, followed by the ear-splitting crack as the timber hit the boulders far below, shots of wood shrapnel vaulting through the air, some in bits no bigger than might be used for kindling.

  A brief wave of euphoria shot through Joash as Wing swung his arm back toward the roof, just catching the edge of it with his fingers. Joash adjusted his position, placing himself in a better place to help pull Wing up when another cramp of fatigue crushed Wing’s back nearly dragging him out of Joash’s arms.

  Joash only just managed to maintain his hold, thrusting his arm further under Wing’s shoulder before grabbing the back of Wing’s shirt. With a cry that matched the one that had torn through Wing moments before, Joash pushed a knee up under himself and hauled backwards.

  The next thing he knew Wing was cresting the roof, hitting his knees, and falling forward over him.

  Father and son came to rest in a knot upon the roof, Joash on his back, Wing sprawled half across him.

  Joash was briefly aware of nothing other than the combined beating of his and Wing’s hearts, heavy to bursting, their breath rasping through their mouths. Wing was shaking with tremors so profound Joash feared they might shake them both from the roof again.

  Slowly, however, Wing began to settle, and in the wake of the strain and subsequent relief of being safe once more, Joash envisioned a strange event where his and Wing’s bones morphed into the Mesko wood that made up the home’s borders, their flesh became the rushing water of the stream, and their blood the pure rays of sunlight pouring down over the rooftop, a sort of fluttering hallucination brought on by adrenaline and fatigue. Allowing the vision to flourish, he closed his eyes, unsure if he were going to laugh or cry at the sheer incredulity of what had happened and that they had both survived it.

  Wing continued to lie heavy beside him, not moving other than that which was involuntary — breathing and trembling — and Joash let him be, becoming aware of the small things that came into sharp relief at the end of a near-fatal experience, the tingling warmth of sunlight on his bare arms, the quick cry of a bird, the faint rustling of leaves, the distant sound of the river, the blood moving through his veins.

  But, like the fanciful imagining, these things faded as well and it was time to move, to see how bad off Wing was and what they needed to do for him.

  “Son,” Joash said, still half under him. “How are you? Can you sit up?”

  Wing didn’t immediately respond. When he tried a moment later to push himself up, he stopped suddenly, hissing through his teeth, before easing himself down again.

  “Ouch,” he muttered with some succinctness.

  Carefully, Joash wormed his way out from under him. Stiffly, and with a grunt of his own, Joash pushed himself up and knelt over Wing.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Your back?”

  Joash wondered whether Wing had meant to shake his head or nod as he managed only to roll it in a meaningless circle, an action which seemed to hurt as well.

  “I just need to lay here a bit,” Wing said at last and closed his eyes. “Just…need to rest…” As his words trailed off, his eyes closed and his face went a deathly white.

  Joash felt a brief jolt of fear.

  “Son,” Joash said. “Wing, wake up.” He patted Wing’s face lightly.

  Thankfully, Wing roused, his eyes rolling under his eyelids before he opened them.

  Relieved, Joash said, “Stay with me here, son. You passed out.”

  It looked like Wing was having a hard time getting his eyes to focus as Joash took a moment to look him over. He could not see any obvious malformation, but certainly there had to be a great deal of trauma through the joints and muscles of son’s body. Joash could feel the weight of exhaustion in himself as well, easing up like water filling a container, swallowing his bones.

  “E’te,” Joash said, “let’s try this again. Can you move? We should probably get some water in you.”

  Wing squeezed his eyes shut and then, with Joash’s help, managed to sit up again.

  It seemed every fiber and joint of his body revolted, but he managed to stay semi-upright.

  Joash reached up and took both of Wing’s shoulders in hand, one at a time, making brief inspections.

  Wing hissed and drew in a breath.

  “They appear to be in place,” Joash said, “though how you did not tear them from their sockets, I don’t know.”

  There was blood on Wing’s face and more on his shirt. Joash took up one of Wing’s hands, inspecting the fingers. Though not usually of a mind to be touched, Wing let Joash make his inspection without resistance. The fragile joints had managed to hold not only Wing’s weight but that of the heavy timber as well. They were already starting to swell.

  Wing sniffed. “Think I might have broken my nose. Again.”

  Joash reached out to touch the nose and Wing grimaced. Joash withdrew his hand.

  “Can you breathe through it?”

  Wing tried. There was a slight wheeze, a gurgle, and he coughed.

  “Hard to tell,” Wing replied laconically, “too much blood in there.”

  Joash shook his head. “The prophets,” he swore, and Wing glanced at him in surprise. Joash blinked back the rush of emotion welling in his eyes.

  “I think I can move,” Wing said. “I’d really rather be off the roof.”

  Joash snorted. “You and me both. All right, let me help you.”

  The men staggered to their feet together, Wing swaying, leaning heavy upon Joash.

  “I’m sorry, son. I knew you were tired, I should have told you to go home.”

  “It’s n
ot your fault. It was stupid of me to stay — endanger both of us.”

  In performing such dangerous work, the men were accustomed to being honest with each other if one of them was feeling compromised in strength or focus. But the pressure to finish the house was great, and Joash knew Wing felt the obligation to help as much as he could.

  But now that Joash had come so close to losing Wing, he berated himself for allowing the damn house to have taken priority. Joash felt a wave of nausea at the thought and gulped, adjusting his shoulder under Wing’s.

  As they moved carefully across the roof, Wing’s right leg bent under him. “Easy,” Joash said, lowering Wing back down. “What is it?” The leg that had turned was the one from which the timber had hung.

  “My hip,” Wing said, pressing his hand against it.

  Joash thought it a miracle that the timber had not pulled Wing’s leg clean from his body when he’d gone over the edge.

  The whole thing was a miracle. Wing should never have been able to hold onto the roof, not with having been ripped over the edge by the momentum of the falling timber.

  “Rest a bit. We’ve got to get you off the roof, then I’ll go fetch the doctor.”

  “No,” Wing said. “Commander Lant.”

  Joash paused. The Commander had a surprising wealth of knowledge and, as Nien told it, was the primary medic for the members of the Cant. He would also be quiet about what had happened which, Joash figured, was Wing’s main reason for choosing him.

  Any displacement in Wing’s hip was — at least — not obvious and Joash found some small relief in that.

  They waited until the worst of the pain had subsided and then Joash helped Wing back to his feet. Wing put only what weight was necessary upon the leg as they continued across the roof to the ladder.

  The ladder leading off the roof was a long one and Joash was worried about Wing’s strength to hold on for the descent.

  “Let’s rest again. I don’t want you falling off the ladder.”

  “Good thinking,” Wing said.

  Wing sat down, his body moving as if all his joints were operating independently of each other.

  Joash retrieved the pack of food and water at the edge of the roof by the ladder and they sat together for a time, quenching their thirst and nibbling on some nuts.