Clementine shifted her satchel to sit across her back and positioned herself to stroke his damaged wing and press it against his body so he could more easily move. Sometimes she had to lean across and press his good wing down to clear low foliage, especially at the end. She was glad he couldn’t see how the intimate contact made her blush with wanting to linger over the deed.
Then they were out in the open again.
Benedick rose, stumbling slightly after so long on the ground with his wings pressed tight. Clementine, more used to the activity, put out a hand to steady him. He clasped her wrist, and she his, as his wings spread to compensate for the shift in his balance. He listed the other way, and his wings snapped out to their full wingspan behind him.
One spread wide, the leading edge to the tips of his primaries glossy and beautiful. The right wouldn’t open so wide, with the crucial ulnare and metacarpus joint robbed of its full mobility. His radius had been broken in the fall, along with four of the primary and two of the secondary bones. The hair-feathers of the limb had either fallen out or needed to be plucked in the course of his recovery, and though most had grown back, they lacked the lustre of fully healthy plumage.
Benedick snapped his wings shut again, self-conscious.
Clementine’s grip tightened reassuringly on his wrist. ‘What did you think of the candy moths?’
Benedick inhaled, held his breath, and exhaled slowly. ‘Are they rare?’
‘Not at all. Rarely seen, though. They live close to the ground and only in those dark hollows. They breed all through spring and early summer. The only way to see them is to get under the drooping pines. Pain in the back, I know. Was it worth it?’
The tension left his shoulders and wings. ‘Every second.’
***
Benedick and Clementine walked back towards Avalon Towers, talking about the candy moths. Graceful as a sky dancer, Clementine swooped her delicately arching hands in front of them, recalling how the moths flew and settled in the branches in their search for moisture from the pine.
Benedick’s gaze kept flicking from Clementine’s hands to her animated features and the way her black, bobbed hair swung about her face as she spoke and laughed. She walked close to him so that his drooping wing brushed against her arm from time to time, and she didn’t seem to mind.
‘… for the first time when I was six years old. I remember that I was upset about the kids flying away and leaving me on the ground again, and I didn’t want to look at them in the sky without me anymore. So I crawled in under the drooping pine in the park to have a bit of a cry. When I was cried out, I opened my eyes and there they were—all these pretty little moths. I’d never seen anything like them before. I came out when my mother called for me and told her all about them. I was afraid she’d think I’d made them up, but she knew about them. She’d never seen them for herself, of course—almost their whole life cycle happens under the pines. After that I used to go looking close to the ground for other pretty things, and I started drawing them to show people that pretty things weren’t just in the sky.’
‘Like the Beetle Party?’
Clementine grinned. ‘Yes! All those iridescent colours! And the delicacy of the mushrooms I painted for the Mushroom Hall. I’ve worked in a lot of mediums now, but the joy of crawling into green places and sketching has never left me. It’s as good as meditation. Candy moths were my first love, the way they …’ She flexed her hands, mimicking the flight of the moths again.
She doesn’t need wings to be graceful. She moves like a dancer. She’s so enthusiastic when she speaks. She runs out of words, so she makes art from her hands and expression.
Benedick tried not to be too distracted by the memory of her hands on his wing as she helped him past the low-hanging pine branches. Small hands, gentle but firm. Confident hands, unafraid to touch the damaged wing as so many others were; as though a broken wing was catching. She hadn’t stared when he stretched and revealed how ravaged the limb was. It had felt bizarre to crawl on the ground with branches pressed to his feathers, but not once had she treated him as though he was incapable of wriggling under the tree with her.
He couldn’t mind that one of his favourite shirts was now covered in dried pine needles and probable moth excreta. He’d chosen this shirt especially today because he thought it made his eyes and chest look good. He’d very much wanted to look good for Clementine Torres. He suspected it was his willingness to squirm on his belly under a tree that had impressed her in the end. The moths had been worth seeing, but not more than Clementine’s face as she studiously sketched them, or smiled at him when the candy moth had landed ticklishly on his finger.
‘In a hurry to get home?’ he asked as they passed a riverbank café.
‘Not especially.’
‘Coffee?’ he suggested.
The café had a broad opening on the riverbank, with stools and tables set out on a boardwalk that followed the shore all the way to the city centre. The first thing Benedick noticed, however, was that a long wall acting as a windbreak was vibrant with a mural in Clementine’s unmistakable art style. The base was covered in depictions of tiny creatures dotted on a field of lush ivy, which climbed upwards, the leaves turning into beetles and butterflies, dragonflies and candy moths. Those in turn rose up and transformed into birds. Every creature and plant was bright and bold: each different; each equal.
‘It’s five-star accessibility rated,’ Clementine said. ‘A group of us at Avalon Towers petitioned the owners when a rebuild was planned, and Orpha Calleano—she’s an architect, she lives on the fifth floor—volunteered her services as a consultant, and I offered to do the mural at cost plus a donation to KiwiKids.’ Clementine was the spokesperson for the charity for flightless children. ‘They’ve won awards for this place,’ Clementine concluded.
Benedick could have deduced the quality of the accessibility design from a single look. Rooftop and pathway access points, flat surfaces for those with further mobility impediments; the menu in large contrasting print on a board, and a braille board beside it.
Patrons included both fliers and walkers, and those who couldn’t walk either. Benedick saw the man with wings but only one leg (flying was harder when steady take-off and landing became almost impossible) and the kid with Octavia’s condition, resulting in stunted wings, too small to support his bodyweight in the air.
Clementine saw him noticing. ‘They get a lot of custom from the Towers.’
The waiter who came to their riverside table for their orders clearly knew Clementine well. She introduced Benedick to the waiter—Claudette—as ‘a new familiar face’.
‘Did you get some good photos?’ Clementine asked him when Claudette had gone.
‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ he laughed. ‘I tried to focus on close-ups. I got a few of the ones that landed in your hair, but I don’t know if I got the settings right. I’ll see if there are any worth showing you when I’ve uploaded them. How about you? Happy sketching today?’
‘Would you like to see?’
‘I’d love to!’
Clementine fetched the sketchbook, but when she drew it out, the envelope from the morning was tangled up in her fingers.
She tried to shove the envelope back in the satchel but Benedick had seen how the happiness drained from her face, replaced by pinch-lipped distress.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing! It’s—’
‘Not nothing.’ Then he remembered the news report. ‘It’s another of those letters, isn’t it?’
‘Really, it’s not important,’ she shrugged it off impatiently, hiding her disquiet under brusqueness, just as she had that first morning. ‘Abusive letters are nothing new. It’s nothing like when I was dating a flier and some moron decided to share his obnoxious opinions about how sick he thought that was. That was some premium quality invective.’
‘Have you reported this one yet?’
‘When have I had time? It was under my door just as we were leaving and I am over
allowing the occasional venomous louse to dictate how my day goes. I wanted to draw. Have a calm day. The show opens in two days. I don’t need this bullshit. I don’t need to let it touch me.’ Her jaw tightened, cutting off the sharp words.
‘Okay. Of course,’ he said, adopting the tone he had used for years with victims of crime and distressed witnesses. ‘It can wait. You’ll be fine. I’m with you if you need anything.’
Her eyes were closed and she nodded, for all the world as if his reassurance was meaningful to her. It could be, Benedick thought, watching her try to regain her calmness. I can’t fly but I’m not useless.
He thought about how calm and happy she’d been under the pines, drawing candy moths. Her favourite meditation, she’d said.
‘Do you still want to show me what you drew?’
Clementine blinked slowly at him. She took another centring breath. When she opened her sketchbook, her hands shook only slightly. ‘Here.’
Benedick saw a page filled with moths and beetles and fine lines of webs suspended between pine needle tips he hadn’t even realised were there in the undergrowth.
‘That’s exquisite,’ he said. He placed a hand over her wrist. ‘You have an amazing eye, to see everything you see.’
‘I’ve learned how to look,’ she said. ‘It’s my world, down here.’
‘Thank you for sharing it with me.’
‘Thank you for letting me drag you under a drooping pine.’
Claudette returned with their coffee order and for a time they busied themselves with stirring and sipping. The sound of an engine on the water claimed their attention: broad-decked boats speeding up and down the waterway. Young fliers stood at the prow, holding onto the railings and letting their wings trail from their shoulders, folded backwards into the slipstream.
‘My folks never let me do that,’ said Clementine. ‘I think they were afraid I’d be blown overboard, I was so light. Later they found out I’d taught myself how to swim, so I’d be all right if that happened, and Mum got hysterical. I swam across the creek at our home twice before I convinced her it could be done. She hated the water. She’d nearly drowned as a kid, imitating her brother in a dive-and-skim. She misjudged and went into the river. Her wings soaked up every drop and she sank. Luckily it was winter, so the water was freezing but only knee deep, and Lance pulled her back to shore.’
‘Lance Torres? The national dive-and-skim champion?’
‘The very man. He could swim a little too, but not like me. He called me Little Fish for years.’ She rolled her eyes. Benedick couldn’t tell if she’d found the nickname endearing or annoying.
Clementine flipped her sketchbook to a fresh page and took up a pencil. ‘I’d love to catch this, if it’s okay?’
‘Go ahead.’
Drawing soothed her. Of course it was okay. Already, Benedick loved watching her draw. Her expression, there under the pines, had been the perfect balance of bliss and concentration. The lines she brushed across the page resolved over minutes from meaningless blobs and dashes to a lightning portrait of the river, the boats, fliers above, and the kid with stubby wings standing on a chair and pointing to an ambulance dirigible overhead.
So much in so few lines. Incredible.
Clementine began to doodle something new in the corner of the page. Benedick took the opportunity to bring out his phone and text Lieutenant Marca Sifakis, his old colleague in the Service and Clementine’s case officer.
Hey Marca. Any news on the death threats against Clementine Torres?
A moment later his phone flashed with the reply, Hey Benny! Nothing yet, but ✓ on a lead.
Benedick sent back a
What’s yr interest?
With her now. Thought I could give her news.
Yr with Clementine Torres? She’s a looker, considering. How’d you meet her?
Neighbours.
Doesn’t she live at Crawler’s Hill?
The message hit Benedick like a wall of icy turbulence in a winter storm. His fingers tightened around the phone and he could feel Clementine watching him with concern.
I live at Crawler’s Hill, he typed carefully. I’m a crawler now, remember?
The pause was long enough that Benedick wondered if Marca would reply. What she sent was: That’s not what I meant.
Then don’t talk like a flapper.
Another long wait.
Flapper?
Fliers aren’t the only ones who can call people names. Flapper=vapid winged idiot. More flap than glide.
Rapidly back: No need to be rude, Ben.
Yes there is. Words, thoughts and deeds are all connected, Marca, like the Chief always says. They feed into each other. Crawlers=disrespect. U lot taking this seriously? Investigating this properly?
Benedick’s phone rang and he answered it immediately.
‘Sun blister you, you bastard,’ snarled Marca. ‘Of course we bloody are. What do you take me for?’
‘A good cop,’ said Benedick tersely. ‘Act like one.’
Marca breathed heavily down the line and when she was calm, she said, ‘Okay. Okay, yeah. That’s … Sorry.’ A pause. ‘So … how’re things? You’re … doing okay?’
‘Good. Yeah. It’s an adjustment but …’ He glanced at the image Clementine was drawing now. An image of him, those inky lines capturing his own face wreathed in wonder at a little moth balanced on his finger. ‘I’m all right.’ He caught Clementine’s eye and her expressive mouth lifted in a smile. He found himself smiling back. ‘Better than. Let me know if you hear anything, yeah?’
‘Sure. I’ll come visit you soon. Avalon Towers.’
‘Fourth floor, apartment four. It’d be good to see you.’
‘And you. Have fun with Clementine Torres.’
Before Benedick could react to the cheeky import of that, Marca had rung off.
‘All good?’ Clementine asked.
‘Marca Sifakis,’ Benedick replied. ‘She says they’ve got a lead on those letters and the vandalism, but she can’t tell me more right now.’
She nodded but the expression was solemn. He hated that he’d made her so circumspect again. He leaned forward to examine the drawing.
‘Did I really look like that?’
The smile was back, making her dark eyes crinkle. Gorgeous. ‘You really did. You had three or four of them along your wing at one point, too. You didn’t see. They looked very pretty there, all that candy pink on the black and brown. Like you were wearing flowers in your wings.’
And then she blushed and busied herself with a few more lines on the page. Benedick had never been so charmed in his life. Sun blight Marca and her ‘Clementine Torres is a looker, considering’. Clementine Torres was beautiful, no justifications required.
He touched her wrist and she raised her eyes to meet his. Her cheeks were still pink.
‘You had them in your hair,’ he said softly. ‘Pink on black. Beautiful. Thank you so much for showing them to me.’
‘You’re welcome. Say … what are you doing night after next?’
Physio. Television. Watching through my window as the world flies away.
Oh, blight that for bullshit. Clementine had just proven to him that not everything worthwhile was in the air. ‘Nothing important.’
‘Would you come with me to the opening of the show?’
‘Clementine Torres, it would be my honour.’
She smiled, dazzling and perfect.
‘Great. I’ll organise a taxi and we can go together.’
‘Sure.’
‘Great.’
Warmth that had nothing to do with the sunshine settled in Benedick’s skin and feathers and chest, and he began to consider what one should wear to the opening of an art exhibition.
Chapter Six
‘See, it’s all beautiful again.’
Dell’s crisp reassurance was meant to be heartening, but Clementine was still painfully aware of the flaws in the work. Perhaps ‘flaws’ was a bit strong. The damaged pieces didn
’t look repaired, they looked whole once again. She’d spent hours making it so. Yet she was aware of how each painting differed in the tiniest ways from its original form. She even fancied she could see shadows of red paint on the frames, although each had been stripped and repainted, or even replaced when necessary.
Clementine knew she was seeing marks that no longer marred the canvasses. She closed her eyes and shook her head, sending the memory-images flying. Water off a duck’s back, she told herself. When she opened her eyes again, she regarded the pictures with a critical eye.
Yes. They were all beautiful again. Unscarred, untainted. Revived and renewed. To anyone who didn’t know what had been done to them. Clementine knew her art was haunted only by her own memory of the hate.
‘Clem, darling?’
Whoever did this doesn’t win. I am here. My art is here.
‘They’re all ready for tomorrow night.’
‘I know. And you?’
‘I’m all ready, too.’
‘Fabulous. There’s a reporter here with a film crew to capture a few words before the opening …’
‘Dell!’
‘What? It’s an art show. People are interested. Go and interest the people!’
Clementine huffed a laugh, half rueful, half amused. ‘One day, Dell, I’m going to paint a portrait of you with devil horns and scales instead of feathers.’
‘As long as you paint me, Clem, I’ll be delighted. You can even give me a forked tongue if you like.’
‘I might just do that,’ Clementine teased as she wiped her hands and face with damp paper towels.
The film crew were waiting for her in Dell’s office, which boasted one of Clementine’s earlier pieces behind the desk. Clementine took a few minutes to freshen up while the interviewer, Dayton Reeves, worked with the cameraman to set up the lighting.
‘You’ve been in the news this week for all the wrong reasons,’ Reeves began when the camera was rolling.
‘It’s been a nuisance,’ Clementine said. ‘But that’s all. No real damage was done.’
They talked a while and then Dell arrived to take them to the gallery where the mended pieces were being hung. Clementine walked with Reeves and chatted about her inspirations, her feelings, her hopes. She smiled confidently and flirted with the camera and assured the station’s viewers that she was not alarmed in the slightest. ‘Some people have nothing better to do with their time than be angry at people who are different.’
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