Grounded

by Narrelle M. Harris

  Benedick’s wings partly spread to counter the motion as the taxi took a corner, but his balance was still lopsided. He tilted awkwardly and brushed across Clementine briefly. ‘Damn. Sorry.’

  Wings brushed all the time in crowded places, but feathers on skin was considered very personal. Clementine avoided public transport for this exact reason—some people seemed to think her winglessness either an invitation to put their wings where they’d no business being, or got so freaked out they left an exclusion zone of several wingspans around her. Shared taxis were of necessity closer quarters.

  ‘It’s fine.’ His feathers were soft and warm against the back of her neck and shoulder, even when he held the wing away from her. Oh, sun blister you, Clementine Torres, stop it.

  The taxi pulled up at the gallery, the sudden stop causing Benedick’s wings to extend, once more brushing over Clementine’s skin. He twitched his wings away from her but she smiled another ‘it’s okay’ and he relaxed, his embarrassment-ruffled feathers settling smooth.

  Benedick spotted Octavia waiting for them near the front door. She was holding herself apart from the people milling about beyond the threshold. Her short sooty-grey wings were practically pressed against the wall, keeping out of the way of cameras, reporters, gallery visitors and security guards. Her dark skin was flushed and her eyes wide with anxiety; people seemed to not notice that she was there and overwhelmed, her stunted wings fluttering in nervous reaction.

  Clementine empathised with the woman’s sensation that nobody could see you and might soon step on you; of not being able to get any air.

  ‘Let’s get her,’ said Clementine, once Benedick had pointed her out, then hesitated. ‘That is … do you mind spreading a bit to give us span? There are cameras and reporters: you might end up on the news. No, sorry. I shouldn’t … I can get Dell or one of the guards to help.’

  ‘The guards are part of the problem,’ said Benedick, brow drawn in a frown. He took a breath and exhaled it in a huff. ‘Right. Good. Let’s go.’ They strode though the gathering crowd. As they began to be jostled, Benedick snapped his wings out to offer Clementine shelter. His healthy wing spread gracefully behind her, not touching her back but keeping careless people away. His damaged wing was necessarily but awkwardly spread for balance. Some turned to complain but fell quiet when they saw who was in the well of his wing. Security guards herded people out of the way, and then were puzzled when the artist and her … guest? … veered away from the door towards a woman waiting by the entrance.

  ‘Octavia! Over here.’

  ‘Ben!’ Her relief was evident at the sight of her cousin.

  ‘Good evening, Octavia,’ said Clementine, extending a hand in greeting. ‘Benedick is giving of his wingspan to see us inside. Would you like to join us? There’ll probably be photos, I’m afraid, but I refuse to go to my own show through the goods entrance. What do you think?’

  ‘Oh! But I’m …’ Octavia glanced down at her outfit.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Clementine, and indeed Octavia looked very fine in a cream linen suit that offset her dark grey wings and green eyes. Octavia carried a beaded bag, inside of which Clementine could see a camera. ‘You’ll take pictures tonight?’

  ‘A few, if I’m allowed. I haven’t enough pictures of Ben in his finery.’

  Clementine nodded solemnly. ‘Yes. He should certainly be photographed in his finery. You’ll take some of the launch generally? I’d like that.’

  Octavia met Clementine’s steady gaze and grinned. ‘I’d love to, yes! Ben?’

  Benedick flicked a glance to either side, then towards the two women. Something changed in his bearing. He stood taller. Even the damaged wing seemed to lift a fraction.

  ‘I’d be honoured to share wingspan with you both.’

  Octavia stepped into the shelter of his damaged wing, and the three of them headed to the entrance.

  Journalists appeared as expected and began to get in the way, jostling into their path and thrusting microphones and cameras in their faces. Questions were fired at them.

  Clementine Torres, what are your views on the vandal who attacked your work? What will you do if he’s coming to hurt you personally? Are you afraid for your life?

  Have you employed Benedick Sasaki as a bodyguard? Is that wise? Wouldn’t an able-winged bodyguard be more appropriate? Is this safe?

  Captain Sasaki, what are your views on the trial of Adelphium Jones? Are you dating Ms Torres?

  Ms Torres, how long have you been dating Captain Sasaki? What will you do if you have wingless children?

  Who is your friend? Miss, are you Ms Torres’s girlfriend? Is Captain Sasaki your donor for having kids?

  Clementine was caught between anger at the intrusion and mortification that what had begun as a simple gesture to shelter Octavia and get them through the door had turned into a circus. She noticed that Benedick, far from panicking, was standing taller, his wingtips curled protectively in the air behind her and Octavia.

  Octavia mostly looked scandalised and furious. ‘I’ve only just met her! And he’s my cousin!’

  Clementine came to a standstill, and Benedick, sun bless him, stopped immediately too. Clementine took Octavia’s hand and squeezed it. Then she turned to the nearest camera.

  ‘I’m meant to be the creative one,’ she said in a clear, strong voice. ‘So it might be helpful if you lot stopped making things up. You’ll get points for imagination, but none for accuracy. Mr Sasaki is my neighbour, and I couldn’t ask for a finer or more gentlemanly friend to join me tonight. He certainly has more manners than all of you put together.’ She smiled so beautifully it took most of the sting out—but the sting was definitely there. A couple of the more aggressive reporters laughed, but they didn’t back off.

  ‘This is Mr Sasaki’s cousin Octavia Sasaki, an emerging artist in the field of photography. One day, she’ll make you all look like hacks.’ The statement was met with a ripple of grudging laughter from the crowd. ‘Now can I get to my opening, or do you have more inane and intrusive questions about things that are none of your business?’

  ‘What are your thoughts on your stalker?’ shouted one reporter. ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re wasting your time,’ Clementine replied, her eye cool and voice strong. ‘Wings don’t make you worthy of attention. Wings don’t make you human. Our hearts do, our minds, our creativity and passions make us human. How we use our voices to lift us all and bring us together, regardless of wingspan, feathers and flight, is what makes us human. So no. I’m not afraid.’

  She squeezed Octavia’s hand, stood tall, glanced at Benedick to see that he was taking note, and then strode like a queen on a mission into the gallery.

  People stood aside to let them pass.

  ***

  Benedick walked into the gallery alongside Clementine and Octavia with a sense of pride he thought he’d never know again. For months in rehab, when he realised his wing was broken beyond full healing, he’d harboured resentment and anger that it—and by extension he himself—was useless.

  But suddenly, he was seeing himself and that sagging wing in a new light. The bedraggled thing had been offered as a token of social shelter for two people who had never flown; whose little space in the world was made physically smaller by the winged who didn’t see them. His useless wing could … give them wingspan. How could such a small thing make him feel so purposeful again?

  He couldn’t help grinning at Clementine, who held Octavia’s hand in a ferociously protective manner. Clementine didn’t need him for wingspan at all—her personality was as wide as the widest-winged bird, demanding the space that the flying world forgot to give her. The fact that she’d asked him to help them get through the door made him feel like she’d shared her wingspan with him. The very notion warmed him from toe to wingtip.

  Clementine finally let go of Octavia’s hand to summon the elevator. They, all three, stepped inside it—a lovely, wide elevator uncluttered by boxes or moving goods.
An elevator for people. Octavia, looking dumbstruck, blinked at Clementine as the elevator rose towards the first floor.

  ‘How did you know about my photography?’ Octavia asked the artist in a strangled voice.

  ‘Benedick mentioned it,’ said Clementine. ‘So I EchoLocated your stuff and found your website. I love what you’re doing. You have an excellent eye for composition, but more than that, you have flair.’

  The elevator arrived and the three of them stepped out, though Clementine was still focused on Octavia.

  ‘The hypercolouring technique draws the eye to elements that people might otherwise ignore. Your self-portraits are astonishing, the way you colour your irises and feathers, making them stand out from the black-and-white. And that portrait of your grandfather, his eyes and the scars on his hands. Even the greyscale elements are very focused and hyper-real.’

  The two women fell to talking art, as Octavia, all fired up, discussed colour saturations and the highlighting of details to bring out the facets that many found uncomfortable to see. While they chatted, Benedick cast a glance around the gallery floor.

  The exhibition was packed with people, but Benedick’s trained policeman’s eye could see the plain-clothes security watching the perimeters. Along with the security unit downstairs, it was clear the gallery was taking the vandalism and threats seriously.

  Clementine had made it clear that she didn’t want to speak about it, especially not at the opening. And why should she? Her work spoke for her; that kind of hateful rubbish shouldn’t intrude.

  The walls all around were testaments to how Clementine saw the world: great big canvases bursting with minutiae of the world at ground level. Tiny flowers, colourful small creatures, lush plants, all woven together in a rich lattice of life on the planet. Many pictures had fliers in them only as tiny specks flying high above the complex world below, missing all of the detail; all of this everyday beauty.

  Then the gallery manager—Clementine introduced her as Dell MacGovern—interrupted the conversation to commandeer her artist and lead her away to meet potential art buyers.

  Octavia’s face was flushed and happy.

  ‘She likes my work!’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Of course she does,’ said Benedick, with a cousin’s pride. Octavia seemed about to argue the point, but instead laughed, like she too thought Clementine’s approval was inevitable but it was gauche to say so.

  Benedick scooped up two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to Octavia. ‘Let’s go look at the paintings.’

  They weren’t the only walkers here tonight, Benedick noted as he and Octavia strolled through the major gallery floor and the smaller rooms leading off it. Some of Clementine’s more intimate pieces were here, early work of the kind Octavia had bought all those years ago, along with more recent pieces.

  Benedick examined one of a candy moth, exquisitely rendered. It was only after he’d been looking at it for ten minutes that he realised that Clementine had hidden a painting within the painting. The patterns on the moth’s wings revealed the lines of a self-portrait: Clementine’s petite and slender form in pale pink silhouette, finer lines rising from her shoulders suggesting ghostly wings that she had never possessed.

  He looked at the tag on the piece. I fly where others cannot see, it was called. He wondered if he could afford it, and where he might hang it if he could.

  Octavia, he noticed, was gazing raptly at a tiny painting of a bedewed crimson rose. On the petals, almost camouflaged, was a red and black ladybug, beads of water on its carapace. It was called Fresh. A sticker under the name pronounced it sold.

  ‘I sold three pictures last month,’ said Octavia in a hushed voice. ‘They’ve just paid for this. Don’t tell me I’m mad, even though I am.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Fast work, though. How do I go about it?’ He had savings still. Perhaps he should spend it on something beautiful instead of merely useful, for a change.

  Octavia took him over to the gallery attendant, who led Benedick aside to discuss the price and a deposit. Benedick hesitated at the price—fair, he thought, but he’d never bought art before. He wasn’t sure this was how his savings should be spent …

  Benedick caught a glimpse of a silver-haired man in a very expensive suit looking at his painting. His painting.

  Benedick pulled his credit card from his wallet and paid in full for his painting. He went back to look at it, and felt ridiculously like he was guarding it until the sold sticker could be attached to the wall beside it. The more he looked at the soft pink of the moth, and Clementine’s faint silhouette etched into its wings, the more the four-figure sum struck him as ludicrously good value.

  His contemplation of the work was interrupted by a television news camera looming into his vicinity and a microphone being pushed towards his face.

  ‘Captain Sasaki! You arrived with the artist, Clementine Torres, this evening. Tell us, what are your thoughts on the Adelphium Jones trial and the accusations that Jones was a paid assassin?’

  ‘I have no comment to make on the trial. I’m here for the art.’

  ‘You arrived with Clementine Torres. How long have you been seeing each other?’

  Benedick knew better than to answer any questions: media training had been a part of his Service training. He stood a little away from the mike in his face and answered the question he wished he’d been asked.

  ‘Ms Torres, as my neighbour, was very kind to invite me to the opening tonight. My cousin owns some of her early pieces. Extraordinary, aren’t they?’

  ‘What are your thoughts on the vandal attack on her work a week ago? Are you aware that death threats have been made against Ms Torres? Having already been crippled, are you afraid of being victim once more to another assassination attempt?’

  Benedick grit his teeth, drew a calming breath through his nose and steadily exhaled his irritation. His wings shuddered slightly, but he concentrated to ensure he didn’t raise them in an instinctive escape response. Calm, calm, calm. His training was still good for something.

  ‘Ms Torres’s safety is well in hand, I’m sure. I’m here to see the art, as I said. You should be too. She captures a world most of us don’t see. Did you know these candy moths are common? They live under the drooping pines right along the river here. I’ve lived in this city all my life and had never seen one. Clementine Torres is showing us things we ignore and think lack value because they’re not from the flying world. But everything has value and beauty, and anyone saying she has no right to exhibit here clearly fails to appreciate talent at any level.’

  ‘You’re a fan of her work, then?’

  ‘I am.’

  The journalist seemed to be wrapping up, which was a huge relief to Benedick, when a ruckus in one of the side rooms created a ripple of disturbance. Benedick followed the film team and security guards to the root cause of it, looking around for Clementine as he did.

  The cause soon became clear. Someone had found a card stuck over the title notice of one of Clementine’s new pieces. The large work depicted a tiny indigo tree frog sitting in the cup of a fleshy purple flower, while above a few dark flying shapes blocked out patches of starlight. A square of card covered up the original title—Moonlight and Me—displaying instead, in sprawling red ink, the words slime and scum.

  And there was Clementine, pale, tight-lipped, while the camera crew shoved the microphone in her face and asked her how she felt.

  ‘Don’t you think your outspokenness on walker issues makes you a target for threats?’

  Clementine’s eyes narrowed. She threw her shoulders back and pushed her chin up.

  ‘If you’re asking if I should be quiet so entitled featherweights don’t have to feel threatened by people who can’t fly, the answer is no. I should not be quiet. Nor should you. I’m not giving air to this idiot.’ She snatched the card from its usurped space—it turned out to be held on with gum—and tore it in half. ‘If this person is so frightened b
y one artist being held equal with other humans, on the strength of her art, I think they’re the one with the problem, not me. So no. I’m not going to be quiet. Not now. Not ever.’

  She pocketed the torn card, waved for a waiter to bring a tray, and took up a glass of champagne. ‘Here’s to the ones who make wingspan without wings!’ she said. She raised her glass and took a swig. Then, her lips tilted in a rebellious, sardonic grin at Octavia.

  ‘We’re not scared of a timid little note, are we?’ she asked.

  ‘Hell, no!’ declared Octavia. She took up a glass, clinked rims with Clementine and they took another drink while the cameras captured every gleefully defiant moment.

  Benedick grinned at them.

  ***

  The mean little card meant nothing. Should have meant nothing. Should most definitely have meant nothing.

  Clementine had certainly worked hard all evening to convince everyone, including herself, that those three words scribbled on cardboard and affixed with gum to one of her favourite pieces was just a speck of dust on the lens of her world. She laughed, schmoozed her way among the attendees, dismissed the appearance of yet another smear on what should have been a triumphant night and drank champagne. Quite a lot of champagne. Lots and lots of champagne.

  Well, it wasn’t like she had to fly anywhere.

  Clementine knew perfectly well that with her slight frame and smaller body mass than her winged fellows, it took less champagne to make her tilt from flutterbrain to cluck-crowing lush. She’d held herself just short of the latter most of the night, but by the time she headed home she was way past the former.

  Dell helped her to a taxi, her brows furrowed with concern. ‘Don’t worry about it so much,’ Dell told her. ‘And think of the plus side. So much publicity for the showing. A third of the sale works are already red-dotted. You’re all over the news, and people are queuing to see what the fuss is about. I know it’s upsetting, but it’s been a big success, really.’