by A. C. Salter
“So where do I fit in?”
Jambilee shook her head as Noggin climbed onto another platform. “That’s up to Master Sabesto, I wouldn’t go believing that you’re going to get a cosy job. In the Aviary, everyone starts at the bottom.”
The platform was narrower than the previous, carved directly from a branch instead of being suspended from one. It fed directly to the trunk where a large double door arched above a flight of steps. A few young fae were stood at its base, chattering amongst themselves until they noticed them approach.
“What you got there, Jambilee?” the elder of the group asked as he casually scratched a boil on his nose.
“It’s the Dylap,” she replied as she climbed off Noggin and tossed him the rope. “I mean Dylap. He’s been apprenticed to the Aviary.”
The fairies stared at him. Scowls mixing with disdain as they found the spines that hung from his back.
“That’s disgusting,” the fairy with the boil exclaimed, passing Noggin’s rope to the boy beside him. “It’s not right, he’s not even fae.”
This was met with mumbles of agreement from the others.
“He’s been apprenticed to the Aviary by order of the Chamber of Justice,” Jambilee argued, resting her hands on her hips. “And you, Spoffle, will do as Master Sabesto tells you.”
The boy stretched to his full height, puffing his chest out as he glared down his nose - although the boil must diminish his sight a little. His wings fluttered, a flash of pale yellow partially revealed before he tucked them in close.
“I doubt Sabesto knows of this, he wouldn’t stand for it. Not a wretched creature like this Dylap, working here. My father will be having words, if he is.”
“There you go again, Spoffle. Bringing your personal house into the Aviary,” Jambilee growled, raising her wings and spreading the gold and green colours as if displaying a flag. “There is no room for politics or classes. Everyone starts at the bottom, including you and including him,” her thumb jabbed towards Dylap.
The rest of the group took a cautious step away from Spoffle as he flung his wings wide. The boil on his nose glowing red as he spat at Jambilee’s feet.
“Don’t be foolish enough to challenge me. Not with that pathetic show,” he grunted, narrowing his eyes on her.
Dylap thought Jambilee’s colours were far more striking and the pattern within them more dazzling than those of Spoffle’s, which were plain. Although he had learned earlier that the cleaner and purer the colour of wing, the better class the fairy would be portrayed.
Jambilee’s anger ebbed as she lowered her gaze and slowly folded her wings closed, much to the satisfaction of Spoffle. A smirk curling his fat lips.
“You know as well as I, that the only reason I’m not a tamer already, is because of Sabesto’s stupid rules. But a tamer I will be. And when my father ascends into the upper-class, I will get my own bird.” His smirk arched into a sneer. “Something which the likes of you can only dream about.”
Jambilee’s cheeks flushed red as she raised her chin. “But until then, in the Aviary, and even with your pretty wings – you will do as I command.” Snatching Noggin’s rope from the fairy that held onto it while watching the exchange, she tossed it at Spoffle. It struck his chest before he caught it. “Feed and groom Noggin, and if you delegate somebody else, I will know and will tell Sabesto of your insubordination.”
She waited until he stalked away, tugging a reluctant Noggin behind him. The group of fairies followed, casting sly glances over their shoulders as they began to mutter once again.
“You better watch that one,” Jambilee warned. “Spoffle is the son of a powerful merchant, who happens to be have contacts within the royal house. They’ll be upper-class before too long and then…” She shrugged. “Come, let us find Sabesto,” she said, swallowing so hard Dylap heard her gulp. “We better explain ourselves and tell him of his new responsibility, which I signed for.”
“Will he be mad?” Dylap asked as they climbed the steps, entering the tree through the double doors.
“Mad, sad and hopefully drunk. He’ll be in his cups, floundering on pine wine so we may be lucky.”
“Lucky how?” Dylap probed, as he followed Jambilee along an unadorned corridor, the sun gems hanging from simple wooden chandeliers casting a dull light.
“Lucky in that he maybe incoherent enough not to know that you’re here. If not then this might sweeten his mood,” she said, hefting the pouch of silver dust.
Dylap wanted to hold it. He felt that if he touched it, let his fingers into the rich dust it may touch a memory from before. Igniting a spark that may lead to unravelling the mysteries which his mind locked away.
They climbed more steps and entered an atrium, somewhere at the centre of the tree. The lines ingrained in the polished floor were tightly compacted together. The dark rings formed crescents that ran up the walls from which they were carved, making ever increasing circles until they reached the kidney-shaped dot at its middle. By the number of rings, Dylap could tell that the tree was old, its years spanning out and showing the harder times of drought and the fuller spaces of plenty. Polished a million times over, locking its history beneath the sap that coated the floor.
Three doors lay before them. One was open, revealing another corridor that ran at a right angle to the one they entered from. Another was richly carved with pictures of kestrels in flight, yet had a thick layer of dust and seemed as though it hadn’t been opened in years. And from the third, Dylap heard singing.
“Sounds like he’s well and truly pined,” Jambilee remarked as she straightened the creases on her tunic. “That may be a good thing. His mood is lighter when he sings.”
She knocked on the door, inhaled deeply, forced a smile upon her face and then opened it.
The singing rose in volume without the thick door there to soften the painful tones.
“Master Sabesto?” Jambilee broached as she stepped inside. Then repeated it louder as her words were drowned out by the song. “Master Sabesto?”
The singing wound down to a hum as a large fae waved her over with a thick arm. He was sat behind a desk, slouching back on an acorn rocker with his feet up on the top. He cradled a bottle of pink liquid in the crook of an arm, regarding them with a maniacal grin. Stains of the pine wine blotched his clothes and clung to his beard.
“Jambilee, come in,” he belched, as he dragged his feet from the desk, dislodging scrolls and letters onto the carpeted floor. Daylight filtered through from the balcony with the entire Aviary on view.
Dylap remained hidden behind Jambilee as she approached the large fairy, the pouch of silver dust held before her as she dropped it onto the desk. It landed with a thud.
“Master, this is payment,” she stammered, “from the Chamber of Justice.”
Sabesto’s thick brows drew together as he stared at the bag. “Payment?” he asked, a scowl beginning to form above sparkling eyes.
“Yes, Master, for the Dylap,” she answered and ushered Dylap to stand beside her. He reluctantly crept to her shoulder.
“The what?”
“Dylap,” he answered for himself, having to clear his throat.
Impossibly his scowl deepened and he dropped the bottle and pressed both hands against the desk. Rising on unsteady legs his frame filled the chamber and almost touched the ceiling. Half of his shirt was untucked from his belt and flopped onto the paperwork.
“The creature found in the Twine?” he growled, leaning closer.
Dylap stepped back, Sabesto’s wine-filled breath seeming more potent than the bottle he’d been drinking from. “Yes…Master,” he replied. “Jambilee signed…” He sensed her stiffen and swiftly changed his words. “Escorted me here as an order from the judge, set down by the Prince himself.”
“That’s true,” Jambilee added, “Prince…”
“Enough,” Sabesto bellowed, slamming a meaty fist onto the desk. “What rights do the upper-classes or even Royalty have over my Aviary?”
Dylap and Jambilee looked to each other for the answer, but it seemed that Sabesto was going to answer for them.
“None, absolutely unequivocally none! Those pompous, weak-blooded…” His hands throttled an imaginary person before them, knuckles turning white as they wrung the very air into submission.
“And the Prince told me that his grandfather misses the hunts you used to enjoy together,” Jambilee added, although Dylap wondered if the master of the Aviary could even hear her through his rage-filled rant. Yet somehow the words sank through and he quieted for a moment.
“Yes, the hunts…they were grand.” His mouth opened as if was going to say more, yet lost the thread of thought and snapped it shut. He stared at Dylap for what felt an age before he slumped into his rocker and popped the cork from a fresh bottle of wine. After swallowing a gulp, he pointed it accusingly at him. “It is said that you cannot fly, that the Twine ruined your wings and left you with the stinging barbs from a lightning eel.”
“He can’t fly,” Jambilee confirmed, but I don’t think…”
“What can I do with a fae that cannot fly? What use will he be at the Aviary?” Sabesto blasted, slamming a palm on the desk and making the scrolls jump.
Jambilee shrugged. “It is what it is,” she said.
Sabesto snorted through his beard, shaking his head before lifting the bottle, pausing before he placed the rim to his lips. “Take him to Spoffle,” he ordered. “Everyone starts at the bottom. And tell Spoffle that he is to be treated no differently to any other.”
“Yes Master,” Jambilee said, “Although Spoffle…”
“I’ve told you what to do. If you don’t like it, you can throw the Dylap back into the Twine. If he stays, then he must earn his place like everyone else. Now leave me in peace.”
“Yes, Master,” Jambilee repeated as she backed away from the desk, grasping Dylap’s arm. She led him out of the room and closed the door. Sabesto’s warbling voice once again taking up the tuneless song.
“That went better than I expected,” Jambilee admitted. “Today is a black day for him. A day where he drinks to forget a bitter memory. His mind was elsewhere otherwise he would have been in the Chamber of Justice himself and you, I’m afraid, would be in the Twine.”
“What bitter memory is Sabesto trying to forget?”
“It’s Master Sabesto now. You better get used to saying it,” Jambilee warned him as she pointed towards the second door. The carved outlines of the kestrels decorating the rich wood, although coated with a layer of thick dust.
“The Master once had a son, Jabesto. He was killed in the war against the split-wings. This was his room.”
“He drinks to forget his son?” Dylap asked, fingers hovering close to the door, yet withdrew them before contact.
“Possibly, or he drinks to blot out the pain of losing him. It happened when I was still a baby. Not even having grown my wing ribs. Nobody talks of those days. Farro lost a lot of good fairies in that war. So now you see their reluctance to any outsiders. Especially those of a different wing. Nobody has been inside Jabesto’s room since.”
“Not even to clean it?”
Jambilee shook her head. “The Master forbids it. It’s locked.” She sighed as she led him away and back through the tree. “Let’s get you settled in. You have a place now, albeit a low one.”
4
Wormgut
Jambilee led him back into the daylight, the birds of the Aviary chirping noisily as if competing to dominate the trees. The sun had begun to descend, spreading long shadows from the leaves and branches above.
“I’m afraid I must leave you under the care of Spoffle,” she informed him. “I must return to the Taming Tree to carry out my own tasks.”
Dylap stared at the group of fairies as they approached. Spoffle leering at them as he lounged against a thick knuckle on the branch, sucking on a rolled up bark shaving, its end glowing red.
“Master Sabesto forbids chaka,” Jambilee stated, pointing an accusing finger towards the group leader. “The smoke irritates the hatchlings and keeps the others awake.”
Spoffle blew rings from his mouth as he spoke. “Sabesto is in his cups and will most likely be snoring before I finish, not that it’s any business of yours.”
He passed the chaka to the fae beside him who put it to his lips.
Shaking her head in frustration, Jambilee paused for a moment before replying. “You’re right. I belong to the Taming Tree. But the guard won’t be happy to hear why their kestrels haven’t slept properly, why they’ll be sluggish for the dawn patrol.”
Spoffle snatched the chaka from the smoking fae, dropped it onto the branch and stamped out the burning ember with the heel of his boot.
“Satisfied?” he snapped.
“Not in the slightest,” Jambilee replied. “I don’t like your attitude, but only you can sort that out. In the meantime, Master Sabesto has placed Dylap under your protection.”
“What?”
“And if he is treated differently to anyone else, you will have the full force of the master coming down on you.”
Dylap felt the hatred smouldering beneath Spoffle’s glare and offered him a shrug. He didn’t much care for the arrangement either, but had even less of a choice than he did.
“You’re the head boy in the nesting ground. If you don’t want the responsibility, maybe Sabesto will find a fae who will.”
Dylap could almost hear Spoffle’s mind working as he tumbled those words around his brain.
“Fine. I will…take care of the Dylap. But it’ll only be until Sabesto sobers. We’ll see how long this creature of the Twine, remains then.”
Jambilee offered Dylap a sad smile before spreading her wings and fluttered into the air.
“Do as you’re told,” she advised. “Keep your nose clean and don’t give anyone the excuse to be rid of you.”
Then putting her back to them, she flew across the Aviary to the neighbouring tree, disturbing a veil of leaves as she passed out of sight. Dylap couldn’t help but feel saddened at her departure. He felt that Jambilee was his only friend in the entire city.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked a young fae who stood beside Spoffle. The entire group staring at him with hostility and wonder in equal parts. “It might sting us with those things on its back.”
“It’ll start at the bottom,” Spoffle replied, curling his mouth in disgust. “The least time spent in our presence the better. I can barely stand to look at it. Those things on its back are hideous.”
“I’m sorry,” Dylap offered, feeling shame burning his cheeks. “I’ll do anything. Any job, any task.”
“I’m sorry, Sir!” Spoffle said, raising his chin. “You will address me by my proper title. In fact, don’t address me at all unless asked a question.”
Dylap nodded solemnly as he glanced at the ground, wishing he was elsewhere.
“Does this mean I get promoted?” asked a fairy at the edge of the group, having to pull a cloth mask from his mouth to speak. Dylap recognised him as the fae who had been scraping the bird excrement from the branches and platform. “If he’s taking on a task, it’ll bump us all up one.”
“That is does,” Spoffle answered. “Wormgut?”
A short fairy shuffled to the front of the group. He had chestnut coloured wings and curly black hair and seemed younger than the rest. “I’m here Spoffle, Sir,” he stammered.
“Wormgut, touch the Dylap’s stingers.”
“But…” Wormgut began, eyes forming perfect circles as he stared at him. Yet Spoffle silenced him with his glower.
“I said touch his stingers. If you do, you will be promoted to stewer. If not, then you will remain a worm-gutter.”
Gingerly, Wormgut took a step closer. Fingers trembling as he extended an arm towards him, the rest of the fae grinning with eager anticipation.
“I won’t sting you,” Dylap whispered so only he could here. He grasped one of his own spines and offered it to the frightened
boy. “Touch it.”
Wormgut tapped the end of his index finger and immediately snatched it away. Then, when he realised that he hadn’t been stung, repeated the action more slowly.
“It doesn’t sting,” Wormgut said, rubbing the spine with both hands. “See?”
“Very well, Wormgut. I’ll promote you to stewer once you’ve taught this…thing, how to do your job. Now get it out of my sight before I vomit all over my new boots.”
Wormgut led Dylap away from the group, gesturing with his arm as he took flight and glided enthusiastically away from the branch.
Dylap watched him fly along the platform. Wishing that he too could take to the air. Instead he broke into a run, his bare feet slapping the tree limb as he forced his mind away from the sheer drop to either side. Jumping down the steps onto the platform, he landed hard enough to set the entire structure swinging. The motion causing his vertigo to return. He slowed for a moment, allowing the feeling to pass and felt hundreds of pairs of eyes gazing from the nests in the intricate grid of branches above.
“Oh, sorry,” Wormgut said, returning. “I forgot that you couldn’t fly. How awful that must be for you.”
Glad that the fairy had returned for him, Dylap began to move slowly across the platform at a steadier pace.
“I have no memory of flying,” he admitted as Wormgut flew alongside. “I’ve no memory of anything before I awoke in the Healing Tree.”
“So, some of the rumours are true.”
Dylap nodded. “And I do have the ability to sting, but it seems only when somebody grabs my tangle of wings without me knowing.”
“That’s a pretty neat trick. My name’s not Wormgut, by the way, it’s Ebbin.”
“My name’s Dylap, or at least it is now. I don’t know what I was called before. Why do they call you Wormgut?”
“Because of my job – well your job now. But it’s done for today. I’ll have to show you in the morning. Are you hungry?”
They came to the end of the platform and Ebbin flew over the void to a platform on the other side. Dylap peered over the edge at the forest canopy some way down.