Skyborn

by Cameron Bolling

  She loosed another arrow. Thud. It struck the target, the metal tip imbedding itself in the wood at least a forearm’s length away from the center. Ude studied it with a shake of his head. Heat rose into Oleja’s face.

  “You know, one day you may have only one shot. You cannot let your anger doom you. You need to learn to keep it in check.”

  Oleja shoved the bow into Ude’s hands before stepping out to retrieve her arrows. “Thanks for the life lesson, I’ll keep it in mind,” she said. There was no hiding the biting sarcasm in her voice.

  But Ude only chuckled and shook his head.

  With her arrows back in her quiver and the cover fastened shut once again, she returned to the worktable. She put the bow and quiver away. Other things demanded her attention—so little time remained before she put her plan into action.

  The image of the boy from that morning came back to her, his body dead on the ground with an eclipser arrow buried in his chest. No one else would meet the same fate. She wouldn’t let it happen.

  Escaping from the canyon had proven to be nothing short of impossible in difficulty, given the history of the village. Through the years, none had ever succeeded. Some tried climbing to the top—the most obvious route. But no matter when they made their dash for the surface—day, night, under clear skies, or during the rare rainstorms that swept across the land, the results were always the same: an arrow in the back before they even managed to reach the top and behold the world above. If the arrow didn’t kill them, the fall finished them off.

  Others tried to swim out. The river that ran through the canyon had an entrance and an exit, a gap in the stone walls through which they ran. But fixed within each stretched a metal grate, a lattice of bars as thick around as Oleja’s skull and completely unbreakable. Those who tried often drowned before even managing to scratch the metal, leaving the others in the village with the harrowing task of dragging their bodies out of the water to keep them from clogging up the water supply.

  Tor’s attempt finished off the list as the third method of escape the people had tried. Mining through the ground proved no more successful than climbing or swimming if the slaughter of Tor’s team said anything about the viability of such a plan.

  None had ever escaped, not by climbing, tunneling, or swimming. But Oleja had a new idea. Something no one had ever tried.

  From the end of the table she lifted a wooden box. It was tall and rectangular, no thicker than the length of her palm. Four straps of heavy rope hung from it, two at the base that she stepped into and pulled up to the top of her thighs, and two more that fit over her shoulders like a backpack. The top of the box rose to the nape of her neck, while the bottom extended just past the base of her back. As broad as her shoulders and thin enough that she could wear her quiver over it, the compact contraption fit easily against her frame. Aside from the four straps, the only other external feature was a small cord dangling from the center of the bottom, nearly invisible to those who did not know to look for it. Stepping into the center of the space, Oleja reached behind her and grabbed the cord between her thumb and forefinger, and with one quick tug, yanked it downwards.

  From either side of the box, the side panels sprung outwards, hinged at the top so they rose to become level with her shoulders. As they reached the top of their arc, the click of another release sounded as a second set of limbs, attached to the first but hinged at the far ends, swung around and out to extend the wingspan farther.

  As they went, they pulled along with them two triangles of grey fabric, and when the limbs snapped into their final position, two great wings splayed from Oleja’s shoulders.

  It was not enough to climb. It was not enough to swim. It was not enough to tunnel. But Oleja had a glider, and she was going to get out of the canyon by flying.

  Chapter Three

  Oleja dropped the canvas bag on the ground, letting the mouth fall open to reveal the glittering contents. A few fist-sized chunks of copper ore slipped out and rolled across the ground. They shimmered in the orange light of sunset as they came to rest at Jisi’s feet. Oleja spun on her heels and headed the other way without a word. Being the largest haul she’d ever surfaced with, she figured it should keep Jisi satisfied for a few days.

  And a few days was all she needed. If all went accordingly, she would free the whole village within that span of time, and no one would be forced to mine ever again.

  She didn’t look back at Jisi’s face, though she longed to see the shock that surely twisted her features. Leaving without a word seemed better. More mysterious. More dramatic. She spun her pickaxe in her hand as she went, an added show as she walked away.

  With Jisi and the morning’s conflict behind her, she made her way south down the street through the canyon. Miners shambled along with their hauls, a thick coating of dirt smeared across their faces, arms, and legs that turned to mud as it mixed with their sweat. Young children ran about, leaping into the arms of their exhausted parents returning home for the evening. With the crowd came the sounds of life. Evenings marked a small moment of transition—a shift from the quiet of day, when few milled about above the ground, to the quiet of night, when everyone slept. The village only seemed so alive at sunup and sundown, the two brief times when all were both out of the mines and awake. The moments served as times to gather, eat together, and hold meetings.

  “… and as you go about your daily work, remember that you do so for the good of our saviors. Sky eclipsers, the deliverers of life and death, are the bringers of our salvation and protection.”

  Oleja looked towards the voice. It came from a young, angular man. His long dark hair rushed for the back of his skull in an oily cascade, leaving his wide eyes unobscured. His pinched lips quivered between words, and he wore clothes that looked too fine to belong to a miner, though still spattered with a collection of dirt smudges and other stains. He perched on the walkway ledge leading to the second-story homes, arms splayed, gaze directed tenderly down to the crowd gathered below him. Some looked up thoughtfully, while others kept their eyes closed and heads tilted to the ground. Though several such individuals stood below, the majority looked up to him with scowls. Booing calls and other obscenities rang out. A few rocks sailed through the air, though none struck the man. The calls did not seem to deter him.

  “These walls keep us swaddled from the harsh outside world, and our guards stand ever vigilant in our protection,” he continued. “In their great benevolence, they send us their food and water as payment for our service to them, though what more could we humbly request than their sanctum in which we are so blessed to reside?”

  Oleja kept her head down as she passed. The man was delusional, and she would soon show him that, but for now she did not want to get involved. She’d had enough dealings with angry mobs for the day.

  She found an unclaimed fire pit downriver. A fire already burned in the center of the stone ring, though the circle of benches and chairs all remained vacant. Oleja lifted the newly-repaired strap of her bag over her head and threw it down onto a bench, leaned her pick against the end, and flopped onto the empty seat. An assembly of scrap metal comprised the bench, clearly with little regard for aesthetics. Fine craftsmanship seemed equally out of the question. Oleja could certainly do better in both aspects if she cared to spend her time on seating instead of weaponry. Perhaps if she got dragged into the execution circle again, she could make an offer of rebuilding the benches as community service to get herself off the hook. Otherwise, it wasn’t her issue.

  As she shifted positions, the bench creaked and squealed under her weight. Cringing at the harsh sound, she shifted again, and once more the grating of metal on metal filled the air. Resigning herself to ignore it, she let herself relax, but even that shift created another round of shrieks. With a sigh, she stood, moved her bag and pick, then grabbed the underside of the bench with one hand and flipped it upside-down.

  From her bag she withdrew a few tools and set to work. The back right corner seemed to have come loo
se from the nail holding it in place. Rusted and bent, it came as no surprise the nail failed in its role and left the bench a shrieking mess. She pulled the nail out and fished around for a replacement in her bag. Once fixed in place, she checked the other nails for good measure, then righted the bench. Seated back in her spot, she found, with relief, the bench made exactly as much noise as a good bench should—none.

  She tilted her head back and looked up to the sky. A river of dark blue arced overhead, framed by the peaks of the canyon cliffs. A few stars emerged, mere pinpricks of light amidst the dark and cloudless expanse above. She would be up there soon—up on the surface where nothing could obstruct her view of it. The whole sky would be hers.

  A stampede of approaching footfalls found her ears. The footsteps coupled with giggling as they grew nearer. Oleja brought her eyes back down to the earth and looked across the fire to see a cluster of around eight children running across the ground, making a beeline for her spot. The oldest could be no more than seven years old, and the youngest no fewer than four. When they saw her take notice of their approach, they slowed, and some took a new interest in the ground or their shoes or something behind them. They came to a halt on the other side of the fire. A few of the kids eyed Oleja curiously while others exchanged whispers. Oleja watched them with an amused smile.

  After a moment of conferral, one of the kids stepped forward—eyes on the fire, hands behind his back, shy smile creasing his face.

  “Um… could you make something for us?” he asked, flicking his eyes up to meet hers to punctuate his question. The rest of the group looked on expectantly.

  Oleja grinned and tugged open her tinkering bag. “What would you like me to make?”

  “Something cool!” said one girl from the group.

  “A snake!” said another.

  “Fire!” offered a third.

  Oleja twisted her face into mock contemplation. “Hmm. So… a fire snake?” she asked. One boy’s mouth fell open.

  “Can you really do that?” he asked. Oleja pulled a hammer from her bag and spun it in her hand.

  “Hate to break it to you, but I can only make lightning snakes. Haven’t managed to make a fire snake just yet.” A couple of the kids giggled.

  “Of course she can’t make a fire snake,” said one girl to the others. “She can’t make things that are alive. Live things have to be born.” She looked to Oleja with an expression as if asking for confirmation on her facts.

  Oleja raised an eyebrow. “I can’t? Says who? I might have to sneak a lightning snake into their blankets.”

  From her bag, she withdrew a rectangular-cut sheet of copper about four inches in one direction and shorter in the other. She flicked it between her fingers, letting the firelight glint off the polished surface. Its prior fate had been to find a home fixed to her armor, but she had plenty more. She could spare this one.

  With two pairs of pliers, she held the copper on either side and stood from the bench, crossing the few feet to the fire. She held the metal in the flame—low, close to the charcoal lining the ground. The copper glowed hotter and hotter as the minutes ticked by. It transferred heat up the pliers, which grew hot in Oleja’s hands. She ignored it—her tolerance for heat had grown since she started working with metal and flame.

  Children clustered around her, looking over her shoulders and peering at the work from where they sat cross-legged on the ground. One picked up a stick and poked at the logs, causing them to shift and expel clouds of glowing orange embers into the air.

  After a cautionary warning to the young ones, Oleja backed up a few steps away from the fire. The copper glowed red-hot. She twisted the pliers inwards to bring the edges together until she held a perfect cylinder with a diameter similar to that of one of her fingers.

  “There. A fire snake,” she said. One of the kids reached out to poke it. “Easy there,” she said as she moved it away from his curious finger. “It’s not done yet. I said I couldn’t make a fire snake, remember? But I can make something cooler—at least to the touch.” Taking the metal tube—which still glowed hot, pinched within a single pair of pliers now—and after picking up a clay pot from where it lay on its side beside a chair, Oleja shuffled over to the river where it cut through the stone ground not far from the fire circle. At the bank, she filled the pot with water, then went back to the fire and set it nearby. Water sloshed from the rim and dripped down the sides. With a quick look to each of the children in turn, she dunked the metal into the water. Steam rose from the surface as the metal hissed in protest.

  “Hear that?” Oleja asked.

  “The snake!” cried one boy before Oleja could reach the punchline herself. She winked at him in response.

  With the tube removed from the water, she returned it to the fire and rummaged around in her bag for the hammer she had stowed back within. Hammer in hand, she waited patiently for the metal to heat.

  “Are you going to put it in the water again?” asked one child.

  “Can I do it?” asked another. The girl bounced excitedly at her proposal.

  “Yes…” said Oleja, pointing with her hammer to the one who asked the first question, “… and no,” she finished, pointing now to the bouncing girl. “This is dangerous work. I don’t want any of you getting burned.” At that, a few of the children scooted away from where Oleja worked, perhaps realizing for the first time that molten metal was indeed hot.

  When the copper grew hot enough, she withdrew it from the flames and placed one end down on a rock by the fire. Maintaining her grip on the tube with the pliers, she tapped the end a few times with the hammer, flipped it over, and did the same on the other side—not exerting enough force to close the opening, but flattening it into a narrower slit. Then into the water it went, and then back to the flames.

  After she heated the metal a third time, she removed it again and set it on the rock. This time she grabbed a sharp pointed tool and began carefully puncturing the tube with calculated precision.

  “She must be so good at this because she’s skyborn,” said one child to another. Oleja glanced up and then back down.

  “Talents are learned through practice, not given as gifts at birth,” she said, speaking down to her work.

  “Lavhi is a skyborn too,” said one boy, pointing to another. The other boy—Lavhi—nodded with a grin.

  “My father is named Soln, so I am Lavhi Solnri,” said the boy. He put emphasis on the extra letters of his surname, beaming as he formed the sounds.

  Tsss. Wisps of steam curled into the air as Oleja cooled the copper a final time. The children turned away from their conversation to watch.

  From the water, Oleja removed the final product of her efforts. Water dripped from the surface as she released it from the pliers into her palm. With a rag, she wiped away the droplets and bits of soot that clung to the shining surface, and then held it out in her hand for the kids to see.

  “What is it?” asked a few voices in turn. In response, Oleja brought the pinched end to her mouth and blew. A shrill whistle pierced the night air.

  Several of the kids grabbed for it at once, each wanting a turn with the trinket. One of the younger girls got ahold of it first. She sprinted off at top speed, whistles and laughter filling the air, the other children hot on her heels. The whistle changed hands several times as the group ran off together, the calls of their new toy echoing through the canyon.

  Only one girl remained by the fire—one of the older ones, around seven in Oleja’s estimation. Her hands hid behind her back as she watched Oleja sheepishly.

  “Hi… is there something I can help you with?” asked Oleja.

  The girl shuffled forwards a few paces. “My name is Palila. I thought—hoped… well, my dad…” she grappled for words for a few moments, but when none came, she brought her hands in front of her. Clutched in her grip, pressed tightly to her chest, she held a pickaxe head. No handle protruded from it, save for the nub of splintered wood no longer than her thumb that still jutted out wher
e the handle once attached. The head itself was bent into uselessness. The tip hooked sideways at an angle that would serve no miner well as anything but a back scratcher.

  “I see,” said Oleja, taking it in her hands and flipping it over once, twice, three times to get the full picture.

  “It’s my dad’s. But it broke. He wanted to get it fixed or get a new one, but he hasn’t had a good haul in ages, so he has nothing good to trade, and they said there are no spares available right now. And now he has no hauls at all because he has no pick, so he has been moving rubble and tailings down in the mines but it’s not enough. I was just hoping that maybe… you could fix it for him.” She looked up to Oleja with pleading eyes.

  In the canyon, “prosperous times” never came; no one could be considered “well-off,” but some fared worse than others. The rationing and dividing of food kept everyone fed, but beyond that, individuals bartered on their own for the things they needed. It sounded like Palila and her family had fallen on difficult times—or rather, more difficult than usual.

  Oleja looked at the pickaxe head in her hands, and then to her bag where it sat on the bench. Tough, durable metal constituted the pickaxes—meant for breaking apart solid rock day after day for as long as they could possibly hold up. She had tried to use the metal before in her work, but it proved too difficult to manipulate. Fixing a bent pickaxe was no simple trick to perform as entertainment for group of kids. She’d have to expend hours of labor—a day, likely, with her makeshift facilities. She didn’t have the time. Her plan called her to action.

  Her eyes drifted to her pick where it leaned against the bench. She no longer needed it. None would need pickaxes soon, but she couldn’t tell Palila that. The village couldn’t know what she planned, or they might try to stop her or get in her way, and seven-year-olds weren’t exactly renowned for their tight-lipped secret keeping.

  “Here,” said Oleja, hefting her pickaxe into her hand and holding it out to Palila. “This is mine. Give it to your father, it’s his now. I’ll take this one here and fix it up for myself.”