Nocturne

by Sharon Shinn

Page 8

 

  I was washed with a sense of pleasure so irrational that I immediately tried to destroy it. “You trust me to do that? What if I decide to remain silent, just to confuse you?”

  I had thought to baffle him or enrage him or make him so uneasy that he instantly abandoned his plan. But he was getting as good a measure of my personality as I was of his. “In that case,” he replied, “I will come awkwardly to ground—perhaps injure myself—attempt to make my way safely back to the house without your help—and then refuse to see you again. Which would cause you to lose what I have come to believe is your very real pleasure in visiting with me for however long this arrangement lasts. ”

  I was silent for a beat. “That was good,” I said. “You thought this through before I even arrived tonight, didn’t you?”

  He was smiling—a real smile, pleased with himself, a little smug, but I had to admit I liked it. “I did,” he said. He had started pacing slowly around the perimeter of the roof, as if trying to get an exact feel for its dimensions. I kept turning slightly to keep him in my sight. “I don’t think you would betray me in such a fashion. If I ask for your help, and you promise it, I don’t think you’ll renege. ”

  Oh, yes, a very good measure of my personality. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Stand in the middle of the roof. Where there are no pipes or poles that will trip me up when I land. They are too small for me to sense, and they have brought me down more than once before this. I will go aloft—I will circle—and then I will come down to the sound of your voice. ”

  “How far out will you be able to go and still hear me?”

  He cocked his head, as if listening. “It’s a still night,” he said. “Sound should carry some distance. When your voice grows faint, I’ll circle back. ”

  “So you want me to stand here the whole time you’re in the sky, shouting out nonsense like an idiot?”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard for you,” he said.

  Before I could respond with indignation, he laid a hand on the half wall and vaulted up to a crouch. I was suddenly flooded with a very real fear. “Corban—” I began, but I couldn’t think what to say. Be careful. As if this was an enterprise where caution was possible. Are you sure you’re ready? As if I hadn’t been the one pushing him to try this very feat. Good luck. As if I was afraid he’d fall. . . .

  He straightened in one quick, graceful motion, his wings spread to help him keep his balance. For a moment he stood there motionless, limned against the moonlight, a distinctive shape with such primeval power that I felt my breath catch in my throat.

  And then the great wings spiked downward, sending a current of wind billowing over the roof, and Corban was airborne.

  My fear mutated to outright terror as he seemed to list and stutter against the faint breeze. I could see his wings beating frantically, his arms chopping through the air as if he was fighting to realign his weight. He made one sloppy circle overhead, dipping dangerously close to the corner of the house, before he was able to gain a little altitude. I saw his body straighten out, his arms stop thrashing—and then it was as if he had it. He remembered the trick. He was flying.

  He widened his arc, climbing upward at the same time. From this odd vantage point, directly underneath him at intermittent points, I could see the laboring of his wings, feel the faintest draft from his passage. It was so impossible and yet so beautiful, the sight of an angel in flight. I felt an awe, a sense of wonder, as if the god had stepped down and rested his hand upon my shoulder.

  Corban’s range expanded to an even greater distance. I had the impression that he had grown giddy with motion and, like a drunk man, lost all fear or capability for rational behavior. “Corban, not so far!” I called out, remembering for the first time that I had a responsibility in this little drama. “Corban, can you still hear me?”

  For an answer, he canted his body over so that his wings were almost perpendicular to the ground and made a tight spiral back in my direction. “Corban!” I shouted. “Can you still hear me?”

  He passed over my head and waved and kept flying.

  I twisted to watch his progress and continued to call his name out at regular intervals, adding the occasional That’s too far and Come back this way now. It’s hard to know what words to employ when you’re acting as a human foghorn. The part of my brain that wasn’t taken up by fear was swamped with embarrassment at being in such a ridiculous position, so I started singing a children’s lullaby at the top of my lungs. He might mock me for my untrained voice, but at least I didn’t have to think about the lyrics.

  For all his seeming rashness, it was clear Corban truly was listening to me. He strayed farther than I liked, but almost immediately came back, as if he had discovered the outer border beyond which my voice would not carry. I wasn’t sure I could have heard him from the same distance, but I knew his ears were sharper than mine.

  The wind picked up force and I was terrified that it would blow him off course, but after a shaky moment, he seemed to remember how to ride the draft. So all I need to worry about is whether I’m going to freeze to death, I thought, rubbing my arms again and stamping my feet for warmth. I got tired of the lullaby and switched to a tavern ditty. I wondered if he could catch the words, or only the snatched phrases of my melody. I wondered how long he planned to stay out on his first flight in two years. I wondered if he kept circling the house because he was afraid to try to land.

  Almost as soon as I had the thought, I realized that he was flying in a narrower and narrower curve, dropping downward as he closed the distance. I abandoned music and began shouting directions. “Corban! This way! You’re about twenty yards up now and twenty yards out. All right—now you’re just above the wall, you need to come in closer. That’s right—and a little lower—”

  He adjusted some angle of his feathers and suddenly went into a whole different mode of travel, hovering instead of flying. His body swung from a horizontal to a vertical position, his legs pointed down as if he were feeling for the surface with his toes. His wings, which had been outstretched and quiescent as he glided, were now beating the air again with great energy, holding him in place just a few feet above the roof. I was so close to him I was buffeted by every stroke; my hair whipped around my face.

  “Almost there—drop down a few more inches—”

  He put his hands out, as if reaching for me, and I unthinkingly grabbed them. Many things happened at once. His feet hit the roof hard and he stumbled into me, clutching my shoulders for support. His wings lashed around us both, helping his balance, maybe, but adding to my clumsiness and confusion. For a moment, the world was a chaotic ball of motion and feathers and unexpected heat as our bodies crushed together and we both staggered and tried not to fall over.

  And then the angel came to rest with his arms around me and his wings draped over my shoulders and the moon ladling silver over us both. I could feel his rapid heartbeat, the heavy suck and release of breath as he gasped for air, but for a moment what astonished me most was the sheer radiant warmth of his body. I knew, but I had forgotten, that angels’ blood ran at a higher temperature than a mortal’s, to keep them warm when they flew at high altitudes. I was so cold that I wanted to burrow in, practically dig for shelter against his skin.

  Instead I waited another heartbeat, until I was steady on my own feet, and then stepped back just enough to free myself from his arms. His wings still lingered on my shoulder blades, the feathers tickling my throat.

  “You did it!” I exclaimed. “Were you scared? Are you excited? What did it feel like?”

  “Terrifying. Exhilarating. I thought I would fall—there at the beginning—I couldn’t get the height, I thought I would crash down, but I didn’t. I caught the updraft, and then I remembered, I remembered all of it, as if it had only been a day since the last time I flew—”

  “You went pretty far,” I said in an encouraging voice. “Maybe a hundr
ed yards out and almost as far up. Could you tell how much distance you were covering?”

  “No, but I think with practice I could,” he said. “Or maybe I could devise some kind of numerical system—flying at a steady rate for a count of five hundred would mean I had covered a certain set mileage—”

  “That sounds like you want to keep trying,” I said.

  “Yes! There are a lot of things I could experiment with. Pressure, for instance. The air feels different when you reach a certain altitude, so if I make careful assessments of how it feels at different levels, I’ll be able to tell how high I am. ”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s ambitious for someone who hasn’t even been aloft for almost two years!”

  He grinned. “I know—I must start slowly and build up my strength and gauge how much I really can do. But—I can’t describe to you—just the sensation of being in flight—I have missed it so much. ” He came closer and his voice took a deeper tone. “And I have you to thank for giving me the courage to fly again. ”