by Nancy Yi Fan
“What is this, Simplicio?” Morgan said sternly.
“I do not wish to hold my office as tutor any longer, as it seems I am no longer capable of coping with these rather startling changes,” Simplicio said, averting his face so that the king could not see his expression. His strained, trembling voice betrayed him nonetheless. “As a thoughtful tutor, passionate about my work, I have high fears that music shall drug the minds of our children.” Simplicio punctuated his remark by hurling his voting stone beside his cap. “Eagles have always been sages and warriors, not entertainers. I refuse to stand by and witness the loss of our dignity. I resign.”
“Those are your final words on this subject?” Morgan said.
“No! I mean to say … if Your Highness would allow me a few more, from my sincere heart?” Simplicio’s head lifted. He had even managed to put on a neutral face.
“Speak what you like. Speak, and you are dismissed.”
The feathers on Simplicio’s agitated face rose. He spun toward Fleydur. “You befoul, begrime, besmear, bedaub, besmirch, bespatter the honor of eagles!” His voice rose to its chalkboard screech as he pointed a shriveled talon.
“Be quiet and begone!” bellowed Forlath.
Simplicio’s face tightened, his beetle eyes blinking furiously. With a sweep of his robe, he gathered his dignity and waddled out of the court.
“Well, that was very rash,” Queen Sigrid said with annoyance.
Simplicio left much more than a gap in the Iron Nest. Who would tutor the court children? Not a radical cohort of Fleydur. She would forbid it!
She contemplated Fleydur, wondering if he had foreseen this and cleverly, subtly introduced his plan as a part of a bigger plot. Her throat tightened. “I’d like to know who you are going to hire, Morgan,” she said with a cough. “Surely you will not let the court children be taught by just Fleydur himself?”
Cloud-wing took the parachute, gave Dandelion the rope, and waved good-bye after their lesson. Dandelion had just managed to slide shut the window when somebird started banging on her door.
She opened it. “Olga?”
Olga was screeching, and it took a while for Dandelion to realize that she was doing so out of joy. “Guess what?” she cried to Dandelion, doing a little dance that jiggled her ankle ribbons. “Tutor Simplicio is gone. Away! My father told me that we’re not having regular school until a new tutor is hired!”
Behind Olga stood two female eaglets Dandelion had not met face-to-face before. The corners of their beaks curved coyly.
“Miss Dandelion,” one of the eaglets said. “Congratulations!”
The other eaglet stepped forward and gave her a delicate hug.
Dandelion stumbled back, startled. Did she just call me “miss”? “What have I done?”
Even Olga was really affable. “You won!”
“Since Tutor Simplicio has left, we decided to hold our own celebration during the hour of study tomorrow,” one of the eaglets explained. “Remember the paintings? Well, our class voted this morning on our favorite model during the summer term, and you won by a large margin. You even beat the queen!” It caught Dandelion unawares, but they were not finished.
“I hope our winner will accept this invitation to a masquerade tomorrow morning,” the other female eaglet said, drawing from the pocket of her dress a card bedecked with bows.
“Please say you’ll come, Dandelion,” begged Olga. Dandelion was not sure if she felt embarrassed, shy, or dazed.
“What’s a masquerade?” she said.
“A fun party where birds dress up and wear masks.”
“I don’t have a mask.”
“You don’t need one!” One of the eaglets giggled.
“Really, it doesn’t matter,” said the other eaglet. “Be yourself. All we want is you. And it’ll be really entertaining. There’ll be cake and pie.”
“And caviar,” added Olga.
Dandelion was at a loss for words. She saw no reason to refuse. “Yes,” she said.
Try as she might that night, Dandelion could not keep her eyes shut. “Our favorite.” The words were like the smell of freshly baked bread.
Masks cannot hide the expression of eyes.
—FROM THE BOOK OF HERESY
11
MASQUERADE
In the morning, Fleydur asked to see Dandelion at noon in his study. She would go after the party, she decided.
As Dandelion hurried down the hall, she saw Cloud-wing.
“Are you going to the masquerade?” she asked.
Cloud-wing shook his head. “I’m visiting the old mine today with my father. He’s overseeing the removal of debris to find out if the mine could be reopened.” Cloud-wing paused, a troubled look in his eyes. “The masquerade … it won’t be much fun. Don’t go, Dandelion.”
“But they invited me,” she said. It would be rude to not show up after she had agreed.
She smoothed the folds on her garments, hoping that neatness would make up for the simplicity of her clothes and that she would not seem too out of place.
When Dandelion arrived at Simplicio’s room, her beak dropped open at the scene.
Along the table, there were little silver cups almost the size of thimbles, and by each cup, a miniature spoon. There was a black gel-like substance in the cups; that must be the caviar. One eaglet picked up the tiny eating utensils and proceeded to nibble daintily at the caviar, a claw nail in the air.
But Dandelion could only gawk at the partygoers themselves. The eaglets were gesturing theatrically and chatting in singsong voices. They wore elaborate coats and gowns of silk, satin, chiffon, or velvet. One bird had such puffed sleeves they kept dipping into cups and knocking over glasses. Another’s dress had layers of ruffles upon ruffles, which swept the floor like a broom when she walked. Ribbons of every color swirled from headdresses. Buttons of every size and shape gleamed in long rows.
Everybird stopped talking and looked at Dandelion. That was when she saw their masks, beautiful, beaded, feathered, and sequined. They dazzled her.
“Oh, Dandelion! It’s good you came,” said the creature with the sweeping ruffles. Her mask was purple and pink and silver, with bits of colored tinsel sticking out like passionflower petals.
“The party was getting dull,” added another creature through his polka-dotted mask. They laughed, rustling their costumes. “Now we’ll really have some fun!”
The creatures held Dandelion’s wings and led her into the center of the room, and giggling, they twirled her around and around. Without warning, five of the eaglets linked wings in a circle, with Dandelion in the center. More creatures formed a bigger ring around them, and still others made an even bigger ring enclosing them all. They swayed and ran in circles, holding wings, around her.
At first she laughed with them. It seemed to be a lighthearted little game. She tried to break out of the circles, but each time the tittering creatures jostled her back into the center.
By and by she stopped enjoying herself, and she looked with a small frown at the twirling figures. They kept moving in on her, closing her in. She tried again to burst free, in earnest this time. Great Spirit, they were persistent. The pushing and shoving got rougher as they danced, still laughing like before.
Dandelion shoved back, not feeling playful anymore. The creatures resisted her attempts, lifted talons, and started poking and plucking her feathers. Smarting from the pain, Dandelion pushed once again. This time the creature with the passionflower mask blocked her path.
“Let go of me. Let me out!” Dandelion shouted.
Perhaps they weren’t smiling as they sang and laughed. They might have never smiled. It was only their masks that made them look happy. It was only the masks that made them feel daring and strong.
She reached up, caught hold of the passionflower mask, and yanked.
She heard the string break with a snap, and then a mortified cry. Somebird abruptly tripped her. Dandelion landed hard on the floor, banging her head. What were the r
ules in this game they played? The rings finally broke apart; the creatures grew silent. They stopped prancing and regarded her, while their maskless companion scurried off and took cover behind them, hiding her face.
Dandelion could feel a bump rising on her head. She let go of her trophy, trying to get up. Then the bird in the polka-dot mask bent down toward Dandelion. For a moment she thought he was aiming his crooked foot at her face, but he was merely extending talons to help her.
She stood, blinking. “Oh, Dandelion, all right, all right,” said Polka-dot Mask. “We were just having fun. That’s all.” And the others suddenly grew friendly and cheerful as before, joining in the laughter, patting Dandelion’s back. Somebird leaned down and picked up the passionflower mask, passing it back to its owner.
“Are you okay?” said Polka-dot Mask. “Are you ready for some more fun?”
“I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t realize you didn’t know how to play,” trilled another.
“You didn’t hurt your head that much, did you?” asked a third.
They apologized profusely, and then showered her with more well-meaning inquiries.
Why is it that when they are so polite, they seem so cruel? Dandelion thought. Her cheeks trembled and ached, and to her shock her eyes grew moist.
“We’ve a nifty surprise for you,” Polka-dot Mask said. “No more dancing,” he added.
“Come, Dandelion! Come!” the masked creatures cried, and the next moment, they crowded in and threw her onto their shoulders, securing her ankles. Carried along by the surge of the crowd, Dandelion bounced and tipped from side to side. “Set me down,” she yelled, batting at the masks with her wings. Her voice was drowned out by the crowd’s cheers. They crossed a threshold.
“All right,” said Polka-dot Mask. Dandelion jumped off at the first opportunity and glanced around. She was standing in a gallery of canvases. Paintings of her, from Simplicio’s class days ago. Only something was terribly wrong about each and every painting, terribly wrong with the whole masquerade. “Our favorite,” they had said. They did not mean it, not at all. She looked over her shoulder. They were standing there, anticipating her reaction, waiting for the thrilling finale they had so painstakingly planned.
So many sequined faces, staring at her, with angelic expressions glued on.
Somebird said something. She did not catch what was said. She just blocked it out, kept her face stony. And the laughter that followed? She didn’t know why they laughed, but it was the ugliest sound she’d ever heard.
“Leave me alone!” she shouted.
They slipped away behind her, leaving her to face all those grotesque images of herself. In one she resembled a dung pile with a mold-colored beak. In another she was drooling and had fleas. A foolish, clumsy, dirty bird, a bumpkin here for entertainment, those canvases whispered to her. She wanted to push down the easels. Angry tears welled in her eyes. And they’d had the nerve to invite her to a party in her honor! She sent the wooden easels toppling, but her satisfaction gave way to a more acute pain, because she was not hurting the other eaglets by destroying their canvases. The irony made her blood boil inside.
A few paintings remained. Dandelion stared at them, fuming, but she noticed that the one in the back looked different. In that painting she looked like a normal eaglet, her wings wide open against a background of sky. “Cloud-wing’s,” she murmured, and she was right. She saw how with a few strokes of the brush, he’d made her look suspended in the breeze. Gazing at his painting, she felt he was sending a secret message to her: Fly now.
Dandelion dashed back to her room. She would not stay here any longer.
She sorted through the neatly piled dresses and robes, chose the ones she would need the most, carefully placing them into a towel. Then she added bits of bread she’d saved for a journey like this. And finally the braided leather rope with which Cloud-wing had taught her to fly. She tied the corners of the towel together, lifted the bundle, and approached the window.
But wait. She wouldn’t take any of it, she realized suddenly. She dropped the towel and opened it again, looking at its contents. The lacy dresses of the elite weren’t hers. She removed Cloud-wing’s rope and hesitated. But now it made no difference whether she had it or not. This was the flight that she was going to do all alone. No other bird would be holding on to the rope; she would rely on her own strength.
With just a candle she had come; with just a candle she would leave. She checked to make sure it was still in her pocket, and left everything else behind. Turning her back to the hypocrisy and arrogance of the mountaintop, she opened the window, took a deep breath, and jumped.
Home is a nest of sweet dreams.
—FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE
12
THE FLIGHT HOME
I want my home! I want my family! I want to be loved and be happy, thought Dandelion.
The wind pulled at the feathers on her cheeks, and she opened her wings, feeling them catch the lift. Her muscles strained, and her bones felt brittle, like glass, but she wouldn’t fall this time. No matter how long the journey was, she would make it home.
As Dandelion opened her eyes wide, the ring of mountain peaks around Sword Mountain resembled a gathering of hunched eagles raising their wings so they met in a triangle high above their backs. Waiting to take flight.
Yet even if every peak in the range soared high, Dandelion would still plunge down to where her heavy heart would pull her. She let herself glide lower and lower. The sensation felt familiar, as if she had flown back this way too many times. She strained her eyes, but her vision had already begun to blur.
Mama. Papa. I’m coming home. It will be just like before.
She opened all her senses to catch any murmur of reply. But the valley only brought her the scent of weeping rain—the rich sweetness of damp acorns on the ground, tucked under layers of waxy leaves; the smell of crisp white roots of clover; the fragrance of pine resin kissed by mist again. It was like the steam of freshly brewed tea, but it choked her instead of comforting her.
Dandelion compromised: I don’t need to see you, I don’t need to hear you. I just need to feel your presence. The balm of your smiles. The warmth of your wings.
Only the orange fungi ears of fallen logs listened to her. In reply, wagging tongues of ivy leaves clattered softly against one another in the breeze.
I tried my best! Dandelion said in her mind. Her eyes closed, and she hurled herself down the tree-lined slopes. She landed clumsily on the top of the cliff, and for a moment could only huddle there. Am I still your little Dandelion?
Dandelion picked herself up and stumbled, digging her talons into the soft wax of her candle. There was a small hut built into a cave. There was her grand castle. She swallowed and edged forward. What did she want to see?
Dandelion stepped inside, her eyes closed. “I’m here,” she said. She sat down. In the monstrous silence she felt two hearts beating in time with her own. She held on to her candle and concentrated on their steady thumps, delighted to find that they grew clearer, louder, and more substantial. She was sure that one heart was her father’s as he sat scraping skins, holding his blunt bone knife, next to the fireplace, and the other was her mother’s, who was sitting across from him, content, weaving on a loom.
It was reality for a heart-wrenching second. Dandelion so wanted to touch her parents she leaped up and opened her eyes.
The vision blew away.
Tears dripped from Dandelion’s face, making small dark furrows in the thick dust on the floor.
She got up waveringly and went outside. Without thinking, she spread her wings wide and glided down. Below her there was a space beneath a tree, marked with a ring of pebbles. Graves—how could she not have noticed them before? The memory of the archaeopteryx once again possessed her mind, but this time it flowed unchecked. The archaeopteryx leaping toward her, talons slashing. Her mother, furious, jumping upon the enemy; then both of them tumbling into the air.... Her father screaming in agony as her
mother crashed to the forest floor.... Her father fighting maniacally, weaponless, against the archaeopteryx.... Dandelion leaping down, and in her fall, she already knew....
She had always known.
Dandelion landed by the graves of her parents. “Mama!” she whispered. “Mama, I can fly now. I found my strength: I flew to find you.”
Emptied by grief, Dandelion lay unmoving till nightfall, when she returned to the cave and curled up on the hearth of her old home. Frost was everywhere; winter was coming. A chill was setting in Dandelion’s heart as she breathed shallowly, clutching her cold candle and looking at the empty blackness of the hearth.
“Dandelion!”
Dandelion hadn’t heard anybird come in, but Fleydur stood behind her now, stooping over.
“Why do you think I am called Dandelion?” she shouted. “I have no place anywhere. I am unwanted. I am a weed.”
“Never. Never that,” said Fleydur quietly. He took a handkerchief, reached out, and gently wiped at Dandelion’s eyes. “Listen to me. A dandelion is bright and noble, just like the sun. It’s not haughty like a rose, not flamboyant like a jasmine, not feeble like a lily. Simple and resilient and wild,” he whispered. “Unlike the garden flowers, it calls no attention to itself, demands no care from others—it can depend on itself. Maybe it’s not tall or big, but it can live, and thrive, in a crack of stone, trampled and uprooted, through drought and flood alike. Because it has inner strength. It has character. Underappreciated, but it is the best of flowers.”
Fleydur paused. “I am sorry that I hid from you the truth about your parents. I was waiting for the right moment to tell you. I wanted to be sure you were strong enough.”
“I know,” said Dandelion.
“What are you going to do now? The court agreed to let me begin my music lessons. Would you like to be one of my students?”
“I’m not sure if the eaglets will accept me,” said Dandelion. “Nobird from the valley goes to school on the summit.”