by D. A. Metrov
Gretch swooned in a blizzard of thoughts. He saw Brighton’s severed head flying through the air. A stunned look in the young man’s empty eyes. His jaw gaping in a stupor. A stream of blood spouting from his neck. He saw Handower’s hissing beak and massive chains wrapped around the falcon’s body. The troll saw, too, the kettle of gold that would sit in his squalid quarters, the only thing shiny enough to reflect the light of his hearth. Gretch was overwhelmed with this onslaught of visions when Dredgemont’s voice dispelled them again.
“Gretch?”
“Yes, master?”
“Why are you still here?”
Gretch opened his eyes again. He caught his breath, then scrambled across the floor toward the door of the lab. All the while he was growing more resentful of the humiliation he’d just suffered from the very hand of God. I hate God, he dared to think as he shuffled away on his hands and knees.
Dredgemont read the thought. It made him chuckle to himself. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. But he wasn’t addressing the pathetic creature who’d just left the room. He was talking to the pair of eyes glowing from the darkness behind him.
“The young man is of noble birth,” said a woman’s voice. “I’m wondering if his head might be of greater value left upon its shoulders.”
Dredgemont turned the Cobalt Cutlass in his hand, admiring its craftsmanship and its radiant light. “Your sentimentality is a weakness. You should try to rid yourself of such nonsense.”
“Should he come around to our way of thinking he could be a formidable ally. Surely, you can see that, oh Divine One.” There was a tinge of sarcasm in the woman’s voice. Her unblinking eyes shone like dim stars.
“You’ve given this careful thought, my dear,” Dredgemont said without taking his eyes off the radiant cutlass. “But your thinking has yet to come full circle. When it does, you’ll understand the reasoning behind my decision.”
“Indeed.” And the woman’s eyes withdrew again, back into the lightless gloom.
Gretch was hiding just outside the door, eavesdropping on the exchange of cryptic words back inside the lab. He furrowed his brow and felt the blood now boiling in his veins.
Chapter Fourteen
THE LONG JOURNEY TO DRAKTON
Handower had traveled through clouds so thick and dark, it was impossible for Bill to tell if it was day or night. She could feel the dead weight of Brighton’s body leaning against her back, and wondered when he was going to wake up. Despite what she’d been through back at the cape, she was surprisingly steady and of sound mind. She could have died, but it wasn’t the first time. She’d never flown before, but this wasn’t even like flying. It was like drifting in some dream; there was no land in sight. No anything in sight. She’d let herself be carried away into thoughtlessness, when she was snapped back to the present by Brighton’s groan.
He opened his eyes. He realized he was riding his falcon. And Lizard Bill’s wet body was sitting in front of him.
“How’s your head?” she asked, keeping her gaze ahead.
“What happened?” The top of his head hurt. Felt like someone had hit him with a hammer. His eyes wouldn’t focus.
“You tried to split a rock with your skull. The rock won. You would have drowned if Handower hadn’t plucked you out of the water.”
Brighton’s brain felt soggy. How could this be? He struggled to remember what had happened before he’d blacked out. Whitewater, churning, helpless against it. Flying backward.
“He dropped you on a ledge, then came for me and Mitor. Mitor helped me lift you onto the bird’s back. The waves almost pulled me back into the sea, but I managed to climb on. Then Handower took flight. That was hours ago.”
Brighton touched the wound beneath his thick hair. It was tender and crusted with his blood. “Where’s the robot now?”
“Handower’s got him. In his talons.”
Handower let out a soft cry.
“Where are we?” Brighton realized his vision was fine. It was the cloud they were in that made the world seem blurry and nebulous.
“I have no idea.”
Brighton felt his hands on her waist and wondered how he’d managed to stay in the saddle all the time he was unconscious. He focused on her hair, long and wet, and realized it had a pleasant, though salty, smell.
“Now that you’re awake, what should we do?”
Brighton pulled his thoughts together. “I’m not sure. Let Handower find a place to land, I suppose. Won’t be easy in this murk.” He should have been grateful he was alive. Instead, he let his ego get the best of him. “Wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”
She bristled. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? You know exactly what I mean.”
Brighton could feel her trembling, and knew she was growing furious.
“We saved your life!” she snapped.
“You saved my life? How much longer would you have lasted in that storm if we hadn’t showed up?”
“My robot floats. We were fine.” She huffed an angry sigh.
Brighton was about to lash out again, but he bit his tongue. He peeked over her shoulder at the Teidalbaden, and tried to get its readings.
“The meters. What do they say?”
“Meters?” She looked down in front of her. “They all say zero. Is that right?”
“Of course, it’s not right.”
Brighton realized the Teidalbaden must have stopped working. It had plenty of fuel—a full cartridge of wheal, enough to power the thing for years. Must be the excessive moisture. It’s old, after all, passed down for generations, he thought. Now, flying through the cold, billowy darkness, he couldn’t tell which direction they were going. He decided to stop arguing with Bill, sensing it would only escalate if he didn’t.
Besides, at this point, there were so many other concerns. How much longer can Handower keep flying with such a heavy load? Surely even a Magradore would have to rest soon. It was astonishing the bird still had the stamina to keep on after his heroic effort escaping Kragmaur. Yet where could they land? It was too foggy to see anything. Brighton raised his hand in front of his face, and could barely make out his own fingers.
“We’re not lost, are we?” Bill looked out at the gray, murky shapes swirling around them.
“Handower wouldn’t get lost.” I don’t think.
“I can’t hear the waves. We must be flying quite high.”
She was right. Brighton couldn’t hear the waves either. Only the quiet hush of Handower’s wings rising and falling. And the subtle huffs of the bird’s breath.
“It’s hard to imagine we’re even flying,” Bill went on. “Would be handy to have the monkrats along. Monkrats have an uncanny sense of direction. They never get lost either, not even in the wildest parts of the island. And they can speak.”
Handower screeched.
“Don’t mention monkrats. You know it upsets him.” The pain in Brighton’s head surged. He was tired, and worried, and he didn’t want any more aggravation.
Lizard Bill began to hum—cooing poetic abstractions—as if she couldn’t remember the words to the song.
Brighton grew even more agitated. If she’s going to sing, can’t she at least sing the proper words? He was afraid her voice would upset Handower, too. The bird was not accustomed to other riders. It was a miracle he’d put up with her this long.
“Would you please stop doing that,” Brighton said under his breath.
She turned to him. “If I so annoy you, Brighton Aviamore, why did you come after us?”
“Come after you?” And then he lied. And he wasn’t even sure why, but once he did, there was no turning back. “We were on our way to Drakton. You’re lucky we saw you down there.”
“Really?”
Brighton felt her body tremble and he knew it was from anger.
“Put us down at once!” she shouted.
“I assure you that will occur at the earliest opportunity!”
And with that,
they flew on in tense silence.
Time became a blur. Hours stretched into what must have been days. Brighton struggled to stay awake though his head throbbed. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and so could no longer tell what was real and what was hallucination. He’d thought about instructing Handower to stay in the updrafts, but there were none. The updrafts were caused by the cold ocean winds colliding with the warmth of the land, which resulted in great, invisible fonts that rose skyward above the cliffs. With winter approaching, the land bore little warmth. Besides, Handower needed no such instructions. Using the updrafts to stay airborne was as natural to him as preening his feathers. The falcon let out a scream, weaker than normal, not the typical defiant message that said he, a Magradore, was king of the sky.
“We’ll rest and eat soon, Handower.” Brighton caressed the bird’s shoulder with his hand. Handower growled in response.
Brighton looked around. How much longer could this gray world go on? Were they condemned to drift forever through this murky dampness? Occasionally, strange sounds would echo through the haze—giant albatross? Pelicans? Gulls and Puffins looking for food? Were they, too, wondering when the marine layers would lift and allow the sun to shine on their sullied berths.
We can’t get lost at sea. Now that we’ve come this far, we may as well seek audience with the Seer. Maybe we actually can help the war effort. Maybe we can make a difference. Besides if we get lost, we may never find our way back home.
Brighton’s thoughts only grew darker and more obscure. It was as if he and his companions, Bill and Mitor, were flying deeper into the recesses of his own psyche. On a journey to visit the memories and the fears and the hurts that were hidden there. Hidden beneath layers of lies and make-believe and self-deception. He was beginning to feel like some mysterious force had taken him hostage. It would hold him until he took inventory and admitted there was house-cleaning to be done. There were hints of voices wafting through those dimensionless spaces. They seemed to suggest the journey to Drakton was merely a reflection of the more important journey taking place in the atmosphere of his soul. I don’t understand. Why come here? What is there to see? To learn? And those very questions made it clear to him the trouble they’d encountered so far was only a hint of more hellacious tests to come.
He remembered the parchment drawing he’d stuffed in his shirt before leaving Meland. He panicked, fearing he might have lost it in the sea at the cape. He reached in, felt it, and sighed with relief. He pulled it out and unfolded it, still damp and soggy.
Lizard Bill turned her head.
“You brought it with you.” She waited for him to say something. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why it’s so important to you.”
He hesitated. “My father made it. He gave it to me when I was very young.”
“I see.”
He didn’t have to say more. He felt she understood. He stared at the drawing as if somehow it was the roadmap for his entire life. If only he could fully decipher it.
“Thank you.”
Bill’s words jolted Brighton out of his thoughts. “Excuse me?” he said, in true bewilderment.
“Thank you. For saving us.”
Brighton didn’t know how to respond. He considered, You’re welcome, and Don’t mention it, and It was nothing. Or No, thank you. Again, he could not bring himself to give her even that much satisfaction. So all he did was mumble something that conveyed all of the above, but only in the briefest, most indirect fashion.
Then something occurred that stunned them all—Handower, Brighton, and Lizard Bill. Even little Mitor hanging in the clutches of Handower’s talons. It was the sun breaking through the clouds ahead, illuminating Perpetua’s coastline.
Handower cried out. This time, his cry was glorious and proud. It reverberated along the length of the island for every creature to hear.
Even more welcome than the sight of land was the broad, sandy beach that skirted the eastern rim of the island. They all knew it led to Drakton, just around the bend. Handower cried out again. This time Bill and Brighton joined him with whoops and screams of their own.
Mitor had no ability to smile, or he would have. Instead, he could only blink the apertures of his telescopic eyes.
Crabs scurried toward the shelter of the rocks to make way for the Magradore. Handower touched down, and not lightly. His legs collapsed under the weight of his load. He crashed to his belly and steadied himself by spreading his wings out in front of him. The impact threw Brighton and Bill off his back, and rolling across the sand. They didn’t care. They staggered to their feet. They found themselves dancing and squealing with joy. Round and round, they stumbled and spun. They finally fell over wrapped in each other’s arms. They stayed like that—lost in some ecstasy—for several moments, before they realized what they were doing.
Brighton sprang back to his feet. He knew he was blushing and turned away so she wouldn’t see.
Bill did the same, brushing the sand off her arms and shoulders. Her head shot up. “Mitor!”
Handower stood back up. He took a few steps toward the shade of the nearby bluff. He collapsed again into a deep, and much needed sleep.
Bill found Mitor half buried in the sand in the impression left by Handower’s body. She pulled the little robot out by the arm. She tried to stand him upright. He immediately fell flat on his face again. She turned him over and leaned into his crank. She turned it round and round. The sand made grinding sounds in his gears. She watched for the gleam to return to his eyes. He let out a burst of steam. The apertures deep inside his lenses spun open. He blinked, then focused on Bill. “Happy, master,” was all that came up from deep inside his chest.
The words brought a smile to Bill’s face. “Happy,” she answered. “Very happy.” And with that she fell on her back and let the sun warm her body from head to toe.
Brighton made his way to Handower. He stroked the bird’s head, and felt an admiration like he’d never felt before. “Thank you, Handower,” he cooed in the bird’s ear. But Handower did not awake. He was deep in slumberland.
Brighton pulled the crop from his belt. He looked at it and felt disgust with himself for ever using it. He hurled it as far as he could hoping to never see it again. He slumped down on the sand, leaning against Handower’s body. He gazed out at the glistening waters off the Eastern tip of Perpetua—waters he’d known as a boy. It made him feel comfortable and bitter at the same time. He had so many memories of this place: romping through the woods as a boy, playing in the surf, witnessing Vada’s death, watching his mother walk out of his life.
Drakton. I can’t believe I’m here. How long has it been?
That night, Brighton and Lizard Bill sat around a fire in the mouth of a shallow cave. They gorged on fish and redberries. Mitor stood at the edge of the firelight, staring at the flames that danced in his lenses. Handower had still not moved from where he’d collapsed. His beak was slightly open. The tip of his giant tongue hung out, almost as if he were dead.
“I forgot to ask if you encountered them? Wraith Adders at Kragmaur?” Bill said, her lips stained red from shoving berries into her mouth.
“Saw nothing but white caps,” Brighton said, his mouth full of the half-cooked herring he’d speared on a stick. He tore off another bite, which left oil dripping down his chin.
“Oh, there was a school of them. Followed us for terrameters.”
Brighton had heard of the large, venomous, flying eels that hunted the waters off Cape Kragmaur.
“Mitor helped fight them off while I navigated the reefs. Together we slew dozens. Then the storm rose out of nowhere.”
Brighton listened to her tale, already suspecting she was embellishing the facts.
“We were ready though. Didn’t even lower the sail. Let it fill so we could travel as fast as the wind would blow. Kept the throttle forward at full speed, too. Would have made it through if the engine hadn’t died. Then a really big wave. Must have been fifty feet high! Threw us from the boat
.” She reached for another handful of redberries from the collection she had sitting in the tail of her blouse.
“You’re lucky to be alive.” Brighton mashed more fish into his mouth, followed by berries of his own.
Bill felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. “I assure you, I’ve survived worse than Cape Kragmaur. Far worse.”
Brighton huffed. “You’re a fine storyteller, that I’ll grant you.” He wiped the grease off his chin.
Her mouth stopped chewing. She stared at him with a look of disgust. She wrinkled her nose and Brighton sensed she was suddenly repulsed by his body odor. And possibly his unkempt appearance. Neither of them had bathed for days. At least. He was suddenly self-conscious.
“Are you suggesting I’m lying?” She stared into his eyes. Her glare was cold and threatening.
He laughed in an attempt to disarm her. “Look. It’s only natural to exaggerate. Everyone does it.” He stuffed his face again and wouldn’t look her in the eyes.
“Why did you change your mind? About coming to Drakton?”
He lost his grin and raised his eyes to hers. He could see she was simmering. “To help in the war effort. Why else?” Now he felt even more uncomfortable for being dishonest.
“You knew I’d gone. There was no sense in two parties, three actually, considering the monkrats, going to meet the Seer. Who’s storytelling here?”
“I have responsibilities.” He felt himself faltering, like he was about to fall off some tight rope.
“Hah!” she said with contempt. “I heard you myself. ‘The war is none of my concern,’ you said. ‘A trip to Drakton is out of the question.’ Your only sense of responsibility is to yourself. At least I’m not hiding from life.”
“Hiding from life? What’s that supposed to mean?” He knew she was on the attack. His mind was already beginning to spin with all the reasons she might harboring dislike toward him. He thought back over the years. In the most fleeting of glimpses, he saw a dozen instances when he could have been more congenial to her. She was after all, the only other person on Meland. Why was he such a loner? What was he afraid of?