Rocco's Wings

by Murdock, Rebecca Merry

  Once outside, Stinky Breath and Knife-in-the-Back turned and gaped. Not long, just long enough to wink at each other and swing their heads toward the path, directing him to follow. They set off in the direction they had come. Rocco fell into step at the back.

  Now that both of them were walking out in front, he could have a better look around. He would examine everything that came within his sightline: every building and door, every urvogel, everything that was said. The Krakatoans might be sizing him up, but he would do the same.

  After a short period of walking, they arrived at a two-storey vine-covered building. ‘Roosting Hall’ said the sign above the door. Inside, they ascended a wide set of stairs and crossed the threshold of a broad, high room.

  ‘Number eleven,’ said Stinky Breath, pushing Rocco in. Having carried out Harpia’s orders, he and Knife-in-the-Back paid him no more interest. At least they had delivered him in one piece to Roosting Hall. Their heels clicked away.

  Rows of beds, with neatly tucked-in white sheets, stood across the floor of the room. A small plaque with a number was fastened to each headboard. A three-metre pole with hooks was attached to the foot of every bed. Rocco found number eleven, which was the last in a row and pushed up against the wall. He slumped down on the side of the bed, abnormally long since urvogels, especially the adults, were tall.

  The minionatro’s needle pricked his thigh. He’d put the tunic on without cutting off the thread. He pulled the needle out and wove it securely into the hem of his tunic. He lay down, and promptly fell asleep.

  When he opened his eyes again, the room was full of white robes getting ready for bed. Their wings glowed white in the room’s fading light. Some were talking on the side of their beds; others were hanging their clothes on the poles at the ends of the beds. They all stared. A few pointed and whispered.

  Rocco sat up on the side of the bed, pulling his sheet over his wings.

  Wheat Hair came in. He was talking sombrely to Girl. They sat down on a bed occupied by a flame-haired urvogel. Rocco stared. He’d never seen such hair.

  What would Wheat Hair and Girl say if they knew he’d been spying on them yesterday? They probably wouldn’t like it one bit. They’d likely say something rude. Were all urvogels as sharp-tongued as Harpia or did they have to learn it? The minionatro hadn’t said anything insulting, but he was a servant. He’d likely been trained to be subservient. Stinky Breath, on the other hand, seemed naturally cross and ill-tempered. They were probably all like that, outside their own circle of friends.

  Wheat Hair raised his head. A jolt of something, maybe surprise, surfaced in his face, but then his eyes darkened again. His brow furrowed as he resumed his conversation with Girl and Flame Hair. There wasn’t a glimmer of the playfulness Rocco had seen yesterday.

  It was hard to imagine what they were worried about. Everything in Krakatoan was many times grander than Rocco’s village, or even the Sultan’s home in Gogogamesh. Their clothes and bed sheets were made of the softest fabric. They had loads of water, thought Rocco, remembering the fountain in the middle of the stone yard.

  Flame Hair began crying softly. Rocco couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders were shaking. The other two were trying to comfort him. Girl had her hand on his back. Wheat Hair spoke soothingly.

  The other white robes kept gaping over. Drawing the sheet up tighter, Rocco clasped it to his throat. Who cared if they weren’t going to say hello, or tell him their names. They were a completely different species, with habits quite different from the villagers, or the citizens of Gogogamesh. They were more like insects besotted with their terrible queen.

  Presently, the chatter faded as the white robes climbed under their sheets. Some quivered, some had their wings sticking out at odd angles. The glow from their wings began to flicker.

  Wheat Hair, Girl and Flame Hair kept talking. Rocco lay down again. Moments later a hum began to fill the room. He peeked over from the side of his pillow. It was impossible to locate the origin of the noise so he sat up. The noise wasn’t coming from any one bed, but from all of them.

  The bed next to him, number ten, had been empty before. A small urvogel was now lying in it, his back turned, but he was weeping. His narrow shoulders twitched. The white robe in bed nine sniffled and sobbed. Same with beds eight and seven. Every bed held a shape with flickering wings.

  The wailing grew louder, rising and falling in waves. The sound made Rocco weak. He buried his head under his pillow and lay still, his knees pulled up to his chest, forcing himself not to think.

  He had been lying in that position for some time when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Wheat Hair was standing over him. ‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he said, holding out a shanga fruit.

  Was it a real offering, or some kind of trick? Sitting up, Rocco eyed the fruit sceptically.

  ‘I’m Basalt, the senior fledgling on this floor.’

  The crying around Rocco had subsided. Rocco gazed up at Wheat Hair – Basalt. He’d actually said his name.

  ‘I’m Rocco.’

  ‘We’re a flock,’ said Basalt quietly. ‘When the feeling is great, be it fear, sorrow or joy, we all feel the same thing. It’s – it’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ said Rocco, his eyes darting from Basalt’s face to the fruit in his hand. He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d eaten anything. His stomach had been rumbling all day.

  Basalt’s eyes were full of worry as he glanced over at Flame Hair. Laying the fruit on the side of the bed, he nodded at Rocco, then walked away.

  Overcome with hunger, Rocco snatched the fruit up. He sniffed, and deciding that it smelled like a shanga, took a small bite. He waited for a full minute. Nothing bad seemed to happen so he greedily ate the rest.

  Still sucking the pit, he surveyed the room. He had been so tired before that he had barricaded all the awful things that had happened behind a trapdoor in the back of his head. But the sounds of the room, soft and coaxing, made him relax. Slowly he began to see his mother on the floor of the kitchen and Jafari outside, pleading with him to go.

  Tears welled up in his eyes and washed hotly down his face. Jafari was gone. Good, loyal Jafari, and his beautiful, kind mother. They were gone, dead, forever lost to him. He hadn’t deserved them, anyway. He was careless and stupid.

  His mother had cared for him all his life. And what had he done? He had ignored her warning. He’d flown up the escarpment. Whether the Air Marshals had seen him there, or out on the plains in the middle of the night, they had followed him. He had brought evil into his village.

  Rocco wept. His entire body was swept away in a tide of sorrow and grief.

  At length he stopped crying and fell into a dream. His mother was screaming. He was trying to help her but he couldn’t move because he couldn’t lift his wings. He was in the pool again, holding a wet pillow that kept dragging him down. Someone close to him was crying, too. At times, the sound was soothing. At other times the weeping seemed to mock his sorrow.

  The room was shockingly bright when he opened his eyes again. It was morning. Most of the white robes were gone. The small urvogel in the next bed was staring over at him with intense brown eyes.

  Rocco stared back.

  Rolling off the bed, the small urvogel, about six or seven years old, jumped to the floor. He ran over to Middle Boy who was hanging his bed sheet on the pole at the foot of his bed.

  ‘Magma! Magma!’

  Rocco hadn’t recognized the face, but he instantly knew Small One’s voice.

  ‘Come. I’ll introduce you.’ Basalt appeared at the foot of Rocco’s bed. Rocco followed him over.

  ‘This is Magma,’ said Basalt, nodding at Middle Boy. A large red stain covered most of Magma’s throat. Magma’s eyes glanced over Rocco’s wings.

  ‘And this is Ignimbrite, Iggy for short.’

  ‘Why are his wings blue?’ Small One – Iggy – pointed.

  Before anyone had time to speak Girl walked in. A white feat
her was sticking out of her dishevelled hair. ‘Where’s Py?’ she asked, eyes flitting around the room.

  ‘He’s in the water closet, throwing up.’ Magma flashed Girl a grave look. ‘He’s says he’s not going.’

  ‘The Air Marshals will fetch him if he doesn’t come on his own,’ said Basalt.

  ‘That’s Vesta,’ said Basalt, nodding after Girl who had disappeared back into the hall.

  These were the same four urvogels he’d seen yesterday. Basalt was Wheat Hair; Vesta was Girl; Magma was Middle Boy; and Iggy was Small One. They weren’t saying anything vicious, not so far. Perhaps they’d been ordered to keep an eye on him.

  Vesta appeared with Flame Hair. His eyes were swollen as if he’d been crying the entire night.

  ‘We must go,’ said Basalt, turning to Rocco. ‘Pyroxene is on trial. Everyone is expected to attend.’

  ‘Where exactly?’ asked Rocco.

  ‘The Courthouse. Avian Plaza.’

  The way Basalt said it – it wasn’t a choice. Maybe, afterwards, Basalt would show him around; he needed a general layout of the city. He could look around himself but that was going to raise all kinds of questions from those pesky Air Marshals.

  Plates of fruit and a tray with pastries sat on a table out in the hall. The others didn’t even glance at the food. On his way past Rocco grabbed a handful of figs. Cramming two in his mouth, he dropped the rest in his pocket.

  He’d have to start a cache of supplies – not under his bed, since that could easily be discovered, but in another spot, somewhere close by. Maybe in one of the other rooms farther down the hall? They didn’t appear to be sleeping chambers.

  Once outside, the small troupe took off, flying toward the palace. Basalt, Vesta, Magma and Iggy surrounded Py. Rocco trailed at the back. From what he could see, the part of the city nearest the cliffs was built up with houses and larger public buildings surrounding the stone yard and the palace. The other half of the city – the side backed into the mountain – was green, full of trees and a gently rolling field of short-cropped grass.

  On his left and right troupes of urvogels were flying past. Whenever a blue robe came abreast, he pulled his wing forward. Let them gawk all they liked, they didn’t need to see his face. Everyone appeared to be flying, as they were, toward Avian Plaza, except for the Air Marshals who were doing their rounds on top of the wall.

  Momentarily the sky cleared. As Rocco turned his head, examining the cityscape, a flicker appeared over his shoulder. It wasn’t a bird, or a sunspot. He flew on, only to have the flicker reappear. He couldn’t see it straight on, only in his bird eye vision. Dark and cloying, it was real, whatever it was, as real as the wind blowing against his face.

  He shook his shoulders and carried on. His troupe had come to Avian Plaza. Flying low, they passed over the stone yard and touched down on the steps of a building signed ‘Supreme Court of Terrakesh’. Two gold robes on the top step stopped talking, their mouths opened as they stared at Rocco. He hurried up, following Vesta into the throng.

  five

  The trials

  The doors to the courthouse, studded and heavily carved, hung open. Only a soft dull light lit the interior, not from any flame or lantern, but from the wings of the urvogels themselves.

  Py’s chin trembled. ‘Goodbye.’

  Basalt, Magma, Vesta and Iggy, grim-faced, took turns hugging Py who immediately disappeared down the aisle on the right. Rocco followed his troupe into the left aisle. The room was vast, easily holding several hundred urvogels. The floor sloped down to the front with rows and rows of seats like the half-sphere, outdoor amphitheatre in Gogogamesh.

  An expanse of floor was cleared out or otherwise empty at the front, except for a single chair that sat on a low platform off to the left. At the bottom right a pole rose halfway up to the vaulted ceiling. It might have been an actual tree trunk growing right through the floor, but it was too dark to see.

  Beyond the chair and the pole a stone slab sat at the far wall: a desk facing the rows of seats. Harmony. Justice. Truth. The words were cut into the stone façade.

  About halfway down Magma led them into a row of seats. Rocco sat down on the aisle next to Vesta. The air, hot and close, stunk of honeysuckle. Reclining his wings, Rocco slouched back in his chair. Maybe Harpia had other things on her mind today. Maybe she wasn’t even there, he thought hopefully as he scanned the crowd milling around at the back.

  Vesta crossed and uncrossed her legs. She was wearing bangles on her ankles that kept jangling as she fidgeted, drawing her knees up to her chin, then dropping her feet to the floor again. All the while she stared at the seats below. As she slid forward, her arm jerked up in a wave.

  Rocco shifted around so he could see what she was looking at. Py had taken up a seat in the very front, at the far edge of the half sphere, and thus at a quarter turn to them. His face would have been visible had his head been up. He looked smaller than ever sitting down there. What awful thing had he done?

  Several other urvogels were seated in the same section. Their heads were also down, their shoulders slumped forward. They were immaculately clean and well dressed – but so was Harpia, Rocco reminded himself. She was a murderer.

  An urvogel in a flowing black robe ascended the pole. Arriving at the top, he stood on a small platform, grasping the railing that barricaded him from the edge. With his free hand he began to unroll a fat sheaf of paper secured on a squeaky wheel.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Rocco leaned over.

  ‘The Herald.’

  Vesta didn’t offer more. Her eyes were fixated on Py.

  In a blustery voice the Herald cried, ‘All rise.’

  Everyone stood up. Behind the stone desk, a door opened. Three ancient-looking urvogels strode out: one with grey curls, round like a bush, and the other two with snow-white hair pulled into topknots. The one in the middle had a long beard. They were dressed the same: all in white, except for scarlet aprons decorated with golden birds.

  Rocco leaned forward. He had never been inside the courthouse in Gogogamesh, although he had attended one public flogging. The villagers had gathered in the city square while the convict was brought out and strapped to a pole. The poor man’s back had looked like a meat grinder by the end.

  Once Jafari had seen a man get his hand cut off – punishment for stealing some precious stones. The man himself sold spice in the market and he carried on doing so afterward, using his stump as a kind of shovel.

  Rocco and Jafari always made a point of passing by the man’s booth. ‘It’s like he doesn’t even notice it’s missing,’ Jafari would say. They would stand, mesmerized, as the man scooped spice into a sack. The merchant was so casual, moving and interacting with his customers without the least hint of embarrassment or shame.

  ‘Announcing the Honourables: Vice Chancellor Dolomite, Grand Master Vogesite and Vice Chancellor Rhyolite.’ The Herald stretched out his arms. ‘In the sky loft, greet our queen, the Archurvogel Harpia.’

  Muffled clapping and murmurs drifted across the assembly as Harpia flew down. Trailed by two urvogels dressed in gold, she made several passes over the assembled crowd before hovering in front of the judges. She nodded as they bowed.

  Meanwhile, minionatros were filling metre-high glass jars at either end of the judges’ desk. Thousands of fireflies shone out revealing, in the dull yellow light, the flecks of dust swirling off Harpia’s wings.

  ‘Out of chaos comes form,’ sang Harpia. Smiling, she faced the crowd.

  ‘We are that form,’ answered the throng. ‘We follow the Law of Harpia.’

  ‘For this Day of Judgement I confer on you all necessary powers.’ Harpia turned again to the judges. ‘May you balance justice and mercy. And may we, the citizens of Krakatoan, enjoy the wonder and the splendour of a purified flock.’

  Harpia flew up. Was it going to be a real court with a real trial, or had Harpia already told the judges what their verdicts should be?

  Far above everyone’s heads, in the p
eak of a dome, Harpia settled on a giant swing. She began to rock. Meanwhile her attendant gold robes were opening cupboard doors in the bottom of the dome. Long hoses were pulled out, each with a bulbous contraption on the end.

  ‘The Seventh Moon Court of the Principality of Krakatoan is now in session. Cristobalite, step forward and take the seat of truth!’

  Rocco’s attention dropped to the blue robe beside Py. He had a shock of white hair running from his forehead up into his topknot. Rising to his feet, he walked over and sat down on the empty chair between the judges’ desk and the first row of seats. His wings, draped over the side of the platform, were white, except the tips were black.

  ‘Cristobalite, you are charged with a Category A offence - private reading, contrary to Article fifteen, subsection three. How do you wish to plead?’

  Cristobalite didn’t say anything at first. Finally, in a heavy voice, he said, ‘I plead for my life and my wings.’

  ‘No. No. Not that kind of pleading,’ the middle judge, the Grand Master, bellowed. ‘Pay attention here. You’ve got two choices, guilty or not guilty.’

  Cristobalite’s wings began to twitch.

  Rocco leaned over. ‘He’s in trouble for reading a book?’

  Vesta nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  Vesta didn’t answer.

  ‘What’s it going to be?’ asked the Grand Master.

  ‘Guilty,’ said Cristobalite.

  ‘Let’s hear your confession.’

  Cristobalite began. ‘I removed a book from the Book Treasury, one with beautiful illuminations and also some ancient inscriptions. I – I took it to my room and read it.’

  ‘Is that all?’ the Grand Master queried.

  ‘I also took it out to Wildergarten and read a few pages under a tree.’

  ‘Who went with you?’

  ‘I went alone.’

  ‘You’re aware such conduct is an offence under the Reformations and Omniflock Improvements under the Law of Krakatoan, otherwise known as Harpia’s Law?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And yet you disobeyed?’