Cristobalite nodded. ‘I – I’m sorry.’
The Grand Master wagged his finger. ‘We’ll have nothing but chaos on our hands if every urvogel throws himself into the abyss of private fantasy. Books are not meant for private consumption. They are public, to be heard aloud, in the open air of common understanding. Do you ignore the value in this?’
He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘You rob us all when you ignore the benefit of communal experience. You’ve turned one of our greatest delights into a stinking, dirty fetish.’
Vesta, so fidgety before, now sat rigidly, her back as straight as an arrow. She’d even stopped whispering to Basalt. Shifting forward, Rocco peered at Basalt, Iggy and Magma farther down the row. They were staring down at Cristobalite.
Cristobalite was directed to kneel on the low railing at the bottom of the judges’ desk. The judges bent their heads together.
‘Cristobalite,’ said the Grand Master, rising out of his chair and peering down over the edge of the desk. ‘We find you guilty of private reading. You have coveted a secret self and for this transgression the penalty is not discretionary but automatic. You must forfeit your wings.’
Rocco gasped. Guilty of reading? Had he heard right?
‘This is not a loss, but an honour.’
The judge waved to someone at the back. A figure in a long cloak emerged from the shadows. Rocco recognized the satchel. It was the Alchemist who had groped his wings on the palace platform yesterday.
Two Air Marshals wearing masks, one trimmed with a silver bird beak, and the other with a striped plume sticking up from the middle of the forehead, followed the Alchemist. Upon reaching the front, the Alchemist removed a bottle from his satchel.
A hum began to fill the room.
‘Take. Drink, these opiates,’ said the Alchemist, removing the stopper as he handed the bottle to Cristobalite.
Cristobalite tipped the bottle back and drank. The Alchemist then handed Cristobalite a strip of something that looked like dried meat.
‘Take. Eat, this carrion.’ Cristobalite’s wings fluttered open as he clenched the strip between his teeth. Moving forward, the silver-beaked Air Marshal seized Cristobalite’s wing. The Air Marshal with the striped plume unsheathed his sword. Stepping close to Cristobalite, he raised his blade.
‘Glory!’ the stripe-plumed Air Marshal cried aloud as he slashed his blade into Cristobalite’s wing.
The humming stopped. A great ripping sound arose. Cristobalite’s wing hung sideways. The first blow had failed to sever it completely. Raising his sword again, the stripe-plumed Air Marshal sent another blow into the wing.
Blood spattered into both Air Marshals’ clothes, rising as high as their masks. Amid the sound of bone cracking, Cristobalite’s magnificent wing slid to the floor.
Rocco must have kicked the chair in front of him, because the white robe who occupied the chair spun round. His face, particularly his lashes, was covered in flecks of dust. He glared at Rocco.
Sick to the stomach, but unable to pull his eyes away, Rocco watched as the second wing was severed. Is this what the parents of the hunchback children had done? Given their children over to a stranger with a knife? So much blood and ugliness.
At least the parents of the hunchback children had a reason – they were trying to keep their children safe. These urvogels had just lost their wings for the pettiest of reasons – for reading a book.
Urvogels were thugs.
Cristobalite’s second wing had crashed to the floor. The Air Marshal had managed to sever it on his first swing. Minionatros down at the front began to sing.
‘Blessed be the minionatros.’ Standing now, the judges lifted their wings.
Cristobalite slumped forward, his back a glaring gash of bone and tissue. Blood poured out, spilling into his tunic and pooling on the floor around him. The humming, a hypnotic drone, started up again.
Rocco turned, surveying the stony faces of the urvogels behind him. Weren’t they enraged, or at least moved by Cristobalite’s loss? Swirls of dust filled the air. Looking up to the dome, he saw the cloud of dust was thickest around Harpia. Swinging hard, she beat her wings.
More dust was being pumped by the gold robes. They were holding the hoses and pumping the end with the bulb. A fine spray of dust, commingled with Harpia’s wing dander, floated down.
The backs of every chair as well as the heads and shoulders of every white robe in front of Rocco were covered in dust. Rocco turned. His own shoulders were covered. Brushing the dust off lightly, he began to cough. Half choking, he buried his nose in his sleeve.
What was it? Some kind of toxin? Would it turn him into a dopey-eyed urvogel?
Vesta’s feet were silent. Rocco reached out to push her arm, but the room plunged into darkness. The light in Vesta’s wings went out. So did all the wings in his row, and also the row in front. Only his blue glow cut the blackness. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? Maybe Harpia could see him easily, but at least he was hanging onto himself. His wings always glowed in the dark.
An object brushed against his head. Vesta had risen out of her seat. She was flying up. So were Basalt, Magma and Iggy.
Rocco flipped his wing so he could see better. Peering up, he saw hundreds of feet dangling from the dome. The entire assembly had flown up and were now gathered in a cluster, beating their wings in a mass frenzy. He couldn’t see Harpia any more, but she was up there, the queen controlling all her drones.
He was alone in his row. The aisle was empty. Should he make a break for it? There weren’t any Air Marshals at the door, but for sure there would be lots of them outside. He wouldn’t get very far. Hunkering down in his chair, he prepared to wait.
Long minutes passed. The sound of the beating wings softened. Slowly the bioluminescent glow returned, at first as a flickering, then more strongly as if the urvogels were signalling each other. One by one they glided back to their seats.
Basalt, Magma, and Iggy had just settled into theirs. Rocco peered up just as Vesta’s feet appeared over his head. Her shoe knocked his ear as she slid, feet first, into her seat.
‘Pyroxene. Come forward, Pyroxene.’
Vesta seemed not to hear. She was sitting still with her hands clasped in her lap.
‘It’s Py.’ Rocco pointed. ‘Your friend, Py! It’s his turn.’
A ripple of fear passed into Vesta’s face.
six
Mass frenzy
Cristobalite was nowhere to be seen. His wings had been strung up on the front of the judges’ desk. They were harsh-looking, detached but crying out in anguish and shame, thought Rocco. Blood still dripped from the ragged edges.
The Herald called again. Py got up. Despite his slight frame, he strode heavily, slouching into the chair that Cristobalite had just vacated.
The Herald flicked the scroll of paper. ‘Pyroxene, you are charged with a Category A offence - playing a harpsiflute, privately, as a solitary endeavour, contrary to the Reformations and Omniflock Improvements in the Law of Krakatoan, Article fourteen, subsection five. How do you plead?’
Cristobalite had lost his wings because he’d read a book, and now Py was going to lose his wings because he played a harpsiflute? Krakatoan had looked so magnificent yesterday, particularly the dancing urvogels in the night sky. But under all that splendour urvogels were petty and cruel.
A moment ago Vesta, Basalt, Magma and Iggy had been in a stupor. But now their wings were vibrating as they stared down at Py.
The Herald repeated the charge. Still Py didn’t answer.
‘What’s the meaning of this insolence?’ roared the Grand Master.
Pyroxene’s wings had slumped so low the tips were now resting on the floor.
‘What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?’
Pyroxene mumbled.
‘What’s that? Speak up. We can’t hear you all the way up here in that pip squeaky voice.’ A cloud of spittle flew out of the Grand Master’s mouth.
Pyroxene’s shoulders b
egan to shake.
‘Don’t start that soppy mess,’ said the bushy-haired judge. ‘How do you plead?’
‘I don’t want to lose my wings,’ wailed Pyroxene.
‘For the love of the Great Urvogel. We’re not even through the trial yet. You have to be convicted before a sentence is imposed. How long’s it been since you fledged?’
Py’s shoulders shook harder.
Sighing loudly, the bushy-haired judge pulled back in a huddle with the Grand Master and the third judge.
It wasn’t the least bit fair. Py was small – a young urvogel. Couldn’t they cut him some slack? Rocco’s mind flitted over all the minionatros he’d seen since arriving. There hadn’t been a single one as young as Py, but maybe all the young ones were cooped up in a room weaving carpets, or only allowed to clean the Bathhouse after it was emptied at night.
The Grand Master, who had been doing almost all the talking up to that point, lifted a small wooden hammer. He rapped it on the desk. ‘Stand up. If you can’t decide, we’ll decide for you!’
Py struggled up.
‘Guilty.’ The hammer banged loudly again.
Teetering forward, Py grasped the arm of his chair before falling back into the seat.
‘Since you’re here, we might as well move on to sentencing.’ The Grand Master peered down.
‘You’ve been convicted of a crime of vanity,’ he continued. ‘I can’t emphasize enough how important it is for you young urvogels to fit into the collective. That’s your best refuge for life. Krakatoan will provide you with sanctuary, but you must forego private indulgences.’
The Grand Master paused. ‘You’re obviously not fledged. Clearly not up to much. It’s our duty to exact mercy as well as justice. For that reason, and due to your youth, we have decided to let you keep your wings. Your minionatro sentence is suspended.’
That was good news, wasn’t it? Rocco glanced sideways at Vesta. Her expression hadn’t changed. The muscles in her mouth were tight.
The judge on the far right, the one with the white topknot, took up the speech.
‘You shall keep your wings, but you are hereby sentenced to a life cut off from your hatch-mates. You are banished from Krakatoan. You can never enter these walls again. If you disobey, your life will be forfeited.’
Loud clamouring arose from the rows behind Rocco. Vesta, Basalt and Iggy sprang to their feet. Magma, still seated, was making weird choking sounds under his wing.
Py was made to stand. The Air Marshals escorted him up the aisle. The room grew silent again.
‘Oh Py!’ Vesta sobbed.
The door opened, light flooded in, then Py and the Air Marshals were gone.
‘It’s not fair!’ shouted Magma.
The Grand Master banged the hammer. Leaning over the desk, he stared into the assembly. ‘You white robes are ordered not to howl. This is not a time to act like wolves. It’s a time for celebration. We have expunged a rot that could have infected us all.’
Magma’s wails grew louder. Iggy had also started crying. Urvogels in front and behind were staring.
The Grand Master, knocking his hammer with successive sharp raps, nodded at the Air Marshals standing at the back. Two Air Marshals marched down and took up a spot in the aisle directly beside Rocco. Another pair stopped at the other end of the row.
Basalt leaned over and whispered in Magma’s ear. He did the same to Iggy. Whatever it was he said, both Magma and Iggy, with a few sharp intakes of breath, stopped crying and sank into soft muffled sobs.
More names were called and convictions reached. One urvogel after another was found guilty of playing a musical instrument alone, singing alone or reading alone. The condemned urvogel would kneel, as Cristobalite had, in front of the judges’ desk while his or her wings were severed.
Each time the dust swirled while the room grew dark. The entire assembly joined Harpia up in the dome. Vesta, Basalt, Iggy and Magma flew up too. They seemed to care so deeply for Py, and yet they were celebrating whenever another defendant lost his or her wings.
Rocco sat firmly in his seat, keeping watch on his own wings. Each time it grew dark he held his breath until his bioluminescence surged bright. He usually hated his glowing feathers, but now the light meant he was unaffected by Harpia’s dust. Didn’t it? He kicked his feet, and lifted his arms. He was still in control of his limbs. No impulse was hauling him out of his chair.
The room had grown as hot as a bush fire. Py’s section stood empty at last.
‘This court stands adjourned.’ The Herald finally began rolling up his long swath of paper.
In the ceiling, a row of windows below the dome was thrust open and rays of light fell into the room. Rocco caught sight of Harpia’s skirt and feet as she flew out of a window. The gold robes were folding up her swing, and the long lengths of hose.
Down at the front, eighteen pairs of urvogel wings hung on the judges’ desk. Nineteen convictions had been entered. Py had been the youngest. He was the only one to be exiled instead of losing his wings.
Rocco bolted up the aisle, pushing past the Krakatoans who were moving much too slowly. He was the first to push out into the bright sunlight. He gulped the air, flapped his wings, and examined his legs and arms. He still looked normal.
Dust blew off his feathers and clothes as he ran full tilt down the steps and crossed Avian Plaza. Arriving at the side of the fountain, he bent over and retched. He could climb right into the basin, but perhaps there was a rule against that. Instead he dunked his head in the water and swished around.
Standing up, he retched again. Wiping his mouth, he sat down on the side of the fountain. He immediately began shivering so he stood up again and flapped hard. Using his hands he beat the dust from his clothes.
The Krakatoans were spilling out on the steps of the courthouse. Their wings gleamed. They had always been bright, but now they glowed with a pristine whiteness that was almost blinding. Basalt, Magma, Vesta and Iggy appeared. Spotting Rocco, they glided down the steps and over to the fountain.
Their heads, brows and lashes were full of dust. They leaned or sat on the edge of the fountain. Their skin gleamed pale.
‘What is that stuff?’ asked Rocco, flicking dust off of Iggy’s shoulder.
‘It’s Harpia’s royal perfume,’ said Iggy and Magma together.
Instead of laughing because they had just said the same words at the same time, they gave Rocco a blank stare.
‘What’s it for?’ Rocco gave his own shoulders another casual swipe. Dust churned up.
Their eyes were glassy like the patrons coming out of the opium dens in Krakatoan.
‘Py’s gone!’ said Vesta, catching her breath. Her eyes sort of looked like a wounded animal’s.
Rocco waited. It made sense that they were worried about Py, but what about all the gore and blood and severed limbs they’d just seen? Didn’t the others matter at all?
Magma removed his tunic and flapped it in the air. ‘The Archurvogel’s wing dust unifies the flock. It binds us together.’ The words sounded as if he were quoting from a page.
‘There’s a clatch tonight.’ Basalt’s eyes were dopey, but his voice was clear. ‘It’s only us white robes. On court days, we always meet after, just to hang out. Want to come?’
Rocco was silent. He didn’t understand urvogels. It didn’t really matter, because in a very short time he was going to escape. In the meantime he needed someone to show him around. He’d already observed that urvogels always went around in pairs or larger groups.
He nodded. ‘Okay.’
* * *
Rocco lay back against a silver willow. Vesta had just told him the name of it, and also the names of the other trees: silver birch, silver ash and silver maple. The forested area, a sprawling grove of trees inside the northern city wall, was called Silver Woods. The palace wasn’t visible which was a great relief. He might have been anywhere, sitting with his back to a tree in a place far, far away. If only it were true.
The w
ind sounded ever so nice, the way it rustled high up in the branches. Every so often a white robe playing flight tag in the trees would call out. It was evening. They had just come from Singhurvogel Hall, where a meal of bread, noodles and vegetable broth had been served.
Everyone had sat around long tables, divided by robe colour, eating food that was more or less familiar. Instead of using forks, they ate with slender sticks, pinched together between the thumb and fingers. They were difficult to wield, so Rocco had slurped the noodles and broth directly from his bowl.
The white robes at his table had complained of headaches, but otherwise they’d said very little. Rocco’s head didn’t hurt, but his stomach had been churning since he’d thrown up earlier, by the fountain.
With a hand resting on his stomach, Rocco fixed part of his attention on Magma, Vesta and Iggy who were sitting under an adjacent tree. The other half of his mind spirit was floating up in the treetops where the air was fresh and the birds were flying free. That would be him soon; he just had to hang on to the idea of it.
They were waiting for it to grow dark so they could start the clatch, whatever that was. No one had said exactly, but he would find out soon enough. Basalt had been gone all afternoon. He hadn’t even attended the evening meal.
Magma, Vesta and Iggy were grooming each other’s wings.
‘Do you think they gave Py any amber venom to take with him?’ Iggy asked, shifting around to look at Magma who was sitting behind him. Magma tugged a wide-toothed comb through Iggy’s feathers. A pile of discarded feathers sat on the ground beside him.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Vesta. Perched on the ground behind Magma, she was pulling a similar large comb through Magma’s wings. Every so often she’d reach forward and drop a handful of rumpled feathers into the growing pile.
Rocco had seen river monkeys pick nits out of each other’s fur. He’d also seen village women caring for the sick and elderly, but he’d never seen children grooming each other.
‘What’s amber venom?’ he asked, his eyes half closed. After being silent for much of the day, he’d adopted a half curious, half not caring approach to the white robes. He needed to keep them talking so he could learn about the city, but he couldn’t afford to set them off. He wasn’t one of them. The smallest misstep might unleash a torrent of abuse. Basalt had already told him that urvogels all feel the same things.
Rocco's Wings Page 5