Rocco's Wings

by Murdock, Rebecca Merry

  It was the same thing Rocco had thought of before. But they hadn’t died. They’d awakened, and now they were getting better. Couldn’t Magma see that?

  ‘Why do you have to throw scat on everything?’ said Vesta.

  ‘I’m just being realistic,’ said Magma.

  ‘I’m blue,’ said Rocco. ‘I mean, underneath all this mud and stuff, my feathers are blue. And I’m – I’m not dying.’

  ‘Leaves aren’t blue anyway,’ said Magma.

  ‘It can’t be true,’ said Iggy. ‘Say it, Basalt! Say we’re not dying.’

  Basalt waved his arm.

  ‘Maybe we’re tainted,’ said Magma. ‘Did you ever think of that?’

  ‘Tainted? Like that stinky cheese in your flying belt?’ asked Vesta.

  ‘Maybe it’s our crime,’ continued Magma. ‘We lost our white feathers because we ran off. We’re going to decay or else turn into some kind of mud-skinned animal.’

  No one spoke.

  ‘Maybe you weren’t even white before,’ said Rocco, getting up and pulling the branch down again. It kept bouncing back up.

  ‘We were always white,’ said Magma, pointing at the feathers bobbing along the shore. ‘It’s the purest colour.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Basalt. ‘My wings sort of look familiar. I thought I’d feel – well – more surprised by the colour, but I’m not.’

  ‘You were brighter, whiter, when you came out of the courthouse that day. Maybe there’s something in Harpia’s wing dust that made you white,’ said Rocco, thinking back.

  ‘Harpia’s dust washes off. Any urvogel knows that.’ Magma sighed. ‘I wish I was still white. I can’t stop seeing this odious green!’ As he stuck his elbow out, he clipped the edge of his pyramid. The bones clacked into disarray.

  He swore.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Basalt.

  Magma shrugged. ‘My head hurts, that’s all.’

  ‘Harpia’s wings aren’t white,’ said Vesta, picking up the thread of the discussion.

  She was right. Harpia’s wings were dark, but there was something else Rocco wanted to ask.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Surely they wouldn’t mind a private question, after everything they’d been through together.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re against wing-cutting –‘

  Vesta looked up.

  ‘But in the courthouse that day, it seemed like you were celebrating every time an urvogel got his wings cut off.’

  No one said anything.

  ‘We couldn’t help ourselves.’ Vesta’s cheeks flushed slightly.

  ‘I was just curious, that’s all,’ said Rocco. ‘Was it some kind of spell you were under? Was it all that wing dust Harpia kept spewing all over the place? I mean you were upset about Py, but the others… well, you didn’t seem the least bit sorry.’

  ‘We can’t help it,’ said Basalt. ‘It’s sort of like sneezing. You do it and after it’s done.’

  Not a very satisfying answer. Perhaps they didn’t remember. They’d been dopey-eyed after.

  Vesta stood up. Her wings, magnificently yellow in the sunlight, opened wide.

  What was she doing?

  Iggy hopped up beside her. Most of his wings were covered in mud, but a few purple feathers shone out.

  A gust caught Vesta and up she flew.

  ‘Vesta!’ Rocco jumped up, yelling.

  Laughing merrily, Iggy followed Vesta out over the lake.

  ‘I told you. Air Marshals might be watching! Are you trying to get us caught?’ Should he fly over? More wings over the water would attract more attention. Plus Iggy liked being chased. He’d think it was a game.

  Vesta’s wings screamed with colour.

  Rocco flapped up. ‘Vesta! Iggy! Come back!’

  They were positively giddy, the way they were wheeling around. Iggy tumbled into a roll. Hovering above, Vesta waved.

  Pulling his brows together, Rocco beckoned angrily.

  Vesta dropped down. She was saying something to Iggy.

  Continuing to beckon, Rocco flew out a bit farther. He squinted at the distant shoreline. Was it the light bouncing off, or had something glinted?

  He swung back to the rock. With his feet firmly planted, he turned around again. Two Air Marshals were flying out of the woods. Their swords flashed brightly as they crossed the water, heading straight for Vesta and Iggy.

  ‘Don’t move.’ Rocco’s voice was low. He raised his wings, half hiding Basalt and Magma.

  Vesta and Iggy had seen the flash. They were confused, looking at each other and then back at the rock.

  Two more Air Marshals had emerged from the woods. Four were now flying rapidly over the water.

  Vesta and Iggy were flying back, but the first pair had already closed the gap. An Air Marshal threw a sky net. A piece hit Iggy. Iggy yelped and pulled away.

  ‘Oh no,’ groaned Basalt.

  He and Magma stared over the top of Rocco’s wing.

  Glancing briefly in the direction of the flat rock, Vesta grabbed Iggy’s arm. She turned east, away from the rock.

  Another Air Marshal threw a second net, this time snagging Vesta’s wing. Iggy was captured too. Shrieking loudly, both Vesta and Iggy struggled. They were weak and out there without any weapons; they didn’t stand a chance.

  Rocco could go after them, but he wouldn’t be able to fight four armed Air Marshals. Basalt and Magma weren’t able to help. They could scarcely fly.

  Within moments both Vesta and Iggy were tightly bound. Vesta’s yellow bundle hung between two Air Marshals who had turned and were now flying back to the opposite shore. The other two followed with Iggy.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ said Rocco.

  Magma’s face had been pale before but now it was ashen.

  ‘I’ll go after them but first we have to clear out of here – before they come back for us.’ Rocco leapt to the ground. ‘Can you fly at all?’

  Basalt and Magma were nodding, but they didn’t look very sure of themselves. Rocco hurriedly helped them cover their wings with the mud that he kept in a hollowed-out spot at the edge of the lake.

  ‘Come on!’ He headed back to the treehouse. Basalt and Magma were awake, but they kept looking at him as if they didn’t know what to do.

  Once inside Rocco strapped on his gear. He helped Basalt and Magma strap theirs on, choosing at the last moment to carry their waterskins and flying belts.

  ‘Here, you’d better take these,’ he said, thrusting their swords into their arms.

  They stepped outside.

  ‘I’ll lead the way, but listen close. See if we’re being followed.’ Rocco darted into the trees. He flew along the ravine, pausing every few wing strides so Basalt and Magma could catch up. Their faces shone with sweat.

  Turning left at the end of the gully, Rocco flew to the top of the trees.

  ‘There’s a cave up there!’ He pointed to the pinnacle. ‘I’ll go first and whistle when the coast is clear.’

  Climbing slowly, he ascended the bluff. He was exposed, out there in plain view, but at least his wings blended in, brown against the mottled rock face.

  Having reached the top, he whistled low like a bird. Basalt and Magma flew out of the trees. They flew up and landed beside him. The three gazed down to the forest below.

  ‘Where are they?’ asked Magma.

  Nothing stirred.

  Rocco showed them the cave. Basalt and Magma, panting and sweating profusely, collapsed on the floor.

  ‘It stinks in here,’ gasped Magma.

  The cave smelled of water. A drip echoed.

  Rocco dropped everything but his own sword and waterskin. ‘I’ll be back when I’ve found them.’

  Magma’s eyes grew wild. ‘You can’t just leave us here!’

  ‘I have to go,’ said Rocco. ‘You – you can barely fly. I’ll be back. I promise.’

  Magma said nothing further as Rocco returned outside. Leaping over the edge of the precipice, he glide
d down. Were Vesta and Iggy okay? Surely the Air Marshals hadn’t chopped their wings off already. Harpia would want to see them, gloat over their capture.

  But what if the Air Marshals had orders to kill them on sight and just bring the wings back as evidence? He had to find them. He had to. They had only just woken up. It had seemed, at least for a few hours that morning, that they actually had a chance again.

  Oh why did everything have to turn out wrong? Maybe their heads were muddled from their long sleep, but what was his excuse? He should have insisted that they move off the flat rock. Maybe then Vesta wouldn’t have been tempted to fly out over the water.

  Once into the trees he flew along, midway between the forest floor and the tops of the giant redwoods. He would stay deep enough in the branches so as not to be spotted himself, although it was tiring, dodging branches and weaving in and out of the massive trunks.

  He came to the spot directly across from the flat rock. Concealed in the first row of trees, he could almost see the spot where they’d been sitting an hour ago. For sure he recognized the top of the treehouse.

  Having located the spot where the Air Marshals had disappeared with Vesta and Iggy, he flew into the woods. The dressing on his leg had come off. His thigh was bleeding again, not a lot but enough that it needed tending. He found some leaves and covered the wound, tying everything in place with some vines.

  Off he set again, flying north. By late afternoon, he had covered long tracts of forest, but he had found no clues. His wings were heavy. The throb had returned to his thigh. His waterskin was dry.

  Spotting a pool of water, he flew down. He knelt in the soft earth, flapping his wings against the mosquitoes that were thick in the heated understorey. As he pushed his waterskin into the water, he noticed several large green leaves on the ground. Some were ripped.

  Above his head a branch was hanging, cracked but not broken. Something, or someone, had passed that way in a hurry. Rocco flew up. Several metres ahead, another branch was sticking out oddly. A closer inspection revealed that the branch was freshly fractured.

  More ripped leaves were scattered randomly below. Had Vesta or Iggy managed to stick a hand out and grab the leaves as they flew by?

  Following the trail, nearly losing it several times, Rocco came at last to the end of the trees. An expansive field of tall grass opened up in front of him. On the other side, in a clearing surrounded by more trees, stood a camp of black tents.

  sixteen

  Air Marshals’ camp

  Peering out from behind a tree, Rocco stared across the field. An Air Marshal came out of a tent and started a fire.

  Darkness began to gather. More Air Marshals were now seated around the fire, which glowed brightly in the middle of the camp. They’d been hunting. Their voices, increasingly loud and boisterous, rang through the air.

  No sign of Vesta or Iggy, but they had to be there. Crouching low, Rocco crept through the grass. Where the grass was short, he pulled himself along on his stomach. Arriving at the end of the field he parted the stalks and stared out.

  Sparks from the Air Marshals’ fire shot into the night. A dead animal, a grass-eater, turning on a spit, hung over the flame. Its skewered head glared down from the end of an upright spear.

  Air Marshals had been eating and drinking around the fire. Three were asleep. One lay flat on the ground. Two others were sitting upright with their backs against a log, chins resting on their chests.

  Twenty metres of stones and short tufts of grass separated Rocco from the camp. There was nothing else to do, but run across it. Pulling his wing up over his head, he bolted out. Blood beat in his ears, pulsating and terrifyingly loud, but they couldn’t hear it at least. The Air Marshals were having their own merriment.

  Once across the field Rocco ducked behind the nearest tent. Crouched down, he remained still. No shouts erupted. He breathed deeply again. Creeping around a tent, he stared out. He counted. Nine Air Marshals were seated around the fire. Vesta and Iggy were nowhere to be seen.

  Stepping gingerly along the back of the tents, he stumbled over a pair of boots. His wings gave a startled flutter as he looked down. An Air Marshal was stretched out on the ground. His eyes were closed. He was snorting like a pig.

  With a long stride, he passed swiftly over the Air Marshal and bent his ear to the back of the next tent. Silence inside. He proceeded on, bending his ear and listening carefully each time.

  A jangle, familiar but faint, was coming from somewhere close by.

  He carried on, stopping when the sound erupted again. The sound kept getting drowned out by all the laughing and guffaws going on by the fire.

  The sound wasn’t much more than a tinkle, erratic, cutting out for long moments, but then ringing faintly again. Arriving at the last tent, he heard the jangle again. He held his breath.

  Taking out his knife, he cut a small slit in the back of the tent. His heart almost leapt through the hole as he peered in. Vesta and Iggy were sitting on the ground in a pool of dull yellow light. Their wings were lashed, and they sat back to back with the tent pole between them.

  Rocco smiled. Their wings were intact. They could fly.

  A falcon sat on a two-metre-high perch by the door. Two mat beds lay on the floor. Heaps of armour and clothes filled the corners.

  Enlarging the hole in the tent, Rocco tossed a pebble in. Nothing happened, so he threw in another. Still no response, so he pushed his head inside.

  ‘Pssst.’

  Vesta looked up. Her eyes were dull at first, but they quickly turned feverishly bright. She began to squirm, elbowing Iggy until his head bounced up. By then Rocco had extended the slit, stepped inside and moved over to where they were seated.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ Iggy whispered.

  Rocco began to untie Iggy’s restraints. The falcon, silent up to that point, gave an ear-shattering screech. Rocco clapped his hands over his ears. No, better to hear what was going on. He dropped his hands.

  The laughing out by the fire stopped.

  The bird screeched louder.

  His hands trembled over the knots. What was he doing? He took out his knife, dropping it twice as he slashed through the tethers.

  ‘Hurry! Hurry!’ Vesta pleaded.

  ‘I’m going as fast as I can!’

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ said Vesta.

  ‘I don’t hear anyone.’ All he could hear was the damned bird.

  ‘Can’t you make it shut up?’ hissed Rocco.

  ‘How am I going to do that?’ said Vesta.

  The last strap fell to the ground just as heavy boots thumped outside. Vesta and Iggy returned to their former spots on either side of the pole. Rocco jumped through the hole in the back of the tent. Pulling up the flap he had just cut, he held the piece in place, taking care to overlap the fabric so the moonlight wouldn’t shine in through a crack.

  ‘What’s all this ruckus?’ A gruff Air Marshal voice sounded. ‘Shut up!’ He was talking to the bird. A flurry of short, frantic wing flaps ensued, then silence.

  Would the bird give them away – start prattling in urvogel?

  The falcon only squawked in her native tongue.

  ‘What are you two almost groundlings up to?’ The Air Marshal again.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Vesta’s voice was even, almost a little sarcastic.

  ‘Keep it down, or you can go to bed hungry.’

  The door of the tent flapped again. The Air Marshal was gone, his heavy footsteps stumbling away. Dropping open the back of the tent, Rocco stepped inside again. The Air Marshal had silenced the bird. Sitting on its perch, its head and eyes were covered in a tiny hooded cap.

  ‘Let’s get out of here!’ Vesta whispered.

  Rocco ran to the tent’s actual door and stared out. The grass-eater’s eyes flickered eerily in the firelight. The Air Marshals’ silhouetted shapes were hunkered down. They were talking again.

  ‘All clear,’ said Rocco, turning back.

  Vesta’s bangles ji
ngled softly.

  ‘Take ‘em off!’

  Vesta pulled the bangles off. She set them noiselessly on the ground. She did the same with the ones on her wrist. The three crept to the back of the tent where Rocco finished cutting out a large square, which he draped over Vesta’s wings.

  ‘Walk in front, Iggy. You’ve a bit of light coming off of you, too.’ Rocco motioned for Iggy to exit first. A moment later they were all outside, walking across the stones and tufts of grass. Iggy led the way, followed by Vesta holding her mantle of tent fabric. Rocco took up the rear, holding his dark wings wide.

  A pack of wolves howled from somewhere deep in the woods. The Air Marshals were quieter now, their voices fallen to a murmur by the fire.

  Rocco, Vesta and Iggy began to run. They had only taken a few long strides when an Air Marshal’s head popped up, four metres in front of them.

  His mouth fell open. He’s out here emptying his bowels, thought Rocco. Likely his leggings were down around his knees.

  ‘What’s this?’ The Air Marshal gaped, but didn’t move.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Rocco cried aloud.

  Iggy bent down, picked up a rock and hurled it. The stone hit the Air Marshal squarely in the forehead. With a grunt he fell backwards.

  ‘Good work, Iggy.’

  Rocco grabbed Iggy’s and Vesta’s hands. They fled across the field. One, two, three steps and the Air Marshal still hadn’t shouted. Was he drunk? Passed out? Confused?

  No one was calling them from behind. No wing strides of anyone giving chase. Iggy must have hit the Air Marshal just right, thought Rocco as they reached the trees.

  ‘You two okay?’ he asked, coming to a halt.

  Iggy nodded.

  ‘Where’s Magma and Basalt?’ The small fret line hovered between Vesta’s brows.

  ‘They’re okay. They’re in hiding.’ Rocco grabbed Vesta’s and Iggy’s hands again. They ran through the trees until they came to a muddy spot. Rocco opened his waterskin and poured out the contents. Using a stick, he mixed a small slick pool of mud. Vesta threw off her mantle. They slathered her wings with mud, after which they touched up Iggy’s.

  ‘Least now you’re not a firefly, Vesta!’ said Iggy.