by Aidan Moher
My wings were useless, crushed by the impact. I felt like one of the loose dolls inside my grandmama’s old snow globe.
The lake was dotted with people in paddle boats, like a pattern on a dark quilt. One or two pointed at me, others drew hands to their mouths in shock, many didn't even notice. I crashed into the placid water, hard, like it was solid stone. I blacked out.
It might be that I died.
I awoke in the arms of an old man. He shuffled along, unaware that I watched him through slitted eyes. I closed my eyes again but did not fall back to darkness. Instead, I listened. Birdsong drifted on the breeze, in counterpoint to the slow lap of water on a nearby shore. My hair and clothes were wet and my body ached fiercely. I shifted in the man's arms and knew that my wings were broken.
His hands were papery soft.
'Don’t worry, child," he said, his voice whispery, like silk slippers over a dusty floor. “You’re safe now.”
“The Girl with Wings of Iron and Down” (2011)
Story Notes
If you pay attention to these story notes, you’ll likely notice that a lot of the short fiction I write begins with a writing prompt or a challenging idea that excites me as a writer. Maybe an illustration I stumble across online with a story begging to be told, an attempt to write a story that would fit in a themed anthology that I particularly enjoyed, or, as in this case, a direct prompt from another writer to conceptualize a story within a specific set of parameters.
To find the beginnings of “The Girl with Wings of Iron and Down,” one need look no further than the Writing Excuses podcast. Every episode, Mary, Brandon, and the rest of the crew prompt writers with a fun or challenging idea. The prompt3 that started me down the path that ended with “The Girl with Wings of Iron and Down” was to take two films—preferably ones that don’t intersect naturally or obviously—and combine their concepts into one story.
I chose The Truman Show (to which I have no particular attachment) and Astro Boy (a childhood favourite).
As a child watching Astro Boy, I remember being incredibly emotional when young Toby is killed and his father, a brilliant and heartbroken scientist, replaces him with a robot replica: Astro Boy. The idea that someone would be so deep in despair that they would attempt to recreate a synthetic version of their child is tragic. The idea that they would attempt to improve upon that child by using technology to give them wings or rocket feet is heartbreaking.
Even as a child, I wondered: what does it mean to fix someone? And who gets to decide whether they’re broken in the first place?
Commentary on reality television aside, the confined nature of the town in The Truman Show seemed like an interesting place to set a science fiction novel, especially when you factor in a protagonist who is seemingly given the means to escape but cannot. Wings are symbolic of freedom but are useless when even the sky has limits.
As the author, I have a certain level of insight into my stories beyond what makes it into the text. The words between the lines, if you will. More than any other story I’ve written, though, “The Girl with Wings of Iron and Down” poses so many questions that I’ve never been able to answer. I don’t know who the girl was before she ended up on the space station, and certainly have no answers for how she got there. The technology behind her wings is archaic and beautiful, but how did such anachronistic technology end up in a cutting-edge scientific community?
These sorts of curiosities are part of what I love so much about being a writer.
Of Parnassus and Princes,
Damsels and Dragons
The Prince of Copperkettle Vale was a sad, miserable man. He was not handsome; rather, he looked like a toad. He was not kind; rather, he was cruel and took joy in tickling the feet of trussed up prisoners. He was not smart; rather, he paid others to do what needed to be done. But he did rule a kingdom—which bought him virtue and delivered him fame.
This is the tale of how the despicable Prince of Copperkettle Vale falls in love. Though, as with all the best stories, not everything is as it first appears.
The Kingdom of Copperkettle Vale will be recognizable to any reader familiar with tales of valour, heroism, adventure, betrayal, and romance. It has rolling hills, bright green as round-cut emeralds; clouds as pale and supple as a maiden's bottom; waterfalls that sing sweet sonnets as they tumble from above; and rivers that cure all ills with but one sweet sip from their clear waters. The horses are gay and wild, the foxes sly and devious, the birds sweet of voice and always singing. It is a paradise—a place where no man is downtrodden, and no trouble is left unsolved.
The Prince of Copperkettle Vale was raised by a strong father, a king respected by the leaders of kingdoms, baronies, city-states, countries, fiefdoms, duchies, principalities, empires, and nations the world over. His mother loved him and baked him hot scones each morning, slathered with honey sweeter than a baby's laugh and Sunset Cinnamon, known across the land for its russet colour and fiery flavour. He had no brothers with whom he must share his toys, and no sisters over whom he must play protector or white knight. He was given every liberty, every chance to live a childhood of dreams.
However, a proper tale cannot be told if events unfold easily and as expected.
From the moment the Prince of Copperkettle Vale left his mother's belly, he cried and cried. He threw tantrums as a two-year-old, ate the larder clean at eight, tossed his father into the moat at thirteen. and by sixteen, he'd stolen and sold several satraps’ most scandalous secrets.
"He’s a horror!" the people of Copperkettle Kingdom whispered behind their hands. But still they cheered for him every Sunday as he stood on the balcony of his castle, watching them bow and grovel before him. A prince was a prince, after all, no matter how petty and twisted.
The Queen of Copperkettle Vale was a lovely lady, made plump by decadent desserts, who lived for her son. You will not be shocked to hear, then, that she grew ever more distressed and distraught as her lovely little lad fell further into despair and cruelty. "Oh, what have I done!" she asked her handmaidens. "But where did I go wrong?" she cried to her chef. "Now what can I do?!" she begged of the gardener.
No one had an answer.
As mothers are wont to do, the queen began to scheme for the betterment of her son. "He's of an age," she’d mutter, "that he needs a woman in his life. A guiding hand, a firm voice, a source of reason." So, she sent off missives to her friends, begging for the hand of their daughters, their cousins, or any old dowager—any woman who would marry a rich prince with a dastardly reputation.
You've likely guessed, however, that none were willing to send their beautiful daughters to the Kingdom of Copperkettle Vale. Ugly aunts, decrepit grandmothers, and wily second cousins were offered, but even the Queen of Copperkettle Vale could not agree to an engagement to the likes of the Old Crone of Wicked Willow Highlands, no matter the size of dowry or outrageous promises of the crone's insatiable, exhausting debauchery. And she was not even the poorest match; the list grew worse with each new name added. "My boy might be ugly," the Queen said, a vein pulsing on her powdered brow. "He might be facetious and have a glint in his eye that would curl the chest hair on an ogre, but he is hardly a match for Baroness Heifersqueel. And, lo! The cost to keep her fed. As if one fat child is not enough!"
Still, she grew ever more desperate and eventually invited each woman to the Kingdom of Copperkettle Vale. She dined them and pampered them; dressed them in pretty clothes and caked them in makeup. But it was all for naught.
"Mother, I've no time for simple women. There's a village to tax, a boar to catch, or a painting to snatch. Women can wait," the Prince of Copperkettle Vale said. And each aunt, cousin, daughter, or grandmother was sent home in turn—rejected and resigned.
And so, the Kingdom of Copperkettle Vale continued to despair. The king grew no younger, and one day he would pass on and the Kingdom would fall under the rule of his slovenly son. Would even the firm hand of a strict wife be enough to save them from the prince's fol
ly?
Whatever would they do?
One of the princesses who did not answer the Queen's call was the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak, just three kingdoms down from Copperkettle Vale. As you might fathom, being a princess, she is at the heart of this story—for what is a prince without a damsel in distress?
This princess, of course, was lovely as any in the land, pretty as a sun-kissed field on an early summer morning. Hair black and shiny as the wing of a raven. Eyes golden like honey. Skin the colour of coffee with but a hint of cream.
For the sake of this story, one must know that the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak had a particular penchant for the flowering bud of Grass of Parnassus. Of course, no ordinary flower, be it daisy or zinnia, would catch her eye, not one grown in a flowerbed or found along the banks of a river. No, Parnassus grew only on the highest peak of the highest mountain in her mountainous kingdom.
"Dainty as a princess and beautiful as me!" was all she would say when her retainers and maids, men-at-arms, and dungeon-keepers asked her why she so loved the solitary white flower. As anyone who's met one knows, a princess likes what she likes and is quick to anger when her tastes are questioned. Try as they might, they could never change her mind.
Roses were rejected like rotten rutabagas. Daffodils were destroyed with dreadful delight. Pansies were piled on pyres and lit aflame. Hibiscus were hidden in hoary handbags. Chrysanthemums were cast into cauldrons and cooked on campfires. Snowdrops were stomped. Snapdragons were scorched. Petunias were pulverized.
Parnassus was it; no other would do.
So, once a month, the day after a full moon (always!), the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak would gather together her mightiest and most handsome knights (for what proper lady would travel without her share of strong arms and easy smiles?) and embark on a journey to climb the highest peak of the highest mountain in her mountainous kingdom. Our dear Princess was no princess, though. She would walk alongside the knights, refusing to be carried in a palanquin, ride sidesaddle on a donkey, or astraddle the broad shoulders of a knight.
"It's not proper!" mumbled half the knights.
"These legs are not a product of lazing about!" she would tell them, gazing down at her long, womanly figure. The hem of her dress caught up twigs and pebbles, burrs and nettles, but nothing deterred her from walking alongside the men.
"But those legs must be heavenly under them skirts," said the other half of the knights, besotted and in love (or lust).
It is on one such excursion, at the height of spring, as baby animals dance and sing in the high fields, that we find the true beginning of our story.
Fáfnir was a dragon. He was large and his scales were red as smouldering coals. He could breathe fire and his talons tore through solid stone like it was soft cheese. His mind was sharp, his wit astounding. He was fearsome and frightening, fecund and facetious.
Fáfnir lived on a mountain peak higher and broader than any other in the land and had piles of treasure that made other dragons jealous. By all rights, Fáfnir might have been considered the most successful dragon in the land, but, in truth, he was not. For, you see, a dragon, despite popular belief, does not measure success in gold or jewels or endless riches—though they sit upon piles of diamond and coin, it does not make them happy, it does not fill the hole in their heart. No, that hole can only be filled by the love or adoration of others.
Fáfnir was very lonely.
Of course, one cannot attract friends or lovers without those mountainous piles of treasure—emeralds and goblets, arkenstones and mirrors, gold-plated armour and diamond-studded swords, pearl necklaces, amber earrings, and gem-encrusted crowns. So, Fáfnir razed towns, pillaged kingdoms, and upended caravans like any good dragon, all in the name of making friends and luring lascivious lasses.
However, life is never so just or easy as it sounds in a fairy tale. Try as he might to collect the greatest treasure hoard in the land, Fáfnir could not catch the eye of the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak. He never attacked her castle, but instead destroyed her enemies and picked on kingdoms smaller and weaker than her’s. If his jewels would not impress her, his courage and virility surely would!
But no, instead, she was enthralled with a flower—so dainty and small.
So he watched her as she ascended the mountain next door, with a melancholy longing in his serpentine eyes. Alongside her band of powerful knights (with easy smiles and irresistible physiques), she climbed to the peak to pick a single flower, once a month, with each full moon.
"I SHALL TAKE HER!" he bellowed, and his furious voice sent thunder booming through the Kingdom of Flowerdumpling Peak. "SHE SHALL BE MY PARNASSUS!"
He hatched a plan, and the next time she climbed the highest peak of the highest mountain in her mountainous kingdom, Fáfnir was waiting for her. The knights were beautiful and strong, but they were nothing in the wake of his flaming breath and rending claws. For each knight he killed, Fáfnir shed a single tear. For the Princess's sake, of course; certainly not for his own. Ahem.
He took the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak up in his talons and flew her away. Her screams were shrill, her thrashings weak and pathetic. She weighed no more than a lamb.
"OH, JUST BE STILL, MY LOVE. DO YOUR FLOWERS SQUIRM SO WHEN YOU STEAL THEM FROM THEIR MOUNTAIN HOME?"
Still, she wailed harder, her tears dropping like rain on her kingdom, stretched far below like a painting. They arrived at his lair, with its impressive collection of gold and jewels.
Days passed. The Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak stopped crying, for which Fáfnir was grateful, but she was hardly the peachy companion he had hoped for. She was moody and demanding, petulant and dainty, and would not even eat the leg of the mutton he brought her (charred to a perfect crisp, might he add!). She was too slender, too soft, and much, much too boring.
Oh, and the bloody Parnassus! How she went on about that flower. For the dragon—in his stomping, uncoordinated attack on her guards—had crushed the field.
"You turned it to mud!" she crowed. Tears muddied by makeup ran in rivulets down her face, and Fáfnir was reminded of a tribe of warriors he had once destroyed, whose masks were painted like devils, though they were not nearly so frightening to look upon as this damsel in distress.
Kidnapping a princess was not nearly as enjoyable as Fáfnir had imagined. His loneliness fled…but was replaced by something much worse.
To escape from his misery, Fáfnir left his cave most days and hunted. There was nothing like the smell of roasting human flesh and burning villages to wash away the ills of caring for an angry princess. He razed several towns, cooked flocks of sheep, and rained terror on the kingdoms of Flowerdumpling Peak, Peachpit Plains, Rustyrock Swamp, and, most notably, Copperkettle Vale.
So, then, we turn our story back to the Prince of Copperkettle Vale and his ultimate role in saving his kingdom, rescuing the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak, and, finally, falling in love.
"I will slay the dragon!" said the Prince of Copperkettle Vale during breakfast, his head and heart full of grandeur. "I will save the princess and bring glory to our land!"
"And you shall find a wife at last, a woman to warm your bed and bear your children!" wept the Queen of Copperkettle Vale.
"Ahh, yes, a wife. Yes. Of course…" muttered the Prince. But soon, he was hefting axes and swords again. He must choose the best dragon-slaying weapon, of course.
He set off on the adventure of a lifetime—songs of dead dragons, valorous heroes, and peaceful kingdoms resounding in each step. It was an arduous odyssey, for he had no strong knights to carry his goods, nor a palanquin to sit in, but the Prince of Copperkettle Vale ignored such loneliness and focussed his dauntless energies on the task ahead.
"Glory awaits me at the end of this road! And my heart and hands shall be filled with the glimmer of gold!" he bellowed into the wind, hoping his words would spread through his kingdom, to the ears of each of his eager citizens.
But at night, he missed those knights wit
h strong arms and easy smiles, the warm companionship of a manly man to share a story, to share a beer, or ribald laughter.
But no one ever said a hunt was easy, thought the Prince, before pulling his cloak tighter and shivering himself to sleep.
It is not easy to find the lair of a dragon. They are often found near the top of treacherous peaks, like the cherry atop a towering white-frosted cake. Should one find one’s way to the summit of such a mountain, one must overcome a labyrinthine lair full of booby traps. And one’s only reward at the finish line? A very angry dragon. But the Prince of Copperkettle Vale was not deterred. The Kingdom of Flowerdumpling Peak knew which mountain their princess had been stolen from. He would start from there and travel to each peak surrounding it (and worry about the mazes and booby traps later).
He spent seven days climbing those mountains, searching every nook and cranny for the dragon's lair, but frustration and failure were his only companions.
Until.
Deep in the depths of a winter that never left the mountain peak, he rounded a corner on a particularly perilous pathway, and lo and behold, he stumbled into a cave, aglow with the fiery radiance of a dragon's den.
There were no booby traps (indeed, that was just a myth spread by lazy dragons) nor a maze (for not even a dragon can carve a maze into a mountain), but there was a princess and a great sleeping dragon.
"I am here to save you, fair lady!" he yelled, loud as the blizzard outside. "And slay the evil dragon who terrorizes your kingdom and mine!"