5.5 - Remara and the Tiny Man

Tenderly, Wildspeech grasps the translucent shaft of a primary feather that came loose one day when he collided with a confused starling. It is as long as his arm and its edges, like healthy skyte fingers, fade into thin air the farther they get from the shaft, giving the feather a wispy appearance. He holds it across the palms of his hands. Its orange coloration is shot through with gold mottling and thready red accents, and among these there is one stroke of eye-searing black.

His fingers tremble as they pass over the black mark. These are present on most of his feathers. He used to think such a bold, dark color marked him out as brash enough to contend with the great predator birds of the air. Now, he suspects it's just another way for the Maker to mock him, staining his feathers with the color of his downfall from hatching-day.

"We… we don't notice all of them when they fall out," he murmurs, "but we collect what we can. These are precious. They… they won't tell our story. It's just a page ripped out of context. But…" he holds it up against the light that Remara gives off and it scatters fiery reflections down the tunnel. "They still matter. They're still ours. We collect as many of our sheds as we can…"

Remara is silent. He lays the feather across his knees and strokes the shaft, running his fingers along the soft vanes.

"Sometimes I wonder if it's enough to bring these with me to the Maker when I go," he whispers. "But I'll only be asked where the rest of them are. And I'll say, 'Maker, last I saw them, a human picked my wings off the ground and hung them on a rack.' And I'll be asked, 'What was done with them?' and I'll say, 'I don't know, they were probably stripped down and the feathers fashioned into some heirloom piece of jewelry or clothing for humans to wear.' And I'll be asked, 'How could you let this happen to my greatest gift?'"

He shuts his eyes. "And I'll say, 'I was tricked into visiting a human home, told I'd be healing a beloved pet. I was caught and chained. I was thrown in a shrouded cage, carried far off. The humans that took me ordered me to make flameweave and sundots. I'm not the best weaver, but I could craft passably. It wasn't so bad, but after a few weeks they wanted me to turn deathspill into darkweave. I refused, so one of them held me down and shattered my legs with a giant hammer. A fellow captive spent days healing me, and once healed, I was again ordered to weave deathspill. I said no, so human-sized artisan cutting tools were brought in and used to tear my skin. Then they broke my legs again.'"

A low crack, like the sound of stone breaking apart, echoes in the tunnel. Remara's features have smoothed into a blank surface. Her head bows and ripples move across her body, each ripple accompanied by this cracking noise.

He drops the pretense of speaking to the Maker. "Deathspill is poison. It affects all creatures differently, but anyone exposed to it for too long suffers." Grasping the ends of his armwraps, he unwinds them. "Every skyte can craft natural energy a bit. You've seen the others' hands. Those hands have no boundary because they're meant to reach past the world. We can direct light, heat, even plant and animal growth, though only a Weaver plumbs the full depths of the gift of weaving, like only a Wildspeech communicates nuances with animals. When I gave in and wove deathspill, it got into my skin and ruined me for any other crafting."

He holds out his bare arms in the light. "After a few days I couldn't grasp firelight. I couldn't hold sunbeams. Only deathspill. The humans wanted cords of darkweave that other captives would use to create items, from jewelry trinkets all the way up to an adult human's cloak."

"After a few days, I couldn't feel my wings. Couldn't move them at all. They dragged behind me. A day after that, they just…" he motions to the ground, "fell off. Right there, by my feet."

His fingers hook like claws in the air. "And the Maker? The Maker would say that isn't good enough. The Maker would only see the loss of my wings and send me out! Out into madness, out into perpetual awareness of what could have been, alone in the dark for ever and ever!"

He stands, the feather tumbling off his lap. His voice rises. "Because I couldn't hold out, couldn't say 'No! Break me every day and I'll never touch it!' For this I'm not even a skyte anymore." He takes a step toward Remara, hysteria rising. "Why? Why make me so small and weak that I can be forced? Why not strike me dead before I had to do this? The Maker places us everywhere in the world at will when we're eggs, where was the Maker to remove me from harm when I most needed such a hand?!"

Remara surges forward so quickly, he has no time to react. Her tendrils flood into the gloves crafted for her, filling them out as she seizes his hands in hers.

What was prickly discomfort now crystalizes in cold agony. His arms freeze inward from his skin, through vein and to the bone. Robbed of breath and thought, he gasps, sinking to his knees as she pleads, "All that you have said is not the heart of the Maker to you Arc Wildspeech you once asked me a question you asked me if I came from the Maker and I did not know what was meant by this because I had never heard the name Maker before but—"

The freeze spreads up his arms, all the way to his shoulders. "Let go," he pants, "let go, I'll die!"

Immediately she drops his hands, shrinking back. "I'm sorry they said that the wrappings would control my heat I did not think—"

He isn't listening. As Remara babbles apologies, he stares down at his arms where thick black drops bead along his forearms. They are only there for a moment before they recede into his skin.

"—I only meant to comfort you I won't do it again I am so—"

"Remara," he interrupts, "Wait… do it again."

"I don't understand only a moment ago it was harming you why would you want me to do it again?"

"Just… hold my arms for a few seconds. Watch them." He stretches his arms out to her, his teeth clenched.

She closes the distance slowly this time, cautious enough that he can feel the coldness in his arms deepen the nearer she comes. By the time she grips his wrists with gloved tendrils, he lets a cry slip between his teeth, but growls, "Don't stop… look!"

Once again, all along his arm, thick black drops ooze from his skin. A thought breaks through the haze of pain. Sweat gathers on his face, running in rivulets down his neck as he gasps, "Can… you… touch…?"

She keeps a firm hold on his arms as a third tendril emerges from her torso, stretching toward the droplets on his right arm.

A harsh, discordant sound like metal sheets tearing and scraping across each other shrills in the tunnel. The droplets roll up his arms, away from the Remara's tendril and toward his shoulder. Agony shreds his consciousness and darkness swallows him.

Whiskers. A wet, whuffly nose nudges his cheek.

"Little one. Little one. Little one dead? Not smell dead."

He doesn't want to move.

The nose shoves him. "Up. Alive-fire moves away. Home cold, now. Promised warm home. Up."

Cold? Wildspeech flexes his fingers. They are comfortably numb.

The first thing he sees on opening his eyes is a glistening nose and a black-and-white striped snout, graying a bit in streaks up the muzzle. The badger lifts a lip and growls, but there's not enough teeth showing for it to be real aggression. Their host is only expressing irritation.

"I'm sorry, friend. I'll bring back the warmth."

Snorting, the badger withdraws to a deeper chamber. Wildspeech curls forward, sitting up, and lifts a hand in front of his face. Still deathspill-stained. Except…

His breath catches. In one spot, it is gone. The flesh is charred in that one spot, but in a thin ring all around it there is his own skin, clear of deathspill.

"Remara," he croaks. "Remara!" He pushes himself up, then sags against the wall, resisting the urge to clap a hand over that spot on his arm. It hurts!

She huddles at the mouth of the tunnel, her face still devoid of features. Outside, the downpour has lessened to a light drizzle, but she doesn't leave the safety of the tunnel. The light in her center is smaller and the tunnel is dank and cold. As he drags himself closer, she crackles, "Don't!"

He stops. "Remara, look!" He lifts his arm to show her the spot. "Look! It's gone, right here!"

Her gloved tendrils slowly twine around each other, then unwind and retwine over and over. She doesn't respond.

"Remara, please!" He thrusts his arms out to her as his body begins to shake. She has the cure, even if it is stupid and desperate and dangerous. "This is what took everything from me! You can purge it! Burn the poison out!"

She does not react.

He drops his arms by his sides again and says, hoarsely, "You said something. When you first grabbed me. Are you from the Maker?"

One violent ripple passes through her from feet to head. Finally, she asks, her words flowing slower, more like a thick stream of honey than water, "You once told me that your newly hatched winglings spoke of hearing music but Arc don't any of you still hear the music?"

He shakes his head.

"That makes no sense I do not understand why you do not hear the music Arc I have always heard this great symphony every moment since I landed and it plays everywhere I go never pausing even once and it rejoices in wild abandon at the Ceremony of Gratitude but whenever I am near you Arc Wildspeech the melody all around you mourns."

Her words quench a raging need in him even as they cut deep into old wounds. He soaks them in, eyes wide.

"And if it is the same music the winglings hear in the egg then it must also be the Maker you speak of and if it is then the Maker has such grief for you that if you could hear it you could never for a moment believe that your wings matter more than you I have only been among you for a few days but it is so clear to me that they are a gift Arc Wildspeech and that you wear the wings not the other way around!"

He stares at her. "You… you are from the Maker." He advances another step. "You are… from the Maker. And if you are from the Maker… then why else are you here?" Once again, he holds his arms out to her. "You can do something about this. You. The best healers in the Keep tried for months. They knit my legs back together but they could not purge deathspill. You can. You can draw it out and you can burn it away."

She turns her empty face away from him. "I saw what happened when I touched the deathspill like you asked and that little bit I touched disappeared but also you screamed and fell asleep for a long time and now your arm looks all wrong right there too and I believe I caused you much distress for only a little bit of help I think I would have to make you scream too much to get rid of the rest of the deathspill and I do not think that is worth it."

Once again, he looks down at his arms. At the hands he can barely feel most days, where the last vestige of the poison he was forced to work with resides. And he says, "You're wrong."

Before he leaves, he wraps his arms again, gritting his teeth at the pain of his new burn. He can't enter the keep with bare arms.

The storm has spent itself, leaving only drizzles and thick clouds that blanket the moon and stars from sight. Outside the badger burrow, Wildspeech pulls a sun-dot from his satchel, marveling again at its construction. Made by a true Weaver and a free skyte, it will last for a week. Longer if he keeps it covered when not in use. It even gives off a touch of warmth.

The leather bundle is slung across his back along with his satchel. The sun-dot in his hand lights the trail well enough. He leaves Remara and the badger behind and squelches through the mud to deposit his treasured sheds back in their storage compartment behind his nest.

From there, he sets off for the Keep.

As it's night, no one intercepts him on the outskirts to see what he wants. He approaches the tree that Eldest Stem lives in, sliding his hand along the roots. The door is up high, near the mid-point of the trunk, if he remembers.

Softly, he calls into the night, "I need help. I'm hurt and can't fly. Who will help me reach my friend in this tree?"

He steps away from the roots into a clear space—where no rodent that loves its organs would pause—holds his arms out to either side and waits. A few moments later, there is a great whoosh of wings and a musty smell of wet feathers. Talons close with precision around either arm and he rises into the air. He stifles a cry as the grip rubs the wrappings against his burn.

"Whoo-hoot. Hoo-haw-haw-haw. Hold still. You move, claws tear you."

He holds still, his eyes watering. The owl lifts him up, depositing him on a thick branch leading to an ornately shaped door set into the trunk of the tree. The owl plants itself between him and the door, swiveling its great head around to fix a squint-eyed gaze at him. He quickly tucks the sun-dot away. "Thank you," he manages, his arm throbbing.

The owl's head bobs. "Soon, you speak to eagle."

He blinks. "Eagle? What eagle?"

"Kill-no-reason eagle. Make stop."

His brows pull together as he recalls the eagle Aria mentioned at the Ceremony. "Ferra—someone else was supposed to—"

The owl cackles at him, then hawks up a pellet and coughs it at the ground. "She talk wolves too much. At sun-high, speak to eagle like she speak to pack leader. Eagle listen her? No." It yawns, smacking its beak. "You go. Eagle listen you."

"Even bluejays don't listen to me anymore," he mutters, pushing past the owl.

It flaps its wings, maneuvering to keep its balance on the branch and hoots at his back, laughing. "Yes, like that. Other one not do like that. You speak eagle. Make too-much-killing stop."

He ignores the owl, lurching toward the door. His skin still cries for relief as he raises his hand to knock.

"Arc-one."

His hand freezes mid-air. Even mother Falcon doesn't speak his name because he is only "chick" or "mine" to her. All creatures recognize skytes as a whole. Predators break off mid-strike when they realize what they have targeted. Animals near a skyte community sometimes come to one of them for help with mortal injuries. Some will visit a skyte repeatedly for companionship. Among all the animals, it is rare for any to grasp the concept of a name. They refer to individual skytes by traits like 'the wolf speaking one' or 'the green wings' or 'smells like fire' or 'that one there'.

He turns back to the owl. It is hard to see more than its outline in the dark, but he can tell it is facing him.

"Arc-one. Have nest. New chicks. If comes eagle, no stopping."

"You know my… that name."

The head bobs again. "Arc-one finds lost chick one day. Take home. Feed. Fix leg, fix wing. No finding mother, father. Convince new nest take chick. Chick be me."

Stunned, he reaches out a hand. The great head lowers, allowing his hands to sink past the feathers and massage the skin beneath. "I remember you. You were so playful. Beautiful brown and gold feathers… you're all grown. A nest? You must be a wonderful mother."

"Nest unsafe. No safe with eagle here. Is not eating-kill, would not ask. Is killing-no-reason. Break backs. Tear with claws. Leave to rot."

He withdraws his hands. "I… I'm not the same. I can't help."

"Arc-one."

"I'm not…" he grabs his hair, trying to find the right words to make her understand. "The eagle won't listen to me. I'm not the same as the others."

"Still Arc-one."

He clenches his fingers tighter in his hair, drawing in slow breaths through his nose. If Ferra failed, she wouldn't even know it. Maybe he can speak to the eagle, even now, but…

"No. Not now. I have a sickness. When the sickness is gone, I'll try."

"Eagle kill more while Arc-one waiting."

"I don't even know if I can do what you want!" he hisses. "If the sickness is gone, then maybe I'll be half of what Arc used to be!"

The silhouette of the owl doesn't budge. His guts twist and his face flushes with heat under that long stare. He turns back to knock on the door, only to find it hanging wide open with Eldest Stem, leaning lightly in the doorframe.

"E-eldest Stem." He takes a step back, hiding his hands behind his back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… I had to."

Eldest Stem's face is invisible in the dark, but he steps back, gesturing into his home. "I've told you before, you come if you need anything from us."

Note: Theodicy is the name of an entire branch of philosophy that deals with the issue of evil in light of the existence of God. I do not claim to come anywhere close to providing a satisfactory resolution to Arc's questions and, in fact, when he started shouting his questions I kind of yelled at the screen, "UNHELPFUL," because I was afraid I would not be able to answer him adequately, especially when my only voice to do so was Remara. But the thing is, he doesn't take that into account. He would ask these things. Anyone in that kind of pain would. I've asked things like this. And whether I can properly address it or not, the question needs to be asked. So I'm going to have to worry less about resolving the question than being true to what the characters would say in this situation. I may come back to edit the dialogue, depending on conversations with my co-author when I go to edit this arc, but this is the start I'll stick with.