Flightless, CHP 1: The Reckoning

Flightless

  

By

Steven Winters

Author’s Note:

Hello there, So I have several questions concerning the first chapter/scene. For me, the most glaring is if the combination of third person limited omniscient is working. I feel like I might be telling more than I am showing with it, but I’m not entirely sure if that’s the case or if I am just paranoid. If you know any short stories or books that utilize this POV please tell me, because I want the immediacy of the present but the looseness of the third person. Secondly, I want to make sure that the characters’ dialogue is unique enough. I want Will to be shy/sensitive and to show that he is basically pacifistic. Evelyn should be like a typical teenage girl. Abram, the serious father who is disappointed with his son. And lastly, do you like the fact that Belle speaks in musical notes? Also, is it fine giving backstory at the beginning of the chapter as a small blurb? And is Flightless too farfetched a title? Cause I am struggling with coming up with a good title. Lastly, I like the dinner scene, but I want to like the first time Will meets Belle because I think it’s the most important part of the chapter (and book) Does it seem forced? Because I want it as close to perfection as I can. Do I need to make the fight last longer? Have them talk more? Do I need to lengthen that scene?

Chapter I: The Reckoning

Only after Timar slaughtered a hundred of the foul creatures, did he gain his wings. The Gods cursed the Angels, taking away their feathers and casting them down towards the earth, to be broken and defiled. The Fallen are a plague, an animal to be hunted and killed.

-3^rd Tome of Timar: The Revelations

Somber, grey clouds coalesce on the outskirts of the small town, an impending sign that the Reckoning is about to occur. From the branch of an iron oak, Will waits for the first sign. As the melancholy clouds envelope the thatched roofs of the town in their shadow, Will spots a white feather. It floats to earth, bereft by the slight breeze that fills the empty streets of Brill. He looks down at the white-washed avenues, envisioning the excited murmurs behind the metal studded doors and slatted windows. He sits in absolute silence as the feather drifts towards the ground, and the chirruping birds fly from the branches. The snowy feather graces the cobblestone street; Will’s pale fingers let go of the coarse branch and he falls from the tree. Grass and dirt meet bare feet as the scene before him unfolds. The first door creaks open. Mr. Cottager, the medicine man, walks out into the street with an axe over his broad shoulders. The new arrival looks up into the grey clouds. Waiting.

More feathers follow the first. Some are gold, others silver, but they only accent the white feathers which pour from the sky. The flurry continues until the ground is completely covered with beautiful down. An opaque plume flutters and settles onto Will’s rough, burlap shirt. Picking it up, and twirling it between his fingers, he gazes upwards as the first slim body falls from the sky.

Even from this distance, he can see the long, brittle bones that protrude from the body’s shoulders, as a white robe, ruffling through the air, wraps around the Fallen’s frame. Will walks to the outer gates as the watchtower bell tolls. He isn’t the only one to spot the body. A mirthless laugh echoes in his ears as Mr. Cottager runs down the street, pushing Will aside in his haste to meet the first Fallen.

Will looks at the man then back towards the falling body. “It’ll survive the fall,” he mutters, “they always do.” Pushing himself off the ground, he brushes the dirt off his patched pants and turns around and continues to the outer gates.

Will hears the soft thump of the body hitting the ground and glances over his shoulder. The creature had fallen close to the oak, standing stalwart on an island of grass in the small square, where he was perched. Its manic eyes glare into the axe wielder’s own. Before Mr. Cottager could lift the axe from his shoulder, it lunges towards him with a shriek, like the peal of a funeral bell, trying to grab at the man’s midriff. Will, turning around, places his hands over his ears and hastens his pace, the musical screaming had bothered him for as long as he could remember. The scream is dulled as he looks down at the street, one foot methodically placed in front of the other. A few seconds later, the screech is silenced as the axe head buries itself into the Fallen’s neck. Blood trickles into a gutter. More doors open, but Will keeps walking.

The gatekeepers see Will approaching the massive entryway, hands still firmly clasped around his ears. As he walks by the eldest guard, Joel, stands in front of the lad and pulls Will’s hands away from his ears, “You know the rule Will, back before nightfall or you’ll be with the wolves tonight.” His calloused hands let go of Will, and he retreats to underneath the archway in order to lower the gate for the retreating lad.

Will nods at Joel’s back and then to his younger counterpart, Aaron, and walks across the drawbridge. For the past three years, the past three Reckonings, he has left the town in order to evade the bloodlust that fills the very souls of the usually peaceful townspeople.

Halfway across the drawbridge, he stands still. Will can feel the cold, black marbleized eyes of Timar staring at him from the center of town. He turns to face the main street, the clear broad lane that met the gateway and greeted the caravans that occasionally entered town, and the marble statue of a man in plate armor stands fifteen feet tall, gazing in his direction. Pure, white wings curl around his body. The statue’s outstretched arms invite him to join the festivities that would undoubtedly unfold as more bodies rain from the clouds. Will, breaking the statue’s gaze, starts walking. He hears Joel laughing, as his feet touch the dirt road.

Grassy knolls stretch endlessly across the cart tread path that Will follows. Even with the overcast from the clouds, the yellow buttercups are still beautiful, and the knee high, golden wheat stalks sway in the breeze, bowing to the boy as he walks by them. As the stalks fade, shrubs sprout. Will looks up to stare at the forest of cedars that loom over him. To his left he sees the hill that has become his perch during the yearly Reckoning. Even though the hill is dangerously close to the forest, with its hidden dangers, he feels safer here than in the town. Far away from the town and the screaming beings: the Fallen. Turning away from the trodden path he makes his way to the hill, the only thing slowing him are the grasping weeds wrapping around his feet. Upon reaching the top, Will picks a small blade of grass and twirls it between his fingers, the feather he once had was now trapped within the massive, stone walls.  The sickly, sweet scent of wild honeysuckle, which wreathes around the trunks of the cedars, lulls him into complacency. Looking at the wooden wall, which encompasses the town, he envisions the events unfolding within.

His family would be in the cacophony of falling bodies, adding more blood to their hands. His sister, Evelyn, had yet to fell one of the beings. She would be trying her hardest again, he imagines her, each hilt of a jagged dagger pressed firmly in her palm as she searches for a victim. A wolfish smile would be etched on her face as her slim frame stands over an unarmed creature, ready to strike it down. The memory of the first time he saw her blue eyes glow with bloodlust still sends shivers down his spine. Martha, Will’s mother, would be utilizing the hand scythe she uses during harvest season; slicing through flesh as easily as tender stalks of wheat. Not a single person, since Timar, has reached a hundred kills within their lifetime. Yet Will’s father, the high priest, has currently killed ninety-five of the creatures. Every townsperson inwardly knows that “Abram the Hammer” will be the first person in three centuries to gain his wings. They were the perfect family, with the exception of one, small blemish.

Will flicks the worn stalk of grass away, red tinging his pale cheeks. He tears out a clump of grass, dirt falling away from small roots, as his rosy cheeks darken.

Many of his friends had already killed a Fallen. They would come to the single roomed school house the day after their “trial” and tell overly excited schoolchildren how they were nearly killed, and how they were only able to escape death by a single knife thrust. Will would scoff at them. He knew what happened in the streets. None of the creatures had a weapon to defend themselves, but that didn’t stop the school boys from trying to kill them. He stops, mid tear and his jaw slackens.

He gazes at the city, where the screams peal louder as more of the falling throng are cast from the sky. Yet there is one body that doesn’t join the others. The clump of grass falls from his stunned hands. A small body flings itself to earth, outside the monolithic walls. For the first time in three years, Will stands up and reaches for the small hunting dagger attached to his thick, leather belt. He watches as it stands up and scurries from the walls, spurred on by the death cries of its brethren. It runs down the path that leads past Will’s hillock.

Will’s feet refuse to move from the safety of the hill. Instead, he prays to every god under the sun that it will run the other way, but his prayers fall on deaf ears as it continues down the path. A featherless frame slithers across the ground as little feet patter up the road then stop. She looks up to his hillock. She stops seeing him there, then moves towards him. As she reaches the top they stare at each other. She realizing he wasn’t a Fallen, and Will staring at the little white robed girl; both afraid to move. The polished gleam of the dagger catches her eye and she takes a deliberate step back. The knife inches up from Will’s hip. She growls and takes a step forward. The knife moves up in front of him as she runs at him, a shrill clanging sound filling the air as she screams. Her small frame clashes into his as she grasps for the dagger. Will, amazed at the ferocity of someone so small, pushes her back. She leaps at him again, and again he repels her with his free hand. Her sky blue eyes never leave the dagger gripped in his hand. He looks to her and then to the dagger and sheathes it.

She runs once more at him and collides with him. As they fall to the ground Will rolls backwards and lands, crouching. She, sprawled on the ground. “I’m not fighting you,” he says to her, “just go, and leave me alone.” She looks up at him and then down at her now grass stained robes. 

Tears trace the crease of her nose as they stream down her face. The sound of small bells chiming in the wind come from her trembling lips. Her rounded facial features make her look roughly eight, but for all Will knows she could be eight hundred. Sighing, he holds out his hand, offering to help her stand. She pushes it away. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.” He pulls sheathe and knife from his belt, and throws them down the hill. “See, I won’t hurt you. Stop crying. Please, stop crying.”

After a while, the girl’s tears subside and the small, melancholic sounds diminish. She wipes her eyes with a pale arm and blows her nose in a grass stained corner of her white dress. Will returns to his spot. She continues to stand as Will stares off into the distance. He looks over to her, “You’re free to go. You’d better hurry if you don’t want them to come after you. They’ll hunt you down.” She stares at him and opens her mouth, but all Will hears are more musical notes. “Um, sure.” She picks herself up and walks over to him and sits down. Together they stare at the fortified walls of the city.

The dying, orange sun peaks through the grey clouds and over the walls as the last body falls, trying to glimpse at the carnage that lies within. Will stands and stretches his arms over his head. He walks towards the town. Bells sound after him. “You can’t come with me. They’ll kill you.” Small fingers pull at his shirt, begging for him to stay a while longer. He looks down into her blue eyes, and with an audible sigh, begins to formulate a plan. “If you survive the night, I’ll bring you food, okay.” She smiles and nods. “Climb a tree, that way the wolves won’t find you.” She nods again. “Do you understand me?” Another nod. “Shake your head if you do.” She shakes her head. Hesitantly, he pats her on the head, her dark, chestnut hair soft to the touch, and turns toward the town. As he reaches the bottom of the hill he can hear the faint slithering of a bony frame, snaking itself through the grass, running in the opposite direction.

The gates loom before him, casting its black shadow across the ground, as he crosses the drawbridge. Joel waves him down, the spear head is now stained red, “How was the view?” A red drop drips from the pointed tip. Will lowers his head.

“The usual, a lot of grass and a gloomy sky.” He mutters to the ground, as he passes the guards.

 “That sounds about right, but I was able to get two today, and Aaron here got three that tried climbing the gates. Stupid bastards!” He laughs. Even from the spear length between the boy and the elder guard, the sweet scent of wine reaches him. His gait widens, eager to reach home. He hears the clang of the weapon and the clinking of chains as the drawbridge closes. He looks ahead and sees the once pure, white wings are now stained crimson as a pile of bodies lay before Timar. The colossal gates block the last decaying rays of sunlight from falling upon the scene as shadow envelops the town. He heads towards his house, putting as much distance he can between himself and the grinning statue.

The streets are devoid of people as the sound of raucous laughter and drunken singing escape from closed doors and shuttered windows. The pleasant noise, mixed with the alkaline stench of blood, cause him to trot along the path. Avoiding streams and pools of crimson stains, Will makes his way to a small two story house with the family seal, the Tomes of Timar, plastered on the door for visitors to identify it from the other identical houses on the street. The heavy oak doors give way under his push, and the warm smell of baked bread permeates the air. He hears a faint whistle and with a solid thunk, a jagged edged knife imbeds itself into the door frame next to him. His sister, standing at the bottom of the staircase in the small foyer, walks up to Will and places one hand next to the door frame and the other cajolingly slaps against his cheek several times. She reaches for her knife, “Guess what happened today?” A coppery tang reaches his nostrils and he reaches to his wet cheek, clotted blood is smeared on his hands. “Got my first kill.” She smirks at him, white teeth glinting in the firelight, then saunters off, the ends of her long blonde locks also stained red.

“Will, get the dishes and set the table,” his mother, hearing the one-sided conversation, calls from the kitchen, “dinner’s almost ready.” He walks in and sees her bustling over the brick oven, the smell of spiced meat and bread swirl around the room. He walks over to the small cabinet, which stands under an equally small window, and pulls out pewter mugs and plates. He sets them on the roughhewn table in the center of the kitchen and pulls out the knives and forks. His father walks in from the living room, the entire front of his smock in red, interspersed with solid bits of white. Will glances past the gargantuan man and sees the newly cleaned hammer sitting over the hearth of the blazing fire.

“Good, the boy’s back. Set the dishes, Will.” He walks over to his wife and pecks her on the neck. “Just one more, then we’ll have all the power in this town, Martha.”

“So you killed four today?” Will asks, as he scrambles through drawers to find the spoons.

“Yeah. Nearly had the last one too, but that bastard Cottager took it before I could get it. Doesn’t want me to get my wings. Jealous I guess. Don’t forget to pull out the good ale, we have to celebrate your sister’s first kill.” And with another peck on Martha’s neck, Abram leaves the room.

After half an hour, the family of four sits around the table, passing the spiced mutton back and forth. Refills on ale become more commonplace as the conversation turns to the day’s events.

“You should’ve seen when it was trying to run from me. I knew I couldn’t let it get away. After all, if I didn’t get it Susanne, from class, would’ve gotten it and she already has three kills.” Evelyn states, stabbing at the meat in her excitement.

“Can you pass the bread?” asks Will.

“So I knew that I had to do something to show everyone that it was my kill. So I took my knife by the blade…” Will reaches over for the bread, only to have it snatched away by his father who places it on his plate. Will situates himself back in his seat. “And you should’ve seen the look on her face when my knife dug into its back. It was absolutely amazing…”

Will picks at the lamb. Lamb, is his sister’s favorite dish.

“…And when I got to drag it over to the alter and smear the wings with its blood. It was like some kind of transformation,” she continues.

As she takes another breath to expound more on her supposed transformation Will interrupts, “Well I don’t see any wings on you, so I guess it wasn’t that much of a transformation.” She glares at him. He continues to pick at his lamb. Silence fills the air.

“I’m proud of you, Evelyn. Hearing that tale reminds me of the first kill I ever had,” says Abram, flushed in the cheeks. Will, who hears this story at least three times a week, decides to ask the inevitable question.

“How did you kill your first, Father?”

Abram looks to Will and gives him a rare smile, “I’m glad you asked, Will. Well it started when I was around ten seasons old, five seasons younger than yourself…” as his father talks Will spears a piece of meat onto the end of his fork and takes a bite. He looks out the window to see if the moon has made its circuit over the wall. He wonders to himself, in between bites, if the little girl has been able to find anything to eat in the forest.

 “And when I had it cornered in the alley I swung down…” It must be lonely out in the forest with no family, Will muses. He swallows, wondering if she has any family. That is if they aren’t piled outside underneath the statue of Timar.

“But now all we have to do is wait for the next Reckoning and we will be the first family since Timar to have their wings…” Will stares at his plate, trying to figure out how he should hide her wings, after all she won’t last out in the forest for long. Even the most grizzled townsperson could die in that thicket. It would be better to be safe in the town than out in the wilderness.

“But enough with the stories, it’s getting late and I will need to prepare for the Gathering at the temple. Martha, let’s turn in,” and pushing himself away from the table, Abram and Martha leave the kitchen. The clinking of forks and knifes echo as Will and Evelyn finish their meal.

“How did it feel?” he asks her.

“Well, it felt pretty good actually,” She picks up a hunk of lamb and tears into it.
            “Does it not bother you?”

“What? Killing it? No, not really. When you get in and see everyone else claiming their kill, it becomes a sort of sport I guess. Make sure you’re not the one that didn’t get a kill. Like hunting.”

“But isn’t it different than hunting animals?” Will asks, picking the empty plates and mugs and bringing them to the basin, where he begins to pump the spigot.

He hears the bench squeal against the stone floor as his sister gathers her dishware. She walks over and they both begin to clean the dishes. Will hands her the first plate and she sets to drying, “I think it’s the same concept,” she whispers to him. She stares into the sink as Will scrubs the dirty plates, “But enough about me, killer, how was your day?” she says in a more confident tone. Will stares at the water.

“You know, the usual. Lots of grass and a gloomy sky.” He hands her the next plate. They work together in silence together, swept up by the mechanical process, “I’m happy for you though, Evelyn.”

She finishes drying the last plate, “Thanks, killer, you’ll get there some day. It just takes time is all. Don’t stress about Dad all that much. I know you’ll get your first kill soon. Hey, maybe next year.” She pats him on the shoulder and leaves the room.

He stands at the basin and stares out the window, a pale tendril of glowing moonlight peaks through the frame. “I met an angel today,” he mutters to the empty room, “she might not’ve had wings, but I know she’s an angel.” After the dishes were put away, he walks upstairs to his bedroom. He stairs outside the window as the patter of rain bounces off the roof. As he lay in bed, tossing and turning, the rain cleanses the streets of blood and strips the crimson stains from the set of white marble wings.  He restlessly falls asleep, envisioning the grey pelts of hungry wolves and a torn, blood splattered white robe.