Deirdre woke alone, as usual. It was full noon, grey and dim. Around her, the walls of trees rose as before. For a moment she found that difficult to accept. So much had happened during the past day; the forest should have changed, begun to bud or flower, or fall away entirely. But the dense pattern of treebranch and leafless shrub repeated itself into the distance. She stretched her wings and folded them again, trying to relieve the ache that had developed during the flight the night before. Deirdre thought of the moon then, and how she had swung helplessly beneath the ravens as they'd carried her south. She'd tried to capture the moon's attention, to let her know the fight continued, but the moon had closed her eyes and let herself be taken, and Deirdre hadn't had the nerve to make herself known.
Above her, a branch creaked, and when she looked up, she realized she wasn't alone. Condor sat there, staring down at her intently. His head was cocked to one side, and his beak was slightly open, like an idiot's. "Hi," he said jauntily. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
"What are you doing?" Deirdre asked, flustered. "How long have you been here?"
"Since it began to get light. I want to talk to you. I want to be with you."
"Your candor is unnerving," Deirdre said.
"My what?" Condor asked.
"You don't understand a thing I say." Deirdre wasn't ready for Condor's blend of innocence and stupidity so early in the morning. "Why don't you go find someone to fly with? I haven't the time to take on an abecedarian . . . er . . . beginner."
"But I understood what you said last night about the owl," Condor objected. "Besides, I don't want lessons. I just want to be near you."
Deirdre shuddered on her branch. How was she going to get rid of him?
"I have something you'll want to hear," Condor said quickly, afraid he'd be ordered to leave if he didn't speak fast. "The whole clan is arguing. There;s only one thing being talked about."
Deirdre looked at him with sudden interest. Her anger subsided a bit. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"I followed you last night after you saved my life. . . ."
"Do me the favor of eschewing the melodrama," she said, and brushed right past Condor's puzzlement. "I only offered a word on your behalf. The falcon did nothing more than ask your name."
"But he would have reported it to the owl," Condor said. "Anyway, I followed you after we carried the moon down there, and then when you slept, I went off to see what was going on. Everywhere I flew I found another group talking about him. Some say he's crazy. Lots are beginning to think his plan won't work. And now those three strangers are coming. Who are they?"
"Never mind, Condor."
"But you know them? Are they friends of yours?"
Deirdre's vanity got the better of her. "Of course they're friends of mine," she snapped. "Why do you think they're on their way?"
"To visit you?" Condor asked. "But I'd think that now was hardly the time. . . ."
"Shut your beak!" Deirdre screamed.
"I'm sorry," Condor said. "I'll be quiet."
Deirdre sat for a minute until her heart resumed its natural rhythm. She looked at Condor, so good-natured yet so dull-witted she wasn't sure she could endure his company another minute. Her forbearance won over her anger. "Come with me," she said, and rose into the air.
The younger bird flew after her. As she dipped and spun in the subtle currents, he followed as a respectful distance. She hovered over the treetops, and then headed east, her eyes trained on the forest below. She hadn't flown far when she saw a cluster of ravens, and she tucked her wings and dived. She and Condor settled quietly on a remote limb and listened to the conversation.
It was like nothing she had heard before among the members of the clan. Most were given to small talk, idle chatter. But she was riveted now, galvanized by the intensity she heard in their voices. A dozen birds were engaged in an argument about the owl, just as Condor had said. Those inclined to follow him held the edge, but the few dissenters clung to their views with a tenacity which impressed her and gave her hope. She kept her beak closed and tried not to look too pleased.
When she'd heard enough, she flew off again, and Condor, who had remained silently beside her, keeping his promise, flew off as well. They circled above the forest's top and headed west. They passed over a clearing, and when Deirdre looked down, she saw another group of ravens. Though she could not hear what was being said, the voices rose to her, angry and discordant.
Everywhere the twp of them flew, the same drama unfolded. It's happening, she thought. The owl has overplayed his hand.
She settled on a tree limb. Condor was right beside her. "See?" he said. "Isn't it just as I said?"
"Yes," Deirdre replied. "Now I must be off. So be a good bird and keep watch. Let me know what's happened when I return."
"But I want to stay with you," Condor said. "I won't be any trouble, I promise. I'll keep out of your way, and I'll be there if you need anything. And I'll be quiet."
"You can be of more help to all of us by remaining here and finding out as much as you can."
The younger bird looked at her mournfully. "Please don't send me away," he said.
Deirdre became exasperated. "There are things you are too young to understand," she said. "There are things I have to do alone."
"Please," he said. "Please let me come. I think I'm in love with you."
* * *
As they raced across the sand, the spell of Matthew's music wore off, and before they could reach the nymph, she was a fox again. Derin collapsed on the sand, still light-headed, this time from the heat and his exhaustion. If he had been bathed in sweat before, now he nearly drowned in it. His face was a brilliant red, and when Matthew wheeled to a stop beside him, spraying sand, the satyr's first thought was that he'd killed the boy. But Derin threw back his head and laughed, drawing in the desert heat in burning draughts.
Vera hadn't found the episode so amusing. She scoweled at the satyr as she lay on the sand, panting. "I'm sorry," Matthew said. "I couldn't help myself."
"You're cynical and perverse," Vera said. "I didn't know you could do that."
"I'm afraid so," Matthew said. "Trouble is, it never works. I can't run and play at the same time." Vera looked away disdainfully, as though she hadn't heard him. Her pretense didn't stop him. "If I'd caught you before you changed back into a fox," he said, "could you change after I'd caught you?"
"No," she said. "Not until after you let me go."
"Damn," he said. He slapped his thigh with his open palm and laughed. He was so good-humored about it, so like a small boy who finds he can do something clever, that Vera couldn't hold onto her temper for long.
"Next time I'll have to run faster," Matthew said.
"There won't be a next time," Vera said. "I'm warning you."
Over them the sky grew darker. All three looked up at the clouds, now more ominous, beginning to ripple. Without saying another word, they rose from the sand and started toward the mountains, more quickly than before, trying to outrace whatever it was that threatened them form above.
The rain came at them vertically, like knives. Soon they could see nothing but the grey walls enveloping them. The water stung them as though it were more than water, something almost animate with a mind of its own. Vera's fur became sodden and matted, smudged and yellow with sand. The water streamed down Derin's neck, into his eyes and mouth, so that he sputtered, shielded his mouth with his hand when he tried to breathe.
Its velocity increased; it came at them so fiercely, Derin felt himself being pounded into the sand. But where was the sand? He was up to his ankles in water. It no longer seeped into the desert, but sat on its surface like a small lake.
They sloshed through this sudden swamp more slowly, the water now above their ankles, dragging them down. A tiredness came over Derin which made him stumble. He thought he could no longer pick up his legs. Vera and Matthew were also dazed, their bodies numbed by the driving rain, their senses lulled into a state approaching sleep. They were all too lethargic to be worried.
Derin stopped walking; his legs buckled and he sank to his knees in the water. He cupped some rain in his hands and brought it to his lips, but it was warm and brackish, like the water in the stream in the meadowlands. Matthew, throwing water before him with each step, reached the boy and walked past, catching Derin by the elbow and dragging him to his feet. The gesture was unconscious, concerned only with survival, as though a dream had overcome the satyr and he had lost his power of thought. He was moving to rhythms he would not have been able to explain, but forceful enough to draw Derin out of himself. He watched the satyr and the fox, lost to him now, responding to their animal natures, and he knew he would have to follow them, to do as they did, without talking, without even thinking, if he hoped to outlive this onslaught, this plague of rain.
And then it lessened. First, Derin began to see further and further ahead, as though grey curtains were being lifted in front of him. The stinging drops became less heavy, and the storm front moved over them, headed north. One minute it was raining, and then the wall of water was to their right, receding rapidly. They watched it go, like the retreat of fever, and the boy became dizzy, as thought he'd been returned to himself after a long absence. he dared not speak to his companions who seemed still dazed; the sickness which had lifted from him still had them in its grip.
It was steam the rain left behind. As the sky brightened from dark to light grey, the heat increased and the water evaporated from their clothes, from Vera's fur, from the sand under their feet, sinking into the desert and lifting from the Plain in shimmering waves.
Only when the water under their feet was gone did Matthew and Vera seem to awaken. Matthew rubbed his eyes, as after a long and turbulent sleep, and Vera hung her head and shook it from side to side. They looked at one another in wonder, having shared something they didn't understand, and Derin, for a moment, felt an almost unbearable wave of loneliness.
* * *
If only Rise of Skywalker was a well constructed piece of cinema, I would have brought up "No one is ever truly gone" as a great and a wise line from a great film. But it's not, so I will instead say "No one can truly kill me, or this blog".
If you want me to actually speed this along, you must leave a comment. Otherwise, I will go as fast, or painfully slow, as I please.
