Wing & Nien

by Shytei Corellian

  “I'll start with the one further up,” Wing called down, pointing, “give myself a landing point for the next climb!”

  “All right!” Joash called back up at him.

  Wing turned and began to climb again, moving with such grace and ease that Joash paused to watch. He’d seen his son climb since Wing was a cub. The first time Wing had climbed one of the great trees to make a cut he’d been no older than Jake was now. Joash had not admitted how nervous he’d been watching Wing spring up the tree with astonishing ease. Wing had experienced more trouble with the saw then, but had learned quickly. And so far, he’d never fallen, though there had been close-calls.

  Wing moved up the tree now with the same surreal fluidity with which he strode behind the plow, navigated the wood, or rode a horse. Joash closed his eyes briefly — there was almost no sound from Wing, only a soft landing here and there, brush of leaves across his sleeve or pant leg.

  Joash opened his eyes again as Wing called down to him.

  “E’te!”

  “Go ahead!” Joash called back.

  Bracing one foot on the limb and the other on the trunk, Joash watched as Wing withdrew the saw from the shoulder sling and began to make the cut.

  Wing worked, moving with smooth even strokes.

  From below, Joash marveled at this thing of his body. Though Wing appeared to bear very little resemblance to Joash on the surface, Joash could see a true relation in the structure of Wing’s frame, muscle and skeleton, bones and well-set shoulders. And deeper than that was a great similarity of spirit, a sense that allowed Wing to connect with the forest and the trees in a way quite similar to his own gift as Mesko Tender.

  He is, Joash thought, my son, and a wonderful thing to behold.

  The thought, however, came with a certain uneasiness. What Joash could see and feel others could too, and what they wanted of Wing because of it concerned Joash deeply.

  Joash had known Rhegal, the man Jake had asked about during the uncomfortable nightly reading of the Ancient Writings. Standing, looking up at Wing, Joash wondered if this was what Rhegal’s father had felt, knowing there was something special about his son but not knowing what exactly that was or what it meant but determined, nevertheless, to protect his son whatever the cost.

  Wing’s saw caught on a knot which snapped Joash’s attention back to the task at hand. Such a thing could throw a man off a branch, but Wing’s back leg kept him on the branch. Wing backed off, adjusted the blade, and went again.

  As Wing worked methodically, coming in from this direction and then that, the big limb finally gave and tore away from the tree with a loud crack.

  Joash watched the limb fall, ripping and tearing its way down. It reached ground with a disturbing crunch and Wing moved to the next one.

  Joash set to sawing the limb on the ground into smaller more moveable chunks, keeping an eye on Wing as much as possible.

  From above, the big limbs dropped one by one, each preceded by a warning call from Wing.

  As the forest floor around Me’Lont began piling up with splinters and leaves as well as with rows of more neatly chopped wood, Joash paused at last to call up to Wing.

  “E’te! You done yet?”

  Dripping sweat, Wing looked down the long-cleared path of green and brown to where Joash stood. The sun had begun to dip low, slanting in pale low streams through the forest canopy.

  “Done in!” Wing called back.

  “Finally! I was about to leave you up there!”

  “One more! Downfall!”

  Trying to kick loose a final branch with a swift knock of his heel, the branch just bent annoyingly. Wing grunted. With another thrust of his foot, he managed to tear the remaining fibers free and the branch dropped.

  Sheathing the saw at his back, Wing called, “Coming down!”

  Joash took up the final branch, hauling it over to rest near the piles of stacked wood.

  Wing made his way back down the tree, jumping from the lowest branch (still a good ten steps above the ground), and dropping to the ground on all fours like a cat.

  “I hope Nien will be able to join us tomorrow,” Joash said, passing a water skin to Wing.

  Wing stood and took a long drink.

  Wiping his sleeve across his mouth, he said, “I think he said he could — Carly will be working with the Cant.”

  “Good.”

  Side by sweat-soaked side, father and son took a brief surveillance of the tree.

  Joash felt a wave of sadness — the noble tree stripped of its branches down one side — a ghastly, impressive sight.

  “Well, let’s get us back,” Joash said. “I’m starved.”

  Down off the mountain father and son went, walking easily together, breaking free of the tree line with thoughts of roasted vegetables and warm bread awaiting them at home.

  Beside his father, Wing recalled the time in his life when he was about Jake’s age, seeing his father coming and going from the Mesko Forest, wanting so badly to be grown, to be a man and walk at his fa’s side. In those young days, he’d imagined the feeling of passing the tree line into the mountains where none of his people went, to stand with the great trees, to perhaps hear their voices as his fa did.

  And, here he was, having done just that for many revolutions now, striding along at his father’s side, a man, and one with his own rare and invisible connection to the land, animals, and growing things.

  He also recalled the revolutions when he and Nien had worked closely with their father, the three of them always together whether in the fields or the Mesko forest or in the Village building a home. The three of them had worked so well together, able to read each other’s minds, knowing exactly what needed to be done without speaking. Everything had seemed better then, the worse things forgotten. There had only been work and companionship and completion — in seeing the fields flourish, an opening in the Mesko canopy and the breath of new sunlight upon struggling saplings, standing on the top of a roof knowing that what stood beneath them was put there through skill and the hard work of their own hands.

  As they drew near to the house, Wing saw the new table he wanted to make for the family, for their mother in his mind, sitting whole and complete in the place of the old one.

  He smiled. Such an image would be an easy map to follow.

  Three turns spun quickly by and between work in the fields and on the Vanc home, Wing still managed to cut and finish the new table for Reean.

  On the day of the last pitching of the Vanc home, Wing left Joash and Nien to finish up in order to get back to the house and put the final touches on the table before Reean returned from her errands in the Village.

  Bending over the lathe, Wing made a few final turns on the table’s last leg. Removing it, he moved over to the table and seated the leg home.

  Just then the barn door opened and Jake came in.

  “Perfect timing,” Wing said. “Here, help me flip her over.”

  Stepping up, Jake took the other side of the table and they turned it, setting it upon its feet for the first time.

  Jake grunted. “Ugh, did you line this thing with metal?”

  Wing ignored Jake, placing a pleased and loving hand upon it.

  The table rocked. Wing’s brow furrowed. He bent down to check the leg.

  “All right, back over,” he said, nodding at Jake.

  Flipping it again, Wing pulled the leg out and, placing a small splinter of wood in the hole, pushed the leg back in.

  He glanced up at Jake, saying, “Pray” as they put the table back on its feet once more. Wing tested the leg’s corner.

  A slight rock.

  “Hmmpf,” he said, standing back. Reean would be home soon, unless he was going to put off the surprise another day he didn’t have time to troubleshoot the leg anymore. “Well, let's get it inside and we’ll, uh, see.”

  With a slightly rueful grin, Jake took a hold of the table as Wing took up the other side and they lifted.

  “Yeefa,” Jake grun
ted. “Seriously, how heavy is this thing?”

  “Heavy enough. You all right?”

  “E'te, I'm good. I got it.”

  “Don't spring something in your backside — mother will kill me.”

  “I won't!” Jake said, shuffling backward as Wing began to move forward. “Just don't run me over.”

  “I should be on the other side,” Wing said.

  “I'm all right!”

  Scuffling along, they got the table to other end of the barn.

  “Hold on,” Wing said.

  Setting his side down, Wing opened the second of the double doors to the barn and he and Jake resumed their laborious progress.

  Moving with what Wing would have called great difficulty across the clearing between the barn and the house, Jake stumbled, causing one leg of the table to plow into the dirt bringing the other side of the table up against Wing, jousting him between the legs.

  “Ouuff,” Wing grunted. “Jake!”

  “Sorry!” Jake yelped back. “If this thing wasn’t so big!”

  Wing pressed a hand to the table a moment, waiting for the sharpest jolts of pain to subside.

  “I told you I should be on the other side,” Wing growled through his teeth once he got his breath.

  “Fine!” Jake barked.

  Wing glanced at him. Jake was anything but mad. However, his face worked, clearly trying to suppress a fit of laughter.

  Wing straightened painfully. “Hilarious. You get to tell Carly why she’ll never have children.”

  This forced Jake’s laughter to the surface.

  “Yosha,” Wing muttered, scowling. But Jake’s laughter was contagious and Wing couldn’t help but laugh, too. Laughing hurt. “Seriously!” Wing barked.

  Jake continued to laugh, wiping tears from his eyes.

  With a sigh, Wing turned and sat a hip on the table to wait Jake out, turning his face to the sun. The bright warm rays felt incredibly wonderful, helping to ease the painful quivers of laughter circulating inside his own frame.

  “E’te,” he said at last to Jake, “you put together again? Can we get this done?”

  “E’te,” Jake said, clearing his throat. “I’m good.”

  Walking around the table, Wing shoved Jake aside and took up that end of the table.

  Jake cast him a look of mock consternation and rounded the table to the side Wing had been carrying.

  It was easier with Wing leading backwards and they delivered the table to the front door of the house. Here, Wing paused again as he swung the door open, surveying the opening.

  “Maybe you should have built the house around it,” Jake remarked.

  Wing swore lightly under his breath.

  “Well, let's try it on the side, legs to the left.”

  Lifting it again, they managed to maneuver the legs around the corner of the door but moving it forward again Jake pushed too hard and one of the legs caught the inside wall bashing the top of the table into the door. Jake paled considerably as Wing sized up the fresh gash through the gorgeous surface of the table.

  “Well,” Wing said, “at least we got that out of the way.”

  Jake sighed, clearly relieved that Wing wasn’t going to kill him for putting the first dent in the table.

  “You know, mom said she wanted a bigger table, but…”

  “I know,” Wing said sharply, cutting Jake off. “Just move a little more — ”

  Wing’s direction was cut off by the sound of splintering wood.

  “Wait, wait, wait!”

  They eased the table down once more.

  Placing his shoulder against the shelf just inside the door, Wing shoved it over with a screeching and cracking of wood. Stepping back, he surveyed the situation.

  “Looks like I'm going to have to take the door off.”

  “Wonderful,” Jake said.

  With a few shoves, some grunts, a short wedge, and a few more swear words, Wing got the door off its hinges.

  “All right, if this doesn’t work,” Wing started to say —

  “Then we’ll have nice, refreshing meals outside for the rest of our lives,” Jake said.

  Wing shook his head and they made one more go at it.

  Small as it was, the extra space made by shoving aside the shelf and removing the door, equaled the difference. The large table slipped through and Jake pushed it around.

  The brothers paused for a breath, flashing each other weak but triumphant grins.

  Turning the table upright, they shuffled it the last few steps into the kitchen area setting it next to the old kitchen table which, beside the new one, looked like a half-starved donkey hitched next to a stallion.

  Touching the old table, Jake asked, “Where's this one going?”

  “To the barn. We need another work table out there.”

  Picking up the old table, Wing carried it easily across the room and out the door, leaving it on the grass outside.

  Back inside, he and Jake scooted the new table into place.

  Standing back, Jake whistled. “All right, it may be ridiculously heavy, but that is a handsome table.”

  Wing nodded. In the place of the old, splintering table, the new Mesko table evoked a certain esteem, its wood grain shining in bold, manly lines, the swirls of the grain moving just under the surface as if set by an artist’s hand. With only the slightest variations it was nearly the same table Wing had imagined that day coming out of the Mesko Forest with Joash.

  “E’te,” he said with gratification. “It turned out.”

  Jake grinned and, putting his hand to it, pressed down —

  Wing had forgotten about the uneven leg until now. He held his breath.

  No rock, no roll, no motion. It sat level and even. It appeared the wobble had been due to the dreadful floor in the barn.

  Pleased, Wing arched his back, stretching through the aches of many hours bent over the lathe, the pressure and repetitive motion of sanding it down after days in the Mesko forest or working on the Vanc home. Still, he felt a soft glow inside of him.

  “Well, I better get the front door back on. Might ruin the surprise.”

  “E'te,” Jake agreed. “It might.”

  “Can you manage the old table out to the barn?”

  “After that beast?” Jake said. “Easy.”

  Smoothing a finger over the scratch in the top of the table from the incident with the doorframe, Wing smiled a little. It was good for it to have its first scratch. There would be many more in the revolutions to come as it became part of the family.

  After leaving the old table in the barn, Jake had come back in and fallen asleep on his bed, leaving Wing alone in the peaceful quiet of the main room. He had not been long in lying on the leather divan, resting, when the door opened and Reean came in with her arms full of supplies.

  Pushing himself up, Wing went over and took two of the larger cloth duffels from her arms. She followed him to the table, unloading the rest of the supplies onto it with a sigh.

  “Thanks. What a trip. Mrs. Vanc has the most incredible gift of not needing to pause for air while she’s talking. Good thing I only have to pick up lard once a season. And then she was going on about the house…”

  Reean began to shove about the packages, deciding where to begin with sorting their contents, when she stopped.

  Keeping his face carefully blank, Wing watched as Reean noticed the table for the first time.

  Glancing briefly at Wing, she pushed the sundries she’d set upon it aside and took a step back. Her expression softened and her mouth quivered. Reaching out she ran her hand along the top of it, tracing the sweet curving lines of its dark nutty grain.

  When she looked up at Wing again there were tears in her eyes.

  “You?”

  Wing nodded.

  “It's beautiful. A work of art. How did you have time to do this and manage to hide it in the process?”

  “Very carefully. And we didn't even have to take the roof off to get it in here — just a door.�
��

  Reean smiled, two tears spilling down her cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “I was wondering what you were doing out there in the barn the past few turns.”

  “It's little enough.”

  “Enough?”

  As Wing looked at his mother he saw just how worth it the work had been. “If I am anything good, it is because of you and fa.”

  Reean studied his face with incredible tenderness. “That you are will forever be enough.”

  “Only a mother could say that.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Wing gave her a quick hug. “I'm glad you like the table, because I may never be able to give you grandchildren.”

  Reean looked at him quizzically. Wing just smiled.

  Chapter 12

  Unprecedented

  “I hope sales will be good,” Joash commented as the family made their way across the valley for Rieeve’s Kive festival, one of three seasonal festivals held at the height of each season every revolution. “I don’t want to have to pack all this stuff home again.”

  “Besides whatever you manage to lose in one of your little contests,” Reean said, casting a look of feigned indignation at Joash, “I’m sure we’ll be able to unload most everything, especially if we get some converts to your cream churner.”

  “It’ll work,” Joash said, striding along beside Nien as they led two of the family’s horses burdened with gear. Behind them Wing was carrying Fey on his shoulders.

  “I’m going to look for a few converts of my own,” Nien put in.

  “For the Cant?” Wing asked.

  “No, for my school. I’ve been talking with Cant families the past couple turns and even some of them are holding back — because of the Council, I think. If I could persuade even one Council member to let his child attend the school, then the rest will probably follow.”