The Serendipity of Flightless Things

by Fiadhnait Moser

  I needed a knife—or a pen—either would do. I patted the waist of my dress as if expecting to find pockets there—not that I ever carried around knives or pens anyway when I wore jeans. I bent to my knees and flicked aside pebbles and crinkly leaves and dead spiders until, at last, a needle-sharp quartz stone stabbed my thumb. I shook my wrist and scrunched my eyebrows with the pain, then plucked the stone from the ground.

  When I stood, as if by magic, a blank aspen tree appeared before my eyes. Goose bumps rose on my arms as I circled the tree, footsteps soft, as if snow cushioned my feet. The tree was smaller than the others, and when I laid a hand on the pale gray bark, I found it was smooth and taut as a child’s skin. I was nearly positive it had not been there before.

  I took a breath and raised my hand to the bark, hand shaking. And in barely-there letters, quartz in hand, I scribbled:

  Darcy

  And then came the howl.

  Chapter 22

  WOLVES.

  I had hardly scratched the “y” of Darcy’s name into the aspen when the low howl sounded.

  I ran. Blood thundered in my ears.

  How had I even gotten in here? Everywhere I turned, a crop of identical trees popped up, and the forest seemed only to thicken the farther I ran. Sweat sunk into my Sunday dress, dripped down my legs. My vision swirled and gibberish chanted—wait … It wasn’t gibberish. Was it? Through the pounding in my head, the words find her, find her, find her reverberated endlessly.

  A gnarled sycamore root caught grasp of my shoelace, and I collapsed to my knees, the carpet of evergreen needles cushioning my fall. The world looked like a view from a merry-go-round. The sycamores melted and the aspens waltzed. The evergreens turned into baobabs, roots reaching for the sky instead of the ground. I squeezed shut my eyes to stop the dizziness, but still the words pounded relentlessly: Find her, find her, find her.

  “FIND WHO?” I cried aloud, but I already knew.

  AH-WHOOOO!

  The howling was close, and I curled into a ball, twigs and thorns jabbing my arms, and I crossed my arms over my face—but wait. It wasn’t a wolf. It was a whistle. It was—

  WHOOSH!

  Something thin and sharp whizzed past my cheek, the rush of cool air stinging my sweat-drenched forehead. I froze, held my breath.

  I peeked open one eye. The swirling had stopped, but old greyman’s mist had thickened, and with it came … train tracks. Smooth silver tracks running far as I could see, and in the distance, a scarlet train rumbled, smoke billowing out the engine’s top. The whistle blared a low howl that didn’t sound quite so wolflike now that I could see the train for what it was. But where was it coming from? I didn’t remember seeing a train station anywhere in town, and the valley was surrounded by those odd thorn trees—the ones that had sealed up after I entered. Even the taxi driver had said there was no way in.

  Something was falling. Through the gold-spattered treetops it tumbled, bouncing over branches and screeching a song akin to that of a banshee mourning at her wash pail. I squinted as the thing plummeted toward the tracks, and then went still, lying limp on the silver tracks. It was a white thing, a trembling thing, with a stick of sorts protruding from its middle.

  My vision flicked from the train to the creature. Move! I wanted to shout, but there was something about the creature’s shaking that told me it couldn’t. I had to save it. The train blared closer as finally my feet caught up with my mind, and I snapped upright. My legs felt like jellyfish, but I stumbled over the roots and branches, closer to the silver tracks. Mist thickened with every step I took, but the train’s fog light shone through like a beacon, and I followed it until I met the tracks.

  There. The white creature was only a few paces off. I stumbled along the tracks as the chugging of the train grew louder. Perhaps the creature reflected the train’s fog light, for it seemed to glow brighter the nearer I drew. At last, the creature came into full view.

  It was a swan. I knelt down, glancing toward the train as its whistle blasted again. The swan’s feathers stood on end and its stomach jolted with unsteady breaths. And there, stuck in its left wing, was an arrow. Blood stained the feathers around the wound and dripped onto the silver track. The swan’s beak was nibbling furiously at something on the track—a piece of wire on the track tangled around its foot.

  “It’s all right,” I cooed, but my voice wavered unconvincingly. “I—I’m gettin’ you out of here.”

  I wrapped my arms around the swan’s cold belly and it screeched with agony, but did not snap at me. I recoiled, heart pounding, and glanced toward the train again. It was hardly a hundred meters away.

  Someone shouted—a boy—ordering me to please get my freakish backside off of the tracks. Except he didn’t say please, and he didn’t say freakish, and he most certainly did not say backside.

  I hunched toward the wire wrapped around the swan’s ankle and dug my nails underneath it as the swan howled again. The wire clung tight as a cross-stitch, digging into the swan’s leathery skin.

  “It’s a bird, and it’s good as dead anyway. Just let it be, you stupid girl!” cried the boy again.

  My fingers began to tremble in rhythm to the vibrating tracks. I glanced behind myself and froze; the train was hardly a tree’s length away, but the faster I thought the words slow down, slow down, slow down, the faster the train seemed to approach. We were done for. Both of us.

  And then came the icy whoosh, just like before, as something whizzed past my cheek and into—

  The swan. A second arrow plunged into her foot, blood spattering onto my dress. I tugged at the arrow and it released, pulling with it a wad of tangled wire. I tossed it to the side as the voice shouted again. “Come on!” it said.

  I looked up, and a boy’s face—sallow and sunken—appeared through my blurred and swirling vision. It scowled down at me. He stretched out a sweaty hand and I grabbed it with my right, dragging the swan with my left.

  He yanked, and we all tumbled into the pine needle carpet as the train rattled by. I held the swan close to my chest, the first arrow in its wing jabbing into my shoulder. My breath leapt like skipping stones. When the train disappeared into the fog and all became quiet in the forest again, I leaned into the swan’s breast to listen for its heartbeat. It was a murmur of a thing, trilling hummingbird quick and fading fast.

  “She’s hurt bad,” I muttered, now tugging at the bloody arrow. At last I yanked it out of the swan’s wing, blood oozing through the feathers, turning the wing bright crimson. The swan’s muscles tensed, eyes drooped—and then its neck went limp, falling back onto my chest, unconscious.

  I twirled around to the boy, saying, “We’ve got to find h—”

  I froze. A hunter—spider-limbed and pinch-faced—was crouched behind me, bow slung over his shoulder and arrows scattered on the pine needles.

  “You did this.”

  Chapter 23

  “MIND YOU, I SAVED YOUR LIFE—and its.” Sojourn gestured to the swan.

  “You?” I scoffed. “You weren’t the one nose to nose with a massive train hurtling your way. This never would have even happened if you hadn’t shot her out of the sky. What’s she ever done to you?”

  Sojourn shrugged. “Got to kill to eat.”

  My stomach squirmed at the thought of eating a creature as majestic as a swan.

  Sojourn must have caught my expression of disgust, because he added, “I don’t eat them. I sell ’em. The mayor up on the hill collects ’em like postage stamps. Batty old woman, if you ask me, but she pays well. Been working for her for years…. I believe you’ve made acquaintances?”

  My cheeks burned. “How d’you know that? And—and Aoife’s the mayor?”

  But Sojourn did not answer. “’Sides,” he continued, “if it hadn’t been for you, the swan would’ve died a quick death. Now it’ll suffer. It’s only a matter of time ’fore she snuffs it, you know.”

  “No she won’t. I’ll save her. I’ll find help—a vet—or—or I’ll nurse
her back to health myself if I’ve got to. And stop calling her ‘it’!”

  “How’re you so sure it’s a girl anyway?”

  “I’ve studied swans for years, bogbrain.” It wasn’t like me to drop insults, but Sojourn, that Sojourn brought out the worst in me. “Females are smaller and have thinner necks, and the knob on her bill is smaller too.” I huffed and propped up the swan’s head over my shoulder. Then I heaved myself to my feet, knees quivering with the extra weight of the swan. “C’mon,” I said. “I don’t know the town, so you’ll have to show me the way.”

  But Sojourn did not get to his feet. He stayed put longer than I cared for, stuttering, “Finn—you—just wait—”

  “What?” I snapped. “We’ve got to go. Come on.”

  “But Finn, you don’t understand—”

  I shook a piece of hair out of my face and fired, “I understand perfectly. If you don’t want to help me, fine. But I’m getting this swan help whether you like it or not. She’s not going to end up another one of Aoife’s wall hangings.” And I took off through the forest, aspens blurring past. And though I hadn’t a clue which way to go, I figured the forest couldn’t last forever, and the valley wasn’t terribly big. I’d reach the village somehow. I turned back but once to see Sojourn snatch up his arrows and flail after me, hollering, “Wait!”

  But I did not wait. I ran and ran, and as I did, I whispered in the swan’s ear, “I’ve got you, girl.” And then, softer—so not Sojourn, nor the trees, not the ghosts, nor even I could hear—I breathed, “I’ve got you, Child of Lir. I’ve got you, Ena.”

  AFTER WHAT FELT LIKE HOURS, the trees began to thin, and I stumbled out to a cliff overlooking a ravine. A red-berried tree grew there, hunched over the edge, and I collapsed against it, cradling the swan in my tired arms. My fingers had become numb with their grip on the swan, and my vision swirled and doubled. I closed my eyes to stop the dizziness and leaned my ear against the swan’s chest again. Her heart still beat, but faintly.

  From within the forest, a distant shout sounded. “Stop! Stop! You haven’t a clue what you’re doing!”

  Then out tumbled Sojourn, gangly legs swiveling and long arms drooping. He fell to his knees on a patch of thistle, only to yelp with the pain of the spiky plant. His black-widow eyes watered as he sprang away from the thistle and clambered onto a small boulder opposite me, reaching dramatically for the top of the stone like a near-drowning victim would a lifeboat.

  He wheezed out the words, “Aoife … will kill … the swan … the minute … she sets eyes on it—”

  “Her—”

  Sojourn attempted to roll his eyes, but they simply lolled to the side with exhaustion. Once he caught his breath, he said more coherently, “Give her to me. There en’t a vet for a hundred miles of the place, no less within the valley—not that you’d be able to leave if you wanted to. No one leaves the valley without Aoife’s word. I’ll take care of the swan.”

  I eyed Sojourn suspiciously. “She needs practiced hands. She needs love and warmth and lots of care. No offense, but you’re not exactly the motherly sort, now, are you?” I nodded to his satchel of arrows sagging at his waist.

  And then Sojourn did something most unexpected. He did something kind. He did something brave.

  He slung off his bow and satchel and handed them to me. “I promise,” he said. “I promise I’ll take care of her.”

  Sojourn’s eyes lost their smirk, and for the first time, they filled with … honesty. Despite the pounding, the pleading, I’m trusting you, I’m trusting you, I’m trusting you, inside my head, no words landed on my tongue. So, I simply took the bow and arrows, and eased the swan over to Sojourn’s lap.

  He tore a piece off his already-tattered sleeve and wrapped it ’round the swan’s wing to stop the bleeding and create a sling. “See?” he said. “She’s looking better already.” He struggled to stand up with the new weight, and when he did, he nearly toppled over backward and his knees bowed precariously. All the same, he nodded and said, “Go on now. Aoife’ll want to know where you’ve been. But one piece of advice, love … don’t tell her.”

  It wasn’t until I was halfway into the village that I realized what tree I had been leaning against. I pinched open my locket and shielded the photograph from the sun’s glare with my hand. The hawthorn tree Margaret, Ed, and Oliver sat atop curved over a ravine, branches bowed but strong. It was a perfect match.

  Chapter 24

  I REEKED OF BLOOD AND SWEAT, even worse than the already acrid smell of Aoife’s feathered walls. High-heeled footsteps clattered down the marble staircase. Aoife’s feather coat swished into view, followed by a fluff of disheveled golden hair. When she caught sight of me, she swept down the stairs in one movement and embraced me. Long fingernails trailed through my hair as I breathed in her sugar-plum perfume.

  But as Aoife released me, her jaw hardened.

  “Foolish girl!” she flared. “You’re just as wild as that so-called mother of yours—” She stopped short, sucking in her scarlet mouth as if she’d just swallowed a lemon whole.

  “I—I just went for a stroll in the woods, I didn’t mean no harm.”

  “Well, you did do harm,” shot Aoife. She then took a large breath. When her shoulders fell an inch and she regained her composure, she said through gritted teeth, “You must never leave the manor.”

  I stepped back, light-headedness washing over me. “Never leave?”

  Aoife threw up her hands and began to march back up the stairs. “Not now, not ever, never. Not without my supervision anyway.”

  “What about—school? And food? And—and plain fresh air?”

  “You will be educated by the finest tutors, cared for by the finest nannies. For heaven’s sake, your bedroom is lined with gold-rimmed windows. Now, what is on your dress? And what is that smell?” Aoife began to pace across the marble floor. “You need a bath—no, you need a consequence.” Her cheeks reddened as her anger rose, voice reverberating off the high ceiling. “No pudding tonight—no—no supper tonight. Off to bed straightaway, and not even a thought of nicking something from the kitchens; the cooks will all …”

  Aoife’s eyes fell to my neck, and her voice trailed away. Once again, her temper softened. “My,” she murmured, shaking her movie star curls as if her anger were made of dandruff. She floated down the few steps she had climbed. “I—I don’t know what’s gotten into me … Of course you shall eat supper with us. All is forgiven, my darling.” She slunk closer, a strange hunger chained behind her eyes. She bent to my eye level. Her neck twitched as she swallowed and said, “Why aren’t you wearing your necklace, darling?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What necklace?”

  “Why, your birthday gift. The swan feather one I gave you, of course.”

  “Oh—oh, I left it in my bedroom.”

  “Never mind, I’ve got it here,” and Aoife pulled from her coat pocket the welcome gift.

  My lips felt like they were sucking an icicle. “You went through my things?” I managed.

  Aoife ignored me. “Allow me,” she said.

  And Aoife reached behind my neck and unclasped the silver locket. She withdrew it and the chain dribbled into her palm. I reached for it, but quick as a vulture on prey, Aoife snapped the locket in two. The hawthorn petal fluttered to the floor, and I snatched it up, and then lunged for the locket, shouting, “No! Please, that’s Nuala’s!”

  But Aoife swished away like a master dancer. She pocketed the pieces of the locket and said, “No need to fuss, darling. You don’t want that old thing weighing down your pretty face. People will think you’re destitute.”

  Oh yes, I wanted to say, all the people I’m not allowed to see because I must remain within the manor.

  She leaned forward, a smile plastered on her face, and hooked the silver-cased swan feather necklace around my neck. “Much better,” she said. There was something about her teeth that reminded me of a boggart’s—sharp and sweet-turned-wicked, for boggarts were spritely fa
eries that would turn sinister at the slightest vexation. Milk served without honey or needle and thread moved to a new closet, and you would wake up to a face of boils.

  “Now, be a good girl and go change into something fresh. I’m sure Priscilla-Kathryn will have something that fits.”

  I stared at Aoife, hard and cold. Her smile did not falter, and she chirped, “Don’t be glum, darling. I’ll have Nancy cook us a special dinner—potatoes and sausage perhaps, and banoffee pie for pudding. Something that feels like home.” She kissed the top of my head and added, “I love you.”

  I swallowed back my tears. “I love you too,” I said, voice stony. I averted my eyes from hers as I swept past and hurried up the stairs.

  SO IT WAS. Each dawn, I woke to the cawing of Aoife’s two pet crows, Bronwyn and Blagden, and ate breakfast in the drawing room with Aoife and Posy-Kate. At nine o’clock, Mrs. Carleton arrived with her books and chalkboard and taught arithmetic and English, and at noon, Miss Fletcher came and taught history and French. For late-afternoon lessons, Mr. Randal brought a violin and tried ever so hard to “scrub the fiddle out of me” with minuets and gavottes, concertos and sonatas.

  At sunset, Chef Nancy would call us all for supper, and I would eat in silence as Posy-Kate chastised my outfits or my hair or my manners. And every night, Aoife kissed me good night and said she loved me more than the stars, more than the moon, more than her thumbs, and more than the hair on her head. Then she would tuck me in and double-lock the door. To be loved, I decided, is a dangerous thing indeed.

  All the while, even Aoife took habit of calling me Finbird. The maids began to catch on, and it wasn’t long before the few pieces of mail I received (mainly adverts preceded with the words “To the parent of”) addressed me as “Miss Finbird O’Dálaigh.”

  One week spun into two, and two spun into three, and through it all, I heard not a peep from Da.

  I grew tired. I grew lonely.

  I thought of the swan. I thought of Darcy, if she’d been found yet. I thought of Nuala and I thought of the hawthorn. I thought of Sojourn. I thought of Da, who still hadn’t written to me. I missed his handwriting. The scar above his lip and his kisses on my forehead. I missed the sunshine, the warmth on my shoulders seeping into my bones. I missed the rain and I missed the trees and the sound of village chatter. I missed the sound of laughter.