“Now, Akaela,” the father yelled. “You’ve got to do it now!”
He clasped her hands and lifted the girl, her useless legs dangling behind his back. The horse ran faster at us, sprays of sand arching from under its thundering hooves. The father cried out again, and something popped out from the girl’s back.
All of her shirts had an opening at the back, a horizontal flap a couple of inches beneath her shoulder blades. Now I could see why. Rods came out of her back, extending and unfolding just like wings. A canopy stretched between them, and as it opened, it caught the wind and lifted the girl. The father held her hands, but her weight was no longer borne by his arms. The wind was carrying her along like an invisible hand holding her. The girl lifted her legs until they were no longer dangling, her body straight and parallel to the canopy now.
So she could move her legs.
The girl started laughing. Both the father and the boy cheered her on, shouting, “Fly, Akaela, fly!” When the father let go of her hands, the wind picked her up and she took off. She shifted her body, tilting the frame, and glided over the river, stretching out her arms and grinning from ear to ear.
She was so happy, it made my heart melt. She, too, now could fly. Like all brown falcons. Like the condors.
No, it wasn’t an elegant flight. It was clumsy and bumpy. Once more, the father reined the horse around and ran to fetch her before she dropped into the water. But it was her first flight. And my, did that make her happy.
I envied her.
I wondered how condors learned to fly. They too must’ve looked clumsy and totally out of their element when they first took off. And yet, those I’d seen from my nest were so graceful. I raised my eyes and there they were, their black silhouettes ever-present against the daytime sky.
“It’s your turn, Kael,” the boy said. I felt jittery with fear, giddy with anticipation. But if the girl could fly, then I knew I could do it, too. Her legs had been motionless until the minute her canopy swelled. That’s when she realized she could move them, that she could raise them high so her glide would pick up speed. It’s an instinct we birds know well, but sometimes you’ve got to teach your body those instincts all over again. And if a human could do it…
The boy yelled, kicked the horse’s flanks, and off we went. My talons squeezed his glove again. I dipped my head forward. Speed made my blood pump faster.
You can do it, Kael. You can do it.
I stretched my wings. I could feel the pull in them, the wind lifting me. All I had to do was open my talons and let go. It was in my head, though.
The fear.
The fall.
My heart wanted to fly, yet my head wouldn’t let it.
Then the boy did the unthinkable. He slid his hand out of the glove. And there I went, me, my stretched wings, and the glove still clutched between my talons.
It was a fantastic feeling.
Liberating.
Inebriating.
Terrifying.
And it lasted two seconds before I tilted my wings too much and almost slammed into a tree. But it was done. The boy had unlocked my wings by letting me go.
On our next attempt, he never let go of the glove.
I did.
I flapped and took off, found the thermal—the column of hot air rising up from the ground—and rode it like I’d been doing it all my life. Like the humans rode their horses. I flew over the river and above the forest, my eyes feasting on the landscape sprawling below. I skipped across the scents on the air, and they lifted me, drawing me forward. Herons took off from the water as I swerved by them. I saw the waterfalls in the distance and flapped my wings until I found the perfect currents that took me right over them. I dipped in the cloud of sprays rising from the water.
I felt strong, I felt alive.
I could finally fly.
I wanted to tell the world. No, not the world. I wanted to tell the condors.
So I left the waterfalls and rode the thermals back to the river. I saw the boy, the father, and the girl running with their horses at full gallop along the bank. They waved at me and cheered me on. They didn’t say, “Come back.” Instead, they yelled, “Look at you, Kael. You can fly now!”
I can fly.
Mother would be proud.
I flew over the forest and back to my nest in the crevice. Other brown falcons were taking off from theirs in the trees. They looked up at me in wonder, a young fledgling they’d never seen before. Or didn’t remember. I rode the ridge lift as it pounded against the cliffs, found the ledge, and landed in front of the crevice where Mother had built our nest.
How long ago was it? Days? Weeks?
I’d lost count.
The nest was empty, the branches that Mother had so lovingly propped against the crevice all but blown away. The down she’d used to make my bedding was dirtied with rat droppings. The smell was rotten and foul. I was disgusted.
A forlorn feather clung to the entrance of the crevice and flapped in the wind. It was from my mother, one of the few she’d left in the nest to make it warmer. I plucked it with my beak, freed it, and watched it twirl in the currents until it vanished.
Goodbye, Mother, I thought. I can fly now. I can survive.
I spread my wings and took off again, rising over the cliffs. The condors were there, their finger-feathers gliding on the winds. They drew circles in the sky. My wings had grown tired, my breast muscles sore. Yet I ignored the pain and kept rising in the sky until I reached my idols. I sensed no communication between them, just mindless gliding and waiting like machines, ready to swoop down on the first carcass they saw. I circled with them. I flapped my wings and called out to attract their attention. I wanted them to see me fly.
One of them flew over me, and his full shadow embraced me, his wingspan at least three times mine.
I circled and called to them, “Can I be one of yours?” But they never replied. After a while, my fatigue caught up with me. And I felt lonely.
So very lonely.
So I withdrew from the lift drawn by their wide wings and glided back down. Back home.
Back to my family.
My name is Kael. I’m a brown falcon, and my family is made of humans. A father, a mother, a boy, and a girl. They all have something special. The father has wires in his ears, the mother has a hook for a hand. The boy has eyes that can see in the dark. The girl has a flying sail that unfolds from her back.
They made me special, too. They gave me a bear’s sense of smell. And they taught me how to fly. I can hunt at night, like my brother. And I can glide over the cliffs, like my sister.
Not all families are equal; not all are made of the same species even. In my family, I’m the only feathered animal. I don’t mind that and neither do they.
A Word from E.E. Giorgi
Kael’s story is set in the world of my book series titled The Mayake Chronicles, a post-apocalyptic world where only two human races have survived on the planet: the Mayakes, who avoided extinction thanks to nanobots and electronic implants, and the Gaijins, who dominate the Mayakes using state-of-the-art technology and weapons.