Sodden with rain and swinging a basket stuffed with wet-shrooms, you return to me. Long ears twitching in a whispering wind.
“Such a mad storm,” I tease, my feathers rustling as I rise from beside the fire. The rumbling clouds smother the light clacking of your claws against the wood floor as you pad about the hollow.
“Not mad.” You place the basket down and shake out the feathers along your arms and legs. “Lonely.”
“Lonely?”
“The rain just wants someone to play with.”
“I… suppose it does.” I chuckle. “Come. I’ll preen your feathers before bed.”
You roll your eyes and snatch a handful from the basket.
“Ah! One. Unless you want to wake up with a stomachache.” I raise a brow.
There’s a flicker of challenge in your eyes, but you relent with a groan, then quickly pop a plump one into your mouth.
I shake my head, tsking. “Come on.”
We settle ourselves beside the fire, deep within our home at the base of this wide white tree. You flare your heat, like I taught you, and the wetness wisps from your body, mingling with the stream of smoke and slipping along the ceiling out into the gusty night.
Juice smears your lightly feathered cheeks, still bulging as I set myself to your preening. Even after all these years, some small part of me recoils from the eerily smooth, oil-slick texture of your plumage — so different from the gripping prickliness of my own. I always try, of course, not to let it show. It’s not your fault, being what you are. But even now, I note the tension in my hands as I work, the feel of such… wrongness.
I pluck a few stray leaves and twigs from your feathers. Toss them into the fire. We don’t need its warmth; I just find the light comforting.
“How about a bedtime story?” I ask.
You hesitate, and there it is again — that twitch in your ears, amidst the whispering wind.
You’re listening to it. You’re doing that a lot more lately…
My mouth tightens.
“Tem–uh…” You catch yourself, red flushing the gold of your cheeks. “I was, uh, wondering… Maybe you could finally tell me the story of where I came from? You… said you would.”
I exhale slowly. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
I toss another handful of leaves into the fire and the crackling echoes, keeping the silence at bay.
“Alright.” We both take a breath. “I suppose you’re old enough now to hear that story — how we came to be a family.”
I suspect, though, that you’ve already heard a very different version…
You look up at me, such eagerness in your eyes.
I force a smile to hide the unease, wrap my red-feathered arms around you in a long, snuggling hug, then I tell you the story — my version. The one I need you to believe.
“You fell from the sky the day I found you. Just an adorable little ball of gold and orange fluff. It was a windless day, so I knew you would be perfect. The whole island rattled with giddy anticipation of your arrival. Both suns blazed high in the sky like proud brothers, eager to witness your burst.” I press a clawed finger to the tip of your nose. “I remember climbing all the way up the great fire-mountain, never stopping once, not even to catch my breath. I was too excited. To meet you.”
I lean in and whisper, “And you know what?”
“What?”
“The island tried to trick me.”
“Wh–how?”
“It led me to think it had gone back to sleep. There had been so much rumbling and smoke billowing from the mountain’s mouth. But then… it all quieted back down. And I feared I would be alone a while longer.”
Your eyes are fire-bright and on me — no twitching of the ears.
“The quiet stretched on and on until… the mountain erupted! Ash and rock and lava spurted higher than the clouds — ”
“The clouds!?”
I nod, exulting in your excitement.
“Uh-um! And all that ash and rock fell across the island like a…” My throat clenches; it’s harder to breathe. “Like a… warm, loving mist.”
I force another smile, bury the truth away.
It was a nightmare, really, but I’ll not tell you that. I’ll not tell you of the weeks I spent choking and aching; of the burning in my chest with every insufferable breath, nor the fetid, burnt stench of charred carcasses that clung to the ashy air. That suffocated all the island’s life. Unlike any other burst I’ve witnessed. And never supposed to happen here…
No. None of that, my sweet ember. You don’t need to carry that.
“Nanna?” You look up at me.
From a daze, I return to you. The fire flickers, enlivened, as if listening to some enrapturing breath. And from my periphery, I spot — again — that twitching of your ears. It had swooped in to fill the silence I had left…
Ever there. Ever whispering.
And a part of you.
A part I won’t always be able to keep you from…
“I’m alright.” I pat the feathers behind your ear, so desperately wishing I could tear it away from you. I can’t. “Just got lost in the story, is all.”
We nuzzle closer together and stare into the fire. Once, twice, three times I catch you flitting your gaze towards the dark patter outside. Towards the sky. Your curiosity is growing. And I know, as I’ve always known — it is telling you a different truth. Its version. That, though we are both wingless, you are a Binding Feuo. It latched onto you — Bound with you — at your bursting, and with its guidance, your feathers will one day learn to catch the wind and carry you to those distant islands so high in the sky. To where the pretentious other Bound Feuo reside — and where you truly belong…
Not here. Not grounded. Not with me.
“W-was I the only one?”
“What do you mean, my ember?”
“On that day, when the island shook, was I the only one?”
“Of course you were. We are the only ones — you know that.” My tone is sweet; the lie is bitter.
More ear twitching. Undoubtedly contradicting.
I grind my teeth. What I wouldn’t give to silence it.
Just for a few years more…
Of course there were others — fifty-four others! That windless day had made me a fool, dumbly hopeful that I might find more like me after so long down here. On my own. And I did find them. I scoured the island, over and over, searching for all of you. Every one I found was choking to death on the smoke, their arms and legs broken, their feathers bent and crushed, their tiny bodies splattered across the mountain or dangling dead amongst the scorched branches, drowning in the soot-choked rivers and lakes… It was a madness I couldn’t fathom. Burstings are supposed to end in life–not death. Not even for my rare kind.
Only six of you had a fighting chance. Five like me — Unbindable. And you. The sole survivor, in the end. Because of it. Because it Bound with you. Saved you. And I am grateful for that… just as I am filled with such spite, because it will still steal you away from me someday. And that loss will cut deeper than all the others.
Love hurts worse.
You mutter something into the fire, and on the walls the flickering shadows of your ears seem to taunt me. That twitching…
“Is everything alright, Kai?”
“Uh…” Your eyes grow wide, as if I had just caught you stealing another wet-shroom before bed. “It says… you’re lying.”
I take a deep breath. “I know it’s hard, my ember. I know… But you cannot believe what it tells you.” I lift your chin until your eyes are on mine. “It isn’t family, it lies.”
A frightened wetness glimmers in your eyes, and you pull away from me. “I… want to sleep now.”
“Alright.” I look down at you with a pained smile.
You raise your arms in a long stretch and yawn, then pad across the hollow and settle yourself away from me, right by the opening. And the rain. And the sky.
“I hope I dream of flying again…”
“Flying sounds pretty dangerous.”
“Not in a dream.” Your tone is clipped, your gaze distant — fixed outward. “You can’t get hurt in a dream.”
The rain patters. The wind whispers — low and persistent.
“Temn says that one day he’ll help me fly.”
My feathers bristle at its name, and the fire flares beside me.
“We cannot fly, Kai. I’ve told you that.”
You tilt your head, but I can’t tell if it’s a nod or a shake.
“My ember, I just don’t want you to get hurt. Promise me you won’t try. That would be very reckless.”
Still nothing.
“Kai?”
“I promise, Nanna…” The brokenness in your voice pains me, too.
“That’s very wise, Kai.” My voice cracks, and my chest grows heavy. “We’re safe here, on the ground. And as long as we stay together, we’ll never be alone.” I swallow. “It lies, Kai. Remember that. It lies.
You say nothing more, but your breath comes wet and unsteady, almost trembling. “We’re family, my ember.” I want to go to you, to hold you close. I don’t. Yet in the silence, I whisper:
“Family never lies.”
Joshua Stavick 