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To Learn To Fly
Author:Wynths
This is the chronologically first tale in a series of 3 pieces, which includes, in order "ACROPHILIA: SCP-B74B70" and Thine Eyes as Stars, Thy Name as Air. If you haven't already, please consider reading and supporting these two, even if this piece (hopefully!) stands solidly on its own.Word Count: 8130. Roughly 40 minutes, at 200wpm.
Thanks for reading!
578 words, 2:53
When his mother Leyla gave birth to him, she did not struggle in the slightest. This fact was lost upon her at that instant, however, for something still more extraordinary occurred. Her baby, Enlil, fathered of Nasir, took not of him, but of his father, Hasan, a pious man, a man of Allah, whom had been blessed with the ability to fly.
The baby Enlil would learn more of the story as he grew. At that instant, however, he was merely floating through the air, the viscera and the brutality of birth forgotten. Even his cries and screams, of which there would have been plenty had it not been 'im, seemed left in the womb. He was at peace as he aimlessly floated, as he would always be when he rose into the air.
Hasan had not learned to fly so early, and it had taken the command of the Lord Allah to force him to reach into his mind and to learn, slowly, to levitate, then to rise, and to fly. But he was a troubled man, and Allah told him as he began to grow gray hair that his ancestors would not be so troubled.
Leyla and Nasir saw their son, their glorious, beautiful son rise, and they knew that he was not troubled.
They had both waited, patiently, for Nasir to follow in his father’s steps, to rise from the ground and to bound through the air. It was apparent now the blessing was not for him, but for the baby who was over the crib now, fast asleep, unnaturally quiet, unnaturally blessed. Even his name showed the virtue which has been appointed him through the will of Allah.
He was Enlil ibn Nasir ibn Hasan al-Ali, the Lord Sky, son of the Supporter, son of the Beautifier, in the house of the Exalted.
The boy Enlil was a precocious and solitary kid. He was obedient to his mother and father, as all the good children are, except in one thing; he alone decided when he wished to fly. No matter how hard the strikes were when he returned to the ground, Nasir could be sure that he would return from the Codentsire mill and would see Hasan, tired to sleep by flying lessons, laying in a sunchair, with Enlil waiting for him, his tan skin blackened by the radiance of the sun behind him.
They were still grateful and proud for and of him. He (almost) never went so far from the home that he would be lost when Hasan did tire, and he was a kid that took readily to his grandfather Hasan’s teachings.
By the time Enlil was of 5 years, he was already learnt of the holy texts, and he loved Muhammed (peace be upon him) with all of his heart, and he partook of salat with his mother, father, and grandfather, earlier than any of the other children whom had been taught by Hasan.
And his learnedness limited itself not to the Qur’an, but extended to many other things too. Though his parents hated it, he took a great interest in the Herrirak peoples who would come through the woods and who had helped Nasir construct the home that was so far away from civilization. He even hid from them a feather from the Chief’s crown, which he had been gifted out of the then-Chief’s goodwill.
Now, it’s been years since that feather was given him. The house holds now only 3 people, and soon, it shall be 2, for—
739 words, 3:38
—“I cannot believe you’ve been accepted into their program!” My umm cries out from the dining hall, still believing the news too good, too incredible. Yet it was true.
The program of which she spake referred to the Colonies’ military. The Colonial Forces. They had been seeking talented, multifaceted people who were willing to be away from home for weeks or even months on some sort of mission. The exact nature of the mission was not specified, but the winds spake of excitement, danger, and a handsome salary to boot. There was little to inhibit me from applying to the program, and on my daily runs through the city, I had stopped at the office. I’d expected neutral news—to be denied—but instead, I had been accepted.
And I was to meet my teammates today! I was to embark, today!
It truly was incredible if one worked through the impossibility of it, but it was no matter; I was to embark. Nothing would alter that.
The uncertainty of what would occur and the certainty that I would be capable of handling any problem played off each other, and I felt almost as though as I was flying already. My stomach tensed and I ate little as my mother continued in her excitement.
“Oh, Enlil, you must promise to me that you shall follow the salat no matter what those Englishmen say.”
She believed that the English would not be so tolerant of the law of Allah, and would only accept the law of God. I did not believe so, but I humored her regardless.
“Yes, Umm, I shall hold fast even if they see me as an infidel. And, remember, they know that I am of ‘Muhammedism’”, I say, making airquotes at the ridiculous term they used for us, “and they have still accepted me. They want me to be on that mission, and I am sure that I will fare well because of that.”
“Why, I hope that you are!” She says with excitement.
My baba speaks up now, having elected to remain silent as he ate his balaleet.
“Enlil, do they stay silent about what the work actually is?”
“No.”
“Then how can you be certain that… that there is not some trickery afoot? That they are not selling you a lie, or that you will not actually be part of the Colonial Forces?”
“Baba” I say with a chuckle, “I am sure that they would not go through all the effort they have gone through if they did not really need me for something important.”
Almost involuntarily, my voice hushes, just as the voice that whispered this to me in the wind was hushed.
“They say that we will be in the 99th Division.”
My mother looks up from her plate in astonishment, and my father’s face tenses, parsing the meaning of the term “99th Division” and what it implies for me.
“Do you mean to tell me that they shall bring you from being a civilian to the highest Division of the land?” He says with great skepticism.
“No, no!” I say in return. “The 99th Division is not the greatest. They are simply the most secretive. Have you not heard the stories that come out from them?”
“They’re dangerous stories.” My umm says with some notes of fear in her voice.
“Ah. Well, it is true that the 99th Division is supposedly not the safest, but they are the most revered. The best paid. The most honorable.” I say, a half-appeal, half-appeasement.
My father lightens somewhat at the mention of honor and wealth. He doesn’t seem to be opposed now, simply curious.
“I know that they’ve many deaths in that Division.”
“Deaths?” My mother says, seemingly unaware.
I try to carefully phrase my reply. “Deaths, yes. But they were all a long time ago, when the 99th Division was focused on quelling the Rebellion. I am sure that what they do now is not as dangerous.”
My mother quietly says a prayer for my health as my father speaks.
“Look, Enlil—just as you promise your mother that you will follow salat even if your superiors wish you not to—I would like you to follow one thing, above all else.” He says it with the utmost sincerity
“And that is?”
“To come home victorious.”
He smiles and adds: “Go now, and write to us soon! I shall like to hear your battle stories, Enlil al-Ali.”
I nod, and as I go, my mother calls out to me, “And may Allah guard and bless you!”
672 words, 3:41
The wind screams in my ears, and my coat, trousers, and Hamsa hand necklace shakes with the violence of the air passing around me. While, normally, the regular wind would be disturbing, the currents of my flight are infinitely faster and more powerful than what Mother Nature normally has to offer.
I am tense with both effort and anticipation. I am going as swiftly as I can, swifter than even my grandfather Hasan dared to go, because I cannot bear to remain in the dark about the true nature of my assignment.
As I weave through the trees, making them and their branches shake with the force of my passage, I begin to think about what I am rushing towards. About it, I am aware of only these things:
- that the 99th Division engages in espionage—something which I have kept my parents unaware about—but against who is something that, almost definitionally, is beyond mysterious.
- that it is a small group; what “small” means, I shall have to discover when I arrive at the docks.
- that I shall serve for a maximum of six months, and will be compensated about 5000 dollars for this time—an excellent wage.
- that the 99th Division has no Englishmen within it, and accepts both women and men—it is the only Division that has such lax requirements, for it makes the identities of its members harder still to discover.
Turning them over in my mind, I can imagine what we might be doing if we were on a more permanent station, but with only 6 months of employment, I cannot fathom what we could do with such little time.
If we are to work abroad, 6 months would account for our total travel time, and from what I know, the average assignments for spies are no less than 6 total months. They need to embed themselves, to become familiar with the land, but that comes only with years of training or experience. To imply that we will be trained and have multiple successful deployments in six months can mean only two things:
- we will be doing small, unimportant jobs.
- the Forces are being dishonest in some way
Both of those possibilities are negative in their own way.
But I cannot entertain possibilities now, not when I haven't even spoken to the Commander yet. I decide only then will I judge, and that I must close the matter… for now.
I return my focus to my flight, and begin to slow myself with the wind as I approach Crodentsire, angling myself against the wind and stretching my arms out to catch it. The last thing I need is for someone to discover my abilities now, just before I am to go to Colonial Forces. They have been hunting the Herrirak, and I suspect that they would easily confuse me with one of them if they were to see me floating even an inch off the ground. The news-stories that they bring too often report Herrirak deaths to take lightly that threat.
As I stop completely and let myself down unto the ground, I can see a road in the distance, about a hundred feet away, that seems to be well-maintained. I collect myself, straightening my garments and feeling the Hand around my neck. I stretch myself, readjusting as quickly as possible from being completely weightless to being weighed down again. It’s always unpleasant—I would prefer to spend my entire life in the air—but I have gotten used to the feeling of being loose and relaxed one moment and standing the next.
The road is empty and long, populated with a few squirrels that scurry away at my presence and tall, grand trees that provide ample shade. It's relaxing, enough so that I decide to clear my mind. I pace my walking and put my timepiece on my wrist, making sure that it will alert me if I am going too slow. Following the instruction of my grandfather Hasan, I begin chanting, begin dhikr, knowing that it is the best thing I can do to prepare myself for the journey ahead.
Ya Allah, a'u-dhubika min sharri ma-a-ghaybi
692 words, 3:27
The Codentsire Docks are a large, bustling place, and I am awkward as I bump through the masses of sailors, soldiers, and merchants who disembark off vessels and load tonnes and tonnes of cargo into the holds of the massive ships parked within. It is a windy day today, and though the large Processing Mills provide some respite from the attacks of the air, it does little to alleviate the Courtyard and the Docks. However, while the Courtyard has the luxury of remaining closed when the weather is as bad as it is, the Docks do not, and people must simply take refuge behind the massive walls of the Compartments which surround the Docks.
The Docks themselves are unimportant to me right now, and I only vaguely pass through them and recognize the fountains and the stands of food and the simultaneous focus, tension, and merriment which mixes in the air and is present in the stance and feeling of everyone there. I acknowledge simply that it is wonderful that they continue on despite the conditions, and that I cannot linger. I have a meeting to go to, yes, and I make my way to a small office in the corner, wedged betwixt the baker and fisherman. It is marked as the Simple Chi Practitioners, but in actuality, it is the office in which the Commander and his staff work.
The door is locked, as it always is, and I can hear someone walking as I knock on it.
“What does the eagle cry to the moon?”
“It is black at heart, black as the night which surrounds it.”
They walk back, and I fear for a moment I had incorrectly memorized the phrase, but I hear a catch. The door cracks. I enter.
Inside the SCP Building, a palpable sense of dread lingers in the air, and it is immediately offputting to my senses. Nothing inherently gives that sense; in fact, the small lobby—with its calm blue walls, plush chairs, well-groomed potted flowers, and pristine tile floor—is quite inviting. The large mahogany door exudes import and sophistication. The fist-sized golden lock on it screams security.
But I know I should leave as quickly as I can. I am not supposed to be welcome here.
“Have ye an appointment?” A voice croaks from behind a nondescript closet door, the only other feature of the room..
“I do. I am to meet the commander at 0930 hours.”
“The Commander is gone. He is currently on vacation with his family.”
“The Commander has no family, only allies.”
The door opens and an old woman of about 60 years, with completely grayed hair and a short walking stick, exits the closet in which she was working with an unbelievable amount of paperwork and filth. I remember her as the Receptionist who met me last time at the door. She goes to the door, and the large lock.
“Shall you ever clean that room of yours?” I jest as she opens the door, revealing yet more blue walls and shining tiles and lines of doors.
She walks forward, silent, and I go with her. It appears that she isn’t going to entertain my joke, but just as she comes to the door at the end of the hall, she pauses and says “You wan’a see a room that’s clean, ye ‘ought to see the Commander’s office.”
She knocks some strange pattern on the door, and smirks at me. She walks away, and as she does so, she adds: “He’s waitin’ for ye—do not make him wait.”
The door opens. I look behind me and the Receptionist has vanished. It seems I have no choice but to enter the door. I muse that the dhikr I had done was a damned good idea; now, my heart pounds just a tiny bit less.
The door leads to an incredible sight: pure blackness. The black of the night is of no compare, for at least at night, you have the stars to orient yourself. Here, there is nothing. It was terrifying the first time, but now, my fear is more manageable. I begin to understand how the Commander is able to deal with the office as I step inside. My vision completely disappears.
1629 words, 8:08
The boy who passes through the door is a deeply-tan-skinned Oriental man of 22 years. His name is Enlil ibn Nasir ah-Ali, and he is here in search of adventure. He’s a Flyer. Perfect. I believed that there was a stronger margin of error for the identification of his Innate Ability, but I have gotten lucky. He will perfectly compliment the girl.
He manuevers through the deep, deep dark of my working space to a chair. He sits directly besides Rangi Harawira, a less-tanned-skin Polynesian woman of 25 years. She has an unharnessed Innate Ability, which I conjecture now should be for Flight. Whether I am correct on this assumption or not is only barely relevant—the true presumption is that they will connect, and that they will remain long after I bring them into my Department. That is what matters.
He is fully situated. She recognizes that someone has sat besides her, a man, probably, and has subconsciously tensed herself. I think that now shall be a good moment to remove the darkness from the office.
Go, ye brutish night, go back to your Lunar god!
Immediately, instantly, the two of them recognize the other. They both do their best to remain stoic, but it is obvious even to the untrained eye that they expected to have a meeting with me alone. Good. I am glad that they are both able to control themselves and able to orient themselves quickly. It shall serve them well.
The two spend a short amount of time looking at me, and the large painting behind me, and the many storied objects and trinkets and books which litter my office. It is a dignified amount of time—enough to guage where everything relevant lies, but not so much that they would appear in any way unfocused on the objective.
It’s time to test their wit.
“Ye both seem surprised the other is here. Did ye not meet beforehand as I instructed you to?”
An obvious lie, but they both adjust quickly, and they do not challenge it.
The woman speaks first, her confidence trained and correct mannerisms ready.
“I’m sorry, Sir. We simply did not have the time to do so, and I was unable to locate my partner.”
He playes off her, now catching onto the game.
“Yes. Matter of fact, it was the exact same story with me. I wasn’t able to find her—I asked around for people matching her, uh, the description you gave me, and nobody could tell me anything.”
He’s sweating now. He is not one for extended dialogue. I’ll have to keep that in mind.
“Ah. Well, I suppose that we’ve finally found each other—it simply occurred at your office, rather than in the Plaza”
“No matter.” I say, and I rise from the wooden stool on which I sit. I stretch my arm out, and the both of them could not be faster in attempting to greet me. They stumble over each other’s hands, and neither of them shake mine.
It’s starting to get embarrassing for them, so I tell them they can relax, I’m not going to punish them, and the two of them lose weights they did not know they had.
Judging off of the expressions on her face, it is apparent that she is anticipatory for what exactly I am going to do in general, whereas his face betrays that he is focused, ready for a mission, a thing. This confirms what I want them to do. I was unsure of the dynamic the two would have, but I believe this will be ideal for their examination. The phrase “She is ready, he is eager” pops into my head, and I decide this is a good phrase with which to memorize their personalities.
I sit back onto the stool, and they both sink into their seats.
“So, both of you seem quite eager to learn what exactly the 99th Division is. I assume that the both of you have made several attempts to discover its purpose?”
“Yes sir. I’d tried for about a day, then realized that patience was supposed to be a virtue.” She smiles as she says it, proud that she’s doing well in this cat-and-mouse social game.
He chuckles, and stumbles over his words, stating: “I’d, uh, been aware of many rumours already. I did not feel the need to actively investigate.”
If the both have told the truth, I am unsure what to think of them. I am both impressed that they have shown restraint and am disappointed that they did not show perseverance. I had believed that the true nature of “Division 99” was readily available, and that there were only a few ghost stories which surrounded a larger-than-average kernel of truth. Perhaps I am mistaken.
“Ah. Then I believe it shall come as a great surprise to you that there is no Division 99.”
The two of them don’t suppress their surprise, and instead vocalize it.
“Pardon? They’re the most storied Division in all the Forces!” He says, with more force than he likely intended to.
“Then what have we agreed to?” She says, with less force than she intended.
“I shall explain, I shall explain.” I start, then pause.
Should I take them to see what I mean, or would it be better to explain the purpose of their being here verbally?
I decide to err on the side of caution, and rise from the stool, discreetly pushing one of the buttons under my desk. It opens a Way that is present on the other side of the door, and draws an imperceptible amount of power from me.
I walk to the door and open it. It does not lead to the hall that they were in but an hour ago, but instead, to a great platform of stone. It is the roof of the largest building in Codentsire, the Processing Mills, and it is a roof that I am sure Enlil familiar with.
Enlil lets out, involuntary, an exclamation of “ya ilaahi!” as he follows me outside. Rangi is behind him, and whispers something I cannot hear—likely a similar remark of wonder—as I step fully outside of the door, and feel the cool winds of the nearby sea whip at my hair and my coat.
“This is the roof of the Lumber Processing Mill! Enlil, I know damned well that you’re familar with this roof!” I shout through the wind.
He shouts back, “How’d you know, sir!?”
And I reply, “Because I know you can Fly!”
His face, for a second, is petrified in horror, but a gust makes him shut his mouth and instead, he composes himself. The girl near to him, Rangi, seems equally excited by the news, but not horrified, no—she is awe-stricken! I realize that they must be familiar with Flyers in her homeland; it is likely the manner by which her ancestors came to the Colonies. Stupidly, I had planned to assuage her, but it is clear that the two of them shall work together.
And now that I am walking down the mental path of forcing these two to work together, a brilliant idea occurs to me. An awful, brilliant idea.
I had never known quite how to test operatives who I wanted to be part of the 99th Division in a field-like environment without exposing them to too much danger. I also wanted them to be able to activate and fully train their Innate Abilities, something that would be best done in genuine danger. The marriage of the two seemed impossible. But as I stand atop the highest roof of Codentsire, with everyone around gone due to the wind, and both of my new recruits able to Fly…
But first, I ‘ought to clarify something to Mr. Enlil. I walk behind them, and they turn to look at me, their faces towards the wind and to the door of the office, just a few metres away from them.
“And no, I’m not turning you in to the Brits! I’m outside of the Brits!”
“Then who commands you?!” The girl shouts at me, her voice nearly lost in the wild blasts around us, her patience for my antics surely evaporated now that she knows that I am not an Officer of the Colonies.
“I do!” I reply, and sending them on their quest, I give them my final instruction.
“There is a man two miles due north! He is named Matthew, and he runs an oyster stand! Go to him, and he will tell you where to go!”
“Great! Let us go!” He says, making his way to the door.
“Wait!” I say, and he stops.
“This is your last test—you two must leave this roof on your own!”
The two are yet more astonished, and I point directly to Rangi, my crazed fingers unsteady in the windstorm.
I yell out, “You, Rangi, will get the will to learn to fly!”
I cackle both at my brilliant wordplay, and at the sheer excitement of the situation—I had not felt this alive in many, many years!—and I enter my office through the door and grasp tightly the doorhandle.The two of them rush to me, surely wondering if they have misheard me in the wind, but they have not. I close the door behind them just as they get within arm’s length of it.
I pant now like a dog in the safety of my office. The wind, thankfully, was kept out of it by the properties of the door, and I collapse onto the plush chairs that they had just occupied.
I reach into my coat, and in a special pocket deep within, I remove my token. It is a little figurine of a cupid, with its bow drawn and the heart at the end of the arrow faded but still distinctly painted red. I play with it a bit in my hand, and then, on a piece of paper, I will a Way onto it. I watch eagerly their answer to my final test.
624 words, 3:07
That bastard! I scream mentally, the wind lashing out at my ears and forcing me to focus, lest it take my thoughts with me. It's beginning to become wet too, which I know from my years is a terrible sign of what is to come. We must leave this stony place now.
“How the fuck are we going to get off this roof?!” Rangi screams at me, covering her face with her hands to be able to see.
”There’s no exits, you have to fly onto here from behind the cliff!!” I reply, my throat already sore with the rapidly-cooling wind.
”But I can’t do that!” She says, and adds, ”My father, my mother, everyone in my family can, but I haven’t been able to yet!”
”You’re gonna find out how to pretty fucking soon!” I point at the clouds—a storm is brewing at the edges of the horizon, and is being carried towards us by the winds. It is dense, heavy, and gray with rain, and I imagine that all with a sense of purpose are taking shelter in the surrounding buildings. But we cannot get off, not until Rangi—
”—Listen, I can’t fucking fly!” She says, and adds, ”We need to fashion another exit—now!”
She breaks away from me, and makes her way slowly and carefully towards a vent present on the roof. Her plan must be to go down it, but—
”—That vent is to a furnace! It's active this time of day! You can’t leave through there!” I yell after her, and she pauses. I run at her, making a great effort not to be lifted by the wind, and elaborate, “I’ve been on this roof for hundreds of hours while practicing my flight! I’m telling you now, there’s that furnace vent and the ground! Those are the only two ways in and out of this place!”
”Well, you can f-fly, can’t you?” She asks, still contemplating taking the chance that she won't be incinerated by the furnace. She's also clearly reeling at the information that she’s been stuck with a Magick user, those supposed scoundrels.
”What, do you expect me to carry you!? I can’t do that, we’ll be too heavy!”
”Then find something!” She screams, watching the storm get closer and closer. I realize now that there is only one way that she will really be able to leave, and it’s what the Commander—whoever he is—said
She needs to face her acrophobia.
”He said you can fly!”
”And he’s fucking wrong! I’ve tried before! I can barely float off the ground!”
”That’s a start!” I say, and I run to the edge of the roof. I intentionally make sure not to look down
Rangi follows me, hesitantly, and she does look down.
”The hell’s your plan?” She asks, backing away from the ledge, knowing what my answer is going to be.
”Get closer, I can’t hear you!” I lie, and she gets closer.
”The hell is your plan?” She says.
”We’re go'n'na have to jump!” I let myself look down now. There is no one around anymore, and all of the lamps in sight are burning brightly, with everyone huddled inside. No one knows that we’re up here, and that will be our saving grace.
”You can jump! I’ll bunker down here, and you can—”
Lord Allah, forgive me for doing this, I feel I ‘ought to pray.
I grab her arm as she’s speaking, and she pulls back, but I barely overpower her. Together,
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we
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begin
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to
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fall.⠀
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She is screaming in my ear,
enraged, destroyed.
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The wind does so too,
Our velocity unmatched.
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I feel my body swing,
The muscles pulled up rather than down.
My self head over heels.
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My insides lurch and tense and shift,
With the sharpest of nerves,
I hold her chest, she closes her eyes
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And
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Before
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We
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Die
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She slows, then stops, only feet away from the ocean. She opens her eyes; she has saved herself.
1079 words, 5:23
Wilson is a fat man with wrinkled skin, a patchy, graying beard, and a completely bald head. He is far older than even the Commander, and he shucks the oyster with a satisfying pop and swallows its meat whole. The beaten table is filled with dozens of them on frigid ice trays, with the ice only barely clear under the dim oil-lamp light. The humid smell in the air completes the scene perfectly—he is a fisherman, through and through.
He looks at the both of us, expecting us to begin. After a moment, Rangi speaks up.
“So, what exactly is the 99th Division?”
He looks, scrunches his face, and sneezes into his arm.
“Ah, sorry", He barely notes, ‘’tis a terr’ble, uh, season for someone like me whos’ got all these damn allergies.”
He looks us both up and down, then continues
“You are the 99th Division. I thought that the Commander’d make that clear on y’all.”
“No, sir, he did not.”
“Well, that son of a bitch keeps getting new ideas everyday about how to train recruits. Wouldn’t surprise me if he threw the poor slumbitches off a skyscraper!” He laughs heartily at himself, and is sent into hysterics when he sees my reaction.
“God, that bastard is a fucking mouthful, ‘in’t he? Look, le’mme clarify a bit, then: the 99th Division isn’t a Division. It’s a bunch of teams. Two man, or woman, teams. Usually it’s couples—you get to know the other person, you realize they’re the best you’re gonna get. And usually they’re magickal too. Get some relation-shits going, ye’a?”
Rangi looks intently at me and says, “We aren’t in a relationship. We only met each other a few hours ago.”
“Mmmm. Picturesque, then. Or whatever the word is.” He pauses to think for a moment, then forgets about it.
“Look, point is, y’all are gonna look like or be like some lovery-dovery types, and will be more effective for it. That’s the 99th Division—bunch of 2-person recon teams, sent in places where you ‘on’t need a sword, but a scalpel.”
I interject, about-ready to leave the small shack within which we’re situated.
“At least we’ve gotten past the point of wondering what we are. Now, we simply have to figure out what we’re gonna do”
“Oh, yeah! Well, look, I’ll be quite frank with you: I ‘on’t think you want to do some of the work that the 99th Division entails.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that this, uh, this Division? That you think is part of the Forces?”
“What, are you some sort of rebel miscreant?”
“My fucking point, right there.” He says with some force. “We ain’t even goddamned rebels, but you two look like you have… not morals, but order in y’all’ses hearts. I don’t think that y’all’d like the stuff the Commander’d put y’all to do.”
Rangi put her face between her hands, clearly exasperated at the man’s coyness.
“Then what are you?”
He pauses. He sighes. Then he says, “We’re not with the Colonies at all. We’re with a group, unnamed, that is united in one goal. First, though, I should like to impress upon you that this is important shit. This is of the utmost secrecy, the utmost tight-lippedness, everything. You will die a horrible death at many hands if you go about talking about this stuff lightly. Understood.”
We both nod.
“Then lemme explain. First, I’ll need to ask…”
He removes from under the table, in some unseen spot, a picture. It is printed with this image.
It seems Rangi is as confused as I, and she speaks first, saying, “I’ve no familiarity with this. Is this the sigil of the 99th Division?”
“I thought you didn’t. This is the logo of the S. C. P. Foundation. The letters represent the phrase Secure, Contain, Protect, but ya’ can be damned sure that they do all but that.”
“What…” She begins.
“…is this Foundation about?” He completes.
She takes a breath, and goes on: “Yes, that’s what I wanted to ask you. You say this as though we’re supposed to know what this means for us. Are they a group to be investigated? A division of the government?
He scowls at that, though I don’t believe it’s at her, but rather at the extended mention of the Foundation at all.
“No, they’re not part of the government—I’d quit immediately if they were! They’re all rotten, the whole lot of them!”
“But why?” I interject. I pause, trying to find the right words, and finally manage to say: “…what have they done?”
“They’re a secret group, that’s their first offense. The second, much graver, is that they track down magick users and either kill us or imprison us. They’ve been doing it for as long as I’ve been alive, and though the highest echelons of the French and the English know of their sins, they don’t enact justice. In fact, they encourage them. They’re in some unspoken alliance, trying to consolidate all magick under the Colonial banner.” He speaks with a venom and a fervor that I would have scarce believed came from this man had I not heard it just now. He is consumed with hatred, I realize, and he would not believe if he was not completely confident and truthful in what he indicted this “Foundation” with.
He can see that both of us are shocked at the information, and only beginning to parse its implications, so he explains further: “They haven’t heard of you, otherwise they would have apprehended you both a long, long time ago. That’s why we’ve made this whole process discreet and quick; we need to get you on our side now. That is the only way we’re going to be able to effectively operate against the Foundation.”
I look at Rangi, and she is not reacting well to this information. I can imagine that she is quite distraught about this—she thought this morning that she would help the neutral government dispose of malicious rebels, and now she’s learnt that that government would be willing to kill her for existing.
Still, I think back to her trick as we fell through the air, and I know that she will want to replicate it, again and again and again. I cannot imagine how exciting the temptation is—it’s writ on her face, and in her unbroken gaze that is trying to gauge whether this man in front of her lies.
He does not.
“So, let me know now, so I can prepare if you are: Are you prepared to fight against the SCP Foundation?”
Rangi and I exchange a glance, and contemplate if we could avoid killing each other for 6 months.
We can.
2117 words, 10:35
The crickets are starting their song again after sheltering themselves from the great storm that passed through here just a couple of hours ago.
The afternoon has passed into night, and the moon provides just a little less light, and the wood is quite damp. Normally, this would prove to be a challenge to any wayward traveller, but the matches that Wilson gave us are brighter than they should be—incredibly so—and within a few minutes of finding a good camp, we’ve unfurled the canvas tents and stricken up a soft, beating fire. A few stones that I found while investigating the area act as our seats. Wild goose roasts on the campfire. It has an interesting smell to it that attracts the occasional fly dumb enough to try to eat the humans’ food.
It’s a quiet, peaceful place, though I’m sure it’d be scary if we both couldn’t handle ourselves in some drastic situation.
Rangi’s been practicing her flight, and she’s progressed incredibly quickly. Her acrophobia has quickly turned into its opposite, some type of love for the skies. I’m glad to see it myself—never have I been able to share with someone the experience of falling, launching, and sailing through the sky. It’s a deeply personal one, and one that I would share more often if people were capable of it.
And I’m glad that she’s been grouped with me. She’s the perfect person to share that experience with.
She’s finished now with cleaning her knife of the goose’s blood, and she turns to me now, apparently bored of the silence and the groundedness.
“How do you do it?” She starts.
“Do what?”
“The rising. You can rise in place. That seems impossible to me.”
“Oh, uh…” I think for a moment, contemplating how best to verbalize that which I intuitively know, “You just anchor yourself, on say, a cloud that’s overhead, or a star, and you command yourself to stay as straight on that course as possible.”
She snorts, and replies: “The fact you can even go in a straight line without thinking is leagues ahead of me.”
“Oh, don’t be like that! You’ll get it with time and practice—I didn’t begin by having perfect control over myself.”
“No?” She seems actually surprised—maybe she truly believed that I had a perfect grasp of my flight at birth.
“Oh, absolutely not! I remember, with my grandfather Hasan, he’d have to hold my hand as a little kid because I’d just… float off into the sky randomly.”
She suppresses a laugh at that, and says with a lovely comedy in her voice, “I saw that quite often too—once, the Rangatira drew straws with that girls’ mother to determine who was going to fly up to get her!”
“No!”
“Yes, they did! ‘Tis how common the occurrence was.” She lets herself laugh now, and then, in a more serious tone: “Ah, I remember that Rangatira, she was a fantastic farmer when she took the reigns, and perhaps the only fair leader the world shall ever see.”
Stupidly, I ask, “Where is she now?”
“Oh… uh, she tried to cross to here, because the English had taken the island sometime before. She didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yea’—she was fantastic. But, I don’t know. I suppose that’s just the mixed fortunes of life.”
“It is. Could’ve been anyone that failed to make that voyage. I know it’s a difficult one.”
“It could have been, yeah.”
We pause for a moment, the conversation dead. Both of us contemplate now what an appropriate response would be.
“I don’t suppose you’d want to tell me more about where you came from?”
“Huh,” She says, thinking.
“Well, I wasn’t very old when I had to come here—’twas around 6 or 7. I can’t say I remember too much about the homeland.”
“I’m sure you remember something.” I try to encourage her with a small half-smile. She takes it, and goes on.
“Oh, I do. But they’re all little fragments of things. I think the biggest fragment… it would be when I was about 5, I went and trapped my first kererū. I don’t think there’s an English word for that, but it’s a… sort of pigeon? It’s similar to those birds.
And, uh, at that time we were preparing for the New Year’s, which we call puanga. As such, we were all excited for what the other families were planning, and vigorously working on our own additions to the festival. That year, my family wanted to contribute bird meat, so we set up many, many traps, and I learnt how to go about the island collecting the birds that would be trapped in them.
It was always a… conflicting feeling that I had, for I both loved my family and wanted to obey them, but I felt so horrid whenever I dealt the killing blow to any one of those birds. They’re much prettier than the ones you see here—they come in shades of green and blue—and they’re… fun to be around. At that time, puanga, they eat berries that make them act slow and stupid, and it’s funny to see them stumble about, crashing into branches sometimes and falling to the ground chirping irritatedly.”
I laugh, and comment. “That does sound quite amusing, yes.”
“Exactly, it’s amusing. Lovely.” She sighs,
“And that’s why it was so hard to kill them. So, for some of them, I didn’t. Not enough that my parents would punish me, I thought, just think that their traps weren’t catching as much as they used to.”
I notice that the goose is done. It’s due to burn in fact, with some charred wood at the bottom, so I get up and grab it.
“Hey, do you want some?” I say, walking over to her side of the fire.
“Sure.” She doesn’t hesitate for a second, and though she eats slowly, I can tell now she’s been hungry for the longest time.
“You’ve been hungry already, haven’t you?”
“Yea’, but not much.” She says, pausing mid-bite. “I’m honestly quite used to going hungry now, that’s why I’m always thirsty.”
“Ah.” I say it as though I can sympathize, though I merely count myself lucky that I do not.
We eat for a moment, sitting side by side. The flies that are brave enough grab at the grease that has fallen onto the the pan. The crickets get louder, more excited, as the ones that were still cold grow warmer, and sing to celebrate their recovery.
When she’s done, I continue.
“Did it work?”
“It would have, if it wasn’t for my brother Mahaka. He was older than I am, and he was more jaded too. He didn’t really care about those birds, just about the meat and the feathers. So, he told my parents that I had been letting the birds out, and that he had saw me do it when he stayed back to adjust one of the snares.”
“Why the hell would he do that? I don’t imagine a couple of pigeons would meaningfully matter.”
“No, they didn’t. But he did, I don’t know why, and my parents were furious.” She nervously laughed, and went on.
“So, uh, when I returned to my home, my whare, my mother was waiting for me. She. uh, handled most of my punishments, and she was also supposed to teach me to fly. She… hated it, I think, because of how slow I was to take to it, how much I tried and how little I accomplished.”
“But you were only a child, no?” I thought about my grandfather Hasan—he’d learned his love for the skies as an adult. It would be unfair to push a 5 year old to learn such inherently complex and difficult things, wouldn’t it?
“That was enough for her.” She looks down, and I look with her, and she hides a hand that’s trembling now, trembling in remembrance of what happened. She controls her face better, but I can tell that it troubles her still. I can see now where her acrophobia came from.
And the fact that Rangi could have something in her life that bad angers me, and I notice that it does, and I find it odd. I haven’t known her for that long, I don’t think I’m supposed to be this connected to someone, but I presume it’s just basic human kindness.
The fire’s almost dead, I suddenly notice. I get up, and I toss a few more of the thicker branches into it. I remove the pan, not wanting it to become too hot, and throw it down as fast as I can to avoid handling its burning heat.
“What did she do?” I say as I come back to the stones. Unconsciously, I sit closer to her. She does not mind.
“She took me by the hand, and she said, ‘You’re going to learn today, if Io blesses me, and I do not care how long it takes.’”
“Learn to…” I do not need to finish it, but I want to confirm that it is what I think it is.
“Learn to fly. And she took me miles high, higher than I had ever seen anyone ever go, inspired out of some sort of rage. It was so cold up there, so horribly fucking cold. The mist that struck me was like venom entering my skin. And when I could not cry anymore, when I was lightheaded and ready to sleep, she told me that she was going to drop me, and that I was going to catch myself no matter what.”
”Al’ama…” I say, imagining the sight. I restrain myself from saying anything else, even though I would like now to use far stronger language than damn for that wicked mother.
“What does that mean?” She says, having heard me say similar things under my breath earlier.
“It means damn, goddamn if you’re serious about its meaning.”
She’s tense now, and she smirks; it’s a sad smirk, it’s more for herself than I. “Damn is quite appropriate, isn’t it?”
She goes on. “And I remember the sense of falling. I’d never felt anything like it, and I hope I never again do. You’re… when you’re falling, you expect it to stop almost immediately, because you can see where you’re falling to, and it’s usually from a branch or a step or something small. I fell for what felt like hours, and I felt myself slowly turning, inside and out, and…”
She stops herself, and I can feel her deflate, managing the memory and the power it comes with, the wave that it makes in her soul.
“Yea’. That… that’s one of my strongest memories from the homeland, even if it isn’t exactly what I’d like to remember it for.”
“Damn.”
Somehow, that sends both of us into what feels like hysterics, but is probably only a few small laughs. It’s something, anything to acknowledge the weight of what Rangi’s said while also maintaining some sort of levity.
“God—I wonder, how did you learn to fly? Did your mom just, fucking, drop you from a mile and tell you to live?”
“Oh, no! Nothing as dramatic—fortunately—it was simply from birth that I’ve had this ability. My grandfather helped me hone it while he was alive, and I’ve practiced it in these woods since then.”
“Huh.” She says, contemplative.
Then she says, “You’re still that bad after how many decades of practice?”
I laugh a good honest laugh, the first time I’ve done so in what feels like days.
“Hopefully, it’ll be good eventually.”
“Maybe in 2 more decades.” She says, smiling softly but genuinely.
“Hopefully.”
I get up from the makeshift seat, and I can hear her do so as well.
“I’ll see you on the morrow” I say as I walk towards the nearest creek, wanting to find a drink of freshwater.
“On the morrow.” She says, and she goes inside our tent, exhausted from the whole brunt of the day we’ve just had.
It was a big day, I’ll admit. But as I wash myself in the refreshingly-cool waters, I think I’ll do better than remain amicable to Rangi Harawira, the girl that learned to fly, though it’s not something I acknowledge. I don’t want to prove Wilson’s seeming-cynicism right, though I later learn that it was not cynicism, but mere expectation.
For now, though, that nuance is lost on me. We sleep on opposite sides of the tent, and we remain professional as we go about our assignment.
Gradually, boundaries slip, and sparks fly. It was a slow thing, slow enough that I don’t know at what point we slipped from becoming coworkers to becoming friends, and I definitely could not pinpoint any definite time we became lovers.
But that isn’t a bad thing, I’m sure of that. The change was slow, yes, but we’ve held fast. Through boundryless plains, secret plots, and the largest project anyone’s ever done, I don’t believe anymore that there is anything outside of our reach. Not even the sky has given us a limit, not to our love nor to our ambitions.
