The wolves are roaming tonight, restless as the sea. They are calling. Morose howls rise in unison as the hour of midnight descends like a thick velvet blanket; the blackness it brings is absolute and only a smattering of glittery starlight scatters an otherwise dead sky. Even the shy sliver moon has waned to almost nothing – perhaps the reason for their mood, that bloodcurdling song – and the darkness feels impenetrable, heavy, brooding. The eagle listens tentatively, warily, with perfectly pricked ears, for he has been watching the pack (an assignment), studying the conception of their primeval minds, for many weeks. He has discovered no fondness for the creatures that so enthral the others - the horned-ones. Leaders speak as though wolves are an equal sort, children like they are companionable, even friendly, but these are neither. The pack is predatory, moving in choreographed motion as though one mind controls them; callous, superior and unmercifully intent. They lust for flesh, blood, and harry doomed victims until weariness or wound sees them fail; compassionless creatures, driven by primal instinct. Another voice lifts into the wailing pre-winter wind. Nerves flinch beneath the taut silver and gold canvas wrapped around him; they – like his thoughts – are wound up with anticipation, disquieted by the strange vein of this night. Dulled pools of aqua caress the blurred outline of his sleeping dove, the displaced bed of feathers above the swollen belly beneath, and guilt ignites once for the discomfort of her plight. The eagle remembers easily the lean, limber figure that she was before, but that night in the cave (the revelation of his virility, wonderful and vain as it was), had changed everything about him, her, and the dynamics of their bond. Protectiveness now breached that fine line between obsession now, for she had softened in almost every respect – emotionally, physically - and all time spent together had been preoccupied with an endless amount of gathering and homing (such that seemed irrational in his far simpler mind). The need for unravelling the enigma of their separate tongues had grown less, yet the need for him to listen, and for her to unload that labyrinth of thoughts had nearly tripled - Noah feels far out of his depth. The pitch shifts and the howls seem nearer. Dense, brawny knees swing into motion; the eagle is content to bide time no longer. The angry wind carries a strange musk now upon its breath, one that wasn’t there only moments before, and the warrior strikes out alone into the ravenous black to investigate; surely others have tasted the twist too. Dilated pupils strain to perceive, but their ambition is hopeless and so too do pressing ears struggle to decipher fact from fiction. There is sudden movement to the left, thrashing, lashing, and with wings splayed out in defence, the heavy stallion balks away startled. With recovering courage he doubles back, but the danger is only a young snapped pine tossing like a bloodless-limb in the squall; Noah’s heart is pounding, its frantic pattern resonates in his mind. Drawing a deep, pensive breath, he rolls back burly shoulders and forces trembling wings back to rest. The air is ripe with expectation, tension, and the mutter and yowl of feral canines is building through its midst. Sound, solid hooves drive into the soft earth – rime collects to saturate the swirl of enveloping hair around them – and he finds the pinnacle of a favourite little hillock towards the centre of the valley. A storm brews along the savage peaks of the surrounding range; the cold, crisp flavour of ice as it sweeps down from on high, invigorates his senses, burns boiling lungs as it tunnels beneath the depth of his breast. The eagle perches for a long while on his modest vantage-point to observe, listening… waiting… watching. There is a moment of calm amid the furore, and it betrays the the subtle murmur of padded feet – they pause suddenly, but their position has already been betrayed – an eye glints wickedly, if only for a second. Wiry, white whiskers bristle on the brink of his spinning chin and narrowed eyes zone in on the skulking silhouette of a creature far larger than the cream-coated wolves of this land. Nora! Golden appendages have already untethered and he breaks into a levitating gallop, pulled clear of the earth as those enormous feathered attributes gather gale beneath their breadth - these were more than hunting predators, they were soldiers ready to ambush. The thundering pace erupts when he falls back to land, furious and frenzied; clumps of sod fling in wake of his slipshod motion, and wings tuck snug against the boiling bulge of his barrel as he bursts into the tree line which concealed his dove. One hoof fails as it collides with the unforgiving slope of a half-buried boulder and he lurches forward, plunges, with a choked, cursing cough; wings attempt a rescue, though butt uselessly against collected timber. He recovers, stumbles forward and dodges the murky pines that lurk like hidden hurdles in the night. Seconds later the grove disbands into a leafy glade that accommodates them comfortably – a compromise for one who preferred walls, and the other who liked space, air – and the snarling face of riled liver greets his unceremonious arrival. Midnight is long gone, and the softer, sombre hue of pre-dawn has seeped into the world. “Nora, shhh…” he croons, quavers, unable to hide the worry from his tone as she buries beneath his new sodden heat. Nostrils scan vigilantly, protectively and instinctively along the acquainted contours of her trembling skin and they pick instantly the stark fragrance of fret and fear – she knows! The wolves call now constantly (closer) and hair stands on end all the way down the eagles’ spine. Aquamarines search between flailing strands of chocolate ribbon as her skull jerks, quivers on route to the sky; they summon her frightened eyes and holding them with care, as the revelation of her frayed thoughts unleashes across perfectly painted lips. “Yes…” he agrees, confirms – a combination of both, “Yes, let’s move…” Already they are turning, flesh grazing flesh, trying in vain to find safe passage through those voices. The trees stand like a fence, a wall, but they yield pitifully and spew the bristled figure of a winged foe; he stands there, hulking and shadowy, though still with a solid distance to come, and the tongue lolling languidly across glistening white fangs suggests the long distance he’d come. The demon growls ferociously beneath a spray of fetid spittle.. “No…” hushed, disbelieving mind exhales, then his eyes fix upon more movement beside him. A feline, sleek in line and motion, slinks into the open; she is smaller than the soldier once fought, but the same horrid, maniacal grin curls into her face. She grasps a snake between knife teeth, nay a rope, and tethered to the end of its string is a collar and the canine. Seconds bleed by in agonising slow motion and the horrified stallion can hear only the rising pound of his stricken heart; then suddenly the dove takes flight, “NORA!” Slipping between those skin-tearing talons, the eagle bolts forward, ascending a short time after, behind. ----------- Dawn breaks at last across the rutted, gloomy eastern horizon. He drives them steadily, constantly, on through the calming thermals; though that lonely last peak lingers far behind, Noah feels he cannot settle until it has vanished altogether. They are far away from the tainted borderline of Helovia. Vision of strange creature’s features, of the wings and his teeth, repeat like a vivid, haunting nightmare through his worrying mind and he pushes them forward anxiously as a consequence, oblivious to the contractions torturing, weakening the brittle body of his dove. Infrequently (at first), he turns to check on her – on that distant mountain - tracing the queer kink and thrust of each airborne limb below her swollen belly; pain torments and disfigures her delicate face and soon the eagle realises that she can continue no longer. ‘Noah!’ She calls out behind, voice laden and unsettlingly grave, ‘the child…’ The note of her voice is devoured by heave and groan, unmistakably urgent, and panic reignites as the uncharacteristic stream of liquid pours from hind hooves. Gliding wings dip and turn, guiding a hurried spiral towards the earth – a plateau standing high above his beloved sea – and though his wary, weary eyes hunt for movement, the soft sway of green beckons; growing ever nearer. “Nora… follow!” he calls cheerlessly, confused and concerned, pointing the sharp rims of each fore towards that land as it rushes in at last to meet him. Wings hary that soft, mild, spring-like breeze with long violent blows and he gallops into gravity’s open palm with adrenaline throbbing through boiling, pulsing veins. As swiftly as he can, the warrior doubles back to find her - to stand, stare, helpless and hopeless, and press tender kisses against her soft, milky cheek (that always seemed to work…). |
