Wesley's Story (rough version)

Wesley's Story.

1.
Wesley opened his eyes.
He sighed, blinking at the sun. His fur was hot, and he could feel his throat scratching already. He stood shakily and shook himself off, sand flying from his pelt in a cloud. He bit at a tick on his rump, but couldn’t rend it. He growled and looked out at the desert, hoping for a sign of direction. Dunes stretched out endlessly, and he wouldn’t even be sure which way he’d come by except that he’d finally collapsed from exhaustion after ascending a particularly vicious hill, and had rolled down its opposite side and passed out at its foot. With it at his back, he searched for any sign of a passable course, or a heading that might lead him to water. He scented the air for anything hopeful; wet, tree, animal. But there was only the gritty, dusty smell of sand, and its pervasiveness had even muted his own aroma. Of all the crimes the desert had enacted on him -the thinning of his figure and stinging his eyes with red-hot wind daily- the covering of his musk was by far the one he took most offense to.
Wesley had pride in his scent. It was home and happiness, and experience, all the things he ever cared about. The wastes were already beginning to claim him, and that was a fact he had begrudgingly accepted. The least they could do was leave him his mark before he died. But that was the way it went, he supposed. Death gives no compromise to the dying.
Gathering his will, Wesley picked the direction that seemed the flattest, and took to that heading at a slow trot. He didn’t expect to find anything, nor was he certain that he wanted to. But he couldn’t stop. He could die out here, and that would be fine. But he had too many promises to keep to let himself die.
So, Wesley forged forward in the wastes, pondering the life he left behind.
It didn’t make him feel better.

2.
“So this is it,” Wesley muttered to himself, keeping his pace steady. He gazed wild-eyed at the desert, shouting at it to entertain his demons. “Born a bastard in a hateful world, raised in a culture of values so polarized as to be schizophrenic, forced to abandon the only creature I’ve ever loved, and here I am in the asshole of nowhere, dying of thirst and shouting at sand! Excellent work, Asthur. Only you could craft a life so pitiably pointless as mine!” He laughed, shaking his head. “At least I never lost a limb. I once knew a wolf who’d lost a foreleg, and had the terrible luck to survive. His name was Stumlein, but everyone called him “Stumps.” I think I’d just as soon kill myself if I ever lost one of my beautiful legs.” He whipped back to bite at the tick, now swollen and dangling, but found no purchase. He shouted, turning his head to the sky, “Agh, you would set me out in the wasteland with a tick. A tick! Of all the hells of animal ending, you are by far the most pestulent and intimately infuriating! I’m almost excited to die just so that you’ll die too. I think it’d be worth the trouble just so I could return the favor in the afterlife.” He huffed. “I’m not so sure how others in Asthuria would feel about torture. Oh, it’s my death, I’ll do with it what I please.”
He stopped and glared at the hill that loomed in front of him. He turned his head left and right, hoping to find a better way, but this dune stretched too far in either direction without lowering. Wesley gave a sigh and made his way up the hill.
He growled, “Damn the winds and the sand and the dunes, damn the sun, damn the sky, damn my burning paws, damn you you stupid bloody tick.” He panted as he reached the midpoint, his limbs burning. His tongue was a dry lump in his mouth, and a particularly strong gust hit him with a heat that made his eyes water. “I’m going to make it over this dune!” he exclaimed, “Keep blowing your spiteful breaths, you’re not toppling this coywolf!”
As he crested the hill, he felt his legs give out, and he fell face-forward down the other side. He slid several yards before coming to a stop halfway down the dune. He groaned, and opened his eyes, mumbling curses.
And then his ears perked up.
Plains rolled out ahead of him, lined sparsely with grass. Wesley blinked.
“I’ve died,” he said. “Well, that’s quite a shock. Unless…” He turned back to find the tick still throbbing. “You’re still here, which means…” His eyes lit up as he began to run, laughing wildly into the wind. He called behind him, “You thought you had me, didn’t you? Not this coywolf, not today!” When he reached the bottom of the dune, he plopped onto his side and rolled around in the grass. Pitiful an act as it was, it beat the sand by leagues.
Wesley exhaled and barked at the passing whisps of clouds, recalling the habits of his youth. His rapture slipped away as he was struck by memories; suddenly his nose filled with the ghost of fresh dew on the pines. He could feel the thick mountain grass on his back as he lay in the valleys below the Tall Ones, yipping at clouds in the company of his family. He’d been just a pup then, out of his element as always but long before he was wholly aware of the spite they had for him. He remembered touching snout to his mother’s breast, suckling as they lay beneath a grey cliff face, and they both passed into sleep and dreamt mingling dreams.
He took a deep breath, expecting the cool, moist wash of mountain air, but instead took a lung of hot, sandy dryness, and coughed. Wesley sighed and stood with questionable balance. Now he looked at the desert behind him and the plains before him and felt close to tears. For such a long time he’d been assured in his course, no doubts or regrets. But here, so many miles from the place he called home, it seemed his honor had indeed led him on a fool's errand.
In a moment, it occurred to Wesley that he had abandoned love for an empty journey.
But then he shook his head, and reminded himself of his reasons.
Then he swung his head around to grapple again with the tick, but it did not budge. Wesley screamed and, with no other option beyond moping and self-mutilation, forged forward into the wastes.

3.
“A round peg,” he said. “How interesting.”
The wooden pole stuck out of the dirt above Wesley, cracked and sun baked. Pressing his nose against it, he could smell the distant hint of farther lands. Better ones, with water and trees and-
“You just need to go right on your way!” came a shout from behind.
Wesley jumped, and spun around. A raccoon stood nearby, one eye fixed on the coywolf, the other turned to the horizon.
“Are you cross-eyed?” he asked.
The raccoon straightened his back. “Coyotes are not welcome here. Go on your way and leave us in peace.”
The coywolf blinked. “Coyote? Excuse me, but-”
“There is no excuse for the violence you would bring to me and mine, so leave before I have you killed.”
Wesley looked around, a shade nervously. “I see no others.”
“That's what makes them dangerous,” the raccoon said.
“Listen, I'm very tired. I'd just like a place to lie my head for a night.” Wesley sighed. “What am I going to do, eat you?”
“Precisely!” The raccoon brandished a small knife.
He rolled his head. “I have no interest raccoon meat, friend. I promise you that I bring no harm, I simply-”
Wesley heard a whistle from his left, and turned just in time for a rock to bounce of his skull. He shook his head, turning to accost the raccoon, when another hit him in the side. And another. Soon there was a rain of small stones, and it seemed whoever threw them ducked into holes in the ground before he could attack. The blows did not hurt his body so much as his pride, and he turned to see the raccoon with a triumphant smile on his face.
Another soul who hates me for what I am, Wesley thought, instead of who.
Without a word, Wesley trotted off into the prairie, away from the shower of rocks, until he passed around a hill. And there he heard cries of victory and relief.
The coywolf felt mounting anger and disappointment. What had he done? If the raccoon would just have listened...
Wesley shouted behind him, “I only wanted respite, you cross-eyed bandit! Thank you for proving once again that villainy lives in the heart of even the smallest creatures.”
He expected to be fighting back tears, but this was a familiar feeling. It was one he'd been grappling with all his life, from the moment he'd been old enough to hunt with his pack. The only wolves who ever showed him kindness, besides Isalia, were the pups, and that was only until their parents taught them otherwise.
He remembered Kal, the wolf everyone knew would one day be alpha of the pack. Everyone knew Wesley was not a threat to the leadership, he would always be the lowest of the low. But Kal asserted his dominance at every step. In the hunt, if Wesley made a mistake it would result in biting and growling and taunting. Whatever kills he took, Kal would criticize for their sloppiness.
It took many years for Wesley to understand that he, quite simply, was not a wolf. He shared only enough of the blood to look, at a distance, like one, and on occasion act like one. But at the end of the day, he would never be home there.
His face was that of a coyote, after all. No one trusted a coyote.

4.
Wesley sat on a hillside, staring down at the round peg from a distance. He'd made a round of the area, searching for food or sign of anyplace else, and found nothing. He was lost, he knew that much. Whether there would be hope for survival in the prairie, he was unsure.
Here, at least, there was food. It'd just be a matter of taking it.
Night had fallen, and through the course of his observations he'd found that the creatures throwing rocks at him had been prairie dogs. Hardly a tremendous meal, but the amount of meat was perfectly reasonable compared to the effort it would take to kill one.
So he watched, glad that, at least in this one case of night vision, his two warring bloodlines had agreed on something. The dogs ran to and fro, digging and moving large piles of dirt. It seemed to Wesley that they were being coordinated by the raccoon to make something. But what?
His curiosity vanished when he saw a pair of dogs leaving the general work site and coming towards where he lay. He moved his limbs into place, ready to jump, timing it as best he could.
They passed out of site for a moment, then crested the hill. His heart beat fast, suddenly very aware of the low moon on the hillside, the stars, the smell of the desert, the feel of the dirt and dead grass beneath his paws, the gentle heaves of his prey taking breath, the scent of their warmth coming closer and closer.
One passed him entirely. The next turned its head and saw him leaping like a monster, heckles raised, mouth opened wide, teeth bared.
It ducked, and Wesley missed.
Without a pause, he turned and jumped on top of the dog before it could think to run away. The other made its way around them, back towards the round peg, while its companion tried to speak, but found no air in its lungs.
Wesley looked down on the creature, dribbling saliva onto its chest. He pressed hard with his paw, reveling in its pained expression as it tried to take a breath, struggled against certain death, eyes wide and knowing all too much.
He imagined the taste of the blood and the meat, the crunch of its tiny bones in his maw. Hardly what Kal would call a worthy kill, but hell, he hadn't tasted fresh death in months. And Kal wasn't here to criticize.
Wesley's enthusiasm slipped away. He still held the dog in place, still held his mouth open, but it suddenly felt as though there was no joy in it. All he could think of was Kal, dancing back and forth, ridiculing him for his simple tastes.
Now when he looked at the prairie dog in his grasp, he didn't see food. He saw a small animal struggling for life, fearful of death, completely in the dark as to which he should expect.
But the dog seemed to have taken notice of Wesley's sudden disinterest, and watched him with a certain hardened confusion, and the faintest glimmer of hope.
With a sigh, Wesley let him up.
“Apologies,” said the coywolf as he turned away. “I suppose I'll just go die in the wasteland, since it seems I've lost what little edge I had.”
He began to trot away, when there came a bone-chilling sound from very close by. A howl, deep and loud, and Wesley knew the timbre of it like he might know an old enemy. He turned to the prairie dog and shouted, “Run!”
The dog made his way back towards the round peg, but a wolf jumped out from around a hill and barked. The dog fell backwards, edging towards Wesley. He stood over the dog and lowered onto his haunches, growling at the wolf.
There came another growl from behind, and another. A whole pack of wolves, at least six, possibly more. Before Wesley could ask what they were doing in the prairie, he answered, Well, I'm here aren't I?
One of them stepped forward, the alpha by the way he carried himself. His fur was laced with scrapes and scars, and he had muscle like a gorilla. His eyes seemed to glow an unnaturally red shade of orange in the moonlight.
“A coyote,” he said, treating the threat of Wesley's stance like he might treat the same physicality in a newborn. He walked around Wesley, taking him in. “Only, you're too big.”
“Leave this one alone,” Wesley said.
“What kind of dog are you?” asked the alpha, his voice smooth. Too smooth for someone who appeared so violent.
“He’s a halfbreed,” said one of the others.
The alpha made a noise of acknowledgment. “Ahh, Part coy and part wolf. Where are you from, mutt? By the grey tinge on your back I’d say the North.” He took a deep breath. “You’re a long way from home.”
Wesley growled as the wolf circled him, and he had to fight the urge to reciprocate the action. Were it not for the quarry he was protecting...
“You’re going to leave and never come back,” Wesley said.
The other wolves laughed, and the alpha nearly lost his balance. “Or what?” he said with a laugh.
“Or I’ll tear your throat out and feast on your insides.”
The alpha stopped moving. Any pretense of joviality left him. The other wolves stepped back.
And then the alpha pounced.
Wesley believed himself to be a coward by deed, but if his youth had taught him anything it was how to hold his own in a fight. He was not strong, nor blessed with speed. But he did look to be absolutely pitiable, and that was one of his greatest strengths.
A finecky creature would have dodged, flinched, or backed away. Wesley merely bowed, and the alpha’s hasty attack glanced off his side. Without pause, Wesley spun around and bit the wolf’s neck, pinning him to the ground. The wolf struggled, kicking at Wesley's head with his hind legs, but the more he twisted, the more the coywolf's teeth dug into his neck.
Wesley tasted blood, and hardened his grip.
The alpha whimpered slightly, and turned his belly up.
The surrounding wolves echoed words of surprise and fear.
Wesley let go and backed away.
He eyed the others. “If you want to help your leader instead of standing there like a couple of dumbstruck deer, feel free. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been outnumbered.”
The alpha wolf growled from the ground. “Why are you letting me live?”
“Because killing isn't in me,” he said. “Not anymore.”
He glanced at the prairie dog, who now stood behind him.
The alpha got up and turned towards Wesley, careful not to look him in the eyes. It gave him a surge of pleasure to see such a bulking creature, who could kill Wesley with little to no effort, give any submission. He knew it had to be a knife in this wolf's pride, and the others in his pack would never look at him the same way again.
Maybe one of them would get sick of his bullying. Maybe they'd always felt they could lead the pack better. And if a halfbreed coywolf could beat him in a fight, well, why not a true wolf?
“Leave these creatures alone,” Wesley said. “There are greener lands for you elsewhere. Survival in these parts is hard enough without such voracious predators.”
One of the other wolves said, “We've been banished from our homeland.”
Wesley shrugged. “Find another, then. Go North. Maybe you'll be better off.”
The alpha lunged at Wesley again, but this time it was desperate and full of force. He had underestimated the coywolf -he would not make the same mistake twice.
Just as he would make to rip the soft tissue out from Wesley's belly, a rock sailed through the air and hit him in the eye. He yipped and dodged away, only to be hit by another. Wesley turned to find an entire crowd of prairie dogs, come up through tunnels he hadn't seen before, all of them wearing tiny parcels filled with rocks. The wolves backed away, and the alpha kept trying to bark words of anger, but they were cut off. Finally, he turned tail and ran, and the others followed. He watched them disappear go for a long ways before they disappeared over a hill.
Wesley sighed and turned around.
Two dozen prairie dogs stood, rapt, behind him. The one he had failed to kill was at the forefront.
“Did you enjoy the show?” Wesley asked.
He heard commotion in the distance and looked to see one of the prairie dogs leading the raccoon up out of their den. He saw the crowd and once again revealed his knife.
“I told you to stay away!” he shouted. As he stomped forward, the dogs formed a barricade in front of Wesley. The raccoon stopped.
“What is this?” he asked of the dogs. They all looked up at Wesley, who was himself rather surprised at the proceedings.
“I suppose,” he said, his voice trailing off, “I saved them.”
The raccoon blinked. “What?”
“Well, actually, they saved me. But I protected one of them. Sort of.”
“What are you playing at?” the raccoon asked, his knife lowered slightly.
“I just want someplace warm to sleep, and perhaps a bite to eat.”
“I don't trust your kind,” he said. “Whatever game this is, I refuse to play. Thank you for your assistance, such as it was, but I refuse to let something like you into my den.”
The raccoon turned to walk away, but the dogs did not follow.
“Something?” Wesley asked. “I realize that hard living hasn't made you fond of predatory instinct, but I do still have a conscience. I don't kill and eat every breathing creature that crosses my path.”
He turned back to Wesley. “I don't know what spell you've cast on my companions, but it isn't going to work on me!” he shouted. “Dogs of the round peg, to me. Now!”
Still they did not budge, and the raccoon began trembling.
“He'd sooner devour all of you, don't you see?”
Wesley shook his head. “I can speak for myself, thank you very much-”
“Hush, I'm not done talking! He'd devour you and me, and piss on all that we've made for the use it has to him-”
“What? That's disgusting!”
“-and then go on and do the same wherever he ends up next.”
Wesley scoffed. “I do all of my pissing outside, thank you. Not every wolf is a murderous monstrosity out to cull the heard. Most are just trying to stay alive.”
The raccoon paused. “So... you're a wolf then?”
“Not exactly.”
The raccoon spoke, distracted somewhat from his tirade, “I'd actually been somewhat confused on the matter. I thought you a coyote at first, but now I can't tell.”
Wesley said, “Then perhaps I'll leave and spare you the inconsiderate conundrum.”
He turned to leave, but the prairie dog he'd saved ran out in front of him, waving his arms.
“I'm sorry,” Wesley said, “but if he doesn't want me here, then I might as well leave. If it's a debt you think you owe me, consider this stand payment.”
He pushed past the dog and continued out into the prairie. The raccoon watched him, conflicted as he looked back to the peg, and to the dogs, and to Wesley.
“Wait!” he shouted.
Wesley stopped.
“Yes?” he asked.
“If you, if you... gods, I'm going to regret this,” he muttered. “If you really need a place to stay, then I suppose I can spare a chamber. If the dogs trust you then, fine, I guess that should be enough.”
The coywolf turned around.
“No thank you,” he said, and continued on his way.
The raccoon looked baffled, and picked up his pace behind Wesley.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “You can never be too careful in this part of the world. How was I to know your quality from a distance? I've seen dozens like you pass by with only a thought for their own stomachs. You can't blame me, it's just, it's the world we live in!”
Wesley nodded. “I understand, and I don't blame you. But this is what I've been walking away from all my life. I've no interest in bearing any more passive aggressive torment.”
“Wait,” the raccoon said. “Wait, wait. You're a coywolf, aren't you?”
He stopped, but did not look back.
“Yes, that's it. I'd heard of your kind before, but never thought to see. I'd love to-” he paused, coughed. Wesley looked around, arcing a brow, and the raccoon continued, much slower. “I'd love to carve you.”
After a pause, “That would hurt.”
The raccoon blinked, then followed Wesley's gaze to the knife in his hand. He dropped it. “Oh, no, not like that! It's a wood carving knife. I use it to threaten vermin and such, but it's not a weapon, it's a tool. What I mean to say is that I'd like to carve your likeness. You have a peculiar quality about you-”
“Thanks.”
The raccoon stopped.
“When I say peculiar,” he said, measuring his words, “I don't mean bad. I mean, simply... different. Complicated. Worthy of note. You stand out, you, you, you have something about you that draws the eye. It'd be a challenge to capture that in wood.”
Wesley turned around. “You're a strange creature.”
“As are you,” the raccoon replied. “You ask me, I think it was meant to be.”
The coywolf blinked, staring at the raccoon, unsure. There came an annoying bite, and he spun around to the tick. Wesley bit at it, but only succeeded in rending his own skin.
“Gods! Blasted bloody worthless bag of-”
The raccoon made his way to Wesley's side and, without invitation, yanked the tick from his side. He gave out a yip in pain and turned back to the raccoon to yell at him. But he held out the tick in his hand, its back distended such that its tiny legs were stuck up in the air, wriggling for purchase.
“You,” he said to the tick. He glanced up at the raccoon. With a roll of his eyes, he nudged the insect onto the dirt with his nose. It fell with a plop, struggling on the ground for a moment before finding its legs and waddling out into the prairie.
The two watched it go, silent.
“Thank you,” Wesley said. He wanted to say more, but nothing came.
The raccoon faced him. “My name is Everest,” he said. “I'd like you to stay with us for a while.”
“I don't know,” Wesley said. “That eye creeps me out.”
Everest slumped. “I'm working on it,” he said in a long suffering voice.
Wesley laughed. “Ah, there, we aren't so different after all.”
They made their way to the round peg, Everest picking up his knife and rounding up the dogs, and they walked down the hill. Wesley felt strangely at home in this company, and more than welcomed the possibility of a decent meal.
They disappeared into the depths of the den at the round peg, and the scarred wolf watched from the distance, plotting his revenge.

The Question

THE QUESTION.


Chapter 1.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”
The old man held his arms crossed, pacing back and forth. His eyes moved between the floor and the canvas flap that led to the entrance of the cave. Turning his wrist to check the time, he saw his wedding ring and started to fiddle with it. He pulled a toothpick from his breast pocket and started to chew it. He looked to the kid in the suit.
“Yes, this is the right place,” he said.
“If this isn’t the right place-”
The kid turned on him and said, “I’ve put six million dollars of government funding into finding this bloody hole, you think I don’t know the consequences of being wrong? Setting off twenty tons of explosives three miles below sea level isn’t exactly something they take lightly at Homeland Security.”
“That isn’t what concerns me, and you know it.”
The kid looked away. Even the best predictions ended with a sizeable earthquake. The worst predictions?
Yeah. He knew.
A man in a hard hat pushed out from behind the canvas flap and said, “We’re almost ready, they just need the order.”
The kid looked at the old man. “This is it,” he said, following the worker down the tunnel.


As the two suited men marched through the hot, humid chamber, the worker spoke up hesitantly, “What is this thing about, anyway? It’s got to be big, right? I know I’m not supposed to ask questions, but I’d like to be able to tell my wife that I haven’t just been out sleeping around for the last seven months.”
“You signed away your right to know the details the minute you accepted this job. That’s why the federal government is paying you so much.” As they reached the end of the hall, the kid opened a door for the old man and turned to the worker. “If your wife really needs an explanation, buy her a Ferrari.”


They stepped into a control room filled with machines and flashing lights, men and women in headsets behind monitors in makeshift desks. The kid walked up to the center desk, where a woman in thick glasses sat reading a lab report. When he stood in her light, she looked up. She straightened when she recognized him.
“Sir,” she said.
“I hear we’re almost home.”
She looked up at a flat screen on one wall that showed a timer ticking down. It had only minutes yet to go. “I certainly hope so.”
The old man asked, “What kind of reaction are we expecting here?”
They both looked up at him, and the kid rubbed the bridge of his nose and walked away. She pointed him to a map on her desk.
“We’re seventy meters below the surface now,” she said, pointing to a small spot. She dragged her finger downward. “The explosion chamber is about forty-eight hundred meters down. As long as everything goes as planned, we’re just going to feel a little shake and maybe a dull thud, and then we’ll have results.”
The radio cracked, and she picked it up.
“Do we have the all clear?” the voice spoke. She looked to the kid, who nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “All clear for detonation.”
The old man walked to the kid and said, “I sure as fuck hope you’re right, Mikel.”
“I am.”
“Yeah,” he said, “because overconfidence never came back to bite anyone in the ass.”
Mikel turned on the old man. “Excuse me, Harold, but I’m not the one who blew my only chance at success on a hunch. Unlike you, I’ve actually spent time independently verifying my sources. If I am overly confident, it’s because I’ve spent years of my life making sure that this is the right location. So I would appreciate it if you would please stop with the attitude. I do in fact give a damn about the collateral.”
Harry turned away. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Mikel was about to say something, but then the ground fell out from under them, and they landed on their knees. A few moments later, a dense thud sounded through the room. Mikel stood up.
“Why wasn’t there a countdown?” he shouted.
They all looked up at the screen with the timer, showing nineteen more minutes still.
“What the hell…” Harry said as he stood up, shaking on his feet.
“Get them on the line, Amanda,” Mikel stated. “I need to know what the fuck just happened.”
She turned on the radio and started calling out codes, switching between channels, getting nothing in response.
“What could make them go off half an hour early?” Harry asked.
“I have no fucking clue, but it better be a good goddamn reason.”
Harry smiled. “You sure do curse a lot when you’re mad.”
Mikel turned on him, vicious. “Is this a fucking joke? I hope you realize just how tremendous a clusterfuck this could turn out to be if-”
“I’ve got someone!” Amanda shouted.
Without hesitation, Mikel jumped to the radio. “This is Mikel Aransky, what the hell is going on down there?”
A winded, raspy voice shouted out, “Something went wrong! The explosives went off early.”
“Yeah, I had gathered that much. Why did they go off early?”
There was a long pause. He could hear shouting in the background. “A lot of people are dead. Half the crew, at least.”
“Son of a bitch,” Harry said.
“Okay,” said Mikel. “We’ll get you help as soon as we can, just tell me why there was such an early detonation.”
Another pause. “It was… something.” He said this like he couldn’t quite find a word for it. “A big… thing, like a- a monster.”
Mikel looked at Harry, wide-eyed. He took off the headset and put his hand over the mic, turning towards Amanda. “Is this thing recording?”
“Yeah, we keep logs of everything-”
Mikel put the headset back on. “What’s your name?”
“Uh, Jim.” He sounded terrified.
“Alright Jim, listen to me. I need you to tell me everything you saw down to the smallest detail that you can remember, alright? This is very important.”
Jim said, “O- Okay.”
“What did you see?”
“Everything was fine, we had the uh- the dynamite and thermite all in place, magnesium charges, all the works. We were checking everything once over, making sure all the angles were good. At twenty minutes til, we were set to evacuate the zone of impact. About half the crew was already on its way out, we were in charge of the geological checkups, and I’d already had some of my men do overtime to make sure it was good. As we got in the tram car there was this… this noise, like some kind of scream. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything like it. I looked back, and there it was, this giant… thing. Two or three heads taller than me, maybe, it was hard to tell. It came up out of a hole in the ground and it… it disappeared. I thought maybe it was just some kind of prank or, god, I don’t even know, but I didn’t say anything. But about five minutes later, it detonated, and the tram derailed. There was-”
“Okay Jim,” Mikel said, “is that where you are now?”
“Yes.”
“Just wait where you are. I can hear other people, do your best to help them alright? We’ll be down there just as soon as we can.”
“It’s so hot…”
“I know Jim. Try to keep it together.”
Mikel set down the headset. He rubbed his chin and his eyes, and fell back into a chair.
“What is it?” Harry asked.
“Amanda,” Mikel said, “do you have access to the ventilation systems from here?”
She said, “Yeah I do, but why-”
“Cut off the air supply, reverse the output, do whatever you have to, just get the oxygen out of there.”
“Excuse me?” Amanda asked.
Harry said, “Hold on, you’re nowhere near authorized to make that kind of decision-”
“I am, Harold, and it’s the decision I’m making.”
“But why? We can evacuate-”
“Evacuate? They’re three miles down, Harold. Should I call an ambulance? It’ll be days before we can get sufficient numbers of rescue officials down there. Do you know the kind of heat generated by an explosion of that magnitude? With the shielding open on all the tramways, all crews within a mile of the explosion chamber are going to die of burns anyway. What I’m doing is an act of mercy.”
“Or you want to drown the fire so you can get down there sooner.”
Mikel made no response. He just stared at Amanda.
“If you don’t do it, I will,” Mikel said. Finally, she started at it.
“There,” she said. “It’s done.”
The other techs looked at them with a mixture of disgust and fear.
“Now what?” Harry asked.
Mikel said, “We investigate.”

Chapter 2.

“Tell me a few things about yourself, mister Rondayle.”
“Sir?” The reporter with the messy blond hair looked up from his pen and paper. “Um,” he said, shuffling about, “My name is Arthur, I graduated from Colorado State a few years ago-”
“Not the talking points, kid. I want real information. Call it an exchange.”
Arthur looked away. “I’ve been writing for most of my life, I have, uh…”
“What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?”
He laughed. “I used to be the guy who collected grocery carts at Wal-Mart. I can’t tell you how many times I was nearly run over in that place.”
“And what got you from there to here?”
Arthur said, “Luck, I guess. Luck and a lot of patience.”
The general smiled. “That’s about what it always is, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I assume you want to hear about Project Windowsill.”
Arthur blinked. “Uh, yes. That’d be about right.”
“Well, ask away.”
He composed himself, consulting his notepad. “Where did the name “Windowsill” come from?”
“It was a highly classified operation, the kind of thing that sets off alarms with watchdog groups and the like. Movies give you this idea that the government is a shadowy, world conquering organization, but you’d be surprised at the level of incompetence. Nothing stays a secret for long. So we gave it a name that was so utterly uninteresting, only an idiot would think to look at it further.”
The general looked at Arthur over his glasses, as though he was implying something.
“And what exactly did you seek to accomplish with Project Windowsill?”
The general glanced away. “You may have heard the name Mikel Aransky tossed around once or twice in your research.”
“Yes.”
“Windowsill was his baby. He did the research, made the proposal, spearheaded all of the active engagements.”
“And what was Windowsill’s intended goal?”
“I’m afraid that is still classified.”
Arthur stared at him. “You’re going to tell me about Mikel Aransky, but you’re not going to say a word about why I’m actually here?”
“I want you to remember, son, that you’re here by my grace. We gave you this opportunity, you’ve got the list of untouchable subjects.”
“Sir, if I may be so bold, we are in a time of international tragedy. Don’t you think it’s time for a little transparency?”
The general watched him, tipping his head up. “Are you implying that Project Windowsill has some kind of correlation with the current state of affairs in South America and Europe?”
“You’re forgetting America.”
“I might be able to tell you a few things about Windowsill, Arthur. But that is one thing I can’t talk about.”
“No, I understand,” Arthur said. “Who would want to publicize what can only be called an underground civil war? It would be ridiculous to consider that one of the largest, most powerful organizations on the planet had anything to do with one of the most overwhelming insurrections in our history. Everyone knows about it, general, they’re just afraid to say anything.”
“It’s not a matter of what people know. They’ve known about aliens in this country since the sixties, that doesn’t make it true.”
Arthur watched him as the general lit up a cigarette.
“I was hoping you’d put up a fight,” said the general. “You haven’t disappointed so far.”
“Sir?”
“Politics and journalism in this country have been bullshit for decades. It’s nice to see someone who’s willing to roast the accountable ones.”
Arthur blinked. “Are you saying… that you are accountable?”
The general glanced at him.
“Project Windowsill was an excavation.”
“Wait, wait,” Arthur said, flipping through his notepad. “It says here that you employed more than twenty tons of explosives. Isn’t that a bit excessive for an excavation?”
The general smiled.



Chapter 3.

“What is that smell?”
Harry and Mikel sat in the back of a heavy duty rover vehicle, driving down the tram shaft that led to the explosion chamber. They were all wearing gas masks and climate controlled suits.
Mikel said, “Probably sulfur. Melted rock and steel. Maybe some cooked human flesh.”
Harry grimaced.
It had been six hours since they reflooded the chamber with oxygen, and they were almost to their destination. Every surface in the tunnel was blasted and morphed from the force of the explosion. It was pitch dark except for the headlights, and still unbearably hot.
The driver pulled to a stop.
“What is it?” Mikel shouted. “Are we there?”
“No,” the driver said, turning around, “but I can’t go further.”
“Why the hell..”
Mikel trailed off as he peered over the hood to see their obstruction.
Hundreds of bodies lined the ground, in some places piled two or three deep. Many of them were horribly burned and disfigured. They had all been trying to crawl away from the explosion chamber.
“Oh god,” Harry said.
Mikel pursed his lips and turned to the driver. “You can… drive over them, right?”
“It’s not a matter of can, sir. I won’t.”
Mikel sighed. “Then I’ll drive.”
The man in the front moved into the passenger’s seat and Mikel climbed behind the wheel. He pressed on the gas, and they moved forward over the bodies. Harry stared at the floor as the vehicle bobbed and jostled, and he squirmed at the chorus of cracking bones and soft, wet noises.
“Ohhhh,” Harry said, holding his stomach. “I swear to god Mikel, if we don’t die down here you are going to owe me so much beer.”
“Just try not to throw up in your suit, please,” Mikel said.
As the hill of bodies grew higher, the smell became worse and worse. And then, almost suddenly, they were on solid ground again, and the ceiling opened up. There were still bodies littered about, but these were blackened husks, barely identifiable as human.
They pulled to a stop and got out of the vehicle. As Harry looked around, trying to see something in the blackness, Mikel went to the back and found a heavy grey case. He opened it and removed a large gun that he rested on his shoulder. He flipped a few switches, aimed it up, and pulled the trigger.
A large cylinder shot out of the barrel forty feet into the air, then ignited like a rocket and shot up and up until it pinned itself in roof of the chasm. Mikel set the gun down and looked at his watch. The cylinder exploded, leaving in its place a giant white-orange globe that illuminated the entire chamber. Harry goggled at it, shielding his eyes with his hand, the toothpick nearly falling out of his mouth.
“What is that, magnesium? Phosphorous? Whatever it is, it can’t last too long, right?”
Mikel said, “About nine hours. It’s a chemical bulb, essentially.”
“Huh,” Harry said. “Neat.”
The driver shouted at them from the rim of the crater in front of them, and the two agents ran to him.
Before Mikel could ask what it was, he saw.
The crater went down an impossible distance. In some places, smoke still rose from charred spots of mineral deposits.
And at the very center of the crater, a massive, rough-hewn silver structure jutted out of the stone. Its surface was entirely unharmed.
Harry shook his head.
“Is that it?”
Mikel smiled like a madman.
“That’s it.”


Chapter 4.

“We found a natural cave system that went down about a mile, and dug the rest of the way. Eventually we reached an area of material so dense that none of our tools could get through it. So, we resorted to explosives.”
Arthur held his hands together, looking over his notes.
“And it never crossed your mind that you might do irreparable damage to whatever it was you were trying to excavate?”
The general took a long drag. “If you knew what it was, you’d understand.”
“So what was it?”
The general shrugged, and Arthur resisted the urge to scream.
“Alright then, sir. What can you tell me about Mikel Aransky?”
“You haven’t done the research yourself?” he asked.
Arthur shook his head. “I have, but that’s impartial. I want a biased point of view. I want your opinion.”
“Hm. Well, I’d say he was stuck up and a bit of an asshole,” said the general. “But he knew his stuff. And even with some initial setbacks, he was right on the money with Windowsill.”
“And did he-”
“You’re asking an awful lot about Mikel,” he said, “and yet you haven’t once brought up his assistant.”
Arthur flipped back through some pages. “That’d be… Harold Greman?”
The general nodded.
“What about him?” Arthur asked.
“Well, it was his research that allowed Mikel to get his start.”
Arthur blinked. “What?” He went frantically through his notes. “Why haven’t I heard about this?”
“Because Harry’s initial failure is one of the biggest mistakes the United States Government has made in recent history.”
Arthur looked up from his notepad and stared. “On what kind of scale?” he asked. “Of a piece with Vietnam?”
“There was something called the “Dotcom Boom” in the mid nineties, where everyone thought the future of business was on the internet.”
“Which it was,” Arthur added.
“Not yet,” he said. “Well, a lot of the resources that made that boom possible were a result of the networking research that Harry was involved in. Much of it had to do with a hypothetical supermaterial that would revolutionize manufacture, communication, distribution, everything.”
“I don’t understand,” Arthur said. “What does that have to do with the, uh… the dotcom boom?”
“Nothing. He was just a bigshot, had his fingers in too many pies, and it all came crashing down around him. He was disbarred for a long while, but when Mikel started kicking up some of his research, he asked to have him reinstated as an assistant.”
“I still don’t get how Harry was such an embarrassment.”
“Four billion dollars down the toilet with no result but that a revolutionary material might exist? That’s the kind of advice you pay psychics for.”
Arthur nodded. “Okay. So let me guess, whatever Mikel spent all that time researching… it was this hypothetical supermaterial, right?”
The general said, “I can neither confirm or deny-”
“Yeah, right, okay.” Arthur shook his head. “What can you tell me?”
“I can tell you that this material, if it really did exist, did not originate on earth. On this much, both Harry and Mikel agreed. And I can also tell you that…” he paused. “No. Nevermind.”
“What?” Arthur asked. He leaned forward. “What?”
“I’ve already said far more than I should”
The general stood up, and Arthur followed.
“Wait, this was just getting interesting, you can’t just-”
The general grabbed the front of Arthur’s suit and pulled him close.
“I’d be very careful how you word this article, Arthur.”
He let go and stormed out of the room, and Arthur slumped his shoulders. As he started to gather his things, he stopped.
Something was sticking out of his breast pocket.
Arthur removed the small piece of paper, sure that it hadn’t been there before. He unfolded it and it read, simply:
Mikel Aransky
1493 Sommers Dr.
Be careful.


Chapter 5.

“Do you know what this means?”
Harry looked at Mikel from the back of the vehicle. “Yes, I’ve been envisioning this moment all my life.”
“We’ve found it!” he shouted. “This is just the beginning-”
“And at the cost of only a few hundred lives,” Harry said.
Mikel sighed. “Grow up, Harold. More people are killed in pointless tribal conflicts every day. At least these men died for something.”
Harry didn’t comment.
The bodies had been cleared from the path, and several dozen men were at work clearing the debris and making a path down into the crater. They were on their way back to the control station.
“How old do you think it is?” Harry asked.
Mikel looked at him. “Well, obviously millions of years. We’ve done the math before, it would have to have crashed into the earth at some point early in its development-”
“I know we did the math, Mikel,” said Harry, “but that was before we actually found it. I’ve spent a long time preparing for this day, and now that it’s here… good god, I feel so unprepared.”
“You’re old, Harry,” Mikel said, laughing, “you shouldn’t worry so much. What’s the worst that could-”
There was a click over a radio, and Harry picked up the handset in the back. “Yeah?”
“We’ve made it down to the material,” a voice responded.
“That’s great!” Harry said.
“There’s something you need to see.”
Harry paused. “We’re a long ways from the explosion chamber. What is it?”
“It’s a, uhm… Well sir, I think it’s a symbol.”
The blood drained from his face, and his mouth hung open.
“What?”
Mikel shouted back, “What is it, Harold?”
Harry shh’d him. “What do you mean, symbol?”
Mikel slammed on the brakes and turned full way around.
“Symbol?” he asked urgently.
The man on the other end of the radio said, “Someone just found another one. It’s… covered with them, sir.”
“Are you sure it’s a symbol?” Harry asked. “Are you absolutely certain that it isn’t some kind of scarring or burn or-”
“It’s a perfect circle with three lines cutting through it, almost like a target. I don’t think this kind of thing occurs naturally, sir.”
Harry said, “Take lots and lots of pictures. Hurry up and get that thing out of the crater, please. This is progressively becoming the most important operation in the world, we need it to go as smoothly as possible from here on out.”
He hung up the hand set, and immediately Mikel said, “What the fuck was that?”
“It’s alien,” Harry said.
“We knew that.”
“No. It’s… alien alien.” He looked up. “It’s branded.”
Mikel stared at him. And then he broke out into a smile. “Today couldn’t get any better! This is-”
“Mikel,” Harry said, his tone infinitely less excited.
“What?”
“I think we’re ignoring a very vital piece of information. The explosion still went off thirty minutes early, and… there was Jim.”
Mikel blinked and turned away.
“I don’t think the substance is the only thing down there,” Harry said.
“Son of a bitch.”

A Poem (that may or may not be garbage)

Here I am, sad and alone
Here I am, hopeless and miserable
Here I am, looking through old photos and crying at sunsets
Here I am, playing guitar and singing to make the pain go away
Here I am, writing stories to fill the holes in my life
And even though it hurts, even though I could do better
I will never apologize.

Here I am, smiling at the rain
Here I am, falling in love with everyone I see
Here I am, wearing a trench coat and drawing on walls
Here I am, laughing as loud as I can until I cry my fucking eyes out
Here I am, running circles around my problems
And even though I’m scared, even though I can’t look
I will never compromise.

Do you approve of the way I live my life?
Should I change my process and become as miserable as you?
I’m sick of this silly human dogma
So what if I’m opinionated? So what if I’m sad?
So what if I don’t want to waste my life working a shitty job
Or fucking a girlfriend I don’t love?
So what if I don’t do drugs or live on my cell phone
Or look at my feet as I walk?
I’ve already wasted too much of my life staring at the floor
From now on I’m looking straight ahead
And you can bet I’ll look you in the eyes when I see you
And I’ll smile like I’ve known you all my life
So what if it makes you feel uncomfortable?
This life is too short to judge every book just by its cover
Too short to believe what you know is truth
Too short ignore any sign of life
Too short to waste being anyone but who you are.

Here I am, to my friends and my family
Here I am, to the people I know and the people I don’t
Here I am, to every kid who put on a mask
Here I am, to God and Buddha and Elvis Presley
Here I am, a flawed, broken, depressive, fulfilled, jubilant individual
And even though it could be easier, it could never be better
And even though the sun’s shining now, it’ll rain tomorrow
And I’ll never stop smiling.

An Existentialist Work In Progress

I have the power to change the world.
You might be saying to yourself, “Oh, this guy’s off his rocker. He must be mad.” I can’t blame you for your incredulity, I would feel much the same were I thrust before this document and forced to suspend my disbelief for such a pretensious claim. But I can unequivocally state, both from personal experience and from outside evidence, that my words are the truth.
Somewhere in the blackness of space there rests a seed. It cannot be seen, nor touched, nor measured, but it exists all the same. It floats through the vast nothing, passing stars and moons and gas giants and black holes with narry a shift from its drift. As a thing, it has no consciousness, nor can it decide what to and not to do, and one day it thinks to itself, I will find. What a curious thought is this, with such interesting implications. Find what, or whom? And spoken with such certainty, without hesitation. Why should this be any thing’s first thought, let alone of a thing which cannot be found? Perhaps it is merely endemic of matter, be it a rock or a seed or a man, to want the very thing it can never have. Or perhaps it is merely that as a drifting bit of star stuff, it requires a goal to keep away the demons? Even a goal unattainable is a goal, and for a thing which is not tethered to mortality such as we, perhaps an endless quest is the only kind worth having?
There, did you see? For a moment, you were with that seed, drifting in space, thinking these thoughts and dreaming these dreams. All because I thought it, dreamed it, wrote it down for all to see. Do you believe me?
Perhaps you’re thinking to yourself that you were tricked by abstraction. Fair enough. I have been down that road myself. You see, I once had a horse, a mare, and she was the most beautiful creature. Brown fur, soft above her powerful muscles, mane like a wildfire. Eyes that did not look past you but at you, through you. She carried herself with a sly elegance, she had a stride that spoke of untold confidence. She smelled of wildflowers in the spring, of hay and storms on the horizon. I knew her as though she were like me, as though she were not an animal but a person, who whispered to me all my secrets, who knew me as I wished I could know myself. I’ve come to believe that all these features, all these aspects of her that I believed were facts, were merely projections of all the things I wanted to see in her. I found this out when one day, I gave her an apple as I always did, and she bit me –not by accident but with every intention of doing me harm.

It’s a strange thing, being observed. On the quantum level it’s fascinating. Possibility collapses into reality based on the placement of a lens. Where does that leave us?

Good Morning Magpie, Part 2: The Journey Home

Part 2: The Journey Home.

1.
Soft rainfall pelted the leaves. Far below, the mammals rushed for cover.
The grackle cleaned her wings, looking up intermittently at the horizon. Nothing.
She sighed and turned towards the pair of eggs nestled behind her. She felt something like sadness, but didn't quite know why.
There came a flapping of wings, and she turned.
He landed in the nest, and the grackle heaved a sigh of relief.
“Just what took you so long?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It's a long world out there, my love. Food doesn't always grow on trees, you know.”
He embraced her and the two settled next to each other.
“How are the eggs?” he asked.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Any day now, I think.”
“I can't wait to be a father,” he said, his voice tinged with excitement. “I want to teach them everything. I'm so...” he lifted her head and looked her in the eyes.
“I love you, Emma,” he said.

2.
“What are we to do about the famine?” asked a grackle.
The others rumbled with agreement.
The magpie held out a wing, and they went silent.
“We'll do just as we've done every year,” he said. “From what I've seen, the ration is tight but absolutely manageable.”
“But sir,” said a crow, “my children-”
“I'm a father as well, Keller.” He made sure to address everyone. “This winter is not spectacularly different from any other that we've faced,” he said. “There were fewer rains so there's less of all resources, but we'll push forward just as we've always done.”
“How can you be so confident in our success? We would not be the first flock to die of starvation.”
The magpie glanced about the curved branch they rested on. It was always their designated meeting place, as it provided angle enough for each bird to see the others without having to crane their necks. They perched in a high branch of an ageless oak, looking out over the entirety of the flock's resting place. Clouds dotted the sky, but there was no scent of rain. The cold of winter had yet to set in -once it did, they could no longer risk cavorting in such high places.
“I know some of you have been here all your lives. Even to some of the newer members, I am comparably fresh. But I would like to think that I've been here long enough that you would all have come to trust me. I was sent here to help, and a great deal of that duty lies in my predilection towards organization. There are sixty-four birds all told in our flock, and nearly two-dozen young. Weighing those numbers against our current reserves, it's perfectly reasonable to wager that we can pull through this winter. I'm not saying that it will be easy. Most of us will be hungry for the duration. But we will not starve, and that is what matters. Now then, surely there are other matters to attend to.”
The grackles and crows looked amongst each other nervously.
The magpie said, “What's gotten you all silent, now?”
Keller the crow spoke up. “Whilst you were gone yesterday, there was an... incident.”
“Of what variety?”
“One of our young spotted a falcon.”
The magpie huffed. “That's hardly an incident, Keller. Falcons often fly over these woods-”
“Not flying. Waiting.”
Silence fell on the council.
“Waiting?” asked the magpie.
A grackle said, “It was my son who saw it. He came to me with this, and I went to look for myself. I caught its glint in retreat.”
The magpie nodded. “One watchful falcon means little to the fate of our flock. Perhaps he was just resting.”
“Or perhaps he was looking for the oldest and weakest of us to feast on.”
The others murmured their agreement.
“Now, now,” said the magpie, “one predator is not reason enough to get so worked up. We have protection.”
“You say that we are protected,” said a grackle, “but we have yet to see proof.”
“Marley, has it occurred to you that perhaps I have had no reason to prove it? We are as safe as a turtle at the bottom of a lake, I assure you. If we stick to the plan, trust me, all will be well. Now then, are there any other urgent items?”
Silence.
“Right then,” said the magpie. “Meeting adjourned.”
As he ruffled his wings and took off, the magpie overheard Marley speaking to the others, “I don't know how he expects us to trust him when-”
The rest was cut off by the wind, and he was glad of it.

3.
Swan stared up at the stars, shivering. There were no materials for a fire, and she couldn't have started one anyway. She looked behind her at the trail in the sand that lead to where Crow now lay. He still hadn't woken up. She'd managed to stop his bleeding, but there hadn't been water in days, and she already felt dehydrated. Hard to imagine what Crow must have been feeling.
She was sore from wrestling with a cactus. Someone had told her once that they were like reservoirs, and that with enough motivation one could reach the water inside. However, as it turned out, her survival instincts were not suited for the desert. She'd only ended up stabbing herself half a dozen times before sulking away.
She couldn't help but to notice the silence of the desert. The distant howls of wind whipping the dunes were all she could hear besides the occasional call from a fleeing animal. It was a walking tomb, a world of extremes which sucked the life from her by degrees. If she could only fly, they might reach their goal before one or the other would die. But without Crow's support, she could no more carry his weight than she could find water.
In lieu of any solid thought on the future, Swan could think only of events in the past. The physicality of the darkness, how it had seemed to disobey any laws of perception. This very desert they were in was leagues away from the glens, and when they'd arrived, the dome had appeared as such. But the corpses and the wounded had dropped in a wide circle, as if pushed from out of the darkness. She couldn't understand its relation to the world, and that scared her.
How could it appear to be miles away one moment, then be upon them in the next?
How could their exiting the darkness leave them miles from it?
How could it have engulfed so much of the world, and yet on the inside it appeared to be no larger than a lake?
The questions themselves were hard to define. She feared the answers.
But perhaps the greatest question of all was how they had escaped unharmed.
Swan couldn't help but think of the few survivors that had come out of the darkness with them. Their pained moans and shrieks, their cries for help and for loved ones. There had been nothing she could do for them. She thought of the dog that had attacked them, and the look of its legs sprouting up through its spine. The stretching of the skin, the crumbling of the bone, the oozing of that horribly congealed liquid that she was afraid to call blood.
The reason for all this eluded her. For what purpose could this darkness exist? Where had it come from? Who forged it? By whose design were its methods determined, and what were they meant to accomplish? The Watchers had set it free, that was all she knew. What had they done to deserve the end of the world, especially one so creeping and brutal as to give all of animalkind exhaustive time to consider what was to come. Such cruelty and malice lay behind this darkness, that it would not engulf the earth in a single moment, but would move only as quickly as the density of the populations is absorbed.
She would wake up in the morning and drag Crow further across the desert, under the assumption that any direction would be the right one, and that somehow they would stumble upon the elusive home of the Watchers, and then somehow convince them that the world was worth saving.
Swan had never believed in this quest. She simply felt that any direction was better than no direction. She would rather die with hope than be killed hopelessly.
Personally, she was glad that Crow wasn't conscious enough to give his opinion on the ordeal.

4.
Darkness. Expansive, taking in the world, turning it to dust. It, and everything that lived on it. Entire civilizations collapsing into nothing by the stroke of-
“MURDER!”
The magpie startled awake and looked about his nest in confusion. Then it came again, a high, shrill shriek, “MURDER! THERE'S BEEN A MURDER!”
Emma stirred next to him, and looked in the direction of the screams.
“That's Lady Barnham, isn't it?” she asked.
The magpie ruffled his wings. “Watch our eggs.” As he made to take off, he felt something brush his side. He looked back to see Emma holding out her wing, regarding him with concern.
“Be careful.”
He nodded and flew away. He soared through the limbs of the trees, careful to avoid unsightly branches. No sense in two deaths the same night.
Lady Barnham was a widowed hummingbird who had grown bloated from laziness. She was an anomaly amongst their ranks. Mostly they were grackles and crows, but by all accounts theirs was a clan of misfits and outcasts, though complacency had bred some variety of elitism into their structure. Lady Barnham had been the most recent addition to their ranks before the magpie had shown.
When he reached her nest, there were already a handful of other birds from the council trying to calm her down, though they had waited for him before making any inquiries. She was positively ecstatic, jumping about, flapping her wings uselessly, screaming at the top of her lungs.
The magpie hoped this was a joke, because it certainly made him want to laugh.
“Calm down, hummingbird, tell us what's happened,” said the magpie. “Who's been murdered?”
Lady Barnham mumbled a few words before crying out again. She was trembling, and her eyes were wide with fear. She had definitely seen something. If only she could calm enough to say what.
Finally, she said between excited pants, “Margaret!”
Margaret was an elderly grackle who spent much of her time with Lady Barnham. The elderly always acted as more of a club.
“What of her?” the magpie asked.
“We were talking,” she spoke quickly. “About the winter, and about our husbands, and I'd made the remark that if the men didn't kill us, the winter would, and she said that that had been shrewd and rude, but also true, and I said-”
“What happened?” Crow said impatiently.
She ruffled her feathers. Never too scared to act superior.
“I was getting to that! Just as she was about to leave, from behind I saw two points of light come soaring out of the darkness, and for the briefest of moments there was a great figure illuminated, it was a bird of some variety but I cannot picture what, and then it was gone and so was Margaret. I heard her scream.”
The magpie stared at her. The weight of it bore heavily on all who had witnessed her retelling. It wasn't an outright fabrication, because Margaret was certainly gone. And looking, the magpie felt he could almost see blood on the edge of the old shrew's nest. But thinking the old woman crazy was a far more desirable outlook than the alternative.
He couldn't help but think of the lone falcon they had seen at the edge of their territory, and he had a hunch that he wasn't the only one. Gods, he thought, I'm going to catch hell for this.

5.
“Matters have grown significantly more serious, I agree, but-”
“Still you argue?” Marley shouted. “This is not just serious, this is an eminent threat! We lost one tonight, who's to say we won't lose two tomorrow? Margaret was an old woman, she had no chance of fighting back. This is obviously the work of a predator!”
“All I'm saying is that one happening does not constitute a trend-”
Keller said, “Trend? What of the children? Don't you fear for your eggs, magpie?”
Just like a crow to drag personal life into politics. “I'm not saying this isn't a matter of great magnitude,” he said, “just that we need to calm down and analyze it rationally. We can't leave this place so soon before winter. I'm sure if it were just me with a clutch you would all hastily vote for a migration, but as it stands there are too many expecting families here to afford such a maneuver. We've no place to go and no proof that this is anything more than a freak incident.”
“This is your fault!” a grackle shouted. “The Watchers destroy all that they touch!”
The magpie's fury rose with the consenting shouts of the others in the counsel.
“Silence!” he screamed, and the shouting ceased. He looked around at the others and said, “I was sent here to help. Whatever the motives of those who sent me, I am here to make sure that you lot don't fall out of the sky. And as for the Watchers, I've never said from whence I came. This is your invention, and I won't be insulted by your half-brained assumptions. I am no less frightened by this occurrence than any of the rest of you. The only quality which sets me apart is my ability to stay calm and hold my own, and that's why I'm here. You don't trust me? Fine. You don't like me? Even better. But I'd sooner bathe in the tar pits of the Great Worm-Sloth before I let you kill yourselves because of a single scare. We are here, in this place, rooted whether we like it or not. If you won't see me as a friend, as I've tried to be for as long as I've been here, then at least see me as a resource for your own survival. And try to remember that I do have some stock in the fate of this flock.”
After a moment of silence, a crow spoke in a subdued tone. “What do you plan to do?”
The magpie said, “I'm going to talk to this falcon and see what he has to say for himself.”

6.
The sun beat down on the desert, and Swan's vision began to cross. All she could think about was water. Cool, delicious, life giving water. Perhaps just over the next dune would be a tucked away oasis, where she could drink herself silly and resuscitate Crow. Then with the materials from the trees, she could make another harness.
She tried to swallow, and the bitter dryness of her throat tore away her thoughts of a hopeful future. Water was the only concrete thing in existence. Or rather, the lack thereof.
“You're going the wrong way,” a voice called out to her. Swan blinked and turned around. She saw no one.
“Wonderful,” she said as she continued on her path. “I'm tired, I'm thirsty, I'm starving, and now I'm hallucinating to boot.”
“If I am a hallucination, you have far greater worries than starvation.” The voice was old and sarcastic, and Swan sighed.
“Then where are you?” she asked, looking around. She blinked profusely. She could hardly think, could hardly see anything beyond the yellow and the blue above.
“You don't look well at all,” the voice said.
She stumbled backward as her vision blurred. Her thoughts turned to mush, and she fainted.

7.
When Swan awoke, she lay next to a fire. She looked frantically for Crow, then found him laid out closer to the fire. Still breathing. She gave a sigh of relief.
Sitting directly across from her was a raven, who stared at her with milky-white eyes. Next to him lay a small brown sack.
She watched him for a time before trying to stand.
“You shouldn't move around too very much. Your body still aches from the schizophrenia of the desert.”
He sounded concerned, but also amused.
“Who are you?” Swan asked.
“I should think by now there's been some mention of me in your travels.”
Reservedly, “Yes.”
“So you can make some judgment as to what will likely follow.”
She nodded.
He made no indication of acknowledgment.
Soon she asked, “Do you have any food?”
“Nothing that you can taste, I fear. But you shouldn't worry about that. There will be abundant food in the very near future.”
“What about water, then?” she asked, impatient.
The raven turned his head towards the sky. He blinked twice, then looked at her. Not just in her direction, but at her, through her, into her. The raven's blindness had not worked to hinder its ability to see. Somehow.
“How can you see?” she asked.
“With great difficulty.” He reached into his bag and returned with a light blue sphere in his beak. The fire's reflection danced on its surface. He set it on the ground and rolled it towards her.
“What is this?”
“Do you want water?”
She blinked. “Yes.”
“Then it's water.”
Shaking her head, Swan looked back at the orb. Only, it wasn't an orb any longer. It was a puddle of water, somehow resting on the surface of the sand instead of sinking into it. She drank from it greedily, then gazed back towards the raven. He almost appeared to be smiling.
“Now, return me the sphere.”
Looking back at the puddle, it had returned to its original form. She nudged it towards him.
“How is that possible?”
The raven laughed, as though it were a foolish question. He replaced the ball into his sack.
“It was lucky of me to find you here. You were soon to pass the next station of your journey, and for you to miss it here would have certainly meant death.” He surveyed their surroundings. “But this feels right. I think it could not have happened any other way.”
“Who are you?” Swan asked. “Or what are you, or-”
“I am a raven, as you can so plainly see,” he said, “who had the grave misfortune of losing his sight at a very young age. My name is Ichabod, but who I am beyond that is a matter lost to time. You ask how I can see, and I gave you the answer I would give anyone else. But considering your manner and our situation, I will go into some greater detail. You see moments. You see events moving forward from your own grounded perspective, as a fixed member of an audience. I am dislodged from that place. I see beyond the physicality of the universe, and peer into the workings of time itself. I see the lines that connect all living things, the paths they are destined to tread. You see where you are, and I see where you end.”
Swan felt uncomfortable. “And... where do I end, exactly?”
Again, the raven bore that sly look. He wasn't going to say.
“I'm here to help you on your way to the next station.” He looked again at the sky, then back to her. “Not much time, now. To be safe, you should go as soon as I depart.”
“Go where?”
“To Everest,” he said. “He will point you in the right direction.”
“And who-”
“All things with time, young lady. Just make sure that you head South from here. You will find your way.” After a moment, he regarded Crow and sighed. “He has had a sad little life. Strange that two so seemingly insignificant creatures would find one another, and that their meeting would throw the fate of the world into flux.”
“What? You mean you don't know how it's going to end? If it's going to end?”
The raven shrugged. “It's not a question of if, dove, it's a question of when.”
At that, she felt a shiver run down her spine.
“Now the hard part,” Ichabod said almost to himself. “I have a prophecy for you.” He dug into his bag and removed a small wooden charm on a piece of rope, not entirely dissimilar from the one they had seen on the wall at the old owl's home. He tossed it to Swan, and it landed it at her feet. She stared at the symbol, but couldn't discern its meaning.
“Keep that,” he said. “It will get you to where you need to go, eventually.”
The raven didn't speak after that, and Swan ventured, “And the prophecy?”
He sighed. “Your lives have come together since you met, and they will not part any time soon. Two lines circling around one another, continuing on and on...” his head followed a trail in the air as though he were seeing the lines that very moment. “Until an unsettling truth is revealed, and you part ways. One of you is a Watcher, and one of you will die before the darkness can be sent back.”
She blinked, and stared at him. “Is the unsettling truth that one of us is a Watcher, or something else entirely?”
Again that look, and he said, “That's the question, isn't it?”
“Why did you have to tell me this?”
“Because this was how it was always going to happen. I do not claim to understand the wisdom of such acts of fate, but if I had not come, if I had not told you of these things, certain vital aspects of the future would never have come to fruition.”
After a moment, she asked, “So, which one of us is going to die?”
He blinked once, but said nothing. Swan sighed.
“What am I to do with him?” she asked, nodding towards Crow.
He looked across the sky and around Swan, and then his vision settled on Crow. Without pause, the raven stood and walked towards the magpie. He towered over him, and not just because Crow lay prostrate on the ground.
Then the raven pecked his head.
“Hey!” the raven shouted. “Wake up!” He did it twice more.
Swan jumped up. “What are you doing? Stop that!”
Ichabod continued to peck at Crow's skull.
“You'll kill him!”
“HEY!” Crow shouted, and Swan fell silent. Ichabod backed away, the same sly gaze on his face. The magpie looked about their campsite and said, “And just what act of fortuitous nature brought us to the desert?”
Swan wrapped her wings around Crow and laughed. “I can't believe you're awake!”
“And I'd still be resting soundly if it hadn't been for-”
He gazed around the camp and blinked. Swan let go of her embrace and looked.
Ichabod was gone, his fire extinguished and no trace of it left on the sand. The wooden charm still lay at Swan's feet.
Crow turned his gaze to Swan. “You have leagues of explaining to do.”

8.
“And he just sauntered out of the desert, throwing out mystical proclamations and magical water like they grew on trees?”
Swan sighed. “He saved my life. And yours.”
“It's not the saving that worries me,” Crow said. “It's the why.”
“He more or less said why.”
“The devil's in the details, Swan. More or less isn't an absolute. He gave cryptic warnings and pointed us in a direction, that's hardly a why.”
Swan shrugged. “Well, I for one trust him.”
“Why? What possible reason could you have to place an iota of trust into a half-mad and wholly blind raven?”
“He's shown up at all the places we've been to, somehow or another. That, and he wasn't half as belligerent as you.”
“I've heard the odd bear can be very nice, that doesn't make me any more eager to meet one. Besides, I may be annoying but at least I'm honest. You know where you stand with me.”
“You didn't exactly meet him, did you?” Swan asked.
“Long enough to know how he treats the consciously over-encumbered.”
“However you feel about him, Crow, I've been dragging you across this desert aimlessly for days. At least the raven gave us a direction, and an assurance of safety.”
“He didn't say safety, he said food aplenty. Ravens are notorious for their double-talk, Swan. Who's to say the food won't be us?”
She huffed and turned away. “Any direction is better than no direction. I say we go South.”
“Do I get a say?” Crow asked.
“Are you going to agree with me?”
“Doubtful.”
“Then no.”
At that, Crow heaved a theatrical sigh and settled himself. “Not sure why I'm so tired,” he said. “By your account, I've been sleeping for quite some time.”
“Aren't you hungry?” Swan asked, turning back towards him. “Or thirsty? I didn't think to move any of the raven's water to you.”
Crow shrugged. “I don't feel any particular way, to be honest. By all rights, I should.” He paused and considered their surroundings. “What was the raven's prophecy?”
Swan hesitated, looking down at the raven's charm that now hung around her neck. “He said that one of us is going to die before the darkness is sent back.”
“Is sent back. That's certainly encouraging. Not sure how fond I am of the rest of it.”
“Crow, when we were in the darkness, something happened. I told you how the other animals were... dissolved from the inside out. Doesn't it seem strange to you that we escaped unharmed?”
Crow clicked his beak. “I assumed it was luck. Or fate laughing at us.”
Swan continued uneasily. “Before we got out, one of the tendrils... it tried to get into you. It should have killed you right then. But it shriveled up and pulled away. Like as soon as it got a taste of you, it didn't want anything to do with you.”
“Just my luck,” Crow said. “Suicidal and not even death itself will grant me release.”
“Would you stop?”
“What do you want me to say, dove? There are a hundred conclusions we could draw from what happened, none of them in particular easy to digest. Until circumstances call for a more explicit explanation -if it ever even comes to that- let's just chalk it up to luck. Easier on the mind and quicker to forget.”
After a few moments of silence, Swan said, “I don't think I'll ever be able to forget.”
Crow couldn't argue her point. He could only imagine what it had been like for her the last few days. He sighed.
“That was very nice work with Adam. I saw what you did before I passed out. I would never have thought such ferocity could live in a creature such as yourself.”
“It was an act of necessity. Nothing more.”
“If you say so,” Crow said. At that, he closed his eyes. Their conversation ended, he fell into sleep.

9.
He stood atop the branch where the child had seen the falcon. The sun was only just beginning to rise, and he peered out into the lightening forest with a mix of emotions. He hated feeling like he was losing control. Too much effort had gone into securing this position, and it seemed as though it were being pulled right from under his talons. The magpie didn't want to believe that a falcon had killed Margaret, but he had to admit that the evidence was convincing. No body could be found, and another bird had verified the blood on the edge of Lady Barnham's nest. What else could it be but a falcon? And it was true that it would be looking for the oldest and youngest, those least able to defend themselves. Not that even a fully grown crow could stand much of a chance against a hungry falcon, but the most obvious point of attack is always the eyes and a sensible bird would do its best to tear them from an attacker's skull, and a crow could be exceedingly capable with its claws and beak. And if it came down to it, he could rally the flock against one falcon, of that he was assured. With minimal risk, they could kill it or drive it off.
What worried him was the possibility that the falcon was not acting alone. The larger birds rarely traveled in flocks, as they required more food and that required a baseline of competition between them. Food was sparse even in the more bountiful places in the world. But there still existed a system of communication between them -between all animals, really, but the larger birds were notorious for the expedience of their communications.
Most animals respected the balance inherent in nature. All creatures were lords and slaves of a variety, for each was both the master of a kingdom of smaller, weaker animals, and the servant of a hierarchy of larger, hungrier creatures. Every animal, whatever size or disposition, held within its grasp an unshakable influence on the course of the world, for every animal had to kill to survive, and in that killing lay a choice. A crow may pull worms all morning long from a field of possibilities. Who was to say what design drove them to eat some but not others, whether some broke the grip and burrowed back into the earth or were devoured alive, or whether it was by design at all and only random chance? This was the state of things for all creatures, and it was a sobering reality. At any moment, despite all plans and aspirations otherwise, a predator might pick one animal over another and draw the line of its life to a sudden and succinct close.
The larger animals more often than not respected this, hence their tendency towards killing the weak, the wounded, and the elderly. But larger animals also tended towards smaller groups, sometimes living in almost total solitude. Inevitably, this drove some creatures into madness. It was not an effect relegated to the largest -even beetles and birds could go mad, for whatever reason. But among their kind and the world abroad, they were less likely to cause damage. A mad grackle, no matter how ravenous, could only kill one or two others before the flock descended and put it out of its misery. Even a lone crow would die of starvation or be killed by its intended prey sooner than it would manage a verifiable rampage.
Even the larger creatures, though they could inflict much more damage in their madness, worked on a deadline. Eventually, carelessness or circumstance would destroy them. Often among the larger creatures you had groups devoted to keeping the peace, and for this reason it was rare that a mad animal would go unchecked for very long.
But large birds, with their vast and expedient web of communication, had a certain advantage that other creatures rarely managed. Madness did not relegate itself to the incompetent, and every once in a while you got a bird whose wits were only made finer by insanity. Instead of killing mad birds, they would recruit them. A difficult task, but not unheard of.
One mad falcon they could handle. But an entire flock?
It was an unlikely scenario, but its possibility troubled the magpie nevertheless.
The sun continued to rise, and the magpie blinked.

10.
When he opened his eyes, a huddled figure sat perched on a branch directly across from him. At least three times his size, with ruffled feathers and a slouch, the falcon looked at the magpie with burning red eyes. The magpie's stomach went cold. He hadn't heard its approach.
He watched the falcon as it caught heaving breaths, waited for it to attack. It made no move towards him.
“Hello?” the magpie ventured.
It didn't speak.
“Are you lost?”
“Not lost,” it said in a dark, low tone, almost as a growl.
He looked back towards the nests of the flock, and was relieved to find that everyone was still either asleep or preoccupied with the drama of Lady Barnham's exclamations.
The magpie rustled his feathers. “If you're not lost, then you must know that you're trespassing on protected ground. I can help you find somewhere else to feed if necessary, but you can't stay here.”
The falcon looked around, obviously seeing the nests and the rustling figures, then looked straight at the magpie.
And then he started to laugh.
“There's nothing funny about this,” the magpie asserted, afraid of losing any ground. “One of ours was murdered last night, and if it was you -I am in contact with people more than capable of putting you down.”
“You're going to burn, magpie,” the falcon said. He leaned forward. “You and all the rest.”
The falcon looked at him with those terrible red eyes, and the magpie felt like a hatchling out of the nest too soon.
“You know the authority I report to,” the magpie said. “If you kill me, they'll know. If you just leave, I won't give them enough to find you. Just leave us alone.”
“That would be so nice, wouldn't it? A mad falcon, bargained into retreat by a lone magpie. If only I could,” he said bitterly, “if only I were allowed.” He straightened up, and his tone grew jovial. “But why dwell on the impossible? You can see it, can't you?” he said confidingly, “It's more than just madness. Infinitely worse. But what is it, you wonder? What could possibly do something like this?”
“That's not what I'm thinking,” the magpie said.
“No?”
He shook his head. “I'm wondering what must have happened to you to break your mind so thoroughly. What you must have lost. You're not alone, falcon. I've lost a great deal in my time.”
“Oh, silly bird, you've hardly lost a thing yet. Besides, you have bigger problems than me to worry about.”
The magpie dropped any pretension of wanting to help. “Don't you dare threaten my family. I can have my superiors notified within the hour, and you'll be dead by sunset.”
“That's if you can fly faster than me.”
A twinge of fear crept into the magpie's mind. Now he was fighting against himself as well as the falcon.
“I'm asking you, begging you... please just leave us in peace. We've done nothing to you.”
“No,” the falcon said. “You haven't.” He stared past the magpie with a misty-eyed look. “That's the beauty of it. Destruction without provocation. Absolute chaos.”
He looked back at the magpie suddenly, and the force behind those eyes had amplified tenfold. “Make your plans. Assemble your defenses. I look forward to eating your young.”
The falcon turned to take off, then peered back over his shoulder. “Oh, and magpie? I don't fly alone.”
With that, he took off, disappearing in the tangle of trees and branches.
The magpie stared at the spot for some time, trying to decipher what he'd just been told. He wanted to believe that the falcon was just mad, and that his proclamations of destruction were merely ravings. He wanted to assume it was gone for good, and that it had been working alone.
But he had been telling the truth. Whatever it was that drove the falcon, it had been far more than madness. Insanity did not turn your eyes red.
The magpie did his best to shake off the sense of horror that lingered, then turned to go tell the others what had happened.

11.
The council looked amongst themselves, but this time there were more. It had been declared an open meeting, as events were deemed too serious to keep a secret. Their discussion would regard the fate of the entire flock -anyone who wanted to contribute could.
The magpie said, “As much as I'd like to say otherwise, I have no choice but to conclude that he will return, in greater numbers and with every intention to kill.”
“What do we do?” a grackle asked hysterically.
“We need to prepare. If it were just one, I'd say we fight. But a flock of them? We'd be slaughtered. I say we hide.”
Marley shouted, “Hide where?! Any day now, the leaves will fall and we won't even have the trees as cover!”
“On the ground,” he said. “Find an area dense with trees and pack ourselves there as best we can. A falcon's advantage is the air, if we take that away-”
“What about the eggs?” Marley said. “How do you propose we protect them?”
“We try to carry them,” the magpie said, flinching. There was an uproar from the crowd. He shouted, “What else can we do? Abandon them? This is a dire situation, and that requires dire action. Now, as soon as I can I am going to report to the ones who sent me and get us protection, and-”
Marley said, “You're leaving?”
The entire council was silent. The magpie sighed. “Yes. I'm performing my duty. If we expect help, I have to bring it here.”
“Who's to say you won't abandon us altogether?”
The magpie blinked, and looked at the grackles and crows. Emma wasn't among them.
“Why don't you trust me?” the magpie said. “What have I done to deserve this ire? I've born young, haven't I? I've worked as hard as I can to keep us safe. I care about you. All of you. I don't want anything bad to happen here. Why would I think otherwise? Do you assume that just because I wasn't born among you that I'm not one of you? I came to this flock under the assumption that it was amalgam of wandering souls. You came to us seeking help, because you wanted to be recognized. And that's my station here, everyone, to recognize you. To help you. I'm not going to abandon out of fear, not when my own children, my own beloved is at risk. I'll only be gone for six hours, and then I'll return with an army at my back. Trust me.”
Before they could say another word, the magpie took off. He flew as hard as he could towards his nest, and landed next to Emma. He could hear the council chattering behind him, and didn't want to hear what they had to say. He had a job to do, and he'd given them the best advice he could.
“Emma,” he said. “I have to go. Six hours, you understand?”
She looked at him with doubtful eyes.
“I promise. I love you too much to leave you behind.”
Emma smiled. “Do what you must.”
He nodded and rubbed her neck. “Take care of them,” he said, nodding towards the eggs. At that, the magpie spread his wings and took to the sky. Soon he was far above the forest, and turned his bearing West. The faintest glint of the ocean loomed on the horizon. He didn't like how things were going. Something felt wrong.
The magpie steeled himself against such thoughts. Everything would turn out alright. It had to.

12.
They looked out across the desert, and Crow sighed.
“South. Not South-West, not South-South-East, just South. The raven may as well have said to stick your tongue out and follow the breeze.”
Swan said, “There is no breeze out here, Crow.” She stumbled forward.
Catching up to her, he said, “I have an unsettling truth for you, Swan! That raven was out of his mind!”
“He gave us a direction-”
“Oh, yeah, I know, a direction. Now instead of wandering aimlessly in the desert towards certain doom, we're wandering aimlessly in the desert towards certain doom in a southerly direction! Brilliant!”
“It's better than nothing.”
Crow shook his head. “Swan, I hope never to define the degrees by which you measure better and worse. South or East, we're still dried up husks buried in the sand.
They reached a dune and started working their way up it. Crow marched with heaving breaths.
“I appreciate your humoring my handicap,” he said.
As she reached the top of the dune, she said, “Humor, nothing. I just don't want to hear you whine about it.”
Crow crested the hill and caught his breath. “Well, who am I to look a gift horse in the mou-”
He stopped in mid sentence, staring out at what lay before them.
Swan started to laugh.
Crow said, “You have got to be kidding me.”
She patted his back. “Look at that, little magpie! Perhaps that raven wasn't so crazy after all.”
The dune led down to dirt covered in sparse, brown grass. From there, the desert abruptly transformed into hilly land that, far ahead, flattened out into the plains. Swan made her way down eagerly.
Crow exclaimed, “Wonderful. Now instead of dying in a desert, we'll be dying in... whatever the hell this place is.”
“They're the plains!” Swan shouted.
“Aren't plains supposed to be flat?”
She didn't answer him, and Crow didn't argue the point. A change in topography was good no matter how he looked at it. The grass, however dried it looked, meant that it had to rain here at least every once in a while.
When he reached the bottom of the dune, Crow said, “Right. What now?”
Swan looked at him, then at the hills. “We keep moving.”
Crow gave a beleaguered sigh. “If I had known traveling by foot would require this much walking, I may never have broken my wings in the first place.”

13.
“This is far and away the most pointless exercise in futility I think I have ever engaged in,” Crow said. “You say, 'Oh, look! The desert's receded and we've reached the plains!' As though that makes food or water any more likely.”
They had been walking for three hours, and the hills had very nearly reached their end.
“If it's such an inconvenience, why not go back?” Swan asked.
“And die in that wasteland? I'd rather die somewhere my corpse might be found, thank you.”
Swan gave an exasperated sigh. Extending her wings, she took to the sky. Crow called after her.
“Swan! Where are you going?”
“If I hear one more ill-begotten soliloquy, I think I might go mad.”
She landed on the apex of a hill, then disappeared behind it.
Crow shrugged. “No feathers off my back,” he said. “At least this way I'll have some peace and-”
Swan screamed, and Crow stopped. “Swan?” he called.
No response.
“Swan?!”
Silence. Crow bolted towards the hill, cursing his lack of flight. At least with the harness he could pretend to fly.
When he reached the top of the hill, he expected to see her dead, dying, or gone altogether. Instead, she stood ruffled but unharmed at the feet of a coyote. Or at least, Crow thought it was a coyote. It was thin, but not unhealthily so, and certainly sun-beaten. Its orange fur had flecks of sand in it, as though it had been in the desert recently. Although, this close to the wasteland, Crow figured everything had at least a little sand in it. Still, Crow couldn't quite place the creature's species. He didn't try to get a better look.
The coyote said, “Ah, and a magpie, don't you look delicious.”
“Excuse me?” Crow said.
“Deleterious. You look like a plague.”
Crow blinked, then looked at Swan. She looked up at him with equal amounts of fear and confusion. She shrugged.
The coyote looked between the two of them. “Well, you're a rude couple of birds. Not even introducing yourselves? In return, I'll grant you exactly the same honor.” He turned his back and began to trot away.
With this, Crow noticed something tremendously strange about his right hind leg. He rushed to Swan's side.
She said, “I'm fi-”
“What's wrong with his leg, do you suppose?”
Swan rolled her eyes at his lack of concern. “I don't know, is it wounded?”
“No, look at it,” Crow said. “It's... it's wrong, isn't it? Something about it.”
The dove looked at the animal to humor Crow, and turned back to say something snide, then did a double take.
“By the Gods, you're right!”
Crow hurried to catch up with him. “Hello! Excuse me? What's wrong with your leg?”
The coyote stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. “Which leg?” He shook the left one. “Have I got a tick?”
Crow said, “No, the other one!”
He looked over his other shoulder, and regarded his right leg. He curled up to sniff it, biting at its edges, then looked back at Crow. “It feels fine. Are you sure you just aren't stupid?”
They both huffed at that, and continued to walk along behind him as he stalked away.
“But it looks different!” Crow said. “It's not like your other legs!”
“Well, of course not. I could have told you that.”
Swan shouted, “Could you slow down?”
He said, “I haven't got the time to slow down. To slow is to stop, and to stop is to die.” He said this without enthusiasm, as though rehearsing an oath he never took much stock in.
“But your leg!” Crow persisted. “It looks like a... a wood carving!”
Again the wolf -wolf was it, surely that- stopped, and he looked back with a sly grin. “Who's to say it isn't?”
He continued walking, and Crow and Swan watched him in confused silence. They picked up the pace to catch up with him.
“But that's impossible!” Swan said.
“Says who?” said the wolf.
“Well-” Swan stammered, “says... says the fact that wood carvings aren't legs!”
He shrugged. “Maybe they never tried hard enough?”
Crow said, “Are you trying to imply that wood carvings are lazy?”
“That would be ridiculous,” the fox stated matter-of-factly.
Crow shook his head. “Yes, it would! It would be utterly, absolutely ridiculous! And it's also exactly what you just said!”
“Who, me? I never said anything of the kind.”
Crow gave an exasperated sigh. They were both winded now from trying to keep up with what for the wolf wasn't even a jog. They reached another hill, and he disappeared briefly over its edge. When the birds crested the hill, the rump of the fox -fox, surely, now that he'd seen him long enough- was sticking out of a hole in the ground, and soon disappeared into it. They stared, stupefied.
Nothing happened for several seconds, and Crow said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I really hope he's not Everest.”
The fox stuck his head out of the hole and said, “I'm sorry, am I rushing you? We do have a schedule to keep.”
Swan said, “We?”
The fox rolled his eyes. “Yes, we, schedule. As in, the three of us. It's a long walk to the round peg, and you look like you're about to fall over from starvation.”
Swan took a step forward, but Crow stopped him. “You don't exactly look well nourished yourself. We don't know nearly enough about you to just follow you into a hole.”
He blinked. “Why would I kill you in my own den? That's disgusting.”
As he disappeared back into the hole, Crow stared, mouth agape.
“This cannot be happening to us,” Crow said.
Swan shrugged. “You can't argue with his logic.” She pushed past him and made her way down the hill.
Crow followed, saying, “Oh, I can argue with anything.”
They reached the entrance of the den, and Swan entered without hesitation. Crow lingered at its edge for a moment before turning around and regarding the prairie.
“Yes. Wonderful. Dead in a hole, killed by a crazy fox in the middle of nowhere. I honestly never saw it coming.”
He took a deep breath and plunged into the darkness.
The most colorful word that came to mind to describe the den was hole. Roots dangled from what Crow guessed he might call the roof, and it was clearly dug by clumsy paws. It had a musky scent to it, and Crow turned up his nose. Disgusting to kill and eat in, but not disgusting enough to piss in? Crow had no interest in testing this animal's threshold.
They continued for a while, the walls relatively tight, until suddenly it opened up into a larger chamber. It was dome, and it appeared to have been carved by a much more careful craftsman. The fox -was he a fox, really?- had already curled up along the left wall and looked at them with his head laying across his paws. He watched Crow curiously. Swan was staring to their right, and before he could ask what drew her attention, he saw it for himself.
There lay freshly killed meat of numerous sizes and varieties, bundles of corn and wheat and grain, worms and apples and troughs of water.
“Where did you get this food?” Crow asked.
The coyote shrugged. “How does a whale find its fill? It merely opens its mouth.”
Crow shook his head. “No no no, that kind of rhetoric is entirely inapplicable here. This isn't just a bit of meat, this is a selection. Some of which, may I point out, isn't exactly suitable feed for a creature of such lupine stature.”
“Lupine?” the coyote said. “I'm no wolf, turtledove. And I have a name.”
“Could we get it, then?” Swan asked.
“Normally I wouldn't share such details with creatures of your variety. But for a lady? I may yet make an exception.”
But instead of saying any more, he just continued to watch them.
Crow sighed. “This is an astounding selection. I take it you wouldn't have brought us here if you didn't want us to feast.”
The not-wolf made no effort to reply.
“I'd feel bad to share food with someone whose name I don't even know.”
He arced an eyebrow. “But you aren't a lady.”
Crow huffed. “I'm growing exponentially weary of your loquacious silence, fox.”
Before Crow could say another word, the fox was on all fours and had backed the magpie against the wall. He growled through bore teeth, “Call me a fox again, even in jest, and you'll be singing chorus with the worm-sloth.”
Crow stared with wide, slightly terrified eyes, “Yes. Well. Perhaps if you gave us a name, we could avoid such unpleasantries.”
He settled back to his wall. “Wesley. And I'm a coywolf, thank you very much. For all your world-weary wiles, you really haven't an eye for specificity.
The magpie looked back at Swan, then to Wesley. “And uh, what is a coywolf, exactly?”
Wesley spoke in the tone of someone who was fighting a losing battle. “Picture a bison. Now imagine what its offspring would look like if its mate were an elk. That is a coywolf.”
Crow said, “I've never heard of a coywolf.”
“And I've never heard of a magpie in the desert, but that obviously speaks nothing to the likelihood.”
“Can we get back to the immediate point?” Swan asked. “Where did you get all that food?”
“The dogs helped me gather it, of course,” Wesley said. “We were expecting more.”
Crow and Swan eyed each other. Crow gave an exasperated moan. “Not a pack, I don't think I can stand another power-mad group of miscreants.”
Amused, Wesley said, “Not that kind of dog.”
Swan said, “What do you mean you were expecting more?”
Wesley shrugged. “The raven told us to expect company. Everest assumed by the hundreds.”
Swan gave Crow a knowing look. He rolled his eyes.
“This raven, what did he say to you?”
“Wouldn't you like to know,” Wesley said. Crow made to respond, but the coywolf continued, “Now hurry up and eat, we haven't got all day.”
Crow said, “What if I don't trust-”
“Oh, just shut up and eat,” said Swan. She had already started.
Though he felt uncomfortable being watched while he ate -he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being overlooked with hungry eyes, though plenty of food lay before them, like this one preferred a fresh kill over the recently dead any day- Crow settled next to Swan and went at it.
Swan stepped away from the food and drank some of the water as Crow continued to eat. Swan turned to Wesley. “Aren't you going to eat? You look hungry.”
“That's supposed to be for the survivors,” he said with an uncharacteristic sobriety. Swan stared at him, surprised to see the emotion at work in Wesley's eyes.
Swan said, “I'm sorry, but we're the only ones.”
Wesley sighed, more out of acceptance than annoyance. “I know. But it doesn't feel like it's mine to eat.”
Crow said, with his mouth full, “So you'd rather waste than disrespect purpose? And here I thought your lot was all about self-sufficiency.”
“Whatever lot you speak of, it's not mine.” Wesley collected himself. “The desert's a big place, I'm certain there will be others. Besides that, there's food back at the round peg, and unlike you, I was built to go a long time without eating.”
Swan said, “And this round peg you're talking about, what is it?”
Wesley blinked. “It's a round peg. It's a peg, and it's round, and it sticks up like this.” He pointed his head straight up, then looked back at Swan. “I really can't think how else to describe it.”
Crow looked up from his food, flecks of it splattered on his face, and said, “Your verbosity does a very good job of hiding your simplicity.”
“Too bad your arrogance doesn't hide how small you are.”
Swan laughed, and Crow said, “Don't encourage him!”
Wesley stood up then, and looked them over. “Are you full?”
They eyed the wall of food. Swan nodded. Crow said, “I could stand to eat for another hour or so.”
Wesley said, “I'll take that as a yes.”
He led the way out of the den, and they followed.

14.
Wesley surveyed their surroundings, concerned. He turned to them. “I'll have you know that I am not a horse, and I have yet to offer any creature the ability to treat me as such.”
“What are you saying?” Swan asked.
“A storm's coming, and it'll be faster if you ride on my back.”
Crow started laughing.
“Or I can leave you behind. I'm sure you can fend for yourself out here.”
Crow said, “Fend? There's a whole cave full of food right there. Why would I need to-”
As he spoke, Wesley made his way to the entrance of the den and put his forelegs on top of the hole. He put his whole weight on it, and the ground collapsed, covering the entrance.
“You were saying?”
Crow stuttered and fell silent.
“I thought you wanted to save that for other animals?” Swan asked.
“I can dig it open again when I get back. Besides,” he eyed the Northern horizon, “nothing alive in that storm is going to stay that way for long.”
Crow said, “Well, you're certainly uplifting.”
“Like you're one to talk,” Swan said, flying up and landing on Wesley's back.
Wesley eyed Crow. “What are you waiting for?”
Crow looked at Swan and saw the smile in her eyes. He sighed.
“My wings are broken.”
Wesley blinked. “What?”
“My wings. They're broken, I can't fly.”
The coywolf stared at him for a few moments, then started to laugh. “I knew it! As soon as you opened your mouth, all I could think was you were compensating, and here I thought it was-”
“Can we please just dispense with the analysis? It's something of a sore subject on my part, if you don't mind.”
Wesley shrugged, suppressing his laughter. He kneeled. “Come, oh prince of nothing, your furry chariot awaits.” He set his head on the ground before Crow. Without any care at all, Crow made his way up the bridge of Wesley's nose, letting his claws dig into his ear on the way up. Just as he reached the back, Wesley stood up and shook himself. Out of instinct, they gripped onto his back as hard as they could to keep from falling. Wesley whimpered and tried to shrink away from their claws.
“Ahh! Claws, claws, claws!” he said quickly.
“Stop moving!” Swan shouted. Wesley stopped. He stared warily towards the horizon.
“I'm starting to think this was an awful idea,” Wesley said.
“That's what you get for thinking,” Crow said.
Wesley took a breath. “Right, well, I'll try to resist the urge next time you're around. Now, I'll do my best to keep steady, you two please try not to scratch me. And remember, it's in my nature to want to reach back there and bite you, so if I accidentally corpsify you, it's not my fault.”
“Corpsify?” Swan said.
“Not your fault?” said Crow.
Wesley began to trot, jerking the birds into silence. He reached the top of a hill, stopped, and looked around. He nodded his head and arced his neck to look back. “Good luck!” he said.
Crow stared at him. “What do you mean-”
Before he could finish, Wesley charged down the hill at full speed, laughing like a madman. It was all they could do to keep hold of him.
As he ran, Swan shouted to Crow, “You know, it's funny that he never considered that we could fly!”
Wesley surely heard that, but showed no sign. Crow felt something lurch inside of him. Foreboding. He got the sense that this coywhatever was a great many things, and an actor was high on that list. Could he have possibly known that Crow's wings were already broken?
It would not have been the most surprising development of the evening.

15.
The hills disappeared behind them, and Wesley slowed down.
“We're almost there,” he panted.
Crow dug his claws into the coywolf's back. “Then keep going, we haven't got all day!”
Swan thwapped him. “Please excuse the magpie, he's exuberantly unappreciative of anything that remotely resembles compassion.”
“As someone who would rather die than move forward, I accept nothing less than the finest of services.”
“If I ate him,” Wesley asked, “and told Everest that he died on the way, would you back me up?”
Swan cocked her head and examined Crow. She gave a theatrical sigh. “Alas, despite his moribund nature, I like having him around.”
Wesley shrugged. “Pity, magpie sounds wonderful right now.”
“Excuse me?” Crow said. “You said I looked like a plague!”
“You do!” Wesley exclaimed. “A plague of deliciousness.”
Crow looked away. He whispered to Swan, “This creature has no grasp for the finer aspects of language. He's made up half his words already.”
“Crow,” Swan said, “he's made up two.”
“That's more than I've ever made up!”
She rolled her eyes. “If you say so.”
As they continued on their way, Crow watched the North. A storm was definitely approaching, but something about it didn't seem right. He pointed it out to Swan, but she made no comment, merely a noncommittal shrug. A lot of those going around these days.
As he looked out on the plains, Crow saw a few tiny heads poke up out of the ground. They were furry, with black noses and thin whiskers. They watched the trio from a safe distance, chittering to each other silently before ducking back into the ground.
By the time he had pointed them out to Swan, they were gone.
They approached a small, hand-made hill, where a small wooden door lay vertical with the sky. Before the birds could ask, it swung open, and a raccoon sauntered out on its hind legs, looking about in excitement.
“Is it true?” he exclaimed. “Have they come?”
He had an old, excited voice, and he looked to be continually excited by the world around him.
Wesley said, “We're here.”
The raccoon walked up to them -never once setting his front paws on the ground- and squinted at Wesley.
“Ahhh, but...” He adjusted a square piece of glass that appeared to be attached to the bridge of his nose. “Where are they?”
Wesley ducked his head, revealing the birds on his back.
The raccoon stared in silence.
“Is this a joke?” he asked.
Wesley sighed. “No, this is them. All of them.”
“But the raven said-”
“The raven said company, you're the one who made the assumption.”
The raccoon shook his head, then collected himself. “Well, you're both welcome here anyway. My word, a dove and a magpie... it's a wonder you made it this far at all!”
Swan flew down, and Crow did his best to glide before falling and landing on his head. He rolled over to see the raccoon staring at him with an arced eyebrow.
“Must I explain it to everyone? My wings-”
“Yes, I know,” the raccoon said. “Your wings are broken. It's not that, it's just... I expected you to be larger.”
Crow stood. “Well excuse me, but I'm actually rather large for a magpie!”
Wesley leaned over to Swan and whispered, “Compensating.”
“No matter,” the raccoon said. “I expect you'll want a look around?”
Crow and Swan looked at each other.
“There's not much to see out here,” the raccoon said, “the real joys are inside. Besides, the dogs tell me there's a storm coming. Wesley, will you be joining us?”
He eyed the Northern horizon. “I shouldn't, but that storm bothers me.” He shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“Wonderful!” the raccoon exclaimed. “Right then, everyone, in, in, in!”
Wesley pushed past the birds and walked through the door, going down a set of steps and disappearing. Crow and Swan merely stared.
“Well?” he asked. “What are you waiting for?”
Swan said, “Who exactly are you?”
The raccoon palmed his forehead. “Of course! I apologize. I get so worked up around new people, I forget formalities. My name is Everest.”
Swan said, “The raven spoke of you.”
Everest's eyes lit up. “Really? What did he say?”
Crow sighed loudly. “I cannot imagine how exciting this must be for you, Everest, but I don't really think now is the time for this.”
The raccoon blinked and looked away. Deflated, he said, “Right, yes. Of course.”
“My name is Swan,” the dove said.
Everest turned, smiling. “Is that your real name?”
She looked away. “Not exactly, but it's grown on me.”
“And you, magpie, I take it you've assumed a name as well?”
“Crow,” he said. Everest started to laugh. “What's so funny?”
He patted Crow's head. “You make a very fitting crow. Now, come along, there's much yet to see!”
Everest walked to the door and led the way. Again, Swan followed without pause, and Crow sighed. “This had better be the last hole I willingly go into today.”
As he plopped down, Swan said, “What about a grave?”
Crow shivered. “Please don't start with that.”
She laughed. “I thought you wanted to die?”
“Oh!” said Everest, “Crow, would you mind closing the door?”
The magpie stared at Everest. He glanced at the door, at his wings, at Everest, and back at the door. “Oh, yes, of course. I'll get right on that. Just let me-”
Everest pushed past him and slammed the door. “You really need to work on your attitude.”
As the raccoon led the way down the stairs, Crow said, “My attitude is perfectly fine!”
Whatever Swan was thinking, she kept it to herself.
The stairs spiraled downwards until they opened up to a large room stacked from floor to ceiling with all kinds of detritus. Scrolls, weapons, objects large and small that the birds couldn't begin to recognize.
As they passed them, Everest said, “The apes have always been the smartest of the animals. These are things I've collected from them over the years. Memorabilia, you might say. Relics from a forgotten age of wisdom.”
“Forgotten?” Crow said.
Everest waved his hands. “You know how most animals are. Once it's happened, it never existed at all. The objects of my fascination came from a brief time when memory persisted amongst the populace. I understand you were a witness to its downfall, Crow.”
“Says who?”
Everest turned to him with a broad smile. “Who do you think?”
The raven. Right. Of course.
As they followed him through the room and into another hallway, Swan said to Crow, “What does he mean, you were a witness?”
Crow shrugged. “I haven't the slightest clue.”
They couldn't help but marvel at the place. It hadn't been hastily thrown together overnight, this place had been here for years. Supports held up the ground above their heads, something which Crow guessed took almost constant maintenance. They reached a much larger room, large enough to fit hundreds of birds and they were greeted by a crowd of nearly two dozen small, furry animals.
“These are my assistants,” Everest said.
“Prairie dogs?” Swan said.
“I've never seen these before,” Crow said. “Gophers, sure, but not like this.”
Everest nodded happily, “There was an exodus of predators some time ago, and these creatures were nearly wiped out. As it happened, I was driven to this corner of the world by similar circumstances, and we struck up something of an accord.”
The walls in this room were covered with elaborate wood carvings of various animals, all them incredibly lifelike.
Swan said, “Did you make all these?”
Everest nodded with pride, “Indeed I did.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “Time and patience. Everything in here I built. The dogs help with the assembly, they maintain the tunnels and watch the territory.”
“You say 'accord',” said Crow, “but I don't see the mutuality of this arrangement.”
Everest glared. “Do you think I keep them as slaves? I am one raccoon amidst quite a large population of dogs, in the farthest reaches of nowhere at that. Alone, they follow their instincts, and it was their instincts that nearly wiped them out. I give them direction and structure so that they stay alive, and in return they help me with my projects. I never over work them, and I never make them do anything they don't want to.”
The prairie dogs started chittering, all of them nodding their heads.
Crow eyed them. “Don't they speak?”
“Not to you,” said Everest.
“These carvings,” Swan said, “why do you make them?”
At this, the raccoon paused to think. “It's these hands, I think. My kind has historically been contented with being the thieves of the natural world. We sneak in the night and we take the things that other creatures don't care enough about to hide. I suppose I wanted to leave a mark on the world, to contribute rather than take away. My own form of penance for the sins of my kind.”
From behind them there came an exaggerated yawn, and they turned to see Wesley laying on the ground, watching them.
“Oh, don't mind me,” he said.
Everest cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. He led the birds towards one of several passageways. The walls were lined with tiny holes, and it appeared the prairie dogs were taking a break from whatever it was they spent their time doing.
Everest said to them, “There's a storm coming.”
They nodded to him and started to file away into their holes.
“What's that all about?” Crow asked.
“Storms are when collapses are most likely. Not too long ago, I discovered a plant whose spores, when exposed to water, nearly quadruple in size. Mixing that with earth yielded some very interesting results, and the right mixture turned into something of a waterproof shield that doesn't start to erode until the spores can't take in any more water. Every time a storm rolls through, we slather a layer above this place and let it take its course.”
“That's amazing,” Swan said in awe. “How could you have possibly figured that out?”
Again he shrugged, saying, “We are capable of amazing things when we choose to apply ourselves.”
They continued moving forward, and Crow looked back on the room with the wood carvings. And there Wesley lay still, watching him. And he couldn't shake the feeling that it was a sad look.
“Are you coming, Wesley?” Everest asked.
The coywol replied, “I think I'll stay here for now, thanks. I don't like what happens next.”
Crow stopped. “What does he mean?”
Everest looked panicked, and glanced towards Wesley with frustration. “It's, uh, difficult to explain. Just follow me, and you'll understand.”
“I don't think I want to,” Crow said.
Wesley said, “Just go,”
Crow turned. “But you said-”
“I'm just a wandering mongrel,” he said, “what do I know?”
Swan said to Crow, “We've come too far now.”
“No we haven't! We could easily turn and leave.”
“Through the locked door?” Everest asked.
The birds stared at him, silent.
Crow looked between the two of them. “What are you going to do, kill us?” he shouted. “If that's the case then please, get it over with now so I won't suffer this horrible melodrama another second.”
“Calm down,” Everest said.
“But you just said you locked us out-”
“If you really want to leave, I'll let you out myself!” Everest shouted. “I'm not going to hurt you, Crow. Why would I want to? If you will just follow me, I will explain everything.”
Before Crow could protest, Swan said, “Where are we going to go, Crow? Outside in the storm? This is where we were led. This is where we were meant to be. If we left now, we wouldn't even know which direction to go in. All we have right now is their word that we won't come to harm. Isn't it easier to accept that than question it.”
Crow said with a defeated growl, “It's never easier to trust.”
He walked past her and pushed forward. Everest continued to lead, and they disappeared down the tunnel.
Wesley watched still, exhaling. He turned away and tried to close his eyes, but couldn't. He knew what was about to happen.

16.
The tunnel grew darker as they went along, and Crow noticed the temperature begin to drop. The next room wasn't dissimilar from the last one, except the carvings here were more specific. Instead of whole animals, these were extremities: arms, legs, tails, many of different shapes and sizes.
Swan gasped.
Crow said, “What?”
Everest said, “Perfection is animate. This is something I learned long ago, when I first began carving wood. The physical representation of something, rendered into a one-to-one likeness, takes on a manner all its own. This is something I do not understand, nor could I ever hope to explain, but it is a principle I use to my advantage nevertheless.”
“I don't understand,” said Crow.
“Those carvings in the foyer,” he said, “as perfect as they may have appeared to you, they were mere shadows. The physical likeness, carved out of solid material. The genuine artifact, however, is more than just what it looks like. There is a universe of organs and fluids which make the body what it is. I cannot replicate this to its most dire extreme, but I've found that doing so isn't entirely necessary. The extremities operate under simpler conditions.”
“I haven't the faintest idea of what you're getting at,” Crow said. “Are you saying that your carvings come alive?”
“I'm saying that if I make them perfect enough, they don't need to.”
“Crow,” Swan said. “Wesley's leg.”
And then it clicked.
“Wait,” said Crow. He looked back down the hallway, hoping to catch a glimpse of the coywolf. “Are you saying that... Did you make that leg?”
Everest nodded.
“But how?”
“Time and patience,” he replied.
“But that's impossible!” Crow said. “Limbs are flesh and blood and... and wood is just wood! One can't take the place of the other!”
“That is what logic would lead you to believe, yes,” said Everest, “but in case you couldn't tell, this is hardly a logical world we live in.”
Crow said, “This is certainly difference, Everest, but I don't see what it has to do...”
He stopped, and then looked up.
Hanging from the wall, given no more sense of importance than any of the other limbs, were a pair of carved wings. Each feather had been carved separately and assembled into a whole which, aside from its color, looked exactly like a real set of wings.
“They're...” Crow stared, mouth agape, a dull sense of excitement creeping into his gut.
Swan said, “How long did it take you to make these?”
“Eight months,” he said proudly.
They looked at the raccoon, struck into silence. “Is that when the raven visited you?” Crow asked.
He nodded.
“My wings weren't even broken two weeks ago,” Crow said. “How could he have known?”
Everest shrugged. “Now, the surgery-”
“NO!” Crow screamed. He looked around the room in a sudden panic. “She was still alive eight months ago! The eggs hadn't hatched, the worst times hadn't begun. This horrible end wasn't even a glare on the horizon. I made choices, I did what I had to do! It wasn't set in stone, it happened because I made it happen!”
The raccoon rubbed his forehead, “I know this isn't easy-”
“Easy?” Crow said, “What you're saying, it can only mean that everything we've done, everything we have set out to do, all of it is predetermined! If the raven knew of my calamity so long before it happened, who's to say that everything that's going to happen hasn't already happened? Did you know what I was going to say?”
“No-”
“Did the raven tell you how to deal with me?”
“Crow, he just-”
“Did he tell you how it ends?! Did he ever bother with that bit of information? No, of course he didn't. He was too busy setting up this grand, poetic denouement as the story comes to a close. If he knew that my wings were going to be broken eight months ago, why didn't he come to me, then, and tell me the mistakes that I would make, why didn't he warn me of everything that was going to happen? Or better yet, why didn't he go to the Watchers and stop them? He could have prevented this whole damned horror of an end! He could have stopped me from...”
At that point he started to heave, and Swan went to his side.
“Crow, are you-”
She touched him, and he whirled around. Tears were running down his face. “EMMA IS DEAD BECAUSE OF THAT RAVEN!” he screamed. He started to sob, and she pulled him into an embrace. He was shaking.
“I cannot accept this,” Crow stuttered. “I made the choices I did. The consequences were mine to bear. I am not a puppet, and the events of this world are not set in stone.”
“That's fine,” Everest said. “You believe whatever you must. Now, as for the surgery-”
“No,” Crow said.
“No?”
“I'm not taking those wings.”
“But-”
Crow said, “If I do, every time I fly it will be because my family is dead. I miss the air, but I refuse to return to it at the sake of their memory.”
Everest sighed, shaking his head. “Crow, the wings are already here. The past is done. If you don't take them-”
“I'll what? Is this another of the raven's prophecies? If I don't take the wings, will the world come to an end? I surely hope that isn't the case, because I am not feeling inclined to fulfill his prophecies just now.”
Everest adjusted the piece of glass on his nose. “I understand that this isn't easy, but there are much larger things at stake here-”
Swan shushed him. “Everest, can we continue this conversation another time?”
“But-”
“I think the best thing for everyone is to sit down and think for a while. We're stuck here until the storm ends, yes? Then there isn't a rush.”
Swan began to lead Crow away from the chamber, trying not to listen to his mumblings.
Everest stuttered behind them, and Swan looked back. He stopped, biting his lip, and nodded. He stayed behind.

17.
Wesley nodded as they returned to the foyer.
“I figured as much.”
Swan said, “Could we please not do this right now?”
The coywolf cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. He lay his head back on his paws.
Swan set Crow down against a wall.
“Crow,” she said, “what happened to her? What happened to Emma?”
He looked up at her. Then he laughed.
“What's so funny?”
“Nothing at all,” he said. “I simply find your concern amusing. I've obviously no choice but to take the wings, so what does it matter? Emma's passed, and I'm here.”
“You're making this much harder than it needs to be, Crow.”
“Am I?” he said bitterly. “What about you, Swan? Taking me in, dragging me across the desert, keeping me away from my death. Was that really a choice, do you suppose? How does that align with your morality, I wonder. You put up with me to get a sense of religious fulfillment, but if it's no longer a choice and simply what was always going to happen, what does it mean then? You're no longer working with the Gods, doing as they ask; you're their tool, doing as they command without ever once questioning the order. Ahhh, but you're Asthurian, as far as your tenants are concerned that may as well be the norm.”
“Do you think this is easy for me, Crow?”
“Exceedingly,” he said without pause.
She stared at him.
“Fine!” she shouted. “If you want to sit here and rot in your misery, go right ahead.”
As she stalked away, Crow called out to her, “Misery is all there is, Swan! Misery is the only thing that lasts!”
She left the room, but Crow didn't pay attention to where she went. He sat and stared at the floor, angry and spiteful that it could be an audience and not have to worry about participation.
“It isn't easy,” Wesley said.
“Excuse me?”
Crow turned towards the coywolf, wanting to be angry, but Wesley wore a look of earnestness that he couldn't stay mad at. He looked away.
“The limbs,” he said. “Everest has been making them for years. He doesn't know why he's made half of them. He'll see animals and say, oh, I want to carve that one. But once he left, and he returned with a wooden charm, and he locked himself in that room for days. When he came out, he showed it to me.”
“What?” Crow asked, trying to sound disinterested.
“My leg. The raven told him what would happen to me, and that if he didn't help, I would die.”
“And what did happen to you?”
Wesley sighed. “I was attacked. Most animals stay in the East, but sometimes you get creatures who were forced out of their homes. A lot of times this ends up being a punishment for their crimes. So they come here, or at least pass through here on their way to someplace else. One of them threatened one of the dogs, and I fought him. And killed him, but not before he'd managed to tear a considerable chunk out of my leg. It wasn't the wound that got me, though. It was the rot. No matter how much I licked it, it only got worse. I got sick. Eventually, I couldn't move at all. Everest didn't want to force me into doing something I didn't want to do. In fact, he hated what he had done. He felt just as you do now, a pawn in a game he couldn't understand. But I told him that I would rather live a slave to destiny than die afraid of living at all. So he went through with it. And the raven was right, it saved my life.”
Crow said, “Was it worth it?”
“It was the most painful thing I've ever had to do. If I went back, knowing what I do now, I would have made a very different decision. I hated myself for a long time after that, feeling like I'd somehow betrayed my honor. Given all that, I'd still say it was worth it.”
“But your honor...”
He shrugged. “My honor is what got me here in the first place. I didn't have to kill that wolf, not by any stretch of the imagination. But I've always wanted a pack, and the prairie dogs are the closest thing I'll ever have to that. When they were threatened, I had no choice. Or at least, it felt like I didn't. I had to defend them.” He took a breath. “We all have a place in this world. We like to think that we're each the master of our own destinies, but the truth is that the world is always controlling us. The way we're raised, the way the animals around us act, the state of the world itself, these things are what make us who we are. You can never truly be your own person, because you are always calling back to the things you know. But when you're confronted with that truth, you don't have a breakdown. It's just the way things are, and everyone knows it on one level or another. This feels wrong, because it seems like we have no influence over what's happening. But think about where you're going, Crow. Where you've been. You have survived longer than a lot of other animals. If Emma hadn't died, would you be here now? I'm not saying this is better, but you would certainly be dead if that had been the case. You and the dove, you're on your way to save the world. I was spared, I was given this leg, so that I could help you get there. Everest, he's stayed here so that he can give you new wings. None of us is happy that we're a part of this, but what we're doing is for the betterment of the world. If there really is someone out there, pulling the strings, do you think they would have brought you this far just to fail?”
“I've never had faith, Wesley,” Crow said. “If I am here by any accord, it must be to fail.”
“It's not about faith,” Wesley said. “It's not about what you believe and why. This is bigger than us, than our petty squabbles with the world around us. Despite whatever opinion you have about yourself, you are where you are. You stand where you do, a bird with broken wings, persisting through hardships that have already killed thousands, making your way to the heart of all these problems. You're not here by accident. You might think that, maybe if Emma hadn't died, you would have died happy, and someone else would have taken your place. But this is the way it was always going to happen. You were chosen, and this is the path you must tread. It isn't easy to accept, but what alternative do you have?”
After a few moments of silence, Crow said, “I admire your willingness to trust the design that drives us, but I cannot. I refuse.”
“Why?”
Crow looked at Wesley then, finally. “Because it scares me.”
“Fear is who we are, Crow. You can't be afraid forever. Sooner or later you have to stand and accept the responsibility you've been given.”
Crow sighed. “Wouldn't that be nice.”
They sat in silence, contemplating the carvings. Crow said, “I had better go talk to Swan. Apologize, and all that.”
“Best of luck,” Wesley said.
As he was walking out, Crow said, “Oh, Wesley. How did you end up here in the first place?”
“The only thing coyotes and wolves hate more than each other is a cross between the two. Everest was the only one who would accept me.”
Crow nodded. “Born wanting, incapable of acquiring the one thing that would make you happy.”
“Maybe we're not so different,” Wesley said.
At that, Crow nodded and left the room.

18.
Crow picked a corridor, and followed it. When he turned a corner, there stood Swan. He wasn't surprised.
“I'm sorry for what I said.”
Swan looked at him. “You should have thought of that before you said anything.”
Crow looked away. “When I was just a chick, all I wanted to do was save the world. My parents were not happy with their lot in life, and I never really met anyone who was. I wished I could just hold them and make it all better. Years have passed since then, and I've come to believe that my life is a mockery of my childhood. Every promise I ever made, I've broken.”
“What has this got to do with anything?” Swan asked.
“Eight months ago, I was with her. I had a place in the world. You couldn't tell from looking at me now, but I used to at least try to be happy. I had people who needed me, so I put on that mask and tried. I have so many regrets, Swan. So many things I should have done differently... so many mistakes. But those wings. Do you know what they say to me? That every mistake I've ever made, that every wrong choice and every regret, was all just part of the plan. My life wasn't my own, Swan. My suffering, my pain, my misery... everything that I am is just a game.”
Swan said, “And the only difference between today and yesterday is that you see the strings. Nothing has changed, Crow.”
“No,” he said. “Everything has changed. If the raven knew what was going to happen to me eight months ago, he knew what was going to happen to you. To the world. To us. He knew that we would end up here, today. Think of all the things that have happened to you in the last eight months. Wouldn't you have liked a little warning?”
She looked away, blinking back tears. “Of course I would have, but what difference does it make? Even if it was destined, I still made the choice to come here.”
“But if it was destined, then it wasn't a choice at all, was it?”
Swan opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't say anything.
“Was it?” Crow insisted.
Swan shuddered. “I'm sorry that I'm not as fatalistic as you, Crow. I'm sorry that I don't want to see my life as a series of tragedies strung together by the hands of a dispassionate god. I've always believed that everything happens for a reason, and I can only pray that the reason is good. But in the end, it isn't my place to question why I'm here.”
“Why not?” Crow urged. “Tell me, I want to know. Explain it to me step by step, Swan. What is it about accepting your place that makes it so much easier to go about-”
“It isn't easy!” she shouted. “Why won't you get that through your thick skull? Do you think you're the only person who's ever been afraid? I haven't known what to make of my life for weeks. I wake up in the morning and hope that I've seen the worst of it, knowing that I haven't. It would be so easy for me to just buckle over and let the pressure take me, to feel like it's all just a pointless cosmic game and that I don't matter. But you know what? I'm alive, I'm safe, and I have a direction. If there were any other options, maybe I would think about doing something else. But this is all there is. I know I'm just a puppet, Crow,” she said, “but I accept it because it's the only way. I accept it so that I don't become like you.”
Crow blinked. “And what's so bad about me?”
“The first time we met, you were begging me to let you die! I've spent the last two weeks trying to keep you from committing suicide! You're jaded, you're cynical, you're hateful and snide, you don't care about anyone or anything except yourself, which is probably one of the better ironies I've had the pleasure of witnessing, and you're fatalistic! Everything is doom with you, but look at us! Think about all the animals that gathered with Adam. Don't you think at least a few of them would have survived? We're the only ones, Crow. We are so lucky to have come this far, especially with your condition. Isn't that something to be thankful for?”
“But it's only brought us misery.”
“No!” Swan screamed, her voice trembling, “Don't you get it? YOU brought us misery! YOU did! We are given life, Crow, that's it. It's not good, or bad, or anything in between. It just is. WE make it what WE want it to be! And all you want, all you've ever wanted, is to feel miserable. Because it makes you feel important. Because it makes you feel like you're better than the rest of us. Well if you're so much better, why is Emma dead? Why are your wings broken? Why are you stuck in a hole in the ground at the end of the world with the rejects of society? If anyone is responsible for the pain you feel, it's you. Not destiny, not life, not the Gods, and not the raven. You.”
She glared at him, holding back sobs. Before he could say anything, she stormed away down another hall. Crow felt horrible anger rise up in him.
“FINE!” he screamed after her. “I hope you're happy for what happens next.”
He turned around, not noticing that Swan had stopped and looked back.
“What?” she called after him, but it was too late.
Crow ran back to the foyer to find Everest and Wesley having a conversation.
“Crow, what-” Everest began.
“I'm leaving,” Crow said.
“But the storm-”
“OPEN THE DOOR!”
Everest jumped back, his hands shaking. Without protest, he rushed back down the hall towards the door. Swan and Wesley followed behind, asking questions of him, but he didn't hear any of them. It was all he could do not to turn on them and start screaming more than he already had.
When they reached the stairwell, Everest stood ready by the door. As he approached, the raccoon pushed it open, and a torrent of wind and rain rushed in. Swan jumped in front of Crow, and he pecked at her neck, then kicked her out of the way. She looked up at him from the ground, and he stood between inside out and regarded the bird, the raccoon, and the coywolf with hateful eyes.
“I hope I never see any of you again.”
And then he disappeared into the dark of the storm.

19.
Thunder screamed overhead, lightning flashed near and far, the rain was blinding and the wind tossed him every which way. He passed the last few prairie dogs as they made their way inside. He saw what looked to be a carpet of orange material, and he remembered the substance Everest had described. He jammed his beak into it and started pulling pieces of it away. Crow wanted their shallow sense of safety to be destroyed, just as his had been all through his life. He felt the shadow of guilt at this, but didn't let that stop him.
Somehow, it only made him feel worse.
He ran against the wind, trying to find something, trying to reach somewhere in the dark. He didn't know what he was doing, he just had to get away. This all was too much. He couldn't help but to think about Emma. About the way things ended.
It was because of her that he had become the angry, jaded magpie he was. And what had it gotten him?
Everything was bouncing around in his head. The wings, the raven, Emma, Swan, Wesley, Everest. Destiny. The falcon with the blood-red eyes.
“What does it mean?” he shouted into the night. “What was the reason for any of this?”
He stumbled down a hill and fell into a pool of mud. He was shivering now, and the lightning was getting closer. Yet he still continued to march ahead.
“If I was brought here,” he said to the storm, “then I won't die tonight. As much as I want to, you won't let me! For whatever asinine reason, you need me. What do you expect from me?! All I ever do is let people down, what makes you think now will be any different? I can't do anything right! And that's the way you've made it! This is all just a bad joke, and I'm not laughing! It's cruel, gods damn it, it's cruel! Strike me down and let it end! Let me die in peace, let me end, please! Please! I can't live with this anymore!”
The storm continued to rage, and the heavens gave no answer to his pleas. Lightning did strike him, the earth did not consume him, nor did his heart give out. He continued to live, and every moment just made him angrier.
“Are you scared? Is this the best you can do? I'm just one bird, caught in the middle of a storm, and the easiest thing is the one thing you won't do! I'm not worth that! Just kill me! If you won't, I will!”
At that, he spread his wings, and immediately the wind picked him up. He felt the broken ends of his bones cracking against one another, and suppressed a scream of pain. Higher and higher he went, rain pelting him all the way. But still lightning wouldn't strike him. So he did the only thing he could think to do.
He waited until he knew he was high enough, and then he folded his wings.
The ground spiraled towards him, eager to introduce him to his death. And he was ready. He wanted it, he begged for it. Death was the only peace he could ever know.
And then he remembered what the raven told them.
One of you will have to die before the end.
And, suddenly, he was afraid.

20.
The magpie watched the ocean grow closer, having been in the air for several hours, but felt a sudden and horrible wrenching in his chest. He had been unreasonable to leave Emma alone. They could find someone to protect the eggs. More than anything, he wanted her to be safe.
Without giving it a second thought, he turned back around to bring her with him.

21.
“He'll die out there!” Swan shouted.
“That's what he wants, isn't it?” Wesley asked.
“No!” she said, “he wants to prove a point, but he's too stupid to see it! I have to go after him!”
Everest said, “But Swan, if you go out there then you'll die too! Then there won't be hope for anyone!”
“I can't do this without him! I have to go after him!”
Before Everest could complain again, Wesley stepped up to the door. “Open it, Everest.”
“But-”
“If she goes, she'll die. I can take the storm.”
Everest said, “It's not her I'm worried about.”
At that, Wesley could only reply, “Open the door.”
Everest looked at him, stern. “Be careful.”
Wesley nodded, then turned to Swan. “Stay here. I'll bring him back.”
“But-”
“Everest is right. One of you has to stay alive. I'll bring him back, one way or the other.”
Before she could say anything else, Wesley ran into the storm. He heard the door close behind him, and was immediately drenched to the bone. To his right, he saw a prairie dog cowering in a hole that had collapsed. The coywolf dug him out, and asked, “Did you see the magpie?”
The dog pointed before he disappeared back underground. Wesley followed the direction, hoping it was right. Thunder echoed around the sky, and in the distance he saw a tree fall to the ground, some of its limbs on fire. The heart of the storm was directly over them. Wesley ran as fast as he could, trying to sniff the bird out, but the scent was too small amidst the smells of rain and mud.
In his rush, he almost missed the huddle black and white mass that lay curled up on the ground. And the figure that flew away into the night.
When Wesley nudged the magpie over, a string was wrapped around his neck, and dangling from its end was a small wooden charm.
The raven.
As gently as he could, Wesley picked up Crow in his mouth, and started to run back towards the den. He felt relieved, because it seemed as through Crow was still alive, and finding him hadn't been very difficult at all.
To avoid further tempting fate, he ran up a hill that served as a roof to make faster time. But when he reached the top of it, he found that a great deal of it had been eroded by the rain. One of the support beams stuck out of the ground.
The absorbent material had had been pulled away.
Before he could turn back around, the ground beneath Wesley's paws collapsed, and he fell.

22.
They heard a terrible crash from behind them.
“Oh no,” Everest said, his eyes wide. “One of the rooms has collapsed!”
He ran down the passageway, Swan following close behind. They passed through several rooms before they reached the foyer.
Water flooded in, the animal carvings scattered and crushed on the ground. Wesley lay on the floor, staring at them, his mouth wide. Crow lay a few inches before his mouth in a pool of blood.
One of the support beams lay under Wesley, pushing up into his ribs. They stared for a long time, incapable of understanding what it was they saw.
And then it hit them.
Wesley was dead.
Everest rushed up to him, muttering shouts to his friend, running his hands along the coywolf's matted fur. He no longer took in any breath, and his eyes stared passed them without pause. His tongue hung out of one side of his mouth, blood and water dripping from its end.
Swan hurried to Crow's side, gaping in horror at the charm around his neck. And the state of his wings. If they had been broken before, they were decimated now. He was bloodied and bruised, but still breathing. Swan found some relief in this. She turned to Everest.
“We have to stop this place from flooding!”
Everest was crying, holding onto Wesley's paw.
Swan shouted, “Everest!”
He turned to her with a look of confusion.
She said, “He's gone! Think of the dogs, Everest! We have to stop this place from flooding!”
The raccoon looked between his friend and the dove, his hands shaking, his eyes scared and tormented. He turned away and nodded.
He grabbed Crow by the foot as they went into another of the halls, and turned a corner to where the prairie dogs were huddled together. Swan stepped in behind him.
“We have to close off the tunnels leading to the foyer!” Everest shouted. The dogs all jumped to attention. “There's been a collapse!”
The dogs all filed away, and Everest led Swan away from the foyer.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He said, “There's a shelter just for this, you and your friend are going to stay there until I tell you it's safe.”
“What if it doesn't get to be safe?”
“Then we'll all die,” he said, furiously.
They reached a room, and Swan stepped inside. Everest tossed Crow inside, and then slammed the door before Swan could argue.
She heard Everest shout commands from the hall, getting farther and farther away until she could only hear the sound of the rain overhead.
When she turned around, Crow was conscious.
He moaned. “I'm still alive...”
Without thinking, Swan shouted, “And Wesley's dead! All because of you!”
Crow looked at her, confused. “What? But he-”
“He went out to save you. There was a cave-in, and he died!”
“A cave-in?” he said. And then his eyes went wide. “No... no, no, no...”
“What is it?”
“I finally saw it,” he said, “I finally thought I could fix things... and I ruined it. I ruined everything.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at her with horrible guilt. “I caused the cave-in. It was my fault.”
She couldn't say anything to him. Didn't even want to, because she was afraid she might kill him herself. Swan took a breath, and sighed.
“I'm done,” she said.
Crow didn't have to ask what she meant. He blinked back a few tears before breaking down altogether. Everything had fallen apart.
Everything had fallen apart because of him.

23.
The next day, Everest, Swan, and Crow stood outside, above where the foyer had once been. Wesley's rump stuck out from a pit of mud and wooden beams. The dogs were working to dig him out.
Crow's wings and body were wrapped up. Wesley had tended to him after the tunnels had been caved.
The storm had cleared up, and the sky was hideously blue. It felt wrong that the world could look so beautiful after such a terrible night.
“I'm not surprised that it collapsed the way it did,” Everest said, trying to avoid what was on everyone's mind. “That was the worst storm I've ever seen out here.”
Swan asked, “What are you going to do?”
“I'll talk to the dogs. See if they want to stay or find somewhere else. Either way, we'll rebuild.”
She looked away, fighting back tears. “I meant about Wesley.”
“Oh,” Everest said. He left it at that for a long time before saying, “We'll bury him somewhere. Say goodbye. Move on with our lives.”
Swan said, “It's okay to feel bad, Everest. No one expects you to pick right back up. He's your friend.”
“My only friend, yes,” he said. Without pause, he said to Crow, “Would you like new wings?”
Crow gaped at him. “But... This was my fault.”
Everest stepped towards Crow, towering over him.
And he kneeled and put an arm on Crow's shoulder. “He went after you. He made the decision to go out in the storm. The cave-in wasn't your fault.”
Crow blinked, and eyed Swan. She looked away.
Everest stood again, wiping away tears. “We have to press on.”
“There's something you need to know,” Crow said.
“Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“No,” Crow said, “it can't. I did cause the cave-in, Everest. I dragged away that stuff you were talking about. It was all my fault.”
Everest turned back around, biting back tears. He stared at the magpie for a long time, before looking back at the corpse of his friend.
“I would appreciate your help in digging him up, but I understand if you would choose not to.”
Neither of the birds protested. The drug their beaks in the mud whilst the prairie dogs moved the dirt aside. Everest dug by the handful. They went on like this for hours until Wesley's body was almost fully uncovered. They pulled his stiff corpse out of the ground, horrified by how much his stomach had compressed. His body was cold, completely unmoving, but his eyes still held his character. That was the worst part, seeing the eyes and knowing that Wesley was gone, but being tricked into thinking he was still there nevertheless.
They tried to keep his wound out of sight. None of them cared to know how bad it had been, how long he had suffered. All that mattered was that he was dead.
Another group of dogs had already set about the task of digging a larger hole, and they drug Wesley across the prairie to his final resting place. No procession, no songs, no pomp and circumstance. The funeral of a coywolf, held by the only ones who could ever care.
The set him into the hole as gently as they could, and looked down at him finally.
These were the last moments any of them would ever see his face, except in memory. And that would fade with time as well. Death robs even the mind of loved ones.
Everest opened his mouth, turning to the rows of prairie dogs, and to the two birds whose coming had brought about the death of his friend, ready to make a speech. But he stopped short, and turned back around.
“I'll miss you, friend.”
He had held himself together all morning. He had even smiled. But as he shoveled the first handful of dirt onto the coywolf's body, he began to cry. The emotion poured out of him until he was sobbing. They all watched, and were afraid to help.
But Crow stepped up, and started pushing dirt into the grave. Then Swan. And then the dogs. They were all sobbing, all hurt, all hateful of what had become of their lives. All entirely too conscious that one day there had been, but now there was not.
The finality of death drew them together. And one day, it would tear them all apart.

24.
They watched the moon rise, all of them standing together. All except Crow, who stood far from Everest. Scared and guilty. Swan hadn't said a word to him since the night before.
Everest said, “Someday, this too shall pass. The earth and the seas, the sky and the stars. Our lives, and all those who come after us. We are alive, and we must ask ourselves what purpose we have of death. I feel that the purpose is to know. If we know that we are bound to end, we are more able to appreciate what life we do have. I will never forget Wesley, and I will never let his influence disappear from this world. I will not let his passing keep me from what I love, because that is what he would want. He should be here, now, to see this rising moon. But he isn't. And that should give us all pause. But let us remember that with or without him, the moon still rose. And we are still standing.”

25.
Swan had requested to sleep in a separate room, and Everest had obliged. Crow sat alone with his emotions, and couldn't stand to let himself stay still, lest he break down again. So he wandered around the den, occasionally glancing down at the charm around his neck.
He turned a corner, and found Everest sitting alone in a room. He turned his head when Crow entered the room.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Crow said, “I'll leave.”
“No,” Everest said, “stay.”
Crow glanced behind him nervously, but couldn't argue. He walked further into the room and made himself comfortable across from Everest.
“Do you want the wings, Crow?” Everest asked.
“How can you still ask me that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you what I did,” Crow said. “I told you it was my fault.”
Everest shook his head. “It doesn't matter, Crow.”
“Of course it matters!”
“And what would you like me to do, hm? Strangle you? Would that bring him back? Would that make me feel better? Would that make you feel better?”
“Well, no, but-”
“What is a grudge going to get me, magpie? I'm old. Older than I ought to be. Old enough to respect that there are forces at work much larger than the machinations of us simple mortals.”
“But you could stop it, don't you see? If you killed me, it would end!”
“No it wouldn't,” Everest said. “Swan would do what you must, just as you would if she were to die. And I couldn't bring myself to kill both of you. I don't think I could even do that to you, even if I were vengeful about it.”
“But why?”
“Because it's not what he would want, Crow! He died to save you! And what are you doing with his sacrifice? Asking me to kill you. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Crow couldn't bear to look him in the eye. “I'm sorry.”
Everest threw up his hands. “Oh, you're sorry! Well that fixes everything, doesn't it? I'm sorry too, Crow! The whole bloody world is sorry right now! What difference is this, I ask you. The world is ending right outside our door, thousands die every day, and here we screech to a halt at the behest of one? We all die eventually, Crow. There is no escaping it.”
“But it was my fault-”
“So you deserve punishment? Is that because you really deserve it, or because you want validation? I cannot hate you, Crow, no matter how much I would like to. All of this has been for you. If you really want to avenge my friend, if you really feel you are obligated to serve his memory, then you will take the wings, you will fly to the city of the Watchers, and you will plead for the case of every animal still alive. If you can't do that for your own reasons, then do it because he would have wanted you to.”
Crow held back more tears. He took a deep breath. “I'm scared, Everest. I'm so very, very scared. I've tried my whole life to hide it, and I don't think I can anymore. I know what I have to do, and I... I don't know if I can.”
Everest stood and walked towards Crow, and the magpie cowered, preparing to be attacked.
But Everest drew his arms around Crow and held him close.
“I know you're scared,” he said. “I don't know what the raven said to you, but it cannot have been easy to hear. But do you know what Wesley would have said about fear? It's who we are. No one is ever so brave as to never feel fear. We all have to rise above it. Whatever mistakes you've made, whatever it was you did that you feel is irreconcilable, you can pick up the pieces and carry on. You never, ever past the point of redemption.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Crow cried, “Why can't you hate me?”
“That would be the easy thing to do, Crow,” Everest said, “but it wouldn't be the right thing.”
Crow fell into tears in the raccoon's arms. The feeling of kinship hurt all the more. “Please forgive me,” he begged, “please. I'm so sorry, for everything I've done. I'm sorry I ever came here. Please forgive me.”
“Only you can do that,” Everest said. “But as far as I'm concerned, you are always welcome here.”
As Crow sobbed, Swan watched from the hallway. She disappeared back to her room without saying a word.

26.
Crow exhaled softly, trying to calm his nerves. He lay strapped to a small table in the same room as the constructed wings. His own wings were stretched out as far as they could on either side, a horribly uncomfortable position for numerous reasons.
“This is not going to be pleasant,” Everest said. “Wesley told me the best way to get through it is to focus on why you need them in the first place. I wish I had a way to numb the pain, but the storm ruined a lot of my supplies. Are you certain you want to do this, Crow?”
He stared at the tool whose end lay over a burning fire, and closed his eyes. “No. Do it.” He took in short, ragged breaths, scared out of his mind. He felt the nerves in his wings trembling. He didn't know what was worse; imagining how this was going to feel, or knowing that the reality would be infinitely more painful.
Swan watched from the door, unsure of her own feelings.
The tool was made of two pieces of metal which were hinged together at the middle. The two ends that lay above the fire had been crafted into blades, and built to close on a perfect edge. The metal was red hot, and Wesley, with several thick pieces of cloth in either hand, picked up the tool and walked towards Crow.
“Good luck,” he said.
Without a second of pause, he placed the blades of the tool right at the hinge of his wings, and and closed them with every ounce of force he could manage. The pressure snapped the bone and tendon, the blades caught several feathers on fire, but they also cauterized the wounds. The wing fell to the ground, limp, lifeless, and broken.
Crow screamed, and every thought in his head vanished completely. All there was was pain. It filled him through and through, and he struggled against the straps to try and escape. The trauma of it would surely be enough to kill him, of that he was certain. This was the most horrible way to die he could ever imagine. But he didn't die, and the longer he stayed alive the more his own thoughts started to come back.
And then he started to laugh.
In a delirium, he shouted, “If you want me dead, now's your time! But you can't! I'm alive, damn you! I'm ali-”
The blades clamped down on his other wing, and another wave flushed over him, this one hundreds of times worse. The hot, burning, devilish cut of those blades turned his insides to ice, and he just continued to scream. And scream. And scream.
And then, finally, something kicked in, and his vision crossed. And everything went black.

27.
“Is he dead?” Swan said in horror.
“No,” Everest said, setting the tool back on the table and dousing the flame. “The pain knocked him out, thank goodness. Now the tricky part.” He removed the wooden wings from the wall and set them in place on pedestals all around Crow. As he did this, he kicked Crow's original wings out the way, and at the sight of them, Swan nearly threw up. She couldn't bear to look at him this way, wings clipped off entirely, gaping red and white at their hinges, and burnt skin and feathers where the clippers had touched. The room reeked from the smell.
Trying to keep herself distracted, Swan said, “So, those new wings. They look fragile.” She stared off at the wall.
As Everest readied several other tools, he said, “The wood itself is quite fragile, but it's been dipped in a very potent substance which seems to harden it to near indestructibility. If he decides to go sky diving again, at least he won't have to worry about broken wings.”
Swan laughed at this unintentionally, and realized the raccoon was trying to make her feel better.
“If you need to leave,” he said, “you should. This is horrible even to my eyes, and I've done it before.”
“No,” said Swan. “He's brave enough to suffer through it. I have to be brave enough to watch.”
Everest nodded, and continued to work.

28.
Crow dreamed of horrible pains, things stretching and fighting. He dreamed of Wesley and of Emma, of guilt and fear, and the hope for redemption. He dreamed of Swan, and forgiveness.
Then he woke up.
He didn't know where he was for a time, only that his body ached. Pain reverberated throughout his body, making him sick to his stomach. Which, luckily, seemed to be empty.
When he tried to move, his whole body lit up in pain, and he had to struggle to hold back a scream. He didn't want to look to either side, afraid that he would find his limbs missing, and that the whole thing would turn out to be a horrible prank.
So he just stared as intently as he could straight ahead, until he heard footsteps. Swan walked into his vision.
“I've never been so happy to see you,” Crow said.
She laughed.
“How long have I been out?” he asked.
Swan said, “Three days.”
He blinked. “Oh no, did something go wrong? Please don't tell me I'm wingless right now.”
“No, it's fine, you're fine. Nothing went wrong. It was just... very painful.”
Crow shuddered, remembering the feeling. The look of those clippers, the smells and sounds of the surgery would probably haunt him for the rest of his life.
“How long until I can try them out?” he asked.
She looked away. Everest entered the room.
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Besides the horrible pain, yes, I'm quite fine.”
Everest said, “Another day and you should ready to move on your own. But it will be a decent chunk of time before you'll actually be able to fly.”
Crow nodded. “Would you mind leaving us, Everest?”
He smiled and left.
“What is it, Crow?” she asked.
He said, “I want to tell you what happened to Emma.”
“Crow, no, you don't-”
“Yes I do,” he said. “You deserve to hear it, and I need to get it out.
She eyed him with doubt, but said nothing. He took a breath, and told her the story from the beginning.

29.
The magpie drew closer to the forest. Relief washed over him when he heard the chit-chat of of his flock. The falcons hadn't attacked.
As he flew into the trees, a crow called out to him. He landed in the crow's nest.
“Have you brought help?” he asked.
The magpie sighed. “No. I don't feel right leaving Emma here by herself. I want to bring her with me.”
The crow blinked. “You know she's fine with us. We'll protect her, you just go and talk to the Watchers.”
The magpie was losing his patience. “Thank you, but it will make me feel better this way. I haven't lost much time. Now, if you'll excuse me.”
“Wait!” he shouted.
The magpie stopped, and looked at the crow.
“Maybe you shouldn't see her.”
He blinked. “Why?”
The crow opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. The magpie turned and took off once more. He flew through the branches and remaining leaves, determined to see her again, no matter what he was told.
He landed at the nest in a hurry, saying, “Emma, I-”
The magpie stopped, and stared. They were silent.
“What is this?” he asked tentatively.
Emma and Marley looked back at him, shocked. The magpie stared, looking between the two of them, not registering what he was seeing.
“Marley, what are you-”
And then he realized.
“Oh,” he said.
Marley stepped away from Emma. “This isn't what it looks like.”
“And what does it look like, Marley?” the magpie asked. “If you plan on explaining to me what this actually is, I think we should have a clear definition of what it looks like.”
Emma said, “Please...” but didn't finish. She just looked at Marley. No, not just looked at. There was fear there. Respect. There was something present in the way she looked at him that had never been there when she'd looked at the magpie.
Love?
“Marley,” the magpie whispered, “I think you should go.”
He looked to Emma for approval, and she nodded. That exchange filled him with anger.
“I'm sorry,” Marley said to him, then took off. Didn't wait to hear what the magpie had to say.
Good.
“What's going on?” the magpie asked.
“You weren't supposed to be back so soon,” Emma said.
“Is that an excuse?” he asked. “Is that supposed to explain to me what I just saw?”
Emma edged towards the eggs. “Don't start that, please.”
“'That'? What do you mean?”
“When you get angry,” she said.
He blinked. “But I've never been angry with you.”
“You've been angry with others. I've heard about your temper.”
“My temper? I've never hurt anyone here.”
She said, “Maybe not physically.”
The magpie shook his head. “Did Marley tell you that? I've never wanted anything but to help-”
“That's what you always say, isn't it?” Emma asked. She now had her body in front of the eggs.
“Why are you doing that?” he said, pointing to the eggs. “Why are you protecting them? I...”
Oh.
“You're never around,” Emma said. “Always with the council, or tending to business with the Watchers.”
“I've told you, I'm not with them!”
“Whoever they are,” Emma shouted, “you're never here for me!”
“So you started having an affair?” he asked. “Why didn't you just talk to me?”
“Do you know how hard it is to talk to you?” she asked. “You're a wall! You can't see past your own convictions. You can't even see how unhappy I am. How miserable!”
The magpie was hurt. “Miserable? But, Emma... why wouldn't you tell me something like that. I love you.”
“You love the idea of me,” she said. “You love that being with me makes you a part of this flock. But you're not one of us, and you never will be.”
“Have you felt this way all this time?”
She glanced away. “Yes.”
“Then why did you partner with me in the first place?”
“Because I was scared,” she said. “We all were.”
He looked around and saw all the other members of the flock standing at attention, watching them. He felt betrayed.
“Afraid of what?” he demanded, not just to her but to everyone. “Time and time again I've told you, all I want is to help! What, did you think I was lying?”
Emma said, “I'm sorry.”
He looked back at her. He thought of all the things he wanted to scream at her, at all of them. How much he hated this feeling of being an outcast among family. He knew the eggs weren't his, he knew that no one here trusted him, and he wanted to call them all out on it.
But he sighed.
“It's okay,” said the magpie. “I'm sorry that you feel the way you do. I wish you had talked to me about it, but it's okay now. I know, so that means we can work on it. I still love you, Emma. I always will. Whatever problems we have, we can work through them. We can reconcile our differences. I'm willing to accept this. It's all my fault, Emma. We can make this work, I promise.”
She shook her head. “No. There is no making it work. I don't love you. I never have.”
He felt his heart sink. “But...” The magpie looked around again, at all the other birds, at their condescension, and the weight of it hit him.
There was no reconciling. No forgiving. These birds had made up their minds long ago. Today had just had the unhappy fortune of being the day he found out about it.
He wanted to be angry. On some level, he felt he deserved to be angry. But in the end, the only person he could blame was himself. Whatever they had wanted, whatever Emma had wanted, he could never provide. It was shameful.
There came a blood-curdling screech from the forest, and all the birds drew their attention to its source. The mad falcon barreled out of the trees followed by half a dozen others. Instinctually, the magpie took off and flew up. He looked West, to where the ocean was, and started to go that way. He had to bring the troops, had to defend them while he still could.
But then he looked back down, to the nest he had so passionately built, and saw Emma looking up at him. She huddled around the eggs, trying desperately to keep them protected. She pleaded him with her eyes. Begged for his assistance.
Now that it was real, they wanted his help.
And something turned over inside him. He glanced Easterly once more, and took a breath.
And started to fly North.
As he did, he heard screams. The calls of the falcons, the curses of the flock, the sounds of bloodshed and fury. As he abandoned them, he heard the words echoing back through his mind,
You're going to burn, magpie. You and all the rest.

30.
When he finished, Crow looked away. He couldn't bear to look at her. Who could ever accept someone as shameless as him?
She said, “That's not what I expected...”
Crow gave a dry, humorless laugh. “I didn't, either.”
“Is that why you hate yourself?” Swan asked.
He didn't even try to hold back the tears. The emotion of the last few days had obliterated his defenses. “Wouldn't you? I betrayed them, Swan. I let them all die.”
“And... And Emma, you feel like she was your fault, too?”
“Of course she was,” Crow said. “I can't blame anyone but myself.”
“Oh, Crow...” she said, putting her head on his chest. He didn't know how to react. “It wasn't your fault.”
“How can you say that to me?”
“Emma should have talked to you. They all should have. They let their superstition get in the way.”
“But I still abandoned them,” he said. “I could have saved them, but-”
“No, you couldn't,” Swan said. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, he did. “The falcons would have attacked when they did even if you hadn't come back for her. If you had kept on your way, you would've returned to a forest of corpses. Given that, you certainly wouldn't have had time to fly all the way East and back, and still saved anyone.”
He looked away again, not wanting to hear it. “I still should have tried.”
“Yes,” she said. “You should have. What you did was wrong, but it's long since over now. You can't hold that over your head for the rest of your life. You have to forgive yourself.”
“Forgive myself?” he said with dry wit, “have you seen this magpie? The whole time I've known I've done little but beg for death. When Everest forgave me for what I did to Wesley, do you know what I thought? 'I suppose I can't use that as an excuse, can I?' I am utterly despicable in every sense of the word, Swan. I don't deserve anyone's forgiveness.”
“Do you want me to kill you?”
He looked up at her, shocked into silence. “What?”
“If you ask me to do it now, I will. If that's really what you want, after everything we've been through, fine. All I ask is that whatever you do, you do it for yourself. Not Emma, not the flock, not Wesley, not even me. It must be you.”
He looked at the wall and tried to consider it. But really, the possibility didn't seem honest even for a moment. After all that he had put Swan and Everest through, after all he had put himself through, it would be worse to die now. It would be a waste.
But it still felt wrong. He said, “I don't want to die, Swan. But I don't want to live like this.”
“Then don't,” she said, encouraging. “There isn't a thing in the world controlling who you are except you. If there's something you don't like, change it. You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, Crow.”
“How could you possibly know that?” he asked.
“What you went through yesterday... I never could have done that. I would have let myself die just to escape the pain. But you're still here.”
“Swan, I-”
“It's alright,” she said. “Nothing this important happens instantaneously. I just want you to be happy. And whatever you've convinced yourself, I promise you. You deserve to be happy.”
He looked at her, and wanted to hug her.
“Thank you,” he said.
And then she embraced him.

31.
They stood on the hill next to Wesley's grave and regarded the rising son. Crow moved his wings about, astounded.
“I've never been one for flattery,” he said, “but I think these are better than the original.”
He was still sore, but he felt well enough to fly. And it had occurred to them all that they had lingered here far too long. Despite their tiny dramas, the world was still coming to an end, and for all Crow and Swan knew, they were the only ones who could stop it.
Everest said, “I've done my best to keep the wounds covered. I've yet to see anyone get infected, usually the body starts to act like the prosthesis is the original. But I wouldn't deny it as a possibility. If that happens, come straight back to me.”
Crow said, “I'm sure it'll be fine.” He turned to Everest and said, “Thank you for everything.”
Everest smiled. “Like I said, you're always welcome here.” He regarded Swan. “You take care of him, dove.”
She nodded. “I've done a good job of that so far, haven't I?”
Before anyone said anything else, Crow shouted, “Well, time for a test run!”
He leaped into the air, and told his wings to move. For a moment he started to fall, and his mind filled with thoughts of failure. Then he started flapping, just as he had already done, and lifted up into the sky. He felt the wind on his face, and started to remember how to maneuver through the folds of the air. His heart soared with joy as he went as high as he could, looking out over the world on his own accord for the first time in weeks.
Swan and Everest watched, overjoyed.
And then, Crow stopped flapping. He let himself start to fall, and they all gasped.
Crow extended his wings, finding his place.
Just before he hit the ground, he angled up and flew just inches above the ground. He laughed as he did this, and Swan breathed a sigh of relief.
She took off then, joining Crow's side.
“I never would have guessed you were such a good flier,” she said.
“There's a great deal you don't know about me,” he said, still laughing. “And that's part of the adventure, isn't it?”
Swan called down to the raccoon, “Thank you for everything, Everest! Take care of the dogs!”
“I will!” he shouted back. “You two be careful!”
They circled around a few times before finally picking up a South-Easterly heading. Everest had given them directions. Crow wondered at the world as it drifted by underneath them.
“Has it always been this beautiful?” he asked.
“Only when you notice it,” she said, laughing.
As they picked up altitude, their joviality was drained.
A black spot lingered behind them. They circled around to get a better look. It was hundreds of miles off, but still tremendous. And still approaching.
Nothing had changed. The only difference was Crow.
But for the first time since they started this journey, he thought that maybe that would be enough.

32.
They made drastically good time compared to their traveling before. What would have taken them weeks to walk and days to fly in the harness they managed in just under nine hours. The sun had warmed the air, and the ocean had begun to sparkle on the distant horizon. And already they could see it.
The Castle of the Watchers. Perched on the edge of the sea, a black formation built so long ago no one remembered who or why. This was where they would make their plea for life. This was where they would, or wouldn't, make a difference.
But Swan was more interested in something else, something far below them. She started to go down, and Crow followed. They reached a small band of trees, and landed at the top. The leaves were bright green, and not a single bird had lived in it. At least not recently.
“Tired?” Crow asked.
Swan looked around at the gully, an expression of awe on her face.
“No,” she said. “I was born here.”
“This tree? This very tree?”
She nodded.
He looked around, amazed. “What a strange coincidence.”
But as he looked at her, he realized that there was more than reminiscence on her mind.
As if in confirmation, she said, “Crow, there's something I have to tell you.”
“It's okay,” he said. She turned her head. “I know.”
“What do you mean, you know?”
“You haven't asked about the charm on my neck,” he said. “I suppose a proper time hasn't arisen in your mind. When I let myself fall, he visited me. Appeared, as if out of ether. He told me what you are.”
Stepped away from him.
But he didn't raise his voice. If anything, he smiled. “He told me that the journey is almost over. That destiny's time has reached its end. And he said that... everything is about to change. And I can already tell you, Swan, it has. I've changed. Because of you.”
He looked at her, and said, “I know you're a Watcher. And I don't care. I love you.”
She blinked away tears. “But, Crow... there's so much-”
“I know,” he said. “And it doesn't matter. I was given advice recently.” He looked out towards the castle.
“No one is ever past the point of reconciliation. Whatever it is that you've done, I can only assume you are here to make penance for it. And even if you're not, it doesn't matter. You've helped me in more ways than I can ever list, Swan. I'm alive because of you. How could I ever hold something as immaterial as the past against you? You are who you are because of what you've done. I wouldn't change you for the world.”
She hugged him then, burying her face in his neck, and he embraced her back. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“I love you, Swan,” he said. “And I'll never be able to thank you enough for what you've done. And that's why you have to stay here.”
She looked up at him. “What?”
Before she could say another word, he hit her as hard as he could with the edge of his wing. She fell, and he caught her. As best he could, he took her to the ground, and set her at the base of the tree.
Crow hugged her one last time. “If I'm going to die for you,” he said, “all I ask is that you live for me.”
With that, he took off, fighting back his tears. But it was alright. This was how it was always going to end. It had taken him a long time to understand, but now he did. This was why he was here, where his life had been heading from the moment he'd been born.
Everything was set in stone. But that meant that the world wasn't coming to an end. Because Crow would be there to stop it.
But still, though he fought it as best he could, he couldn't shake the words that lingered at the back of his mind. The echoes from a life he had hoped was concluded, but knew deep down had only just begun.
You're going to burn, magpie.
You and all the rest.