Killbird

teness to speak of the thunder of a killbird. «Ha, Yorerie,» I called. «Go down, for even should you win she will exercise her last appeal and reject you.» «Ha, Eban,» he called, laughing, speaking more clearly than I'd ever heard him speak. «I care not. I have known I would be rejected, but I fly.» Oh, the fool. He had been in it all along merely for the chance to risk a long and soaring flight. Young Pallas wisely went in at the grassy side of the stream, three arrow flights from the dome. Three down. Logan high above me, soaring, circling. The fool. He was going to make a real contest of it, and with Strabas in his favor would Yuree have the strength to reject him should he win? I found a rising wind and rode it, circling. We were being foolish. We should have gone in a straight line for the finish point, a meadow in the center of the valley. Instead we circled and soared, riding the hot breath of the valley, warmed by the sun, and above us the trackless sky posed a deadly threat. Fobs, later known as the Fool, defied the gods. Defied tradition. Defied the advice of his elders, flying his wings without occasion, for his own pleasure, defying God one time too many, as we all watched, we young ones. The killbird appeared, high, first as a streak of white and then as a gleaming dot which sped downward with the speed of lightning, and the great blast left nothing but a rain of debris and tatters of scraped skin from Fobs' wings. «Yorerie, for God's sake, go down,» I yelled, as I circled close. My eyes were searching the sky. We had been aloft forever, it seemed, much too long, long enough for a killbird to see, to come, to blast. «Yah, yah, yah,» Yorerie yelled, banking, sweeping away so gracefully that it caused a knot in my throat. I dared not leave the rising current of heated air, for Logan was still above me. Yorerie was skillful. He soared back to within a wingspan of me. «Let us both go down,» he said. «For she will reject your hair.» «No,» I said. «She will not.» «I go,» he said, dropping away, arrowing away toward the meadow. I saw him make his landing, standing, keeping his precious wings from damage. And then it was just the two of us, Logan above me. I began to try to soar to his level, seeking the turn of air which would lift me. When I was near, he laughed. «Go down, Haired One,» he said. «You seek death or rejection.» «Would it please you, living with the knowledge that it was her mother who chose you?» I asked. «I don't care who makes the choice,» he yelled, «so long as I am chosen.» «Let the gods of man decide, then,» I said grimly, sweeping away from him so that when the killbird came we would be far apart, leaving the gods of man a choice. «So be it,» he yelled after me. They were sleeping, I felt, for we had been in the air so long, so long. Fobs the Fool had not flown so long on his fatal flight. Surely the killbirds were sleeping, or God was sympathetic. Surely Logan would know fear. Surely he would go down so that I could go, after him, to claim my prize. From far below I could hear yelling. «Come down, come down.» We were drifting slowly back toward the dome, circling, gaining height on the column of warm air, and I dreamed that there were no killbirds and man could fly at his pleasure and seek new height and extend the delicious feeling of being free forever. I did not see the telltale streak of white. I heard the screaming from the ground and then looked up, around, and there, high, near the sun, I saw it, the streak. We were high above the dome. It would be close, for the killbird traveled swiftly, if we tried, now, to reach the safety of the ground, to hide beneath the trees. «There,» I yelled, pointing with my head. He saw it. «Oh, God,» he cried. «Will you go down?» I yelled. «Let the gods of man choose,» he said. «Fool, fool,» I cried. He seemed to be frozen with terror, but he was determined. He was set in a circle, riding the column of air. I yelled, «Break out of the circle. Take action.» He seemed not to hear me, and, above, the white streak grew and grew behind the killbird as he thundered down. Then I could hear the low rumble of his growl, and I, death not being my object, took action, swooping away from the circling Logan. I aimed for the dome with the intent of going into the depression behind it, putting the bulk of the hill between me and the streaking, roaring killbird while Logan was still circling. I tried to extend the line of the killbird to estimate if he had chosen one of us as a target. It was too far up to tell. I could see the family, at least half of them, Strabo, Seer, all the others, on the dome below me, their faces uplifted, fingers pointing to the death which streaked out of the sky. I had put considerable distance between me and Logan. He still circled. And then it became apparent as the line behind the killbird jogged and the roaring sounded ever louder, the killbird coming so fast that he left his growl behind him, that he had selected and, instead of the relatively stationary target offered by the circling Logan, he had chosen me. So be it, I said. But I was not ready to give up. I dived with the roar in my ears, the killbird a distinct thing now, sleek, deadly, shiny, the sun reflected off his skin, his deadly nose pointed directly toward me. I dived toward the dome. Wind sang in my ears, put fierce strain on my frail wings. They would break and I would tumble into the trees. But they held, and I flashed over the dome so low that I could see the teeth in Strabo's mouth as he yelled at me and the roar was in my ears and the killbird was so near I could make out the marking of his skin. Then I was over the dome and diving, and below me was a valley. To put the hill between us, that was my intent. Then the killbird would soar past and be unable to change directions so swiftly to pursue me into the valley, where I would land, in the trees, and lose, for Logan was still high, circling. And then I was past and diving fast while my wings protested and behind me there was a great blast which seized me and lifted me, stopping my dive, throwing me forward. I fought for control. I was alive and the killbird had done his worst and I would climb again and outlast Logan and all would be right with the world. Then I felt something splat against my legs and looked down to see a piece of human flesh, navel clearly visible, slide off my legs, leaving very red blood, and I screamed, looked back, having gained control, to see the top of the dome leveled. All dead. Strabo. The Seer of Things Unseen, half of the family. I had led the killbird directly to them. I turned, hot tears in my eyes. The top of the dome had become the chaos pleasing to God. Trees blasted, stumps burning, a glint of killbird skin, a huge hole. No sign of people, except a severed leg in a damaged treetop. Oh, God. Oh, God. So many lives. So many precious and irreplaceable lives. Half the family. The family head. My old friend, my only friend, Seer. Logan was streaking for the meadow. I watched him go. Finding the column of air, I soared. I looked up. «Come,» I cried. «Come, killbird. Take me. For I do not want to live.» The killbird's white trail was wisping out, becoming indistinct. The blue sky was empty. I considered diving down, straight down, to smash into the rocks, but that was a sin which I did not need. Having been responsible for so many deaths, I did not need to extend my time in the burning place by taking my own. I dared not tempt God further. For to seek death would be to rob Him of His right to judge, to punish. I knew the first taste of that punishment already. I had lost. I was the last one in the air, but I had lost everything. For I had killed the father of the one I loved, and she was now so far beyond my reach that there was no hope. For our customs are the things of survival, and to condone what I had done would unravel the very threads of our means of survival in a world of chaos. I could not even go back. As a bringer of death I was the most abhorred thing in man's world. Yuree. Yuree. How I loved you. «Come, killbird,» I begged. «Please, God, take me. Punish me. Free me from my sadness.» The cold blue sky was empty. I strained my eyes, climbing higher and higher, riding the updrafts. I was drifting away from the valley of my people. The Lake of Clean Water far below was beginning to disappear as hills intervened. Looking back, it was a glorious flight, but I was in no condition to enjoy. I merely flew there, higher and higher, begging God to send a killbird that never came. I was moving toward the far hills to the east, to the place where I, in my youthful arrogance, thought that I had gained the world merely by slaying a dragon. And in the end I had to come down, for the updrafts deserted me, and I considered crashing into rocks or trees, but again that was taking God's prerogative. I landed in a little clearing, far from the valley of my people. I respected my wings, folding them. I lay in the grass and willed myself to die. The mind might wish death, but the body never does. It rebelled, after God only knows how long, and I found myself seeking food from the fruit trees, drink from the clear stream. I had nothing, only my wings. It was chill. I covered myself with grasses for warmth, and by morning I had decided that God wanted me to live. What I would do with my life was now in God's hands. I packed my wings. If a man is to live he must have tools. I carried the wings to the place of the dragon and took what I could with my bare hands. I found a very unsatisfactory piece of dragon skin which I honed for days until it was ready to mount, using dragon veins, to a crude handle. I made a longbow and strung it with dragon veins, fashioned arrows from wood, tipped them with crude pieces of dragon skin. Then I could hunt for meat, and life became an endless series of days, meaningless days. I used the dragon for my house, sleeping in the cavity which I had cleared out. Many times I wondered about Yuree. The summer days began to grow short, and I set about making myself warm skins for winter. I was alone. I built a hide lean-to to cover the cavity in the dragon and gradually began to build up a winter's supply of sun-dried meat and nuts from the trees. And then, with the first chill of the coming winter putting a coating of frost on the bleeding skin of the slain dragon, I contemplated spending the long winter nights alone in a dead dragon, and there was something akin to panic in me. I still wished only to die. I could not die. God apparently wanted me to live and to suffer. To seek death was a sin. But perhaps there was a way. I stood one day with the chill of the winter kissing my back and gazed out toward the flats. It was taboo to go there, but it was a sort of… well, I guess you could say common-sense taboo, with no punishment other than danger and death involved. I mean, it was not a sin for me to go there but it was foolish. No man ever went into the flats and came back alive. But wasn't that what I wanted? And to find death there would not be a sin, merely foolishness. Moreover, if God wanted me to live and suffer he could keep me alive in the flats to suffer there, couldn't he? I could not face winter alone in that dragon's hide. I sought out the highest ridge overlooking the distant undulation of rolling hills which led to the lows and assembled my wings. I took only my hardax and my longbow. Their additional weight would slow my flight, but would not make it impossible. I waited for a warm day with a wind from the hills behind me. The distant valley shimmered with heat. I ran, leaped, and flew. I used the updrafts. I used all my skill. I was tempting the gods of man, and I didn't care. And they didn't care about me, for no killbird came to blast me into forgetfulness. At the center of the valley I felt, on my exposed belly, the warning, the tingling. And down there were the piles of stone and other things which, legend says, were the homes of the giants. Shivering, I almost wished there were giants, giants who could squash me with a fist and put an end to it. I flew away from the source of the warning tingle, however, and cleared a ridge, found an updraft on the other side, rode it to clear another ridge. I suppose it was an epic flight, the longest man has ever made. It extended for half a day, over ridge after ridge as the land dropped away under me until, in the late afternoon, the winds and the updrafts failed me and I sank slowly downward, into a flatness which, after living my life among the mountains, seemed sinister and eerie. I took a good look as I went down. The land was mostly barren, with rocks exposed, the dirt a dirty red. Far away there was a line of trees which seemed to mark a stream, but they were stunted and unhealthy, unlike the trees of my mountains. I landed running, stumbled over a rock, went tail over wings and smashed the delicate bracings. It didn't matter. I would have no use for wings in this flat desert. I was not hurt. God was looking out for me, keeping me alive to suffer. I salvaged some dragon's veins from the wings and set off toward the distant trees. There was a little rabbity type of animal there in the flats, existing on God knows what, and I killed one with an arrow, skinned him, smelled him, found him to be unsavory but edible. I carried the carcass to the tree line and found a stream of reddish water which tasted tepid. I used my hardax and a piece of flint for a fire and settled in. I awoke with a feeling of eyes upon me. I leaped to my feet, clutching my hardax. I saw them then. There were three of them. Two men and a woman, the woman lank of body, thinner than I, and with a filthy mane of hair on her skull. The men were equally sorry, with hair on face and head. They were dressed in tattered and filthy skins, and their eyes were sunken into their faces. «Who are you?» I asked. «Who are you?» one of the men asked. His words were distorted but understandable. «I am Eban the Hunter,» I said. «What do you hunt?» the woman asked, licking her lips. «I have hunted bears and lions,» I said, with a swift pride which soon faded as I remembered. «This is no bear,» one of the men said, pointing to the remains of the rabbity animal which had been my meal. «If you are hungry, eat,» I said. The man leaped toward the carcass and began to tear it with his hands, the other two pushing and yelling, trying to grab a bit for themselves. It sickened me. I stepped forward and pushed one of the men. He was frail, and he fell to his back. The other scrambled away on his hands and knees. Only the woman remained, the food clutched in her hands. «There is enough for all,» I said. I took the animal and cut it into pieces with my hardax, handing each a share. «Eat,» I said. «You are great and mighty,» the woman said. «I will be your ———» She said a word which is sometimes used, with shame, by young boys trying to shock. I turned red. «You like I be your———?» she asked. «No,» I said harshly, «nor do I want to hear such language.» «I will cook for you and tend your fire, then,» she said. «As you will,» I said. «I will sleep.» «Yes,» she said. «Sleep. I will stay awake and keep the fire for you.» The two men huddled together and seemed to go to sleep. I curled up and closed my eyes, opening them now and then to look at the woman. Her clothing was mere tatters, showing her long flanks and the curve of her breasts. I slept. Later in my life I saw men, if the inbreeders deserve the name, seek death by their own hands. But a real man, however sure he is that life is not worth living, clings to life with all his strength, even as his mind wishes ease in eternal sleep. I had a feeling, perhaps not fully realized, that if death was all I sought it would come to me as a pleasant surprise in my sleep that night. So that urge, that sacred will to live, kept my hand on the handle of my crude hardax. A good hunter, it is said, sleeps with one eye open. I'm sure that both my eyes were closed, but there was something in me which was vigilant, for I woke and rolled with one movement and the dragonskin head of my own arrow plunked into the ground where I had lain. It was, on my part, instinctive, I suppose, for if I had been fully aware I would not have done as I did, leaping with one fluid movement to vault the dying fire and shed the blood of the man who had seized my longbow and used it to try to kill me. His skull split with an ease which made it difficult for me, as he fell, to remove my hardax from it. And then I was whirling to meet a new threat as the dead man's companion screamed in rage and, using both hands, tried to break my skull with a huge rock. As it was the rock struck me a glancing blow on the shoulder, numbing it, bu