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1
I need to see for myself. I am told they are vicious and wild. Their wings are sharp as spears. It is harvest. They always come during harvest. I look to the skies. The clouds lie in long heaps of yellow and blue, soaking in the setting sun below and the sky above. Conflicting colors that shouldn’t exist together, but they do.
“Ledger, I bet you five heads of corn, they will be here within the next three nights,” challenges Angus. He strokes his unruly red hair.
Looking up at him, I shake my head. “Angus, no one cares about your stupid corn.”
Tolliver, my older brother, and my cousin, Angus, recline together atop the last haystack they raked. I am the only one still working.
“What about you, Tolliver?” Angus offers, picking his teeth with a piece of hay. “Got any man in ya?”
Tolliver holds out his hand. “Three nights?”
They shake.
The wind picks up around us, throwing dust and hay in our faces. My dark curly hair swirls in the wind. We all stop and look to the skies, suspicious of every gust.
When the Sky People come, they require a portion of our harvest. They always take, since before I was born, before my mother and father were born. But no one can stop them. They come on the wind and soar down with swords and wings. They kill. They take.
They come from the southwest, beyond the fields and briars, a tangled mess of thorny vines and shrubs. It protects us from threats on the ground but doesn’t fortify us against the Sky People of Ellery. I squint at the horizon hoping to catch my first glimpse.
Tolliver joined the ranks in early spring. He trained throughout the summer for the Clash. I overheard Mother pleading with Father to keep him off the frontlines. Father and Tolliver overruled her.
This will be Angus’s second year. Maybe that is why he let his beard take over his face. He is a man. He will fight with Tolliver by his side. Tolliver, with hair like corn silk, is as powerful as Angus, but bales smarter. Sadly, I am left to tend to the women and children another whole year while they get to see the Sky People face to face.
As I watch them wrestle and tease each other over five heads of corn, the cry comes from beyond the thick briars. The Protection had been scouting the skies for weeks. As soon as the first cold spell hits, they are on duty. Our warriors watch and wait, carrying shofars made from hollowed out ram’s horns.
The horn’s tone starts low and grows higher the longer it is blown. It stops and blares again. Low, high. My heart skips. I hold my breath, peeking at the briars. I consider burying myself in the haystack and watching them approach. I need to see them.
Angus laughs and demands his corn, but Tolliver is all business now. He leaps down from the hay and I race to keep up all the way back to Balfour. Tolliver and Angus scatter in different directions—Angus to the armory and Tolliver to prepare the horses. My legs are not as long as theirs. I make it to the edge of the village in time to see them dash between the first set of cottages. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of yellow. An evergreen branch swings out and smacks me clean across the face. I stumble backwards with stinging eyes to the sound of a girly giggle from the underbrush.
“Hollis!” I snap. She emerges, blonde hair flailing about as she convulses with laughter. I can’t help but crack a smile after spitting out the bits of pine needles at my friend. “I don’t have time for this,” I say with a stifled laugh, trying to be serious as the horns blow in the distance.
“You should really watch out for those pine trees. They’re unpredictable,” Hollis says with a grin. She wipes her sappy hands on her dress and abruptly runs off in the direction of her cottage.
I hurry home. The village is filled with action. Families are running about closing the shutters and doors of their log cottages. Everyone knew this day would come. We are prepared. The cellars are cleanly dug and stocked for nights of hiding away.
Still stinging from the branch that grazed my face, I enter my father’s workshop. Gathering the tools from beside the furnace, I put them away over the workbench. I lean close to a sword hanging on the drying rack and peer at my reflection, relieved there is no blood or welts on my face. I shake my head. Typical Hollis.
My father, Fergus the Blacksmith, is standing at the forge using the hearth rake to spread out the red coals to cool off. He has a sculpted jaw and a bulbous nose crowned with a heavy brow. His caterpillar-like eyebrows pinch together in concentration as the coals turn black and gray. I have his dark curly hair and brown eyes. Sometimes, I am proud that I look the most like him of his children, even more than fair-haired Tolliver. Maybe when I am a man, I will have Father’s bulky chest and muscular arms. I peer down at my spindly limbs and sigh. Maybe.
Father silently places a heavy hand on my shoulder. His solemn dark eyes remind me of all the responsibilities he’s already laid out for the Shield of our home: keep it locked up tight, ensure there is no fire till morning, and never let the children outside. Tolliver will not be the Shield this year. I am the eldest now, commissioned to keep our home safe.
Father slips metal armor over his leather tunic. His helmet covers the bridge of his nose. He steps out into the evening. Slamming his right hand over his heart, he nods at me. The sound of metal still echoes in my ears as he mounts the horse beside my brother. They ride toward the falling sun, the end of day and the beginning of war.
The alarm sounds again with three fast tones on all sides of our village. It means, “They descend.” My heart quickens. If only I could climb to the roof to catch one small glimpse. But I can’t. I know my responsibilities. I run from the workshop to our cottage behind. Crashing through the heavy wooden door, I find Mother holding the cellar hatch open for Mila and Killian who are climbing down the stairs beneath the hardwood floorboards. The baby is asleep, strapped to Mother’s chest. I sweep the room with my eyes acknowledging the closed shutters, dead coals in the fireplace, and blankets missing from my parents’ bed in the back room.
“Ledger, come,” my mother calls from the cellar. Her words do not hasten my steps.
I want to see them come. I have seen neither their wings nor their beasts. Every year I have been alive, nothing has ever happened inside the village. The Protection takes the fight beyond the briars. I’ve only heard stories of their enormous feathery wings. I obey, pulling the cellar door shut and tiptoeing down the stairs to our hiding place.
***
As the Shield, I am the first to step out from the cellar in the morning, checking to make sure it is safe. I am the only one allowed outside to fetch food from the garden or necessities from the workshop, which means I can sneak my first peek at Ellery.
On the second night, I hurry through the dark workshop, grabbing a spyglass, and scrambling up the ladder on the far wall. Scaling it in seconds, I push the door out of the way and heft myself onto the roof. To the southwest, the orange and red sunset streaks the sky with warning. I put the spyglass to my eye. Ellery is an upside-down mountain, wider and deeper than our North Mountain. Two of our villages could fit atop. At the center is a large castle of tan stone, wrapped in wispy clouds.
On the third night, I see the winged people flying down from their floating island as it skirts by our village. They come in small groups, one after the other like swarms of bees raging from their hive. I cannot see the Protection on the ground, but they are there, fighting and defending our land.
On the fourth night, the island is almost over the eastern lake. The Clash must be ending soon because no Sky People appear. I soak in the sight of the mysterious island and just when I decide to head home, movement catches my attention. It shoots from the surface, away from the battle. I lose it momentarily in the ginger-pink clouds. Putting down the spyglass, I wait for it to emerge from the clouds. The sun glints off brilliant wings again as the figure darts to another cloud. Watching it like a firefly dancing toward me, I squint to keep my eyes on it.
Doesn’t anyone else see it? I wonder, scanning the village below for anyone in view. The Protection has sentries posted on the outskirts of the village. I search for each man through the spyglass. The two I can see are not looking in the direction of the intruder.
The spy maneuvers surreptitiously through the sky toward the woodlands to the northwest. Someone has to do something, and I am the only one who sees him. I scramble to the ladder, slide downward and race from the workshop. After checking that the house is shut tight, I grab my father’s bow and quiver. It is full and ready for his next hunt. It slaps against my back with every step. I catch movement from the corner of my eye as I round the backside of my house. Hearing the sound of footfalls, I catch a glimpse of Bernhard making his rounds. I consider calling him to help me hunt down the intruder, but he would send me back to the cottage with the children. I need to see the Ellerian for myself. My heart pounds as I take the only chance I have and run, grass slashing at my legs. I aim for the Hundred Harvest Tree, where the winged trespasser must have landed.
Maybe they are trying a new tactic this year. Scouting our numbers? Spying on our crops? Sending an assassin to take out women and children? I imagine.
Low hanging branches of yellow and orange welcome me as I rush along the path into the woods. The treetops high above my head have stolen the light from the evening, plunging me into momentary darkness. As my eyes adjust to its depth, I trip on branches and vines along my route, but keep going. The leather on my feet barely protects me from the stones and brambles on the path.
I scurry through a mess of fallen yellow leaves as I come within view of our sacred Tree. I stop. Wait. Listen. The dust and leaves settle around my throbbing feet. The sounds of the forest awaken. The treetops sway together. The evening song of the twillerbird drowns out my heartbeat. Then I hear it. The snap of a twig, and a whispered, “Ow.”
I tiptoe toward the sound. I consider going back to alert a sentry, but I can’t. I want to see for myself. Then I’ll go for help and back to my post as Shield. Circling the Hundred Harvest Tree is a wide grassy area where our ceremonies are held each year. Streaks of golden light touch only the far edge of the clearing. The mist has already begun to pour from the North Mountain and seep into the woods. Out of habit from regularly hunting with my father, I pull an arrow from the quiver, place it on my bow, and draw the string back. I muster all the strength I can find, even though my gut is telling me to run away. Peeking around a tree, I locate the spy. My chest seizes. I can’t breathe as I fumble the poised arrow.
It is a winged girl.
