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The Winged Superhero
I never thought he could be my hero, that miserable old bird. Now the sinking fear I might never see him again has me anxiously searching the skies.
The Exodus set off in glorious dawn sunshine, the wolves and bears in animal form, the snakes and myself wrapped in every single piece of clothing, tapestry or rug we could find, none of which provided much protection against bone crushing cold. The snake children, small enough to change into reptiles, coiled up together between layers upon layers of blankets, but it’s still hellishly cold for them.
Wings took off, soaring over the rocks and treetops in an emergency flight down the mountain to warn the village of our coming. He offered to transport Curt, but the stubborn wolf refused.
Our eagle returned, shortly afterwards, trailing a wood and rope contraption from his undercarriage, with a plan in place. The village were setting up to receive the sick, including a quarantine zone where all their clothes would be burned before they were brought inside and treated. Wings would fly the most desperately ill straight there, one at a time, giving them the best chance possible. I think Anguis would have cried, if his eyes weren’t frozen.
The plan was a good one and worked well, until the snowstorm hit and the stubborn bird refused to stop his mercy flights. He’s been gone a long time since he last flew off, a stretcher dangling from his torso. Worry etches its mark into all our faces as we strain for a glimpse of feathers through whirling snow and freezing wind.
Wolves and bears growl and howl as they fight through the snow drifts, taking turns to recover their strength on makeshift sledges. Three of the snakes have already died, fuelling the bird’s suicidal desperation, and we’ll probably lose more before this pilgrimage is over.
Anguis insists on being left behind to bury each one before struggling to catch up. A different bear and wolf stayed with him for each sad loss, using their claws to dig through frozen dirt but, even so, I don’t know how much longer he can carry on. I asked him whether he could change into his snake, but he told me it would only drain his energy faster and expose the reptile to the cold.
Serpen sits behind me in my sledge, covered in coats, but as still as a gargoyle statue from that cursed castle. Alpha made Curt travel with us, pointing out that he has two injuries to the same hip and would slow them down. Curt knows his brother is right, but isn’t happy about it. Now he fears the loss of his surrogate father. The wolf can’t speak, but I’ve learnt to read the emotion in those yellow eyes.
“Maybe they made him stay down in the village, until the wind drops,” I holler into Curt’s furry ear.
He shakes his head and whines.
No, I don’t believe that either.
“Come on, Wings. Please,” I mutter, my breath stolen away by the storm.
A piercing yowl carries on the wind and I glance over at Wolf Dulcis, struggling beside a sodden ginger bear. Both peer up at the sky, eyes blinking against lashing snow. I catch a glimpse of outstretched wings, buffeted and straining against swirling currents. The empty sling repeatedly bounces against his legs as he fights to reach us, whilst a battle chorus of howling and roaring thunders into the sky in support. The wind gusts so strongly, he dips at a right angle and a wing almost bends in half under the strain. He shrieks as he crunches into the snow, landing on the sling, his legs flat behind him. It’s not a graceful landing, but it’s effective and at least he’s down safely.
Curt leaps out of the cart as the wolves converge on the exhausted bird. He’s squawking in protest at leathery tongues slathering his feathers, when I shove through the crowd and throw my arms around him, yelling, “You mad, bloody bird.”
He looks dreadful and it’s not just sheer exhaustion. His skin and legs are red raw and his feathers stripped and tatty. Every delivery of a new patient to the village results in the feathered air ambulance being thoroughly cleaned and disinfected against the mould and that process is taking a terrible toll.
“Wings, look at me,” I yell, releasing my grip a little. Beady eyes roll before finding mine. “You have to rest. Change back for a while.”
Alpha and Curt howl a duet and pad around the swaying bird, nudging his feathers.
“They’re right, Wings,” Anguis offers, shuffling through the snow, teeth chattering. “You’ve done all you can for us. We’re grateful, but the wind is too strong.”
A massive wing slaps me on the backside as he heaves his bulk through the group and staggers over to the next patient in line: a young woman who’s recently lost consciousness in the cold. He shuffles sideways and thumps the sling out beneath him in readiness. Wolves surrounding the stretcher hesitate. Wings lets rip with a homicidal squawk and pecks the nearest wolf in the ear. When that doesn’t work, he gently tries to move the dying woman by clutching at her with numb claws. Anguis peers at Alpha, his gaze asking the question, and the snow drenched wolf yips in agreement.
“No, Wings. Enough.” I start towards him, but Curt catches my coat in his teeth and sadly shakes his head.
When the stubborn old bird takes off with the woman, weaving in the storm, I feel the tears freezing on my cheeks.
And I don’t even like him.
Please God, make the storm stop. Save our bird.
* * *
The storm did stop, thankfully. The snow settled and the skies cleared, which made the journey easier, if none the warmer.
The flapping vulture made seven more trips, only just clearing the treetops on his last flight, until he ran out of time. The change back to a grumpy old man happened as he was coming in to land. I shouldn’t have guffawed at the sight of his naked backside bouncing across the snow, but I couldn’t suppress the relief at his return. I knew he was beyond exhausted when he failed to glare at me. An ailing Anguis picked him off the ice, staggered over to a sled and gently covered him with blankets. I’d venture the snakes have found their superhero eagle.
Whilst still wintery cold, the temperature is rising as we descend the mountain and the odd snaky head even pops out from between blankets to take a sneak peek at passing surroundings.
With wolf eyes ever vigilant, that book remains tucked into my woollen layers, but when Curt drops into a fitful sleep during the night, I take a brief look at the torn pages, by the light of the stars.
Handwritten ink fills most of the manuscript, the final words reading,
...by the light of the stars.
