At midmeal, I hear Father drop his gear outside on our little front porch. I pick at the rocking chair’s woven seat while waiting for him to come in. My strange rapion sleeps on my lap, his belly distended nearly as round as my amulet.
A few nuzzles with the curve of his beak in the crook of my elbow abated my pulsing panic after his song. His mesmerizing hum folded peace into my centerself. I couldn’t fight off the tranquility or reason it away.
When I moved with him over to the chair, he plopped down in my lap and tucked his head to sleep. The twining felt complete. Already, I can’t imagine being apart. Did I actually think to throw him from my hands earlier? He sings, and I can’t change that. I have more troubles ahead than thorns in a chasm full of prickle plants, but I am his bearer.
“It’s been a complete morning of bloodsuckers and fly bots,” Father complains to himself. Water splashes, and I know he’s scrubbing his hands in the outside basin. “One herd left,” he says, as his boots scuff across the dry stones.
Finally, he steps into the house, running his wet fingers through his hair twists. Sunlight skims his bulky shoulder and sets me aglow anew. “Tiadone!” he gasps. “Your rapion!” He rushes to my side.
“We’ve twined, Father, the male and I! We’ve twined! But shhh!” My smile slips. “He, he sleeps now.”
“You’ve honestly twined?”
I roll my lips and nod. “And I’ve named him Mirko. Fierce strength.”
“Excellent choice!” he says eagerly yet softly. “I knew the rapion would accept you! I knew it.” He touches my cheek with the calloused heel of his hand. “You see? We are blessed! Haven’t I always said there would be a twine?”
I sniff and smile. “More times than bells have rung on Sleene’s robes.”
He huffs at my tease then hums a chord of praise to the Creator Spirit.
I shift in the chair. I have to tell him, but he goes on.
“Oh, he’s a beauty,” he says. “The deep brown with flecks of gold, and the broad crown. I can’t wait for him to wake to see his wingspan and compare him to the bird I tended!” Father gazes at Mirko with his hands behind his back. One never touches another’s rapion. Even the Madronians honor this out of fear of our mysterious link. Although I know Father must be dying to pet Mirko. His bird was released after their service together so long ago.
“Yes, but — ” I try to swallow, except my mouth is too parched. “Father . . . Mirko . . . he has song.”
“What?” He snaps upright.
I look down. “Mirko sang. He sang as we do in worship. Well, notes, I mean.”
“No! No, Tiadone!” Worry skitters across his broad forehead. He clutches his belly. “You’re certain?”
“I’m not jesting,” I whisper.
He covers his mouth. Mirko’s side rises and falls in sleep.
Father rubs his face. “Well . . .” He drags his fingers through his beard. “We have read of Rapion Singers in the Oracles.”
“Can it be good that Singers are mentioned in forbidden R’tan writings?” I rip off a loose straw from the seat. “I know it’s my fault, Father. Being declared male — ”
“Shh, Tiadone!” He drops with a thud onto the bench by the table.
Mirko burrows his beak beneath his wing and hums a tune. Father’s face washes pale and his silent mouth hangs wide open.