swaying, on the very edge of the hole.
And in its claws it held a girl.
Too frightened to care about losing their quarry, the men clutched at their amulets, letting the dogs loose.
Only Titus Molde knew what he was seeing. He’d heard about the flying machine that had been fashioned long ago by the late
Master of Murkmere. It had never flown, so far as he knew. Was the girl so desperate she was trying to escape them in such
a risky contraption? Something so fragile, so amateurishly built, could only crash. She’d fall through the wind to her death
on the hard earth.
This went through his mind in a flash. A voice inside hishead screamed protest, then he was running toward the tower, shouting upward into the mocking wind, “Stop!”
Even before the word was torn from his mouth, the birdmachine had moved suddenly forward, had lurched over the edge.
The men below stood, transfixed. They held their breath. Alone among them their leader moved, gesticulating wildly, screaming
something inaudible above the barking dogs.
The bird thing did not fall immediately. As if there was some impetus pushing it from behind, it went horizontally through
the air for a short way, holding its height, the wind beneath its wings. Then it slowed. It seemed to judder in the air, hanging
stationary but quivering, for a second.
Titus Molde shut his eyes. He felt air press on his forehead as something flew heavily over his head. He ducked involuntarily;
the men behind him cried out.
When he looked around, black wings had blotted out the moon. The wind was full of birds. The swans were all about the men
in a turbulence, beating the air so that the screams of the men were muffled by the
thump, thump
of wings. The men cowered down, shielding their eyes.
Titus Molde fell flat on the grass, protecting his face with his hands. His heart was banging in his chest: he knew that swans
could kill a man. He heard the swans attack the contraption, beat it to the ground.
He lay motionless until he thought the vile birds had gone. He was full of fury and humiliation. He was the leader and he’d
done nothing to prevent the girl’s death. He’d been too scared, without an amulet. Scared of birds that had no sinister significance
in the
Table
, were no doom-laden omen.
The wind rattled the bare branches in the copse and lifted his hair. The dogs had fallen silent. His men would not get up
from the ground until he did. He’d best stand up and go over to the debris left by the shattered machine, the dead body in
the midst of it all.
But when he raised his head and looked up, there was nothing to see. Beneath the empty stars his men lay huddled on the ground:
pathetic bundles of rags and spent swagger, sticks at all angles, useless. A couple of dogs nosed at them and whimpered.
The swans must have flown away into the night. But neither, on the stretch of moonlit scrub before him, was there any sign
of the flying machine.
The Wasteland
10
S omeone was lifting my head. I didn’t want them to do that; it hurt too much.
I drew my brows together with the faintest flicker. I was too hot. I heard murmuring. Then I slept.
Later there was the rim of something hard against my lips. I opened my mouth. A bitter liquid. The air smelled of something
faintly familiar.
I groaned. Again, the murmur came, then the soothing touch of cool fingers on my forehead. I recognized the scent in the air
now, but I was too tired to make sense of it. Hay, new-mown. And something that stank of animal covering me.
Another time when the touch came, I opened my eyes. Eyes looked down into mine. I shut my eyes again, and slept.
Later, I was given water.
One day I said, “Who are you?”
My lips were cracked; it was painful to move them. My voice sounded old and rusty. But when I looked over from the straw pallet
on which I lay, I could see a man sitting on a stool by the fire, and I knew him. He had watched over me during the days and
nights
And in its claws it held a girl.
Too frightened to care about losing their quarry, the men clutched at their amulets, letting the dogs loose.
Only Titus Molde knew what he was seeing. He’d heard about the flying machine that had been fashioned long ago by the late
Master of Murkmere. It had never flown, so far as he knew. Was the girl so desperate she was trying to escape them in such
a risky contraption? Something so fragile, so amateurishly built, could only crash. She’d fall through the wind to her death
on the hard earth.
This went through his mind in a flash. A voice inside hishead screamed protest, then he was running toward the tower, shouting upward into the mocking wind, “Stop!”
Even before the word was torn from his mouth, the birdmachine had moved suddenly forward, had lurched over the edge.
The men below stood, transfixed. They held their breath. Alone among them their leader moved, gesticulating wildly, screaming
something inaudible above the barking dogs.
The bird thing did not fall immediately. As if there was some impetus pushing it from behind, it went horizontally through
the air for a short way, holding its height, the wind beneath its wings. Then it slowed. It seemed to judder in the air, hanging
stationary but quivering, for a second.
Titus Molde shut his eyes. He felt air press on his forehead as something flew heavily over his head. He ducked involuntarily;
the men behind him cried out.
When he looked around, black wings had blotted out the moon. The wind was full of birds. The swans were all about the men
in a turbulence, beating the air so that the screams of the men were muffled by the
thump, thump
of wings. The men cowered down, shielding their eyes.
Titus Molde fell flat on the grass, protecting his face with his hands. His heart was banging in his chest: he knew that swans
could kill a man. He heard the swans attack the contraption, beat it to the ground.
He lay motionless until he thought the vile birds had gone. He was full of fury and humiliation. He was the leader and he’d
done nothing to prevent the girl’s death. He’d been too scared, without an amulet. Scared of birds that had no sinister significance
in the
Table
, were no doom-laden omen.
The wind rattled the bare branches in the copse and lifted his hair. The dogs had fallen silent. His men would not get up
from the ground until he did. He’d best stand up and go over to the debris left by the shattered machine, the dead body in
the midst of it all.
But when he raised his head and looked up, there was nothing to see. Beneath the empty stars his men lay huddled on the ground:
pathetic bundles of rags and spent swagger, sticks at all angles, useless. A couple of dogs nosed at them and whimpered.
The swans must have flown away into the night. But neither, on the stretch of moonlit scrub before him, was there any sign
of the flying machine.
The Wasteland
10
S omeone was lifting my head. I didn’t want them to do that; it hurt too much.
I drew my brows together with the faintest flicker. I was too hot. I heard murmuring. Then I slept.
Later there was the rim of something hard against my lips. I opened my mouth. A bitter liquid. The air smelled of something
faintly familiar.
I groaned. Again, the murmur came, then the soothing touch of cool fingers on my forehead. I recognized the scent in the air
now, but I was too tired to make sense of it. Hay, new-mown. And something that stank of animal covering me.
Another time when the touch came, I opened my eyes. Eyes looked down into mine. I shut my eyes again, and slept.
Later, I was given water.
One day I said, “Who are you?”
My lips were cracked; it was painful to move them. My voice sounded old and rusty. But when I looked over from the straw pallet
on which I lay, I could see a man sitting on a stool by the fire, and I knew him. He had watched over me during the days and
nights
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