Flyers
by
Gary MacLeman

They came down from their homes in the cliffs above the high lake, appearing out of the pine trees, spreading onto the cropped grass of the fields along the river. Their garments, varying shades of blue and white, hugged their slim bodies. They looked like small pieces of sky against the dark green of the forest and lighter green of the meadows. Hopping and leaping in the stiff breeze, they made their way toward the jumble of mud and timber huts, which stretched along a raised hillock above the river’s flood plain. They had emerged from the trees in file, slowly spreading out across the meadow, clustering untidily until their disarray slipped finally into four straight lines.
The people of the village emerged from their houses as word spread. Even children ran up from their play along the sandy river-shore, games forgotten, fidgety eagerness expressing their impatience and anticipation enlarging their smiles. Cheers arose spontaneously from the crowd as the first in each line, spreading arms and wings, let the wind push out the thin membranous webbing. They lifted clear of the ground, up and back, swaying unsteadily, to drop behind the group and resume their walk at the end of the lines.
The gusty nature of the wind caused several flyers to be blown sideways, slipping to the grass in a tangle of legs and wings, and this caused much laughter amongst the children, as well as jeers from some of the men folk. The flyers had long since become a jesting point, for all knew the flyers never really flew, but only glided short distances in strong winds.
Attarian didn’t laugh, his features found a frown, a moments sorrow frozen on his visage. He shook his head as if to remedy their lots, these outcasts of the Maker, then his eyes lit again with thoughts of trading profits soon to be his.
A cheer went up from the crowd, rising with the wind, slipping from cheers to oohs and ahhs as one of the flyers, clad all in white, soared far higher than had any before. It almost seemed he could really fly as his silhouette was lifted above the spiky pine trees behind. He paused, and somehow held himself motionless for long seconds. He drifting slowly backward like a small cloud, wings trembling to either side in quick and minute adjustments to maintain his positive glide. Silence ensued amongst both groups of spectators, for the other flyers too had turned and were watching the exhibition. A far stronger gust of wind whipped sand and dust from the bare track which curved about the edge of the forest.
The high flyer tried to adjust as he was swept aside, his stretching wings took too much power from the gust and he was whisked up and over backward, before being slammed sideways, slipping out of his glide in the strong crosswind. Plummeting to earth in tangled disarray, he tumbled down. Down to strike the earth with a cracking thud, lying still, quiet as the crowd, holding their breaths.
Attarian watched and shook his head as he turned away, walking back to prepare for the celebration to follow. The crowd began to laugh and talk, drifting away as they realised the show was over. The flyers came toward them slowly, showing their usual disregard for their injured comrade. The slim figures of the flyers spread out into a line facing the village, and halted at about fifty metres distance. As they sat down, most of the crowd had disappeared back into the houses to prepare what goods they had for trade.
Bluesky watched the others as they sat to his left, hoping for a glimpse of sorrow, a tear, but he’d known, none would be evident. Faces cold and hard as stone masks stared straight ahead. He did too, despite the cloying emotion welling up inside, threatening to betray him. He knew the feelings would soon fade as they always did, and Cloud had been old, well past the age when most died.