Silence
Is it really golden?
People say that silence is golden. It saves many a great deal of anguish or embarrassment, and is generally a practice worth following. But if one remains forever silent, what is lost? What thoughts drift away into oblivion, never to be carried through the air, never to find purchase in the mind of a listener? In truth, silence loses its luster after a lifetime, especially when one takes into consideration the degree to which we rely on speech. It is more than a way to convey thoughts and feelings; speech is often our connection to the world. And when it is lost, when our innate ability to communicate is beyond our reach…
The Stone Tells A Story
Can you read the writing on the wall?
The den was large despite its outward appearance. Looking at it from the outside, one saw only a crevice in the side of a hill—hardly big enough to notice. A fox might live in it, or some other small animal. Just looking at the opening was enough to make one claustrophobic. But inside—inside was different. The cramped entrance led into a spacious cave, tall enough to stand in comfortably. It was a pocket of stone, a grass-covered fortress hidden from sight. Only the treasure it protected was of the living, breathing variety.
A white and purple eyrie slept in one corner, his back to the wall, head resting upon his grey talons. His chest rose slowly with each breath. He was not a small creature, but his limbs were long and thin, and one could just barely discern the shape of his ribs underneath his fur. But despite his less-than-healthy appearance, he looked peaceful, as if he had no troubles in the world.
Looking from the eyrie to the cave around him, though, one could plainly see the difference between his serene figure and the rough walls. In fact, looking closer at the walls, not only were they rough, but they were marred by deep scratches. It almost looked as if talons sharper than diamond had taken out their frustration upon the unsympathetic stone. Some of the scratches even looked like they had purpose, had shape. Like they were telling a story.
Beginnings
So it all began
What a beautiful baby boy. The words, and several variations of them, spread throughout the small nursery. The den was crowded; although only close friends and immediate family had been invited, they numbered more than enough to fill the available space. Excitement permeated the air, seeming to jump from one body to the next like an electrical charge. The only things that kept the throng away from the baby in question were the two eyries at the center of it all.
The father stood between the crowd and his weary mate, keeping guard, although her fierce eyes let everyone know that she was not too tired to defend her newborn. The newborn, for his part, lay nestled against his mother's belly, looking out at his watchers through the feathers of a wing she kept draped over him. Concealed as he was, it was surprising anyone had caught a glimpse of him at all.
One of the onlookers took a step closer to get a better view, but immediately jumped back when the father lashed out with his talons, giving a shrill warning shriek.
Easy, easy Eros, cried the offending friend. I mean the child no harm. He gave a deep bow. But you did invite us to attend. I would imagine that we would at least be allowed a clear look at the child. Eros seemed to pause, taking a breath.
Gienah? Even though he spoke to his mate, he did not look at her. It is up to you. Gienah looked from Eros to their expectant guests. For several moments, she did not move, but then she released a soft sigh, and slowly withdrew her wing from its protective position.
The young eyrie seemed to sense the change in the tense air, and perked his head up. Intelligence and curiosity sparked behind his bright yellow eyes. His white coat glistened, still moist, and his purple markings and feathers stood in sharp contrast. Perhaps one of the most intriguing things about this newborn, however, was that he made no sound. One might expect a crawling, squalling creature, but he was perfectly calm, content to observe his new world.
The gathered crowd let out a collective sigh at the sight of the newborn. He was gorgeous, perfect in every way. His pelt was a perfect balance between the deep purple of his father and the pristine white of his mother. And his eyes! They were so sharp and focused, though he was out of the womb barely an hour. He was an old soul, the observers whispered. He would make his parents proud.
Upon further inspection
Is all as perfect as it seems?
The eyrie stirs in his sleep, muscles twitching as if he's having a nightmare, and the soft whisper of feathers against the stone floor filled the eerily silent cave. One of his white wings relaxes, falls open, and a mangled structure is revealed; the bones look wrong, somehow, as if they had been broken and never healed properly. Even so, the rest of his body looked healthy enough. It was only the look that seemed to linger in his features, even as he slept, and the thinness of his figure that pointed to hardships. But to see these, one had to look more closely...
Name: Altair
Nickname: Gryffin
Gender: Male
Age: Twenty-four
Species: Eyrie
Mother: Gienah (Deceased)
Father: Eros (Deceased)
Color: White with purple markings
Height: Four feet at the shoulder
Length: Eight feet from beak to tail
Weight: Five hundred pounds (Underweight)
Build: Solid, but rather unhealthily thin
Specialties: None
Disabilities: Mute; Unable to fly (Broken wings)
Status: Alone
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Finally, the eyrie's movements still, and he sighs. It is a resigned sound. There is no escaping whatever it is he was trying to run away from; there is no reaching whatever he was running towards.
Alone
And so it all comes tumbling down
All right now, Altair. Don't worry about the height. You must trust in yourself. Your wings will know what to do. Eros watched his son, who gazed warily over the edge of the cliff. Altair didn't care what his father said; it was an awfully long fall. Still… He lifted his gazed from the crashing ocean far below to the open sky overhead. His wings itched to stretch in flight. So, with one final, deep breath, he dived.
The wind roared in his ears as he plummeted, whipping through his fur. His eyes were slits against the rush of it, but his gaze never wavered from the approaching sea. A soft voice whispered in his mind. Wait…wait…wait…NOW! His wings snapped open, the wind caught under them, and he swooped away from his deadly dive, his talons skimming the surface of the dark waters below. Soaring up, his body twisting almost effortlessly through the air, he looked back to the top of the cliff, only to find that his father was not where he had left him.
What, did you think I'd let you perform that dive alone? Eros's deep voice resonated from above him, and Altair craned his neck to see the great purple eyrie cruising luxuriantly. He winked at his son's bewildered look. Besides, I wouldn't miss that dive for the world. He tilted his head toward the cliff. Now, let's go back to your mother.
Gienah was waiting impatiently several feet back from the edge. She visibly relaxed when her two boys came into view. Her eyes even sparkled with a smile. Ah, there you two are. How was it? Altair flapped his wings in excitement, stomping his feet to show his elation. Gienah's brow furrowed briefly, but it smoothed out quickly. That's great, honey. I'm so glad you enjoyed it. She turned to her husband. He flew well?
The best I've ever seen for his age, Eros crowed, chest puffing out with pride. Altair butted his head against his father's side in embarrassment. Now, I want none of that, son. It's true! You were magnificent. The young eyrie smiled with his eyes, but turned his gaze downward, still disbelieving.
Well, Altair, said Gienah, drawing his eyes back up from the ground, has all that effort made you hungry? Altair nodded vigorously, and again, that half-disappointed look crossed Gienah's face, as if she had expected a different answer. But as before, she recovered quickly. Well, there's dinner waiting at home. Why don't we head on back? She scarcely finished speaking before Altair was off, dashing across the plain. Every few steps, he would take a running leap, and glide several meters before alighting again and continuing his headlong dash. Eros, watching him with great love in his eyes, chuckled. The two parents began walking after their son, always careful to call him back if he strayed too far, but allowing him to stay far enough ahead that they could talk without him overhearing.
Gienah, what is wrong? Eros hadn't missed the fleeting looks of frustration and disappointment. Gienah was silent for a while, as if reluctant to put words to her worries.
He still won't speak, she sighed finally. He's six, Eros, and he hasn't said a word.
What does it matter, when he understands every word we say? replied Eros. He will speak when he is ready. And if he's doesn't…well, it doesn't matter. He is ours, and he is perfect. Gienah sighed again, but nodded.
You're right. Of course you're right. She leaned her head against Eros's, nuzzling under his chin for a moment before pulling away. She scanned the plain for Altair, only to realize with a shock that he wasn't there. Altair? She checked again. She must have just missed him. He was just hiding behind some tall grass. Altair! Her voice echoed across the plain, followed closely by the sound of Eros's. It was more than loud enough to bring Altair back at a dead run. Seconds passed and there was no sight of him. Then there was a sound that chilled both parents to the bone and sent them scrambling to the air—a wolf's howl.
Altair shrank to the ground, trembling as the wolves paced around him, closing him in and getting closer with each pass. One wing hung limp against his body, bloody and bent the wrong way. They had surprised him. He had been so caught up in his joy of new flight that he had gotten too far away from his parents, hadn't noticed when the pack snuck up, blending into the dusk. One of them had snatched him right out of the air and flung him to the ground, where he stayed, cringing in fear and pain.
One of the wolves darted in, snaring his other wing in its teeth and biting down with a sickening crunch. Altair's beak opened in a silent scream, writhing in an attempt to get away from the steel jaws. His attempts only made it worse, however, as his wing wrenched from its socket. Seemingly satisfied, the wolf crunched down once more and released, rejoining the circle around the eyrie.
Altair heard a voice cry his name in the distance, and wished he could reply, but now, as always, the words stopped in his throat, unable to cross some unnamed barrier. But they would come for him. His parents would save him.
A wolf howled.
Now, now, little one, don't be frightened. One of the wolves laughed, but it was an awful sound, full of menace. We're not going to eat you. The wolf's eyes sparkled with cunning. There was something evil lurking behind those eyes. A shiver ran down Altair's spine. We just want you to lure your parents over here. You see, you're too small, by yourself, to feed a pack as large as ours. We need something more…substantial. The wolf grinned, showing his teeth.
Altair felt a sudden realization sink into the very pit of his stomach, and there it soured. He wanted to throw up. The wolves had set a trap, and he was the bait. And he wouldn't be able to warn his parents when they came. It would be twenty to two, with the element of surprise on the side of the wolves. His parents wouldn't rescue him. They would be slaughtered.
One of the wolves tilted its head and gave a low bark, and the pack disappeared into the gathering night. No sooner had the wolves disappeared into the plain then Eros and Gienah landed beside him, making a protective circle around him.
Altair, what happened?"
Oh, baby, your wings!"
Are they gone?"
Dearest, where did they go?
Altair gazed up at his parents, unable to even feel the pain in his wings over the sickness in his heart. He opened his beak, tried to force the words out, but they wouldn't come. The harder he pushed, the worse it was. His parents watched him warily. Never before had Altair tried so hard to say something; he had always seemed content with his silence. But here they watched as he was reduced to a fit of coughing with his efforts.
Don't strain yourself, love. It's not important."
Let's just get you out of here.
Altair looked up just in time to see the first wolf pounce on his father.
It was all over surprisingly fast. Taken by surprise, they had hardly had the chance to put up a fight. Altair watched in a kind of stupor as the wolves dug into the corpses, unable to tear his eyes away. His once proud parents, reduced to nothing more than bits of flesh and bone in the stomachs of their killers. This thought burned through his brain like a hot ember, igniting everything it touched, but still he could not get his body to move. It was as if his muscles, along with his voice, had failed him.
The meal, too, disappeared quickly. Twenty diners made short work of the biggest of feasts. Slowly, one by one, they turned to him, and Altair found some solace in the fact that now he would die, too. Before any one of them could make a move, however, the wolf that had spoken before, presumably the alpha, stepped forward.
No, this one lives. We have no more time. We must move on. As one, the pack turned and headed off, accepting their leader's excuse without a second thought. It was only Altair, who had a clear view of his eyes, who could see there was another reason behind the lie. One rooted in maliciousness and hatred. And you will be left alone. All alone, without the solace of death to comfort you, the wolf whispered before turning tail and running into the night.
The words echoed through Altair's skull. Alone. The word had never seemed so deep and empty before. But now, on the empty plain, next to the mangled corpses of his parents, it ate at his soul. Alone… No, he couldn't. He couldn't survive this. Anything but this.
Terrified more now than he had been facing death, Altair raced after the wolf, hoping that somehow, he could reach him, provoke him, anything. Anything to keep away from the dead, echoing word in his soul. Alone.
His gait was awkward. Talons weren't meant for running in the best of circumstances, and these were most definitely not the best of circumstances. His useless wings dragged on the floor as he ran, forcing dirt and debris into the wounds. Alone.
One of his wings found its way under his feet, tripping him and sending him tumbling across the ground. He heard more cracks as the already mangled bones crushed underneath his body. The pain was a distant thing. He returned to his feet, kept on running. Each step brought him closer to nowhere. Each step drove the word deeper into his skull until every pulse of pain in his wings, every stabbing breath in his lungs, was one word. It was everything. It consumed his world.
Alone. Alone. Alone. Alone.
He kept running.
Some are worse than others
the wolf pack
The eyrie's eyes were open. They must have been for some time, for there was no fog of sleep clouding their piercing gaze. A deep pain was behind those eyes; it would have been all too easy to lose oneself in that pain, drown in it. The yellow orbs were black holes, despite their brightness. They were not condemning, nor accusatory. They simply endured, as he had endured. Strength was behind those eyes, the sort of strength that was uncommon in the world. So much they had seen, but he lived on; there was nothing else for him to do. It was a miracle, with the sort of villains he had faced.
The wolf pack is an almost ethereal entity, never in one place for longer than a few hours. It appears long enough to feed and then disappear, seeming to dissolve into the night. For it is always night, or close to it, when they appear. They are like ghosts, and indeed, the edges of their forms are always blurred at the edges, their pelts a pitch black. This quality has earned them them the name "Shadow Hounds", and those who speak of them speak quietly.
The wolves most often move as a single unit, and their movements are perfectly coordinated, as if there is some unspoken language that keeps them in line. Their hunts are deadly, and no target of theirs ever escapes alive. Those they feed on are picked clean, and sometimes there is nothing left--marrow can be an excellent source of protein. How they pick their victims is a debated issue. Some believe that they track their prey by listening to their heartbeat, others that they keep watch from that other place to which they disappear.
And they do disappear. They evaporate into the air, jumping through a rift in the worlds that only they can see. There they stay until hunger calls them forth again. When it does, they are unstoppable. They have no known weakness.
The eyrie's eyes are enrapturing. There is no escaping them, for the story is not finished. There is more to tell.
Agony
Can it really end this way?
He ran through the entire night, and through most of the next day until, finally, his body would no longer respond to his will. The most he could do was crawl. But it seemed that some deity had taken mercy upon him, because there was a small cave—it seemed to be little more than a divot in the ground, really—only a few feet from where he fell. Exhausted beyond all comprehension, he crawled into the space, asleep as soon as his entire body was through the opening.
His sleep was fitful, but long. His body needed the sleep more than his mind balked at the memories parading across his eyelids. When he finally did wake, it was as if he had had no sleep at all, and his entire body was afire with pain.
It came on slowly, through the fog of sleep, bringing him to wakefulness with a tease. It was only when he opened his eyes that he truly felt it. Immediately, his eyes widened and the silent scream once again tried to force its way from his lungs. His wings, mangled beyond all repair, felt like they were burning. His talons clawed at the stone floor beneath him, a screeching sound meeting his ears as they dug through the rock.
There was nothing he could do to stop it. It was the purest, most exquisite form of agony. He couldn't even lose consciousness; every time the darkness threatened to enclose his vision, new fire would erupt, sending a shock through every nerve.
Mommy, look at the pretty flowers! He must be losing his mind. A child's voice, just outside the cave. Another voice answered, but the pain rose and his hearing faded, his mind filling with white noise. Do something! His mind screamed. Get their attention, or you will die here! But he couldn't do anything. He could only writhe in agony, his talons screeching against the stone.
Mommy! Did you hear that?"
It sounded like it came from in there."
What was that?"
Listen, there it is again!"
It gives me the creeps."
It's like nails against a chalkboard.
The voices were either getting closer, or he pain was causing their volume to increase to taunt him.
Look Mommy! Oh, that poor thing! Look at its wings!"
Oh, my goodness. Paul, what happened to it?"
I couldn't tell you, Anne, but he sure looks like he's been through a lot."
Mommy! We have to help it!
Altair thought he saw three pale faces peering in at him through the entrance to the cave. He was hallucinating, he was sure of it. He was dying, he was sure, and his mind was now playing tricks on him. Give him hope, and then kill him.
At least you won't be alone.
The thought was the last he had before the blackness finally enveloped him.
It turned out that Altair had, indeed, seen three faces. The faces, of course, belonged to three humans, who went by the names of Anne, Paul, and Sara. Paul, it so happened, was a veterinarian, but even his substantial skill was not enough to save Altair's wings. Sure, he set them, but they never healed properly. They could never open to their full extent, and the feathers that did manage to grow on them were bent and malformed. Altair would never fly again.
The nightmares still plagued him, too, and he doubted if they would ever cease. The images were burned into his retinas, ready to play every time he closed his eyes. So every night, he relived the attack, the pain, the aching loneliness.
But not everything was terrible. The family had graciously allowed Altair—or "Gryffin", as Sara called him—to stay with them even after he healed. Over time, as his body healed, he became accustomed to the dreams. He would still wake in a cold sweat, trembling, but the terror would leave him when he opened his eyes. His past became bearable.
Still, as the years passed, he became aware of a deep disquiet within his soul. Something was missing from his cozy life with his new family. The feeling began as little more than a glimmer of thought on the edges of his consciousness, only visible for brief glimpses when he teetered on the edge of sleep. But slowly, it grew, eating away at him.
Revenge. He wanted revenge.
So one day, he left. He stepped from the house he had known for half of his life and began to run.
He was alone once more.
Here the story ends
who can relieve this burden?
The eyrie shudders, his eyes closing. The rest of the story won't come, and somehow, it does not matter. There is something in the stone, in the eyrie's eyes, that speak of an unsatisfactory ending. It is in the thinness of his body, the droop to his wings. The story continues still. The eyrie has taken on a duty he can never fulfill, and its incompleteness will haunt him forever. He must take small relief where he can, however he can, but it can never be enough. Only revenge can absolve him of his burden, and he has found that revenge will be impossible.
The eyrie once more lays down his head upon his talons. There have been many others in his life, most simply passing through. A few have become constants, although they are always distant, always out of reach. But perhaps he keeps it that way. Perhaps being alone is the only thing he knows, the only thing he has ever known, for even as a child, his silence kept him separate from the world.
Family
Some seem to shine in the dark
Reflections of a tortured soul
Soar to new heights
Even as I stay grounded
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Dare to return
Shatter the solitude
The pain is too great
An ending
The stone falls silent, as quiet as the eyrie who has returned to a state of sleep--or, at least, seems that way. There is nothing more here, and there is something about the seemingly peaceful quiet that demands an exit. Leave, it says. Return another day, but for now, leave. For even when sound fails, silence always seems to have its say. Something is always there to tell the story.Links out
