Birds of Paradise by Oliver Langmead (read any book .TXT) 📗

shoes as he passes through. Of course, he sets off the metal detector, but that’s no surprise. A man waves a hand-held detector over him and it beeps at every bullet and broken blade and piece of shrapnel still embedded beneath his scars, and when they pat him down he tells them that he’s a veteran and has had several of his bones replaced with metal parts. They accept his explanation with no further questions, and suddenly Adam is queueing to board instead, and lacing his shoes back on. He tries to spot Crow in the queue, and notices her near the front, so hunched up in her hoodie that she seems smaller than she is in his memory.

On the plane, they manage to find seats together, despite having been booked separately.

They are in standard class, and everyone seems a little too close together. Adam’s knees are crushed against the seat in front of him, and to his left Crow is clutching his arm with both of hers, and there is an elderly Scottish lady leaning in to his right, who is insisting on making conversation.

“Do I know you?” she asks again, peering at him through thick glasses.

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m sure I do.”

“We’ve never met.”

The lady stares for a few moments longer, and then smiles. “You have a nice face.”

Adam turns back to Crow. “Maybe you should try and sleep.”

“I can’t sleep. If I sleep, I’ll die, and I’ll wake up dead.”

The plane begins moving, and every small jostle makes Crow clutch at Adam’s hand tighter. She is clearly terrified, and he’s not sure what to do about it. He considers trying to say something comforting, but he’s never been very good at words.

The plane takes off, and a child a few seats up starts shrieking. “I’m sorry,” says Crow. “I hate this. I hate being trapped. I promised myself I’d never let it happen again.”

“Again?”

Crow’s voice is very soft. “He was the son of a Gupta; handsome, charming and intelligent. He was interested in architecture and astrology, and he’d take me to see temples and palaces during the day, and name all the constellations at night. He loved treasures, and he treated me as if I were a finer treasure than any of his jewels or spices. I fell in love with him, and he confessed that he felt the same way, so I showed him my feathers, and he professed his wonder, and adoration, and lavished me with praise in every way he knew how, and had a room made for me, in his palace, where I could roost undisturbed, and fly from the window at all hours. In time, he told me that I should keep wearing my feathers always, because he loved them so much, and some nights, he began closing the window to my room, and locking the door, because his enemies were close, and he was afraid they might try and hurt me. Then he started locking me in every night, for my safety. Eventually, he only unlocked the door to let me out while in his company, because he so feared for my life, and he would watch me as I flew laps around his lavish courtyard. Then, at last, he had a chain made for me from the finest silver, and looped it around my claw, so I would be tethered to him whenever he let me out. He said that it was a symbol of our undying love for each other.”

“What did you do?”

Crow absently touches her prosthetic. “I escaped.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“If I’d have known…”

“But you didn’t. Nobody did. I let it happen. That’s the problem. I let it happen.”

Adam places his hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she says, so quietly it’s almost a whisper.

Soon, she is asleep; exhausted, perhaps, by the retelling of her story. And lulled by her breathing, Adam, too, drifts away.

The first time he wakes, it is night, and most of the passengers around him are tucked up under tiny blue blankets. The elderly lady is leaning against him and snoring, but Crow is wide awake again, and glaring out of a window as if she might smash the glass with the intensity of her gaze. Her grip on his arm has strengthened, and every time there’s the slightest tremble of turbulence she twitches, as if ready to leap from her seat.

Sleep takes Adam again.

The next time he’s awoken, it’s by noise. There is the overwhelming rushing of air, and books, and crisp packets, and plastic cups whirl everywhere around him. Adam’s seat is shaking horribly, and bright daylight gushes in through the windows. Oxygen masks dangle, swinging and bouncing with each jarring jolt of the plane, and Adam can see everyone around him pulling them to their faces. Feeling light-headed, Adam grabs at his own oxygen mask and straps it on, trying to take stock of what’s happening. There are people in the aisle clinging on to the seats to remain steady, and there are even more people at the front of the cabin, trying desperately to close the door. Beyond that gaping portal is the open sky, blue and white in rushing abundance.

With a Herculean communal heave, the door slams shut.

The shuddering of the plane continues, and the screaming of the passengers suddenly becomes audible. Everyone is panicking and trying to breathe. There are marks on his hand where Crow gripped him tight, but her seat is empty. He tries to stand, still feeling dizzy from the sudden loss of cabin pressure, but only succeeds at bouncing his skull from the low ceiling. So, instead, he turns to the elderly Scottish lady, who is breathing heavily, her face pale. “Have you seen the girl who was sitting next to me?”

“It was her,” she says, breathlessly. “She opened the door.”

“Where is she?”

“She jumped,” says the lady, her eyes wide. “She jumped out of the plane.”

III

It used to be that any journey of profound distance could be measured in lives lost.

Sickness,