“Are you ready?” a reedy voice asked from behind him. He had never seen the man before, and he was uncertain he had ever seen someone so old. His wings drooped low and were barren in places, tattered. Grimult could not be certain if it was age or injury that had made them so, but it was obvious that flight was no longer possible. He would not give insult by flying ahead.
He stood from his seated position and bowed his head. “I am at your command.”
A dim smile. Was he older than the sage who addressed them? He certainly appeared it, his skin thinned and almost papery in appearance.
“Then follow me,” the man told him, his steps surprisingly light, his wings the only rasp as they dragged along the dirt.
His robe was of a dull grey, his hair neat but almost shocking in its whiteness. Grimult’s own neared black, thinking fondly of how his mother had always referred to him as her inky haired boy, nearly since his birth. His wings nearly matched, though flecks of brown and grey could be seen throughout the softer feathers inside, though only someone he trusted enough to see to them would know that.
They walked in silence, Grimult’s thoughts churning nearly as much as his stomach, and it took a great deal of discipline to keep from stealing too many glances at his guide. They were headed towards the woods, and he nodded absently to himself. A trial of time and speed, perhaps. Navigation would be key, and if they required him to find anything in particular, a keen eye would also be necessary.
“Most lads would be peppering me with questions by now,” the man intoned, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But not you?”
Grimult swallowed, wondering if he had already failed in some way. Was silence akin to disinterest? Nothing could be further from the truth. “Would those questions receive answers?”
A laugh, something rare from an instructor. “Some,” he allowed. “Though not many.”
They stepped away from the path, the man using his hands to carefully push past the underbrush, turning each time to see it put back into place once Grimult was also through. He offered no explanation, although Grimult could guess it was so that no initiates who came after him would know the path they were about to take. By the third outcropping he was able to anticipate the man’s habit and see to it himself, feeling better to offer aid rather than accept it.
The earth itself showed only the slightest hint that some had traversed it, the leaves pressed lightly down into the soft ground below, a few twigs snapped when a boot found them.
They carried on that way for longer than Grimult would have expected. Did he make this walk every day to pick a new initiate? Multiple times? Why were they not brought to him so he might save his energy for other tasks?
He should not question it. It was his choice to make, surely, and he thought it important to escort the initiates himself.
“Here we are,” the man announced. Grimult blinked, looking about his surroundings for what might have initiated such a pronouncement. Trees were in abundance, not even giving way to any sort of clearing that might indicate a greater meeting area. There were brightly coloured mushrooms spiralling their way up one of the trunks. Poisonous, and touch alone would bring a rash, so best avoided entirely. A bird was calling from the west, perhaps in search of its mate. Or announcing a predator.
The man shuffled on, mumbling lightly to himself, and Grimult followed. Past the mushrooms, away from the bird, to a rockface hidden amongst moss and branches. It was similar to the traditional dwellings of his people only in the sense that the surroundings were of stone, but otherwise it was entirely different. None would choose to live so near to the ground, most especially when one’s belongings would fall victim to the sea should even the lightest of storms seek to take them.
But Grimult supposed this was suitable for a man who could no longer make use of his wings.
And a dwelling it clearly was.
There was a cot at the far end, part of it shrouded by a partition. The man went to a fireplace cut into the side of the cave, a mason obviously having been released upon it, as carvings were etched into the sides, intricate and most decidedly deliberate. A large iron hook extended above the flames and a kettle hung low, the man taking a long-handled ladle and filling it with fresh water from a bucket to the side.
Herbs hung from the ceiling, fragrant and plentiful, and Grimult’s curiosity only grew at who this man might be.
There was a table and three chairs, although something about them did not seem to suit the space, as if they had been added only recently and not had time to settle in with the other fixtures. Perhaps it was that they were not stained green from his obvious work with flora that grew amongst the woods, the counter beside him having long since succumbed to their juices.
“You going to sit or is your intention to stand and stare for the duration?”
There was nothing cruel in the man’s tone, but it was enough for Grimult to feel a bolt of embarrassment in any case, selecting one of the seats and settling as comfortably as he could. They were of fine craftsmanship, but were still of a plain wood, the back of which cut slightly into the edge of his wing, and he shifted in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort.
Better to have no back at all than to have a misplaced
