Hello.
The boy jumped—startled by the sudden sound. His eyes darted around, searching for the source of the voice that so strangely sounded ethereal.
"Who?"
There was a sound like the jingling of bells; a melodious laugh that came from the back of his mind.
Over here.
Io swallowed, backing against the wall as his eyes continued to scan his empty room. "Why...can I hear you? I can't see you."
Well, why not?
Io believed it was his question to ask. Nevertheless, his mind struggled to catch the beat of his heart—reason pulling on the reigns of imagination. "I can't see you," He repeated with a voice that stumbled near the end.
By the window.
He had his reasons not to listen to this strange voice conversing with him seemingly through his consciousness, and he voiced this immediately.
"I-I'm not going there." Boundaries existed for a reason, and they were not to be crossed—
Then I'll come in.
*
"Don't!" Io had intended to shut his windows and, perhaps, take cover underneath his sheets, when he realized that the option was rather late. Instead, he took up the only defense he had—a pillow. "I've heard of people who can make their voices sound as if they're coming from somewhere else but, you know, this isn't the time. Also, it's not nice to invite yourself into someone else's house."
His gaze was fixed on the window by his bed as words spilled out in panic. Far immune to the insane racing of his heart, Io was not bothered by the ringing in his ears that was often the result of this.
There was a sudden movement—in which he shrank from involuntarily, recoiling from the open space that light flooded through.
It was the sparrow.
Hello.
The boy's head tilt to the side in confusion. "But you're—" A bird. It was only a bird.
His eyes widened upon the light that gradual realization brought with it, and the only natural reaction for him was to step away.
"What are you?" Io backed onto his bedframe, darting under the covers as soon as possible.
But still—regardless where he was or whatever he was doing, her voice was as clear as water, a strange golden richness in her tone.
You're afraid? Of a sparrow?
"Y-You're not a normal sparrow!" The village boy pointed out the obvious, apprehension filling the mind that so often let it in.
Oh look at me—how am I not a harmless sparrow?
"You can talk, for the matter," He backed intelligently, poking his head out of the covers for a brief moment.
I can, yes. But you have to be listening. You can hear me.
"And...why—is that?"
Hold on, I've yet to introduce myself! Said the sparrow rather abruptly, dismissing Io's question. How rude of me. You are...Tori. Iolani Tori?
"No...no. You've got it all wrong. You know, maybe you saw someone else," The boy denied with a shake of his head, shrinking under the covers. Gradually, he was losing himself.
I couldn't have. I know it is you, Iolani. I am your Avian, after all.
"Avian?"
For was that not simply another name for birds? How silly the sparrow sounded at present, Io could hardly understand.
"You...you should leave." Then came a knock on his door.
"Io? There's a parcel for you on the dining. Mama is going to the fields to help Uncle Rick. Drink your oats!" A muffled voice came through the wood, preceding the shutting of the main door and steady footsteps that receded into nothing.
Io paused, then popped his head out of the covers and waited for anything else.
There was no movement; and the bird was nowhere in sight.
It was on a whim—a hungry instinct—that Io decided to made a break for the weak wooden door, yanking it open and slamming it back in place before breathing hard and clutching his chest that felt so, so tight.
Beating fast and hard, the creature in his cage pounded with a rousing yawn; having slept for quite some time in the forgotten peace and shelter that his life had settled into, unknowingly.
The boy prayed hard. He asked for the sparrow to leave him in peace, or that it would have probably realized that he was no...special person, and made her quiet exit.
Io entered the dining area, spotting the brown parcel that sat on the table—the one that his mother had mentioned—wrapped in a strange paper and held together by string. He found it rather strange that his heart had yet to return to its natural state; a monotonous sound that seemed rather lacking at times. A fervent buzz stirring within, he tore open the packaging to reveal a peculiar square box.
He lifted the cover carefully, as though afraid of whatever he was about to discover beyond, and peeked inside.
The first thing he saw was an envelope. And beneath the paper, a set of clothes.
He picked up the letter, seemingly addressed to him, and glanced curiously at the name of the sender.
Flight School
The boy repeated the words, finding that they rolled off his tongue in a foreign manner that was strangely...pleasant. He opened the envelope gently, fishing out its contents and scanning through in quiet anticipation. It was a letter after all. A letter addressed to him—
Or was it? Who was Iolani Tori?
Among the contents were a slip of hard paper with strange markings, and Io somehow made out his name and a single word that rang a bell—plane. It was a ticket. Or so he assumed it was. Puzzled, he continued to flip through the rest of the contents. There was a map, titled: Metro Subway Directions. It was confusing and the lines and numbers made the poor boy cross-eyed.
The last however, stood out. As all final things did.
It was a piece of parchment paper.
________________________
FLIGHT SCHOOL FOR THE WINGED
Dear Mr Tori,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Flight School for the Winged. Please find enclosed a plane ticket, a map, a set of uniform, and your standard book bag.
There will be an escort at the State Airport according to the given time on the ticket. Please note that if you miss the flight, your name will be automatically canceled in the register.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your Avian by no later than 1 August.
Yours sincerely,
Quinn Faustes
Deputy Headmaster
__________________________
The words were scanned quickly, again and again, by eyes so uncertain and beat—as if failing to find his footing in dark waters. But like the nature of any substance, all knowledge slipped out of his hands through the gaps that were the cause of fingers leaving behind nothing more than a single word that was Avian.
It was a word that the sparrow—real, or simply a figment of his imagination—had uttered.
A figment? I? She laughed a little, causing the boy to jump in shock, gaze darting from corner to corner of the room in search for the sparrow. Why, I'm almost as real as you are.
"Stop it. Stop that—stop reading what I'm thinking...where are you? How did you get out?"
The window of course. The bird said, as if stating the obvious. And I'm over here, to your left.
Io glanced over as instructed and sure enough, the sparrow hopped out of its hiding spot behind an orchid pot. He reached out to move the pot aside and the bird did not flinch one bit. "Please, please. Won't you leave me alone?"
Oh! I was sure you could read, at the very least. Did you not see what was written in the letter? So many things to do and so little time—
"I'm sorry little bird; sparrow, whatever you are...but my mother has already signed me up for St. Bridge's school for boys and I am to go there after the summer holidays where I will graduate, and find a nice job in the city, and...well, live a life, I suppose," The village boy explained quickly, thoughts clogging up the narrow filter that had forgotten its width upon years of shelter and protection.
He stood quite still, breathing—staring at this sparrow on his windowsill. Mental. Yes, that would be rather accurate to describe his current state of mind.
There it was again; the bell-like laughter that filled his head with a familiar tune.
Silly.
The sparrow cocked her head to the side, jet-black eyes turning to the kitchen counter. Oh. What's this? An item of your belonging?
Io followed her gaze, spotting a book. Inching closer, he picked it up.
"Spirit...animals."
As if to explain himself, he added sheepishly that his mother had an interest in...in supernatural things.
Is that so? I'd like to take a look, if I may. Your mother doesn't mind, does she? Do it nevertheless, I've heard humans like to share their food.
Finding absolutely no correlation between this piece of information and the matter at hand, Io couldn't help but wonder why he was letting a tiny bird order him around. After all, ignorance was not an impossible option.
Not a viable option, in my opinion. Better leave it. The tone in his head changed to one of a sharp and stern warning, and the sparrow hopped onto the kitchen counter.
Open it, dear. Hurry. These are the rare times where curiosity can be satisfied immediately.
"Yes, yes. I heard you the first time," Io grumbled with a sigh, proceeding to flip open to the first page of the book. He scanned through the introduction.
Out loud please. I'd very much like it to be read to me.
He sighed once more. "In Pagan religions and systems, a Spirit Animal is meant to be a representation...? Of the personality traits and skills that one has. It is said that...that when something is your spirit animal, that person or animal is a representation of one's self or who they want to be...."
"...So?" Io frowned, turning to the bird.
How pleasant! To have a book written about a mere creature like myself—and, you have your answer. I am...your, so called, "spirit animal".
Your Avian, to be specific.
"You?" He voiced carefully. "Then...what am I?"
In formal terms, my dear, you are my Winged. Connected, per se, how? Well, that is a rather complex question you see—
"Wings? But...but you already have wings." The boy pointed out upon mishearing the sparrow, staring at the fluffy brown feathers on her sides.
There was an exasperated sigh at the back of his head.
Winged, dear. Not wings. Of course I have wings, silly human. Ah well unfortunately for the both of us, I'm stuck with you. And you, with me.
"Stuck? How? That sounds dangerous," Was his first thought. "Are you sure...you've got the right person? I mean." He looked at himself.
"I've always been...well, normal," Io concluded intelligently, tapping his finger against the kitchen counter. "I don't talk to birds. Nor do I talk to anyone, really. A-apart from myself. I mean, I just work in the fields. That's all."
He couldn't see anything special in that.
Normal! The sparrow exclaimed in an amused manner, and Io for the very first time, heard a bird exclaim. Oh, hear him speak. Help yourself dear, you need a new pair of eyes. What do humans call them? Eyeglasses?
"It's true," The village boy insisted with a shake of his head, thanking the skies that there was no one at home to see him acting so strangely towards a sparrow. "This is a dream, isn't it? I have weird dreams."
Weird dreams of a floating island?
That was when he stopped.
For how? How was it that she knew?
He frowned, backing away.
And flight?
Do you dream of flying?
He did—oh no.
He did.
"You're wrong," He lied. But found it hard to continue. "I...I'm afraid of heights."
The latter was nothing less than the truth, but Io found himself no less comforted by the half-lie that he had said in place of anything he could have said. The truth was hard to distinguish.
Don't be silly. If it makes you feel any better, I see it too. The island.
It's nice to finally be called. Some of us are, the sparrows. They leave out the rest, but you know. Not everyone's going to experience the same things—and then I found you. Oh, you were easy to find. Your mind is very loud.
The sparrow hopped around the kitchen counter, as if searching for something.
Do you, perhaps, have anything for me? It was a rather long flight here—starving, you see. Famished.
Having felt the same—strangely so—Io searched the cupboards above the counter and managed to scrape together his last packet of roasted sunflower seeds.
There was a weight on his heart; almost as though an iron cage had settled itself around it in and trapped the creature within. Without the will to escape, it remained inside—somewhat exhausted, and somewhat famished.
"Here," He said, tilting the packet over to pour a couple of seeds on the counter.
Why thank you. Sunflower seeds are my favorite.
They're mine too, he agreed in his mind. The sparrow looked up from her meal, and fixed a peculiar gaze at her Winged.
Yes, I know.
Io dragged a chair up the counter, and together with the sparrow, ate in silence with only the sound of crunching seeds.
Please, call me Lyra.
His gaze flickered to the bird who had the miraculous ability of speech.
"I'm...Iolani. But you can call me Io, I guess."
Pleased to meet you, Io. Lyra responded pleasantly. Did you know that your name means 'to soar'?
The village boy stared.
"No, actually. I didn't..."
Well now you do.
Io wondered if birds could smile;
Because he was so sure that Lyra just did.
________________________
[2 weeks later]
The queue behind the boy rattled like an irritant snake.
He felt the peevish glares of the people behind that baked his back and the clicking of tongues that expressed the displeasure of those who waited for the boy to act.
Stealing a tentative glance over his shoulder, his eyes widened—quickly turning back to the foreign machine in front of him. He did not know what to do.
The shrill sound of a phone seized the heart and he jumped—fingers weak from its shake. They hovered above the smooth surface of the touch screen, uncertain as to where they should lie.
"Tsk, hurry up," The man behind him clicked his tongue sharply and muttered under his breath. Io swallowed, gaze flickering between the complex map above his head and the screen of the ticket machine. How he had, so gratefully, arrived two hours before planned, and yet, so unfortunately, experienced the same problems he foresaw—the boy did not comprehend.
It was eight in the morning and the subway was packed with strangers; vexed and volatile. Never had he seen so many people in a single area not more than a hundred meters wide and the idea served to upset the creature in his cage. The burning line behind his back grew—continuously so—and there was little to be said about the darting eyes and restless soul. Io's head turned quickly from left to right, glancing at the commuters in front of the self-service ticket station beside him.
In the process of observation, his elbow knocked against a part of the touch-screen on accident and a foreign voice of a woman lurched out strangely.
"Please select your destination."
It was like magic, and it made him freeze; attention back to the smooth screen before him. Brown orbs took in and assessed the list of stations, crossing promptly as if to prevent him from trying any further. The station names listed (barely suitable for enunciation) seemed almost impossible for Io to digest let alone register in his cerebral capacity as he failed to recognize every one of them staring back at him.
He glanced, yet again, at the commuters beside—opened his mouth, only to close it once more. Would they help him? This...this was no walk in the village.
For a moment, Io hoped with all his life that someone behind could read his mind and offer, promptly, the assistance he needed. But of course, no one did.
"Please select your destination." The mechanical voice seized his ears once again and the boy was taken aback (or rather, drawn) by the figure beside him.
The young man looked about a year or two older than Io, and was wearing the exact same uniform as him. There was a noticeably large difference in height and build between the two students who appeared to be from the same school, no less the lack of experience Io had compared to the other—thoroughly evident as the latter went through the process of buying his subway ticket so effortlessly.
Within that second of observation and assessment, Io was unable to meet the young man's eyes as he, for some reason, could not seem to bring himself to...move. At all. There was no explanation for the force that rendered the boy still; his eyes were trained on the screen before him but, for all intents and purposes, seeing nothing at all. It was as if a hand—a darkness—had laid itself upon his heart. Ugly and twisted.
Lyra's presence would have brought comfort, but she was absent.
The student's finger scrolled down the screen in a languid, effortless manner, arriving at the last station in which he tapped. "Destination selected. Please pay—"
Io hurried to copy his exact movements; hoping that they did not seem as silly as it appeared to be in his mind. He scrolled down the screen clumsily, selecting the final option which he didn't exactly notice what it was. "Please pay two dollars and fifteen cents."
A surge of relief filled the tiny boy's chest as he scrambled to fish for the money in his messenger bag. The bag was thin, although littered with many compartments. The owner's only pair of shorts and white button-up shirt were placed folded neatly in the back-most compartment, along with a zip lock bag which contained four pairs of clean underwear.
There was nothing else; for Io had left everything behind.
Seconds later, after the boy had finally slotted his spare change in the coin slit, Io heard a strange buzzing sound that startled him for a moment; which turned out to be a card (his ticket, to be precise) jutting out of another slit in the middle. The boy reached for it contentedly, having achieved his first task.
It was then when he heard a sigh from behind, and someone shoved him aside in a hurry to buy his ticket from the machine.
There was no time to be upset, however. Commuters jostled and pushed, scrambling to the gantry—with eyes that resembled a hawk's—seeking out the open gaps that begged to be filled. "Ah. Sorry, excuse—u-um...sorry. Excuse me—" He was drowning in the frightening wave of jostling feet, clicking heels, foreign noises, and the overwhelming mechanical voices coming from speakers above. There were signs; all pointing in different directions and saying different things.
A dull sensation of loss filled the small boy as he, almost sparrow-like, squeezed his way through a sea of human beings just like himself. Io wondered how he could feel so lost in a place that was, ironically, filled with so many things that directed.
*
The boy had never once understood or bothered to comprehend the phrase 'packed like sardines'. In fact, he did not find it necessary to do so because he figured...it was just a figure of speech. Considering the fact that he was a sheltered village boy, Io could be easily forgiven. However, it was not a small matter in the slightest because the subway was literally packed like sardines. The poor boy felt as if he was forced into the smallest can of sardines with an overflowing amount of the canned concoction. Shoved past the open sliding doors after waiting for fifteen minutes, Io was not required to lift a single limb to board the train. Indeed, he simply flowed in—like the motion of sardines pouring into and out of a can.
The violent jostling and pushing from behind propelled the front of the crowd into the relatively small entrance as the people in the train carriage protested angrily. Despite the murmured complaints and clear display of irritation, no one really bothered to stop and consider the discomfort of the person beside them. Or the people, rather.
Io learnt that subway rides were no pleasant journey. In fact, if given a choice, he would have chosen Uncle Rick's rickety decade-old truck (rusted and primed for decay) over this awful experience anywhere, any time. The fact that the subway was underground and had absolutely nothing to see but people on their phones and briefcases in one's face was also yet another factor.
The boy had his right arm stuck in a ridiculously awkward position between a woman's huge hand bag, squished against another man's briefcase. Someone was stepping on his feet. The person behind him clutched a stack of files which poked him in the back. The girl in front of him turned her head, causing her ponytail to fly right into Io's mouth—open, because he had thought of politely requesting the man behind to put his files under his arm and not in front of him.
There was nothing. No talking, no snoring, no laughing, not even a sneeze or a cough.
The village boy couldn't help but wonder why these people, who were so close in physical proximity, weren't actually close at all.
They weren't alone.
But perhaps, he thought, they were lonely.
______________________
Io! Skies, can you hear me?
His head snapped to attention at the familiar melody and it was a miracle that his hand had stopped aching from being squished by some other object he could not see.
"Lyra! Is that you?"
Eyes were on him. It appeared as though speaking was a crime worthy of being punished; by scrutiny or humiliation, Io did not know but there was a shrinking of the creature in his cage and all of a sudden the world was big and demeaning. This was nothing like the world back home.
The boy felt his face grow hot as he proceeded to cover his mouth, shifting to clutch his messenger's bag in his chest for comfort—but also protection; a form of concealment. He wanted to hide from this world.
Io? Are you there?
The voice in his head repeated once more, a heightened concern in form.
Lyra?
Skies! I had assumed you were squished to death, the boy's Avian sighed in relief. Took you long enough! Are you alright?
There was a sense of accomplishment. One that seemed to Io a large feat to achieve and that was to communicate telepathically. His eyes were shut in concentration, ignoring the uncomfortable poking in his back and the unfamiliar heat from the bodies around.
I'm not, Io thought truthfully. Try being stuffed into a tiny cage filled with a hundred other sparrows—
Terrible! I won't survive it. Well, uh, you have my moral support my dear.
Io's head dropped. That doesn't count, Lyra! Besides, what sort of transport doesn't allow birds to come along? Uncle Rick's truck would have been tons better. Why do you think they don't like birds?
Silly Io, I doubt that's the real reason birds aren't allowed inside the subway. It would be rather strange to find a sparrow in a train carriage...would I be allowed to chirp? Oh but our waste is what matters most to humans isn't it? Enough talking, I feel you getting further already. Let us part here, and meet at the interchange. I managed to tag along on a fancy tipper—the driver's a sweet thing.
Io was beginning to feel a little nauseous.
Before I forget, a casual reminder for you to stay out of trouble. I felt something strange back there; wonder if it was you who did it.
The boy had simply no idea what his Avian was talking about. I didn't do anything, he assured—concentration slipping quickly. There was little logic in his exhaustion and his limbs were strangely heavy.
Is that so? Well, it couldn't possibly be me. I don't do dangerous things. So Lyra claimed.
Io recalled his minor actions leading up to this point in the present; going to the machine to buy a ticket, having absolutely no idea how it worked and...and...
He had looked at someone; the other student.
That is...rather unfortunate.
Io found that he did not wish to call upon that memory at all. His breath shortened at the thought of it—the image of an impending darkness swallowing reason and mind all together.
He must have been a predator.
The boy was, once again, confused by Lyra. What do you mean?
"Kingsway Station. Please watch the gap." The subway slowed to a stop, and Io felt a jostle behind as several commuters squeezed past towards the exit while others hurried to fill the spaces they had left behind. As the boy was in the midst of being shoved around by several businessmen, he caught sight of a familiar blazer between the gaps of the arms gripping the handlebars above.
Involuntarily—perhaps—his gaze rose to meet the owner of the blazer; only to dart away on yet another instinct. It was the same student he had met moments before. At the ticketing machines.
Brief but certain, a shivering told the boy that someone was looking at him—rather intently, he might add in a mood of humor. Clearly, this wasn't the time. The clenching of his throat threatened to severe his access to speech or air.
Lyra? He willed for her to come back.
Contact.
It was a mistake. It must have been—because Io was so sure that it would be (had to be) fleeting. After all, everyone was in such close proximity that is was impossible for one not to come into contact with another. Skin contact.
It felt strangely displacing.
And then, it was longer—snaking between his legs, and, awfully, caressing his inner thighs. Io tried in vain to twist around, messenger's bag snug in his arms, but the people around were just as uncomfortable. He could not move an inch, not even turn around to face the person behind.
As the boy craned his neck in a fervent attempt to say something to the person behind (perhaps tell them that their hands were abnormally itchy), the train jerked in a violent movement—throwing off his balance and rendering him as immobile as before.
Unfortunately, this made Io lean, horribly close, into the person behind him; which resulted in the form of utmost discomfort—a pinch. At the worst place imaginable.
Panic reigned and it seized the creature in his cage, taking along with it, pride and all.
The train picked up speed as per normal, the echo of the wind almost deafening in a place so quiet. But what Io could not fathom was the disturbing—displacing—movement; a sort of rubbing, too intimate to be that simply, on his inner thighs.
An accident. That's all, was what he had thought initially but—
The boy felt a dead shock run over spine as the rubbing moved from his thighs to the area between his legs; almost as if something had invaded his chest for some absurd reason and the impact, an instant kneading in the flesh, was all that he could feel for its existence.
Eyes widened, tongue twisted.
The words that had resided within their prison found no escape.
If this was back home, would it have been so difficult to speak? For where did his voice go; packed up and left him so?
Help.
There was a vice-like grip slithering around his neck, tightening its hold as if all the world was telling him not to say a word; a scream, or a shout. Perhaps worst of all, would be the breeding darkness that Io understood was taking form inside of him and that in truth, there was nothing on his neck but fear—a thing that took all and left one so empty.
And so he stood—in the midst of that suffocating madness and humiliation—mute by fear and loss.
Clutching my messenger bag helplessly; hoping that the person behind would alight soon.
Home seemed to him to be...very far away.
__________________________
Throughout the entire time, there had been, indeed, someone who had noticed the young sparrow's plight. He, however, felt close to nothing for the latter—there was no need for concern. No need for care.
He simply stared;
Like a predator watching its prey.
Watching,
and waiting.
______________________
A/N: Hello my amazing friends :') I hope you liked this chapter, and that it has piqued your interest to continue following Flight School.
The concept of Predator and Prey will be further developed in the later chapters, but I'm sure you guys get the hint going on about the two classes.
-Cuppiecake.