Bram Möller's Arc

Chapter 14 of 63

Parisa lifted the case lid an inch, then closed it again. "After we land," she said. "Fly first." Bram did not argue. The patch on the crown seam had cured stiff. The wind outside was rising. He had one glide left in this bag and a bird he had never flown with reading the air for him. Omondi passed the hawk through the gondola door. It stepped onto the rail and settled. The compass rings on its wings caught the lantern light. Bram had trusted his own owl for six years. He had never seen this hawk work. "How does it tell me?" Bram asked. "Head drops for sink," Omondi said. "Wing lifts for lift. Watch the near wing. It points where the good air is." "That is all?" "That is all. It is honest. You must learn its honest." Vex was already at the mooring. "You have thirty minutes of usable wind. Go now or sleep here." Bram cut loose. The prototype slid off the pad and dropped into the valley air. He kept the vent almost closed. The patched seam held. Parisa braced her hand on the brass ring without being asked. The owl sat quiet in her lap, one wing still twitching. The hawk faced forward. Its head stayed level. Bram eased the wheel a quarter turn east, where the chart said the ridge fell away. The hawk's head dropped. He pulled the wheel back. The head came up. He held course. The hawk stayed level for a count of ten, then the near wing lifted, pointing south of his line. He did not turn. His own charts said south was the ridge shoulder. Turning that way meant flying at rock in the dark. "Bram," Parisa said. She was watching the hawk. "The wing." "I see it." The hawk's head dropped again. Hard. The whole body tipped forward on the rail. Bram turned south. He turned because he had asked for a storm reader and there was no point bringing one if he flew his old lines. The prototype banked. He waited for the rock face to come out of the dark. It did not. The air under the bag firmed. The envelope lifted a foot on its own without a breath from the vent. The patch held. The hawk settled its wings and faced forward again. A downdraft roared past his old line, north of them, loud enough to hear through the hull. If he had held course, it would have put him on the slope. He flew the hawk's air the rest of the way in. Twenty minutes later the waystation lamps rose out of the dark where the bird had pointed. He set the prototype down soft on a patched seam and a stranger's wings. On the pad, Parisa opened the case.