Skywing's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

By the third day on the road, Skywing knew she was walking too slow. The wolf kept pace at her boot, ears up, calmer than yesterday but still flinching at carts. She counted the days again. Five weeks and three. On foot she would not make the passes. She needed to fly ahead, read the ridgelines, and pick the fastest line home. She could not fly with the wolf, and she could not tie him to a tree in country she did not know. He would chew through rope, or worse, someone would find him first. She stopped at a cedar lodge set back from the road, lanterns burning at the posts even in daylight. Rose was on the porch, green hair heavy over her shoulders, boots planted like she had grown there. Skywing had not seen her in a month. Rose came down the steps and took Skywing's face in both hands for a moment, then looked at the wolf. "He's bigger," Rose said. "Still bites?" Skywing nodded. "I need to fly the route. Two hours. Maybe three. I can't take him up, and I can't leave him alone." Rose looked at the wolf again. The wolf's lip pulled back. Rose did not move. "He'll try me," she said. "I know." "Leave your bag," Rose said. "He'll settle faster if he smells you on the porch." Skywing set her satchel on the boards by Rose's boot. She knelt and pressed her forehead to the wolf's. His breath was hot on her jaw. She stood, walked to the open ground beyond the lantern posts, and opened her wings. The wolf lunged once against Rose's hand and snapped. Rose did not pull back. She said something short Skywing could not hear. The wolf sat. Skywing held one more second, then pushed off. She climbed hard until the lodge was a square of yellow light below. She turned north and flew the ridgeline she had guessed at from the ground. She marked a saddle pass, a river ford, a burn scar she could use as a landmark. Two hours out, two hours back. She had her route. She came down in the yard at dusk. The porch was empty. The satchel was gone from the boards. Skywing folded her wings and ran up the steps. Inside the lodge, Rose sat on the floor by the hearth. The wolf lay across her legs, eyes half shut. He had bitten her forearm. The bark of her skin was split in a clean line and something pale was weeping from it. Rose looked up. "He's yours," she said. "He was never going to be mine." The wolf lifted his head at Skywing's step and thumped his tail once against Rose's thigh. Skywing had her route. She also had a girlfriend bleeding sap on the floor, and a wolf who had chosen, for one afternoon, to stay.