can save you from that fire. You’d be free.”
013-Unidentified gaped. “Free! I—”
Yin Soul’s eyes bore into 013-Unidentified’s. “But being free is not enough. You know that your enemies deserve to be punished. They deserve to be punished for causing you pain, for every injustice, for every feather they tore loose. Some even deserve death! I know a way for that. Hero’s Day is the day of the fifth full moon in a year and a half. You know the legends about a magical sword that can be found at Kauria, the Island of Paradise. If you find the sword on that particular day, you will have power over all your enemies. Then you can do what your heart tells you to do! All you must do is agree to swallow my essence.”
After a silence, Yin glanced into the distance and sighed. “I am like you. I know how it feels. Truly.” He smiled sadly at 013-Unidentified.
“Why do you want me to swallow your essence?” the white bird asked at last.
Yin Soul closed his eyes. “Then I would be able to guide you from inside your body.”
013-Unidentified peered at Yin Soul, confused. Suppose, just suppose it was real. Then his troubles would probably end here and now, but…was his conscience telling him no? Was it the same thing that had made him say his long-ago name, Wind-voice, instead of 013-Unidentified when he spoke to the woodpecker captive, Ewingerale?
You are Wind-voice, not 013-Unidentified, a voice deep inside him said. Think like Wind-voice.
For a split second, everything in the room changed. Red blurred to grey. The flames went out; the candles were pools of wax. The cinnamon scents of incense soured into those of spoiled fish.
The old, kind bird was transformed. The eyelids were gone, and Wind-voice could see his eyeballs, dark yellow as rotten plums. The gentle chuckles of Yin Soul changed to a dreadful sound, as if somebird was vomiting. This was what Yin Soul was truly like. The feathers on Wind-voice’s nape rose and he gulped. He was chilled with fear. It was suddenly very cold.
The next second everything returned to the way it had been.
“013-Unidentified, will you agree?”
Wind-voice didn’t dare to look into Yin Soul’s face, but he knew what he wanted to say. “No. Take me back! I want to go back.” He rose and looked around. He saw the raven who had brought him here lurking behind a bookcase and stepped towards him. “Take me back to the archaeopteryxes.”
“You cannot,” Yin Soul taunted. With a whirl of his wings, the shadows of ghostly birds, screeching unearthly sounds, appeared out of nowhere and moved swiftly towards Wind-voice. “You cannot. It is against your instincts to go willingly to your death. Come to me!”
But Wind-voice knew – he had seen, in that brief moment of true sight – that Yin Soul’s apparent kindness could not be trusted. Whatever he offered, whatever he planned, Wind-voice knew he wanted no part of it – even if the other choice was death.
Wind-voice faced the raven. “No! I want to go back! You said you must take me back!”
“I don’t think so. Stay.” Yin Soul rose as well and reached out a rootlike, quivering claw.
Wind-voice flung a red blanket at Yin Soul. Then he grabbed hold of the raven’s feet and shouted, “Fly!” The raven cawed in surprise. The mangy bird dragged Windvoice into the air as Yin Soul yelled below them, “Soon you’ll wish you had listened to me!” The ghost birds wailed along with their master. Wind-voice didn’t see Yin Soul shaking his balled claws, didn’t hear him whisper, “At least there is the other one.”
Wind-voice closed his eyes tightly and could hear only the beat of the raven’s wings, which soon turned into the crackling of wood.
To his horror, he could smell salt and pepper on his body. Had it all been a dream? Coughing, he opened his eyes. His smothered skin was flushed to a reddish pink, and his lungs felt as if they had collapsed. He was still over the fire. Tears burst into his eyes as sparks leaped up and scorched him. But the tears quickly evaporated in the heat.
Wind-voice realised that there wasn’t much smoke around him. But the smoke had to go out somewhere. Craning his neck, he squinted at the ceiling above. Cold air blew through a jagged hole. He looked around. No archaeopteryxes cared to be near the heat of the fire. The fire tenders were all away on errands for the cook at the moment. He peered down into the flames. There was only one way, and that was the fool’s way. He opened his beak, sucked in a deep breath, and blew with all his might at the fire. Shutting his eyes tightly, he waited for the flames to flare back at him. He felt his ropes starting to char. But his feathers were burning as well.
One rope fell. He fluttered the freed wing awkwardly and leaned forward to peck at the ropes around his other wing. The ropes dropped into the flames and withered to ashes.
Summoning his ebbing strength, Wind-voice beat his wings and flitted towards the hole in the ceiling.
It was a tight fit, but he struggled madly. There was a rip. He was in the air, in the night air! The bitter wind welcomed him.
“It escaped!” cried an archaeopteryx below.
Wind-voice’s body was blazing as he flew. The long sweeps of the flailing wings were sweeps of flame. He looked like a firebird.
The archaeopteryxes shot a volley of arrows at him, but they fell short.
He knew he could not last long in the air. His past was burning away. He could be what he wanted to be.
013-Unidentified is truly dead, he thought as his scorched body faltered and plummeted down. Windvoice is reborn.
In everybird’s innermost heart there lies a moral compass.
FROM THE OLD SCRIPTURE
“Fly in low to the west, Wind-voice! Hide!” Irene, his mother, shouted. Frightened, he obeyed. His mother started flying in the other direction, jumping now and then, pausing a few times to let the archaeopteryxes catch up. She let one of her wings trail behind, feigning injury in a desperate attempt to draw away the enemy.
He stumbled in terror and looked back. Irene disappeared from sight around a sand dune. The archaeopteryxes followed. It was the last time Wind-voice saw his mother.
Memory scorched Wind-voice along with the flames. He closed his eyes, trying not to scream, as the ground rushed up at him. His wings were useless. He twisted to land on his feet, and his right foot jammed full-force on to a rock. The rest of him crashed down on to it.
Though most of the flames had been beaten out by his crash, a few feathers were still smouldering. Then, to his surprise, a thin, high voice whispered in his ear. “Wind-voice! Thank the Great Spirit, you’re alive!”
It was Winger. The woodpecker scooped up some cool, wet mud and put out the flames quickly, then smeared some more to blot out all of Wind-voice’s white feathers so he would not be easily spotted. “Try to get up,” Winger urged. “Quick, quick.”
“Where can we go?” Wind-voice asked, staggering to his feet.
“I know where. Just come with me.”
Wind-voice knew he could not fly. But he limped as fast as he could, trying not to put much weight on his injured claws, the woodpecker supporting him.
Wind-voice’s vision began to blur and waver. Suddenly he saw the rich purplish black of another bird, a myna, who appeared beside Winger and helped Wind-voice walk. Supported by the two birds, he stepped into the fringe of golden light from a campfire and saw a grey-and-blue bird practising the graceful movements of swordplay, all alone. Wind-voice flinched at the sight of the red and orange