Story a Day: Silver

This isn't a short story per se. It's actually a chapter from my sci-fi novel Citadel, told from a different character's POV. Gotta say, this made for a very fun writing exercise!

This will probably be my last Story a Day. As much fun as this is, I really want to get back into working on my novel(s). 

If the POV here feels weird, that's intentional. Chimera don't really have a sense of time; everything is present-tense to them. The most specific they ever get is "Before" and "After" the present or certain key events. 

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Silver

Cyrij watches the chimera tear into the meat he carried, growing bored. Before, he, his father, their iyi’ke (pack leader) and a handful of others fly baskets upon baskets of meat to the Usomk Pack, flying for so long that his wings burn. His jaws and talons—each of which carry a loaded woven basket—go numb. As soon as they land, he had drops onto a tree branch and takes a nap.

Now, the sun warms his milk-colored, brown-spotted fur and feathers, a comfortable weight against his skin. But, with the numbness and tiredness gone, he is restless. He can sense his father Ebevil and iyi’ke Mek’tay in a private conversation with the Usomk Pack’s iyi’ke. Probably trying to convince them to leave this territory and find new land, away from the humans that strike further into the forest every day, taking so much food and land that it drives all other prey away. Or dissolve the pack entirely and join other packs.

It’s never an easy decision. One that Cyrij is not privy to.

Some of the pack’s cubs play, now that they have full bellies. They zip around the trees on their wings, a couple of the older ones swimming in the waters that flood the forest, submerging everything below the trees’ branches. The waters come and go in a days-long rhythm, the breath of the land, of Edalide itself. They bring danger, death, and destruction. They bring drinking water, animals, and life.

The plants are smart enough to withstand the tides. Most of the trees in the forest are massive monsters with blue bark. A chimera has to fly off the ground to touch even the lowest branches, which are placed so high to let the water run through the trees unimpeded. Orange and yellow leaves burst from the branches, catching fire in the sun. Almost every chimera pack makes their nest in those leaves, clustered together on the branches, each wide enough and strong enough to hold half a pack. Only some packs get to settle on the ground, high enough that the waters don’t touch them.

Cyrij should play with those cubs. He’s barely older than they are. One winter Before, he is one of them. Now he isn’t, but also isn’t quite an adult yet.

He doesn’t want to play. He wants to explore. It’s his second time outside of his pack’s territory, in a part of the forest he’s never seen before. He wants to feel the winds in his wings and see new things.

He stands, stretches, and flies up, bursting out of the leaves and skinnier branches.

Ebevil pokes the back of his mind. A question, and a warning.

“Small flight,” Cyrij promises.

“Stay close,” Ebevil warns.

Though Ebevil turns his attention back to his own conversation, Cyrij knows to do as he says. Chimera are connected by the mind, their relationships forming living connections between individuals, creating a massive web of links with varying strengths. Cyrij has links to both of his parents, Mek’tay, his entire pack, and several more outside of the pack. And those chimera are connected to even more, and on and on it goes.

When a chimera calls for help, the entire forest answers. Even if they never make a sound.

Cyrij soars through the air, watching clouds drift and leaves rattle in the wind. A few other chimera fly in the distance, too far for even mind-speak to call to. Below him the forest stretches, a sea of orange. Blue water peaks out here and there with gaps in the trees. Specks of green also fight their way out: flowers that have wound up the trees’ branches seeking sunlight. Isilna flowers, for which Cyrij’s pack is named.

He climbs higher and sees the human den atop its hill.

Down in the forest, the other smells—of trees, of animals, of pack—cover it up. But up here, with the wind blowing it directly in his nose, the human stench is impossible to ignore. Iron, smoke, and filth. Do humans never clean themselves?

Movement catches Cyrij’s sharp eyes, just on the edge of the Usomk pack’s territory. It’s barely a decision for him to fly lower for a closer look. If it’s food, he can bring it back to the near-starving chimera. If it’s danger, he can report it. And maybe After, he can go from not-cub to adult warrior.

Cyrij flies low, then lower, cursing the thick leaves and branches. In winter, when all the leaves drop brown and dead, it’s much easier to see things from the sky.

Of course, that also makes it easier for things on the ground to see you.

Cyrij’s front paws and back talons brush the very tops of the leaves before his quarry reaches a gap in the trees.

He immediately dives down, to the safety of cover. Landing on a branch, he presses down, letting the leaves obscure him. Hopes that Edalide will protect him.

“Cyrij?” Ebevil calls. He probably feels the spike of fear and alarm coursing through his cub’s mind.

“Humans,” Cyrij whispers, watching the strange beings use their floating wood dens to cut through the water. “Boats,” they call them.

Cyrij’s fear is echoed by his father’s, but it comes with dread. “Where?!”

Cyrij shows him where he is, then, to try to soothe his father’s fear, adds, “They do not see me.”

That calms Ebevil, a little. Normally Cyrij teases his father for being so open with his mind. Except Before, Cyrij’s littermate Takkaz runs into humans. They see him before he sees them.

Now Cyrij does not have a littermate, and Ebevil only has one cub.

“Wait for them to pass, then come back,” Ebevil orders.

Cyrij sticks his face out a little, trying to see through the orange veil. “There is only five.”

Strange. Normally, when humans go so far from their den, they come in much bigger groups. All warriors, all intent on finding and killing chimera.

Four of them are dressed as warriors, with those blue clothes that make it easy to blend in with the trees. Only one pudgy, beady-eyed human is dressed differently, in gray. Why do they bring a non-warrior here?

“Cyrij,” Ebevil orders.

He shows his father what he’s seeing through their mind-speak. “What do they do?”

Two of the humans use thick sticks to paddle their boats. One mutters something Cyrij cannot hear. The other two look to the branches. For Cyrij?

“That girl is going to get herself killed,” one says. Out loud. Humans don’t have mind-speak. How do they call each other when they’re so far away? This human has no fur at all, not even on the top of his head. So strange.

“She’ll be fine,” another replies. He’s the oldest, the fur on his head going gray with age. Maybe the leader?

Something whistles. It almost sounds like a bird, but not quite right. The pattern is wrong. The fur on the back of Cyrij’s neck stands on end.

The old human puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles back. He turns to the furless one. “See? She’s fine.”

“There are more,” Cyrij warns. As the boats turn toward that second whistle, he slips away, staying out of the sky to travel the trees on paws and talons, giving them a wide berth. No need to be seen and shot with arrows.

“Cyrij. Return to the den,” Ebevil orders.

He hesitates, then ignores his father and continues on. Humans know not to go too far from their den; it’s too dangerous for them. So what is this little pack doing?

He finds the sixth human in a tree. Or rather, the other humans find her. She does not speak, instead tossing a small green bundle into the boat with the beady-eyed human. She moves her hands around before rushing through the trees again.

Why does she not speak? he wonders, following.

This sixth human is female, which is a shock on its own. Human females almost never leave the den, and when they do they stay very close to gather plants. The chimera don’t know why that is. Most think that human females must be very rare, and so must be kept within the human den to ensure future cubs and pack survival.

The female is not dressed in warrior blue, either, instead in dark gray that makes her easy to spot against the orange and yellow leaves. Her long fur, pulled away from her face, is silver. For a moment, Cyrij thinks she must be old. But no, as he gets close enough to smell and see more clearly, he realizes she’s young. Like him.

She has human weapons—a knife at her waist, a bow on her back—but instead of using them she uses her hands to pluck a flower from the tree. She pulls the vine, too, wrapping it around her hand and following it.

With her hands busy, she cannot fight. She is no threat—yet.

Cyrij creeps closer. And closer.

Until he stands right in front of her.

She doesn’t even notice until he growls softly, just enough to catch her attention. How has she not been eaten?

She freezes.

They stare at each other. Cyrij tries to form a link with her, hoping that since she cannot speak aloud like humans…

But no, her mind is closed.

Disappointing. He has questions!

Then he notices the flower in her hands. The green isilna flower.

Excitement burns through him.

“What do you do?” Ebevil asks.

“They look for isilna flowers!” he cheers. “Maybe they want mind-speak!”

The green isilna flowers are used on chimera who have lost the ability for mind-speak, or never developed it. The flowers open the mind, letting the flower’s eater form links.

If the humans get mind-speak, the chimera can talk to them. Maybe even end this fighting!

Without a second though, Cyrij dives off the branch and flies away. He knows he saw some earlier…

Ah! There they are! It takes only a moment to gather a bundle in his jaws and fly back.

The silver human has moved only enough to slump against the tree. This time, when she sees him, she puts a hand on her knife.

He lands. She stops, staring at the bundle of flowers in his jaws with an open mouth. Shock is written in every muscle. Cyrij has to woof at her through the mouthful of flowers to catch her attention, again.

She takes her hand away from her knife and inches closer. She carefully, slowly wraps her hands around the flowers’ vines, her skin brushing against Cyrij’s chops. It’s rougher than he expected. When she pulls the flowers away, Cyrij licks his chops, cataloguing her taste. There’s a distinct human flavor, but there are other pieces there, too. Salt. Charcoal, like Before, when Takkaz dares Cyrij to lick a cold ember after a small forest fire.

The silver human looks between him and the flowers. Thinking that she doesn’t know how to properly use them, Cyrij takes one of the flowers in his mouth and eats it.

She frowns, studying the plants.

Sharp whistling from somewhere behind makes her jump.

The silver human whistles back, then waves her free hand at Cyrij. She doesn’t have to use mind-speak to send her message: more humans coming. Go!

Cyrij jumps off the branch and flies away. Blood roars in his ears, and he feels weak and airy as the danger grows smaller and further away.

That is the stupidest thing he has ever done.

He doesn’t regret it at all. Even when Ebevil and Mek’tay yell at him for it.