In Dark Corners (2 page)

His wife entered their bedroom, the bright Medtech Guild caduceus tat on her right cheek contrasting sharply with her pale features, her storm-gray eyes almost matching the color of her folded wings.

"Yes, Mikel," Aylin answered, the questioning frown turning to momentary surprise, as she stared where he pointed at his wing remnants. She recovered her poise, quickly taking charge of the situation and ordering in a calm, measured voice, "Sit back down and take a few deep breaths. I'll be right back."

She disappeared for a moment, returning from the bathroom with her medkit in hand. Withdrawing a small laser scalpel, she said, "I'm going to trim away some dead skin. It won't hurt…"

Then, with gentle hands, she carefully inspected his back, coming to rest on the wing nubs. "Sore or tender at all?" she asked.

Mikel shook his head.

"Turn around," Aylin said, kneeling and running her hands over his bare thighs and down his legs. Finally, she stood and shrugged slightly, still maintaining her professional voice. "It's like the computer summary suggested might happen," she explained, "only much sooner than we expected." She worked in the village medcenter and had taken Mikel in for a complete workup about a month ago, when they first noticed the strange changes in both his wings and legs.

After the tests, the diagnostic computer had kicked out a very technical printout of all the findings with a short summary:

…NO DNA ANOMALIES, BIOENGINEERING SOUND.

VERY UNUSUAL, AN APPARENT UNDESIGNED

ATAVISTIC REVERSION. WINGS ATROPHYING.

LEGS GROWING FUNCTIONALLY STRONG.

So, this morning after recovering from the shock, Mikel felt an intense compulsion to exercise his legs, perhaps similar to a newly winged infant's need to stretch his developing wings.

Since he could not fly, he took the communal supply downchute from their cliffapt, cut high into the north face of the canyon wall, down to the village square, the only flat area of any consequence on the entire canyon floor. After reaching the plaza, he began to jog about the raised hummerpad, occasionally leaping over an imaginary hurdle, around and around the square, faster and faster, until he was forced to stop, gasping for breath, his one-piece, nutrend outfit dark with sweat.

Catching his breath, Mikel looked up, over the tops of the side-by-side, two-story, graystone buildings lining the square, just as daymoon peeked over the canyon rim, the appearance of the beautiful satellite at this time of year indicating it was almost eight o'clock.

Loud, raucous laughter across the square disturbed his momentary reverie.

Mikel dropped his gaze, scanning the balconies and second floor entries of the bistros, shops, cafes, and inns overhanging the plaza, most closed at this early hour. A few people were eating at one of the cafes, probably tourists from Seaside, the nearby coastal city, come to glide on the early morning updrafts of the funnel-shaped canyon that opened toward the sea, but they were ignoring him.

Ah, there, directly across the square at the Flying Squirrel Bistro, three young strangers were pointing at Mikel and laughing, making fun of his wingless condition. Obviously up all night drinking. Tourists, he thought, shaking his head dismissively and shifting his gaze back again toward daymoon, entirely visible now above the canyon rim, its color and texture reminding him of an opal—

Something flashed by within inches of his head.

Startled, Mikel turned as the flier again swooped back at him, making him duck this time to avoid being struck in the head.

Then, all three strangers were swirling around Mikel like giant, angry bees, attacking, and shouting taunts about his lack of wings, driving him into the stone apron of the hummerpad, his arms protecting his head.

"Defective."

"Scurrying rodent."

"Wingless freak."

"Runner."

"Groundling."

Suddenly, for some reason, the three relented, flying up in the air and circling away out of sight.

Mikel caught his breath, trying to assess the attack and the taunts…
Groundling
?

It was the name of a mythological wingless race that had supposedly lived long before man in the distant past before the Great Flood receded. Often written about in children's stories as spooky beings, groundlings stole pre-winged infants who were never seen again. Occasionally wingless people were dramatized in holoplays, usually tragic-comedies. And, of course, there were the infrequent reports of current sightings—though the sighted creatures were now called
runners
in the media rather than the old term. In any event, to be called a groundling shocked Mikel because it highlighted his difference from other villagers, suggesting that he was an earlier, more primitive, being, reminding him of the medcenter computer's mention of atavism.

But he had little time to catch his breath and reflect.

They were back, the three swooping down, flying by and showering Mikel with rocks, as he remained frozen in place, most bouncing off his arms and shoulders. Suddenly he felt sharp pain, and he wiped at his forehead, the sight of a crimson smear on his fingertips jarring him from his semi-trance.

He dashed for the cover of the lowest balcony, pressing his back against the cool stonework. Frightened and dumbfounded by the vicious attack in broad daylight, he tried to make sense of it. Things like that happened in Seaside and the other large coastal cities to the south. But here in the village? And why me? Then, a really amazing thought struck him as he gained control of himself:
No
one from the village had intervened.

Mikel wiped away the remaining blood, dusted his clothes, and eased out from the cover of the balcony, realizing his vulnerability now that he lacked wings. Looking up, he ignored the people at the cafe leaning out staring at him, and scanned for signs of possible overhead danger—feeling like a rodent cowered by the possibility of aerial attack and shamed by the feeling.

They were gone.

Mikel sighed thankfully with relief, as he hurried toward the safety of the upchute.

***

As the days passed, Mikel became even more wary of all people—villagers and tourists—exercising in the plaza
only
very early, before anyone was up and about. And he soon learned there were other complications related to his wingless condition. His card renewal in the Stonecutter Guild was being held up. He couldn't work at the quarry or any construction job and was effectively unemployed. And their friends had stopped visiting and calling. Aylin was even being hassled at work.

Yet, despite all these problems brought on by his wingless condition, Aylin remained by his side, loyally supporting him.

By necessity, Mikel spent more and more of his time at home, keeping busy by fashioning another room into the canyon wall beyond their bedroom with his cutting torch and drills.

***

Early in the morning, about four weeks after losing his wings, Mikel was working out vigorously in the plaza, leaping, running, jumping, going through a whole repertoire of movements, assuming he was alone. But when he stopped to rest and leaned against the hummerpad railing, he spotted a man, bearing no facial guild tat—obviously a southerner—sitting alone on the balcony of the village's finest inn, The Stone Aerie; and the stranger seemed to be observing him.

Mikel began to turn and head for the upchute—

"Wait," the stranger shouted, shedding a dark cloak, and spreading a set of purple-veined wings. He quickly glided down and landed near Mikel. "Sir, allow me to introduce myself," the man said, handing Mikel a card that read:

Of course Mikel had seen the magnificent aerial acts on the holoviewer, and this man was obviously the current Tuvlo in charge of the Circus.

There was small talk about the man getting away from the City for a three-day respite here in the northern coastal mountains, and enjoying the famed updrafts at the upper end of the canyon. Then, the maestro abruptly changed subjects: "Forgive me, but I have watched you moving so remarkably about the square early each morning on your legs—"

Mikel felt his face flush.

"I do not mean to denigrate your lack of wings," Maestro Tuvlo added, holding up a hand apologetically. "Quite the opposite. I congratulate you on the magnificent and really elegant use of your legs. A quite outstanding development. And I am prepared to offer you a contract, if you will consent to coming to the City. We have five weeks of performances left there, then we travel to all the large cities on both continents—"

"You mean as a
freak
?" Mikel interrupted, his embarrassment quickly changing to anger.

The maestro smiled politely, shaking his head emphatically. "No, I do not mean that, my friend. I mean as an unusual performer, a groundling dancer."

"A performer?"

"Yes."

At first, Mikel was stunned by the offer. He was just a common stonecutter, earning his guild tat when he was only a boy of fourteen, uneducated, untraveled; and he'd never dreamed of being any kind of artist, even when he'd been winged. And a groundling dancer. He'd never heard of such a thing.

"Of course you will need to be coached by a choreographer, but with your existing wide repertoire of graceful movements, combined with the fascinating mystique surrounding the old race, I think I can safely say that you will be a hot attraction at the Circus in only a few days. Still, the contract will only be temporary, for the remainder of the season in the City. Then, who knows what will work out? What do you say? I think I can make a substantial offer…say, a thousand a week."

A thousand a week, for five weeks? Almost a year's salary. Mikel couldn't speak.

"Oh, make it twelve hundred," the maestro said magnanimously, shrugging and smiling, "I don't wish to haggle over a few weeks' salary."

Mikel still remained silent.

"Maybe, you need to discuss it with a wife, your guild?" the maestro suggested.

Mikel nodded. "Yes, I do." Although he really owed the guild nothing. And he knew Aylin would be thrilled by his good luck. The Aerial Circus? Just imagine.

"I have a good feel for this sort of thing," Maestro Tuvlo added. "I suspect this will be a grand opportunity for both of us."

They shook hands and agreed to meet at the inn later in the day.

Of course Mikel eventually agreed to go.

***

The early trip on the hummer south, especially dropping down out of the sky and circling over the City of Towers, was exciting. The towers were constructed from rare crystal-stone and sparkled brilliantly in the morning sun.

After landing they went immediately to the performance dome, where Mikel stored his belongings in a small guest room off the second-floor administrative wing and freshened up. Then Mikel and the maestro entered the great aerial arena proper. By then it was late afternoon, the waning sunlight filtering through the translucent dome, down on the rows and rows of seats—thousands and thousands of empty seats. Never had Mikel been in so huge an indoor place.

He stood quietly by the maestro's side, taking it all in, dazzled by the grand dome. Then overhead, the performers began appearing for practice.

The dancers wore feathered, emerald costumes with crimson breasts, and with their transparent wings rapidly fanning the air, they resembled a line of neon flutterbirds, hovering momentarily before the music thundered from the orchestra pit. So elegant, Mikel thought, awed by the grace of the flying dancers. The maestro pointed out the famed clown troupe, practicing their comic tumbling routines. Over there, another group: jugglers, fire-eaters, and acrobats. And the featured single performers, wearing their holographic animal totems—the Dragon Lady flew sinuously high overhead up near the crest of the dome, her scales and wings glistening iridescently.

The performers seemed bigger than life. It was all so grand and wonderful. Mikel could not believe he was to be even a small part of it.

A beautiful young woman approached where they were standing and smiled.

"This is Taj," Maestro Tuvlo announced, introducing Mikel to his choreographer's assistant.

And that same evening, Mikel and Taj set to work on the groundling dance routine.

They worked long hours in the days to come; and even though Taj was demanding, challenging Mikel often, she was patient and rewarded his corrected efforts with encouraging remarks: "Very good," or, "Well done." And she insisted he would do well.

***

"Ladies, gentleman, and children," the maestro said in his deep voice, three days later at the Wednesday matinee, "a special added attraction today at the Circus. May I present Mikel, the wingless man, and his groundling dance."

The lights went out.

After a drum roll, Mikel, in a one-piece, blue spangled, skin-tight costume was spotlighted on a raised platform, his pulse pounding furiously. Taking his first position, he closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, as Taj had instructed, imagining he was alone, just like in practice. Then, accompanied by the orchestra, he began to dance, moving gracefully through the choreographed sequence of jumps, twirls, bounding leaps, all keyed precisely to the music.

The audience was quiet at first during the introduction; then, at the beginning of the dance, a few sniggers, laughs, and guffaws, soon followed by a rude swell of loud chatter. Finally, near the end of the performance, a sudden and complete silence, as if the spectators had all been struck dumb.

Mikel was indeed alone now, ignoring the audience reaction, completely in command of his body and movements, an extension of the beautiful music, his strong legs propelling him through the short routine, his sequins glittering in the spotlight that followed him about the uplifted stage. He felt completely relaxed now, at home at center stage…The concluding leap and triple spin, and he was resting on his knee.