Young Writers Society

[I name this Part #1 because I've yet to decide on where chapter breaks go, however it's a long novel, so I apologise to anyone who clicks thinking this is part of a short story. Happy reading!]

Kaeru : Part #1

The old iron blades of the windmill creaked painfully as he balanced on the tip. It had been years since they had been used, and now the strongest winds made them rattle and groan, but never turn.

Being up there so high was like sitting on the edge of the world.

From atop he could see the dips and raises of the land around him, and in the distance lay the misty horizon and the cliff edge that led off into the ocean. It was one of the highest points in the land, or at least, for as far as he could see. A few miles away the faint lights of the village glittered and glimmered, waiting for the candle man to come and extinguish them. The sun was setting behind the misty horizon, turning the sky to a turquoise blue and casting a long shadow of the windmill across the hills. If he looked close enough he could see his own shadow, a small figure perched atop the highest blade. No doubt his mother would hate him being up here, but he liked it, and he didn't care much for what she said.

In the far, far distance he could almost see the faint glow of the city, but that was a place they rarely visited. They had everything they needed right here, and the static and buzz of the city startled him. They were content, milling about each day and going about business as if there was nothing in the world that mattered - and eventually, somewhere in his mind, he truly believed that nothing in the world mattered. Not even gravity.

Up in the sky the birds of night danced and swooped, waiting for the darkness to hide their shadows and wishing each other a good nights hunting in a shrill chorus. With each dive they dared themselves closer to him. As their shadows cavorted in the dark of his eyes he unconsciously started to sway to their movements, and his careless balance began to falter.

He tipped a little further forward, his toes clenching over the thin edge. He never was very good at balancing, not for long periods of time. That still didn’t phase him.

Lifting his head up to the sky tilted him off balance even more, but he did it anyway. The birds swung and sped between their playground of blooming stars, always weightless, always free. They are designed to defy gravity in ways that this fragile boy was not. Slowly, his knees trembling to fight the imbalance, he rose to his feet and spread his arms like the wings of the birds, waiting for the wind to push just that little harder.

The feeling of the corners of the blade through his worn out shoes was the only indication of how close he was to falling. His careful posture and false bravery came only from a frightening sense of indifference. Most people who are afraid of heights aren't afraid of heights at all. They're afraid of falling. He didn’t care, though.

At this point in time he probably wouldn't have cared if he lived or died, only that if he did that nobody would cry for him.

A bird in flight is weightless and passes in such a fleeting moment that the things below it barely notice it is there.

With each moment that passes he remembers that feeling of weightlessness.

What he would soon learn is the feeling the birds find when they dive just a little too low, out of the high winds that teach them to dance, away from the comfort and safety of their clouds. It's the moment they have to remember to beat their winds and are reminded, only briefly, that they are not weightless.

Gravity bends for nobody, whether it be the weight of a brick or the weight of a burden. Still, four foot six in height, forty six feet off the ground, he stretched his arms out and waited to see what the wind would decide. He was ever lost in a careless trance, waiting for it to knock him off his iron perch.

No matter how much he wished otherwise, as sure as the wind would always blow, gravity would always exist to pull him down.

Less than half a mile away Vincent lay low as far behind a hill as he could without loosing view of the boy. He shook his head to knock away his long, windswept hair and realigned his binoculars. Nobody had told him about this.

‘That’s the youngest of the five brothers,’ his companion said. ’He’s not the one we came for.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Fifteen.’ predecessor

Stakes

Atop the windmill the boy flinched into life and looked down so fast he fell forward and tumbled down, latching on to the edge of the blade with the tips of his fingers. The smell of bread crumble and roasted berries was enough to snap a snake from its charm. He slid down and let go of the blade just in time to kick away from it, catch a ledge and scramble into one of the upstairs windows.

‘Change your course of action,’ Vincent said, as if it were some easy thing to arrange, as if they could just change their minds on one of his whims and start all over again. ’There is your new target.’

His companion swallowed back his protests.

‘Aye.’