Free They Fly at Ciron by Samuel R. Delany Page A

cliff, rising before billowing cloud.
    For a moment Rahm lost him. Then, a moment later, he saw two Winged Ones, moving together and apart, circling, meeting, one soaring away, the other soaring after—till, suddenly, both were alighting on the rocks at the stream’s far bank.
    Vortcir splashed forward, then turned and spoke somewhat breathlessly to the other: “Here is the groundling called Rahm who saved my life!”
    The woman Winged One was a breadth larger than Vortcir in every direction: taller, deeper chested, broader sailed. She wore a brass chain around her neck—and was clearly the elder. “You are a friend, then, groundling?” Whilerougher and aged, her voice was as high and as breathy as her nephew’s. “You have saved my fine boy; all men and women who fly will be grateful to you and give you honor.”
    The grin had gone. There was only a smile on Rahm’s face now: “All …?”
    “Vortcir is Handsman of our nest!” she declared as if that explained everything. “Will you now come with us?” Smiling mirth became smiling wonder: “Where—?” “To our nest in the high rocks—to Hi-Vator!”
    “But how could I climb after thee, if—”
    “Easily!” Mewing, Vortcir turned to his aunt. “He’s tall—but scrawny! He can’t weigh much. Come, friend Rahm! Climb on my back.”
    “Canst thou support me?” Rahm stood at the water’s edge. He had never thought of himself as light. But, shorter than Rahm by a head, still Vortcir was half again as heavy.
    Rahm stepped across the water and behind Vortcir, who turned and bent to take him. Rahm grasped him over the shoulders. The furred back bunched beneath Rahm’s chest. On either side of him the leather sails spread, and spread, and spread! They did not beat—but vibrated, at first. Without any sense of motion at all—at first—the ground sank away. Then, at once, leaves in the trees above dropped toward them, fell below them. Rahm caught his breath—tightened his grasp. And the wings gathered and beat once more—and, yes, they flew!
    Looking down over Vortcir’s shoulder, Rahm saw far more rock below than green.
    “How does it feel to fly, friend Rahm?” Vortcir called back; then he cried to his aunt: “He’s light as a fledgling!” Vortcir’s mew rose. Rahmpeered over Vortcir’s shoulder.
    Some bare, some gorse-covered, rocks moved far below them. Wind stroked Rahm’s arms, his buttocks, his back. The smell of the fur on Vortcir’s neck was like the smell which might come from a casket or cabinet in Ienbar’s cabin, long locked and suddenly opened. Sometimes they flew so that Rahm hung against the thick back only by the hook of his arm. More often, they moved horizontally, so that Rahm lay prone on that body, broader than his own, even as his feet stuck free into the air. Sometimes it seemed they just floated, so that the sun warmed Rahm’s neck and the trough between his shoulders, and no wind touched him at all. At others, the wind pummeled Rahm’s face and his arms and chilled his fingers (locked against Vortcir’s chest), till he wondered if he could hold much longer. The excitement of flight contracted Rahm’s stomach and, sometimes, made his heart hammer. He hugged more tightly to the flexing back.
    Others had joined Vortcir and his aunt. As they descended, pitted cliffs rose. At last Vortcir’s feet scraped rock. Rahm caught his balance and stood alone once more, arms and chest tingling, while he looked at the great, windy back-beating maneuvers of the others landing about them—or at Vortcir’s own wingbeating, that finally stilled.
    Drawing in his sails and breathing quickly (but not deeply; deep breaths seemed reserved for flight itself), Vortcir turned. “At Hi-Vator, here on the world’s roof, now you will see how those who fly can live.”
    Others crowded in, then. There was a general cry: “Vortcir! Handsman Vortcir! Vortcir has returned!”
    Vortcir’s aunt pushed through. “But young Handsman—where is