Day 145 - Flying

 FLYING

Prompt - Flying : Write about having wings and what you would do

This is it, he thinks, I'm going back.  And away.  Back to those who created who I was, away from the ones who made me who I am now.  And I am someone, something, in between the two.    From the ones who accepted him to the ones who... he had no clear notion of what his reception might be, but it wasn't going to be like going back if he had still been who he was.

Time had been difficult to measure since the crash.  He remembered nothing of what happened, or his rescue and reconstruction by the birds.  He still had no proper understanding of how they did what they did, how they had mastered such a high level of medical and biological engineering, but he was living proof of their abilities.  He was a man, but a man with wings.  Great black and white feathered constructions, spreading out more than three metres when extended, but light and able to fold away tight into his back and sides, and functioned as if they'd always been a part of him, like he'd been born that way.  He was able to retract short arms from the wings, each ending in four jointed talon-fingers that allowed him to grasp and manipulate.  The rest of him was as it had been, but repaired and improved from the near lifeless being that had been pulled from the helicopter wreckage.  He'd been to see it, and it was a miracle that anyone had survived.  Why him?

But that, he reckoned, must have been about seven or eight years ago.  The birds didn't have the same concept of time as humans, and he'd had periods of unknown length where he'd been totally unaware of the world, so his estimate was mostly guesswork.  If he was right he must be about twenty eight now.  Somebody would be able to tell him.  If they'd even talk to him.

There had been no mirrors, but he'd looked at his reflection in still waters.  The best he could tell his face should still be recognisable to anyone who'd known him before.  His body was in better shape than it had ever been before.  Something that had been all too obvious, until he'd fashioned himself a leaves and feather suit, initially for temperature reasons, but it would do for modesty cover as well. 

For the past few months, as his confidence in his flying abilities had increased, he'd gone further and further, in different directions, improving his technique, learning to use the thermals effectively, and gradually figuring out the geography.  By piecing together mountain tops and river valleys and forests he'd built a mental map that matched those he'd been brought up with, and could say, with near certainty, that he knew the way home.  The birds were sad to see him go, but understood his desire to return.  They hoped they'd see him again.

He'd screeched his goodbyes and set off, climbing higher and higher to take in the landscape and allow himself longer periods of gliding when he could rest his flying muscles.  As the sun fell behind him he descended, looking for a place that would provide food and concealment.  A place where he could go over, once again, what he could possibly say to whoever he would first encounter.  And if he could make himself understood.  It had been so long since he'd talked in his native language, and although he'd practised the sounds out loud he wasn't confident he could make himself understood.  He had to stop thinking like a bird, and find a way to be a man.

Early morning and he stretched, preened, took to the air.  High, higher.  If anyone saw him he wanted to look like a bird, a winded shape in the sky.  He circled over the farm where he'd lived so much of his life.  Saw people moving.  Not just any people, but his people.  Father, brothers, sister, his friend Jaime who lived with them and looked after the cattle.  Even from his considerable altitude he could be certain.  Something else the birds had done for him.  Eagle eyes were well named. 

He could soar like this for the rest of the day.  Or he could pick one of those bipedal ants and go down to meet them.  The risks were high, but what else was there to do?  He chose Jaime, both because he was now distant from the others, and it might be marginally less traumatic for a non relative to see him reincarnated in feathered form.  

Gliding in from behind, the first Jaime knew of his arrival was the whooshing sound of his landing.  The man spun round, eyes and mouth wide, hands tensed as if to grasp the meaning of what was before him.

"Jaime."  He'd managed to pronounce it correctly, he was sure.  "It's me, Rubén.  I've come back.  I'm... changed" he added lamely.

The man saw a giant bird, some kind of mutant eagle perhaps, just ten meters away and screeching threateningly at him.  This creature could tear him apart if he let it, or it would be picking the new calves and carrying them off into the hills.  He couldn't let that happen.  Jaime dived to the tractor and pulled the rifle from it's mounting.  He saw the creature unfold it's massive wings, point them towards him, heard it shriek and howl, step flappingly towards him.  Rifle raised, bolt slammed, trigger pulled.  The giant bird staggered.  Another shot.  The bird fell, it's chest rising and falling, breathing sucking and bubbling.  It made one last sound before it died, less birdlike than before.  He thought it said "Jaime", but that was just his imagination.  Wasn't it?