Magic Feathers

Angel stumbled through Osvald’s cluttered workshop, trying and failing to not trip on the gears and random chunks of metal strewn across the floor. His foot rolling on a pipe, the Avian fell backwards, wings bending awkwardly beneath him and and sheets of blueprints and schematics unfurling on top of him.

“Angel!” Osvald called from the front of the shop. “Where are those plans for Mr. Naess?”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Angel called, face flushing as his voice cracked. The Humans his age had already matured, so why hadn’t he? He rifled through the papers until he saw the name ‘Naess’ printed on one of them. He hurried to the front of the shop where Osvald was awkwardly stalling for time with a clean-shaven, well-dressed man tapping his foot impatiently. “I-I’ve got them right here, Osvald,” the teen said, breathing raggedly in an attempt to catch his breath.

“Thank you, boy,” The engineer muttered, taking the papers form Angel. He laid them out on the counter between himself and the man named Naess, only to turn his head back to Angel, who was leaning curiously over Osvald’s shoulder to peek at the plans. The Avian reeled back upon noticing his employer’s frustrated look. “This is covered in soot! What were you doing with it?”

“I dropped it, sir. The- the floor is really dirty, uh cluttered, and I tripped, and- and there was a lot of ash from the furnace-”

“Well go clean it up, then!” Osvald chided.

Angel retreated to the heated workspace to do as his employer had asked. Osvald could be rude to him in front of customers, but he knew it was just to keep up appearances. When wealthy customers came by, it was almost always a given that they expected Avians to be treated like dirt. But Osvald had been a close friend of Line’s since before he was born. He was putting himself out there to employ an Avian. If anyone knew Angel was being paid, Osvald would never get another customer again.

After all, tinkerers like Osvald were paid for by the stupid and rich, not the wise and poor.

Angel immediately set to putting away the blueprints he’d dropped and reorganizing the scattered bits and pieces across the workshop. Osvald got messy when he tinkered. Once all of the stray metal was back in its proper home, he set about sweeping the floor. He threw the large pile of ash outside, where it melted a spot in the snow-laden alley.

As he closed the door to the chilly exterior, he looked down at his bare feet. He’d never been able to walk in shoes without feeling extremely uncomfortable, and now they were covered in soot and scars - scars from walking all over sharp metal in Osvald’s shop. His employer had insisted that he wear shoes in the workplace, but the week Angel had tried that, he hadn’t managed to get anything done because his mind refused to focus on anything besides the strange sensation of cloth surrounding his feet. Some of the scars were fresh, as was their pain, but Angel wouldn’t have it any other way.

Angel returned to the front of the shop to find Osvald still discussing prices and parts with the customer. The boy was about to retreat to the back when he caught sight of a girl his age. She was standing a couple feet behind Osvald’s customer, twirling back and forth in a silk dress. Osvald’s shop sat on the border of the middle and lower class districts, and Angel’s home was well into the lower class district, so the Avian rarely saw nicely dressed women - only well-dressed men hiring Osvald to bring a product idea to life.

The girl had beautiful, long blond hair that fell across her shoulders messily and the pale skin to match. Subconsciously, Angel had been leaning forward to get a closer look, and he nearly stumbled in his surprise when she suddenly turned to him and smiled. The boy reared back to apologize for staring and to excuse himself, but stopped when the girl threw a hand up to stop him and took a couple quick steps to reach the counter.

“Wait,” she urged in a soft voice.

“Sorry,” Angel said automatically. His eyes found their rightful place watching the black that smudged his feet.

“No need to apologize,” she said. “My name’s Julie.” She stuck her hand out, and when Angel realized she intended to shake his, he hurriedly wiped his hands on his apron, probably only making them worse.

He shook her hand firmly, but quickly. “I’m Angel.”

“Wow. I’ve never met an Avian before.”

“Me neither,” he muttered, internally cringing at the stupidity of his statement.

Julie laughed, then dug through her handbag. With a cry of success, she pulled out a little blue box. Opening it, she held in her fingers a small adhesive bandage. The girl held it out to Angel. “For your face,” she clarified.

Angel frowned and took a step back. “Oh, I can’t take handouts. Line says when people give you things, it’s because they want something back.”

A sad look crossed Julie’s face. “I don’t want anything but to see your cut get covered up.”

Angel said nothing, and only looked down in discomfort. To his surprise, he felt the bandage pressed against his face carefully. He looked up in consternation, not used to strangers touching him. The girl was leaning far over the counter to reach him, and he worried she might dirty her dress.

Julie was not only smiling now, but sticking her tongue out. “There! No Takesies Backsies.”

Angel smiled, wishing he had something to give to her. “Oh,” he breathed when a thought occurred to him. He reached under his arm and plucked a feather from his wing, trying not wince at the pinch of pain. He smoothed the tawny feather out with his fingers and then held it out to Julie. “For you. Thank you for the bandage.”

The look on Julie’s face could have lit up all of Gear City after dark. She took the offered feather gently, careful not to disturb its shape. “Wow. You know they say an Avian’s wing can grant wishes. Because of their magic.”

Angel shrugged. “I don’t know any magic.”

Julie’s face fell open, but before she could get a word out, Osvald’s customer interrupted her. “Julie! Stop talking to the help. It’s time to go home.”

Angel watched as the girl quickly hid the feather from her dad, obediently following him out of the store. The Avian watched her go wistfully, wondering what his life would be like if he could have friends his age that were Human.

“You really should be careful about handing those out.”

Angel jumped in surprise when he heard Osvald’s quiet voice. “Sorry?”

“Those feathers really do have power, son. Your mother gave Line and I quite a few of them - I’ve got some saved up in a couple hiding spots. And they’ve gotten me out of a couple tight spots, you know.”

Angel smiled. “What tight spots? You’re a tinkerer. You spend all your days holed up in here,” the boy said, laughing.

Osvald chortled along as well, heading to the back of the shop with the Avian in tow. “You’d be surprised. Line told you she and I were part of a rebellion before we freed your mom. We were all about releasing all of the captured Avians - well, kind of. That was the group’s message, but we never really did anything about it, you know?”

The Avian shook his head and frowned.

Osvald groaned as he reached down and grabbed a poker for the furnace. “We had riots and rallies about freeing them. We made scenes, we hastled diplomats. But we never actually did anything important. Until Line came along. She actually wanted to make that difference. She caught wind of where Motya was being held. She and her husband pleaded to the organization that we free her, but no one was willing to do the leg work.”

“Except you,” Angel added. He took Naess’ blueprints from his employer, storing it along with the others in a separate cubby on a wall opposite the furnace.

“Except me,” Osvald agreed. “We broke in to free her. And if she hadn’t given us one of her feathers, we never would have made it out of there alive. Teleported us straight back to my shop, it did.”

“Wow,” Angel breathed before his expression of awe contorted to one of confusion. “But if it was my mom’s magic that did that, why didn’t she teleport herself out?”

“It wasn’t her magic, not really. Did Line ever teach you about magic?”

The Avian hummed. “Maybe, but I don’t think I was listening.”

“All magic comes from Gaia, Mother Earth. One of the things Omdahl learned from the Avians before coming back down was that the war that caused the Avians to create the Floating Islands happened because Avians and Humans disagreed on how to use magic. So the Avians levitated some of Gaia’s original trees. That’s where magic is produced, and why Humans can’t use it. They say you must be born beneath the boughs of Gaia to use magic.”

“So what does that have to do with the feathers?”

“When your mother was captured to be a slave, they attached technology that blocked her magic, so she couldn’t use it. But when an Avian’s feather is willingly given - not taken or used by the owner of the feather - it has some of Gaia’s raw power. After all, Gaia represents the meaning of giving and love.”

The young boy followed Osvald to to the very back of the shop, where his employer had a cluttered desk - not to be touched - of plans and prints. Angel slowed and stopped when a thought occurred to him. “So I can’t do magic?”

He watched as Osvald’s shoulders hunched.  “No, I don’t suppose you can’t. But, you know, I heard a rumor that if anyone were to visit Gaia’s tree and pray to her, they would be be able use magic. They say Omdahl learned it when he joined the Avian people.”

Angel stood by as the short man in front of him went about puttings plans and equipment up for the day. After a pregnant silence, the boy asked, “Do you think I could ever visit the Floating Islands? Or maybe even live there?”

Osvald placed  pair of calming hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t dream too big, son. Neither Line nor I have the money for a trip like that. Besides, the air up there’s been militarized. There are people still trying to get into the Islands. It’s not safe.”

Angel leaned against one of the little windows in the shop, peering out into the smoky sky wistfully. “If I had any chance to get out of Gear City, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I bet there’s a place, some rural area I could go where people would accept me. Anywhere but here.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Osvald muttered. “Ready to go home?” He asked before Angel could fire an angsty retort.

The boy nodded, following his employer outside, grabbing his cloak before he passed the door. He tied the cloak in place to cover his wings as he took his seat in the sidecar of Osvald’s motorbike.

“Hey Osvald?”

“Yeah, kid?” he replied, positioning himself into the driver’s seat.

“Will you show me how to ride a motorbike?”

Osvald laughed. “Sure, kid.”

Author's Note

Been entertaining my 7 year old cousin all weekend. So. Damn. Tired. And of course I only tired myself out by trying to teach her manners and life lessons. She's a city girl, and we brought her out to the country. The official quote of the day: "Take back nothing but memories, kill nothing but time."

Here's to the generation raised by Apple.

1,925 words