The Socialite

The lessons at the farm continued through the week. The others besides Aila had their chance to do the takeoff exercise, and they judiciously kept to gliding down the hill. She took a few more tries at it as well, this time also keeping to simply gliding. She’d had a taste of the glory that was flying through the sky, and she could wait a little longer, now.

Landings were practiced next. They’d had a little bit of practice coming down the hill, but they had to perfect it before things could realistically go any farther. So it was back to the hill for them, but with no help from Dr. Halalo or the apprentices with landing this time.

The next day, Dr. Halalo went back to the Catacombs to see to his other seekers, and the ones at the farm continued on with taking off from building tops and other similarly tall structures and landscape features.

“When you’re in the middle of a city,” the apprentice said, “this is sometimes the only way to get airborne. Our wings are built for long flight and gliding, not quick takeoffs and maneuverability.” He demonstrated, and half the group gasped a little. It looked like he’d been standing on the edge, and then simply dived off face-first. A few moments later he was gliding around and past them, and then landed on the roof again.

“It’s especially important to remember while doing this that you’ll have an urge to put your hands forward in case you need to catch yourself. For one thing, if you’re high enough up to have a proper takeoff, it won’t do you any good anyway. But more importantly, it will sabotage your aerodynamics. Just put your arms to your sides and have faith,” he finished with a mischievous grin, and dropped off again.

It took the others a little while to get up the courage to do it, but Aila was one of the first. She wanted to be done with this, and out flying on her own, as quickly as she could.

At first she felt a little of what the apprentice had said, that she’d better hold her hands out in case she fell. But she just turned off that part of her mind and imagined her wings as her arms, and suddenly it all made sense. She was dropping off the building head-first, and then out she flew, in a lazy circle, and back to the building top just like the apprentice. The other seekers were cheering her on, and seeing her do it so effortlessly spurred them to give it a try.

The lessons continued on for the week. They were not taught any wind magic even when one of the seekers asked; Aila assumed it was for the reason that Dr. Halalo had given her the night before. Aila remembered the part of the Song that Dr. Halalo had sung, and she wanted to try it, but something held her back. A sense of caution, certainly, but some respect for the order of things that he had spoken of, as well. It seemed wrong to do it just to do it.

Aila made other interesting observations about the Ka’aulele culture as well, during her time at the farm. One of the most interesting, for her, was that they kept farm animals–cows for milk, bees for honey–but no chickens. They ate no eggs. She supposed it made sense, with their connection to birds.

The week came to a close, and everyone had at least a minimal proficiency in the basic flying skills, and some very sore muscles. If it hadn’t been for the soaking tubs they had available, some of them might have had to stop early.

“Your wing muscles are all too weak to fly as far as Paris,” the apprentice said. “So it’s back to the train for you.” A few quiet groans were heard. Trains were better than trying to stuff your wings out each side of a car, but they were still not ideal. “When you get home, practice, practice, practice! Find places you can jump from. Sometimes, as with the hill you started out on here, if there’s a strong enough wind, you can take off from the ground. I don’t really recommend trying that until you’re a little more skilled, though. But practice! And watch out for towers, taller buildings, power lines, and cars when you practice in Paris.”

When they arrived back at the Catacombs, the ones who were not chosen to go were clearly envious, in a good-natured way. But the ones who did go were no longer “new wings”. In some indefinable way, they had changed yet again, into something else.

Spring had sprung, and in early May, the colors of Paris were blooming with reckless abandon. Aila’s wings had finished growing as much as they were planning to grow, by all signs, and she had started to look more and more like a woman on the young side rather than a older child. Parties were in full swing as well, both the loud and drunken type that the younger people preferred, and the quieter kind that many of older generations preferred.

“I got us invitations to this,” Kuléo said one day, “if you’re interested.” He handed her an ornate note card. There were rainbow spirals in some metallic ink around the edges, and the main contents were written in the Ka’aulele script. It looked like an invitation to the latter type of party, like the one to which her parents had taken her on their ski trip so long ago.

Except this party was clearly for Na’aulele only. If the script on the front didn’t proclaim that loudly enough, it was strongly implied by the words themselves.

Aila licked her lips with a touch of nervousness. No room for error at this one, she thought.

“This seems a little out of character for Na’aulele, doesn’t it?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “It does seem a little odd. Most of the ones I’ve known were really welcoming and inclusive. If they weren’t, we wouldn’t be where we are. But it might be fun to peek in on that world, hmm?”

“Sure,” she said after a moment. “Why not? It should be interesting, and... oh goodness, it’ll be fun to go to my first Ka’aulele-only event!” Her smile at that was pure little-girl excitement.

The night rolled around, and the two of them dropped off the roof of the building near the Catacombs, soaring upward a little way to clear any buildings. No more need for trains, for Aila or Kuléo. As always, feeling the wind under her wings and rushing past her face, the city lights below in their strange criss-cross patterns, was a pure joy that almost nothing could top. She cried her flight-cry aloud and heard Kuléo give his in return.

The only entrance to the party in question was by way of landing on a rooftop. There were a few who were too young to fly, and a few older Na’aulele who could no longer fly, and they were let in on a pre-arranged basis from the street; but by and large it was one more way that the party was declared Ka’aulele-only.

To avoid mussing their clothes, Kuléo and Aila had worn long coats over them, and Aila had tied her hair back. The coats were becoming a popular thing among les volants, as some of them had started dabbling in, and then swimming in, various human customs like fancy dinner parties. (The irony of having Ka’aulele-only parties based around human customs had not yet hit them, apparently.)

When they alighted upon the rooftop, two bird-men in fancy tuxedos walked over and helped them remove their coats, storing them for later when they would depart. And with that, they were descending the stairs into the ballroom in which the party would take place.

Kuléo was back in a white tux this time, still stunningly setting off his blond hair and pale golden wings. Aila had opted this for a dress that began as a light sky blue at the top, and faded to a cream-white near the bottom. It followed the pattern of her wings, and gave the suggestion that her body was feathered in the same shades.

“Well, here we are,” she said quietly to him in Ka’aulele.

“Indeed we are,” he replied in the same.

The two of them were here, and they were in. But they were not entirely comfortable kibitzing with the many bird-men and -women, many of whom had come from Hunéa. Most of the conversation was happening in the Ka’aulele language, and quite a lot of it was reminiscing. Kuléo and Aila knew enough of the language to get by, and many Na’aulele who were born on Earth had accents too, but the fact that this party was not meant to include outsiders made them slightly nervous. They made gestures at being Na’aulele, but it felt a little like they’d gate-crashed someone else’s family party.

They stood on the side eating cheese, taking sips of wine–no drinking age on Hunéa–and generally still feeling out of place in spite of their beautiful wings.

“Maybe we should just go,” Aila was starting to say. And all of a sudden, the choice to remain wallflowers was taken from them.

“Hmm, I haven’t met you two,” a young bird-woman a little older than Aila and Kuléo said as she walked over to them. She held out her hand. “I’m Ailéa. Mind you, I’m no relation to that Parisian girl who made such a ruckus a few years back–trying to become one of us, if you can believe that. No, that was Aila.”

Aila uncomfortably shook the woman’s hand, and introduced herself as Ma’ana. Kuléo introduced himself with his normal name; he figured there was little chance that he’d gotten tangled up in those particular rumors.

“You two are such a cute couple, if I may say so,” Ailéa said.

“Thank you. What happened with her?” Aila asked cautiously. “Aila, I mean. I didn’t hear the story.”

“Well,” Ailéa began, as if she were reluctantly divulging the most scandalous gossip imaginable, “the way I heard it said, this Aila girl–taking one of our names and all! the nerve!–well, she had her scrawny, mutant human-wings, and went out dancing. And some guy was so scared by how she looked that he took a swing at her. Before he knew what had happened, she’d used some kind of martial arts on him and he was down on the floor. They had to call the police rather quickly to keep her from getting away.”

Aila just stood there, her mouth a little agape, unable to comprehend how badly the story had gotten twisted around. Of course she couldn’t really give corrections after telling Ailéa that she hadn’t heard the story. She was more than a little indignant at the description of her wings. They were not scrawny at the time and they were definitely not mutant. Aila was more than a little tired of hearing “mutant” in reference to her wings, first from the human side, and now from the Ka’aulele side.

“Really,” Kuléo said carefully. “The way I heard it, the man attacked another Ka’aulele and Aila came to help.”

Ailéa scoffed. “That’s what the apologists are saying.”

“And you’d know all about apologizing, Ailéa,” a young bird-man’s voice said, walking up to the group. “Don’t let my sister bore you too much,” he said with a genuine smile. “The version I heard was closer to what he said, and anyway, who cares if humans want to have wings? I think it’s neat.”

Aila relaxed a little at his words and brought her right hand up over her heart in a traditional Ka’aulele greeting, continuing to introduce herself as Ma’ana.

“I’m Fanéo,” he said, returning her greeting.

Kuléo introduced himself as well.

“Mind you,” Fanéo said, “I don’t think someone can grow a pair of wings and be one of us. But look at Ailéa gossiping here, one would think she’s practically trying to be human.”

Ailéa smacked his shoulder and he laughed.

“Goodness knows, the Na’aulele could use something new,” he continued.

Aila was torn. She liked Fanéo, offhand, but hearing Iola’s and her parents’ and everyone else’s angry words coming from him was not the best way to impress her. And something in her intuition gave her the same vague unease about him as his sister.

“We don’t need scrawny-winged mutant blood,” Ailéa said, trying to regain some footing and taunt her brother. The statement sealed Aila’s dislike for her.

“The way I heard it, she was quite pretty,” Fanéo said as if she hadn’t spoken. “Blue and black and white wings, a bit like Ma’ana’s, actually.” He chuckled. “And look how pretty she is.”

Kuléo gave him a dirty look that he ignored. Aila just felt a chill in her stomach, that both her name and her description were apparently well-known.

“We’ll leave you two to enjoy the cheese,” Fanéo said with a jaunty wave, and hauled his indignant sister away.

Kuléo sagged in relief. “Wow.” When he looked over and saw that Aila was in deep thought, and somewhere between anger and sadness, he hugged her and touched her with his wing. The gesture, in this setting, in these clothes, reminded her of the dance during the ski trip. She had not had wings then, but now she reached around with her other wing and touched him too. In their little temporary cocoon, she let out a tear or two that she’d been holding back, quickly wiped her face, and they stepped apart.

“Those two are bad news,” an older Ka’aulele woman said to them a moment later. “I think sometimes things go wrong when they come to Earth.” (She pronounced it “Uruta”.) With that, they found themselves the subject of a fawning set of grandparents, who, of all things, thought their Parisian accent was cute. They, too, thought Aila’s wings were magnificent, and sensing that she had a caring audience, the woman told her a story from Hunéa.

“You two were born here, or brought here at a very young age, no doubt. But on Hunéa, there were places called Temples of Change.

“In the long past, in an age of mythology for us now, they were kept up and lit every day of every year. Now they’re mostly ruins covered in plants and moss. But in those days, a fire burned from a pillar, and water was made to fall around it into a pool. They were always built in a natural setting where it was all available, and given a nudge. And like that, they were nearly self-sustaining, the elements fitting into a whole like puzzle pieces.

“What did they use them for, you might ask. They used them for Change, of course! But not the simple changes, like moving the air or turning a disease into a cure in someone’s body. These were built for more fundamental changes. Life to death, death to life. They were Temples because the mystics studied at them, not the average people. They wanted to learn the meaning of life and why we were here.

“As hard as it is for some to believe, this story has it that we had no wings, and were not called Na’aulele at the time. But even back then, they knew the basic symbolism of movement. Movement, and change, are a fundamental aspect of life.

“One year, a man came to the Temple with a bird perched on his shoulder. ’This bird perfectly symbolizes the movement that will free our spirits,’ he said to the mystics. One laughed, but two more were still listening.

“’How does a bird symbolize freeing our spirits?’ one of them asked.

“The man urged the bird into the sky, and it flew free, crying its joy. ’You stand here speaking of air moving up and down, left and right, back and forward, but she swims in it,’ he said.

“The one who had asked turned away, shaking his head. He saw no practical value in this. The third was still quite interested.

“’How do we join her?’ the third mystic asked the man.

“’Ahh, that’s what I came to ask you,’ the man replied.”

The Ka’aulele grandmother laughed uproariously. Some fine points of Ka’aulele humor were lost on Aila still; but she felt stunned. Here, inside this joking parable, was some echo of what seemed to be the origin of the Na’aulele.

“So he could get his bird back, you know? Well, there you have it, kids,” she said. “Take it for what it’s worth, a little piece of home. Thanks for listening to an old woman babble.”

Aila and Kuléo both assured her that the pleasure was all theirs, and she and her bird-man walked off into the crowd.

In the next couple of hours of making better attempts to socialize, she heard a lot of happy stories and conversation, but also several variations of the earlier rumor, some with a positive spin for her, some negative. What they all had in common was that none of the storytellers truly believed she was Ka’aulele.

Reactions she heard from others standing nearby told a different story, especially from the very young. “Well, if she’s got wings and she can fly, and she can speak our language, I don’t see why she’s not one of us.” Those reactions cheered her.

She was far from the only topic on the tongues of the bird-people present tonight; in fact, hardly anyone spoke of her compared to other topics, and no one even thought that perhaps she was the mischievous Aila of the story. She received many compliments on her wings and her dress, as did Kuléo with his tuxedo and his wings. But it was hard to balance all of that against the very personal rumors.

When they left the party from the rooftop, overall her heart was happy. She had spent an evening among her adopted people, and no one had called her out for mistakes or laughed at her. In fact, she seemed to have been quite a hit. But some part of her was also, she couldn’t deny, deeply disturbed. The rumors were upsetting enough, but the time spent among a crowd of so many from Hunéa left her feeling like even more of an outsider. She had touched the tiniest tip of a giant iceberg, most of which was still underwater for her.

The two of them arrived back at the Catacombs tired and a little subdued.

“It was just one gossipy, rotten group of them,” Kuléo said, guessing what was on her mind. “I mean, look how nice everyone is here at L’aide Alchemique. And Na’aulele do have a reputation for being kind and compassionate, for good reason.”

“That’s true, Kuléo, they do,” Aila replied. “But they’ve never had an experience with people who lack wings, born into a different culture, trying to become one of them, have they? At least not in any recent history.”

Aila wondered if, to find peace, she would end up having to hide among her own people. And what sort of peace would that really be?