Call My People Home
Queen Maive looked down on a field of withering stalks and quietly despaired. The calling flowers never bloomed this year. The wingfen had always flown back to their Northern Craig homes at the end of the blooming season, to arrive when the ground there turned soft and the fruits began to bear harvest.
But the flowers never bloomed. They had been later and later every year, the hot season longer and the muddy season drier, but the flowers had still come. The wingfen had never left without them.
Maive didn’t know if they could.
Blooming season was well over now, and the calling field hadn’t produced so much as a single bud. Maive had to make a choice. Stay and wait for late blooming flowers to show them the way? Or trust in her own instincts and leave? Flood season was just over the horizon here in the Southern Reaches, but what if it was still too early? Her people would starve if they didn’t fly in time with the growing season.
Food could be bought or scavenged, though. The floods were inevitable, and sodden wings a death sentence.
She pulled her own black wings close to her, running a hand through her many braids. Here, in the nest she shared with her wives, she could afford to be vulnerable and indecisive. Tonight, though, she would have to be Queen.
Tonight she would have to decide.
They couldn’t stay here forever; the whole flock knew that in their feathers. But they no longer had a sign to tell them when to leave.
They only had her.
She watched the wind rustle the dried stalks of the calling field. Their world was changing so fast. She only hoped her people could fly faster still.
“We will leave. We must.”
But the flowers never bloomed. They had been later and later every year, the hot season longer and the muddy season drier, but the flowers had still come. The wingfen had never left without them.
Maive didn’t know if they could.
Blooming season was well over now, and the calling field hadn’t produced so much as a single bud. Maive had to make a choice. Stay and wait for late blooming flowers to show them the way? Or trust in her own instincts and leave? Flood season was just over the horizon here in the Southern Reaches, but what if it was still too early? Her people would starve if they didn’t fly in time with the growing season.
Food could be bought or scavenged, though. The floods were inevitable, and sodden wings a death sentence.
She pulled her own black wings close to her, running a hand through her many braids. Here, in the nest she shared with her wives, she could afford to be vulnerable and indecisive. Tonight, though, she would have to be Queen.
Tonight she would have to decide.
They couldn’t stay here forever; the whole flock knew that in their feathers. But they no longer had a sign to tell them when to leave.
They only had her.
She watched the wind rustle the dried stalks of the calling field. Their world was changing so fast. She only hoped her people could fly faster still.
“We will leave. We must.”
Originally Published in Migration: Queer Sci Fi's Sixth Annual Flash Fiction Contest