Character Exploration #4

They sat in front of a small fire made of dried Mesquite branches pointed up at the dark sky, lit faintly by the full moon and glow of countless stars. Raka kept her eyes squeezed shut and slowly took in the woodsy scent wafting behind her, facing Neal with one arm outstretched. Her breath hitched for every stitch sewing up her flesh. At the fifth criss-cross, Neal tied off the cotton thread and cut the excess with a sharpened fingernail. He had yet to form talons; his yellow feathers barely grew in, coating his arms and legs in a soft down, but nothing to work with. Nothing to take. Not like Raka.

“Do you need a break?” He said, brushing his right hand, containing the Saguaro needle, against her bare knee. Last time, he was left-handed. And the time before, ambidextrous. He had to be; it was a rough year, and Raka bore those scars to show it.

Last time, he was a she, named Tale. Her nails grew long enough to turn a blood red, and then Tale couldn’t patch her up anymore. Raka shook her head and offered up her left arm, still caked with the dried blood from their nestmates’ latest feather harvesting. Nate went back to work, carefully lining up each point before sinking the needle into her reddened flesh.

It’s only fair, they said. Raka is the oldest. She’ll have everything we’ll need. That way the rest of us don’t have to suffer. Raka can do it.

Nate didn’t remember, never remembered. None of them did, but they did it for every harvest. Between lifetimes, all the vivid red-orange primary and secondary feathers that she painstakingly grew went into the collection box. They clawed and ripped at her wings, stripping away each and every plume. In the end, Nate picked up her battered body and carried her far out from the campsite to recoup. Nate, or Tale, or whomever they were renamed— they sewed her up, dusted her off, and went back on their way in serving their keepers.

When Nate finished, he tucked away his aid kit in his cotton drawstring pack. Raka shuddered once, and turned to curl up beside him. She folded her arms across her chest, both equally bare, pockmarked with gooseflesh, and slightly bloody. They stared into the crackling fire long into the night until it burned out. Only in the waking light, Raka said, “What if we don’t go back?”