The Beak That Pierces Brains looked wistfully up at the sky as she walked on talon-less feet, as groundbound as the rawest hatchling. The should-be-a-dragon was long gone. Now the figures in the sky were familiar ones: her friends and associates heading home late from the festival without her. They carried only the smallest amounts of trade goods, since they’d sold most of the mortar this year. Beak had mined a lot of that from the cliffs herself, mixed some of it, and been an instrumental part in selling it to their regulars. Now she was left to walk while the rest of them flew through the darkening skies.
They weren’t the only ones above, she noticed. A cloud of darting lights that could only be pixies was ahead of them, and a small silver dragon followed the harpies at a respectful distance.
Pixies, she thought, Have no respect for anyone. I don’t envy whoever has to deal with them before the full explanation arrives. She cheered herself slightly by imagining the chaos that several dozen curious pixies could wreak on people who were not her. The door to her own house would probably be closed at this time of day, with her sisters preparing dinner. They would know better than to open it to tiny excitable voices.
It was possible that Beak’s opinion of the species was colored by an earlier interaction with the should-be-a-pixie, who had been making an effort to learn everyone’s names. He was, it turned out, one of those featherless types who couldn’t resist pointing out the obvious when presented with Beak’s full name.
“Harpies don’t have beaks,” he’d said, blinking.
Beak spread her arms and glared at the sky — a gesture that lacked impact without her feathered wings — and she tried not to sound too infuriated when she replied. “It’s a metaphorical beak!”
“A what?”
Beak had refused to explain it to him, stomping off to walk behind the dragon. The other two could explain harpy naming customs to him if they cared to. She wasn’t in the mood.
Just now, a voice was complaining behind her. She didn’t need to look to know it was the should-be-a-centaur, who still hadn’t figured out how to put one foot in front of the other reliably. Useless lump, that one. At least the other two unfortunate souls were being her training wings while she learned something that hatchlings picked up right away. Beak was groundbound, but at least she wasn’t that bad.
Her eyesight was a little worse, though, and all the complaining had her convinced that her sense of smell was missing things now too. She hoped that the dragon would terrify a counterspell out of somebody quickly. He seemed more than up to the task. The Beak That Pierces Brains had watched him work with approval earlier, while the two-who-should-have-hooves had just looked afraid. Beak was pretty sure the pixie hadn’t understood half of the conversation. All the brains of a puffweed, and twice as flighty.
Speaking of flight, Beak thought with another glance at the sky, Looks like they should have time to net the pixies and give them something shiny to stare at before I arrive. Ah, this is going to be awkward.
She plodded along the dirt road, discovering just how much dust rose from it, and she couldn’t decide whether the walking process or the end of the trip would be worse.
When she drew near enough to the village that she could make out details of the stone buildings despite the failing light, she looked back at the distance she’d walked. The forest wasn’t visible past the hills, but she could see where the path branched into the north/south route used by various wingless nobodies. Normally a harpy wouldn’t be caught anywhere near that road.
Oh, but this was humorous: the line of centaurs was parading along the road with their carts in tow, trying to look regal, while the minotaurs were winning a race that only they were participating in. The biggest one towed their single cart across the grasslands, bumping wildly along with singleminded fierceness that the others shared as they ran. The centaurs were ignoring them.
Beak laughed. Leave it to a bull minotaur to refuse to be the last to arrive.
It was enough to make her want to pick up the pace a bit, just on principle. She pulled ahead of the others, wondering if she would be able to get home without too much attention.
Not likely. As she neared, she spotted the silver dragon politely waiting at the edge of the village, several paces away from a flock of her kin. Several pixies flitted about like errant sparks.
Ah yes, now the crowd was coming forward to greet them. Beak braced herself. None of the people heading for her had been at the festival, and they all had a lot to say.
“Good, you made it before dark!”
“Will you all need food, or just someplace to sleep?”
“Which one of you’s the harpy?”
“Uh, me.” Beak raised a wrist, unconsciously held in wing position. “Obviously.” Sure it was getting dark, but the others all had the wrong skin color. Slightly too dark, much too dark, and golden tan. Plus none of them had a proud harpy nose.
“Right, yes, of course,” said the old uncle in front. “I’m sure you can find your way home, then. We’ll get these others set up in the town hall.”
“Sounds great,” Beak said, pushing through the crowd. “Have fun with that.”
The villagers were chattering, the shouldn’t-be-humans were adding to the noise, pixies flew everywhere ruining people’s night vision, and the minotaurs were thundering closer.
Beak ignored every question and went home, weaving between the stonework whose mortar she had helped make. The chaos could handle itself without her. It was late, she was tired, and she’d had a terrible day. Hopefully there was some dinner left. And family who had been informed of her predicament.
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This last occurred to her as she stood outside her front door, lifting a human foot to grasp the latch. She had to bend down and awkwardly do it with a hand instead.
The door opened to a familiar, localized chaos. “I’m home,” Beak said over the sound of her two sisters feeding a half dozen hatchlings.
The Wings That Fan Hurricanes came to greet her first, with a demeanor that thankfully —thankfully! — said that she’d known what to expect. Beak caught a glimpse of her own bag of festival supplies by the table, which someone had clearly brought back. Good. The belongings were here, and the family was up to speed.
“Home and freaky-looking,” Wing said bluntly, spreading brown wings in welcome. “Come sit down. Those weird feet probably hurt after the walk.”
Beak sighed. “So much.” She let herself be herded toward the low circular table like an errant fledgeling, corralled by her sister’s wing.
The hatchlings sent up a ruckus of pre-verbal squeaks and chirrups. Who was this weirdo, and what was she doing joining them for dinner? They were small, wobbly-necked, and had barely any feathers, but their opinions were strong.
“Shove over,” Beak said as she gently made space between two of them, opposite the table from The Talons That Ensnare The Slipperiest Fish. Talon was busy keeping her brood from choking on dinner, but she spared Beak a sympathetic look.
“Hard day,” she observed.
“Hard day,” Beak agreed.
“Need someone to feed you like the littles?”
“No thank you,” Beak said. “My feet are useless, but I have more fingers now. Might as well use them.” She scooped up a bite of fish from the communal plate, managing to coordinate all the fingers reasonably well. “Too many fingers if you ask me,” she added.
“But no wings,” said Wing, sitting down between two other scraggly youngsters.
Beak bit into the fish harder than necessary. “Yes, thank you; I hadn’t noticed.”
“They said somebody’s going to fix it soon though, right?”
“Theoretically.” She swallowed the mouthful. “All we can do is wait. With stupid feet and no wings.”
“Wanna talk names to take your mind off it?” Talon asked. “I have some new ideas, but Wing says they’re squid-brained.”
Beak smiled. “Let’s hear these squid-brained names.” The hatchlings, already bored with the human shape in their midst, squabbled over the remaining pieces of fish. If they realized that the adults were discussing the names they would be stuck with, they didn’t show it.
As the sister with the regrettably common name, The Talons That Ensnare The Slipperiest Fish was dead set on giving her offspring more unique names.
“What about The Horn That Impales The Sun?”
“No metaphors,” Beak declared. “Trust me on that one. Every outsider they meet will say ‘Oh, but harpies don’t have horns. Is that a unicorn name?’”
“But it’s not about a real horn at all!” Talon said. “Surely they’d know that. It’s about an indomitable spirit.”
“They would not know that,” Beak said, grabbing another chunk of fish. “Just ask the idiot pixie I walked in with.”
“Oh, pixies are all idiots.” Talon tossed her head. “I meant other people.”
Wing speared a bite on a wing-talon, looking more than a little smug. “How long did it take to explain your name to this pixie?”
“Oh, I didn’t even try!” Beak said. “I wasn’t about to trouble him with grownup ideas like ‘piercing wit.’ It might make his brain overheat.”
“And we don’t want that!” Wing said with a laugh. “Though that would be a great fact to present Mom with: ‘Hey, remember your terrible naming skills? They toasted a pixie. I hope you’re proud.’”
“She probably would be,” Beak mumbled around her food.
“But okay, no metaphors,” Wing said, turning back to Talon. “I’ll second that recommendation. Might I also suggest the obvious: nothing easily turned into jokes about bodily functions?”
“Yes, Wing.” Talon rolled her eyes. “I know.”
The Wings That Fan Hurricanes had never gotten over the childhood teasing about cloaca-wind. It was a weak joke, but the other fledgelings had gotten a lot of mileage out of it. Beak took a turn smirking now, happy with her own troublesome name.
The three of them talked through the rest of dinner, then cleaned up and got the hatchlings settled into the nesting hollow in the lower portion of the main room. Talon settled down with them, telling quiet stories to her children amid cushions and blankets. Wing turned down the lights while Beak checked her festival bag to make sure nothing was missing. The two sisters sat down to talk in murmurs.
“Do you still want the next turn hatching eggs?” Wing asked, mischief in her eyes. “Hopefully you’ll be up for it by then. I hear humans have a horrendous time reproducing.”
“Ugh, don’t even joke about that,” Beak said. “This had better be cleared up soon.”
“I should hope so! You’d probably have to go to one of the far villages to find a mate who’s hot for featherless ones.”
“I said quit it.” Beak nudged her sister with a wrist, irritated anew with the way it didn’t hit right. “Everything about this bites downy fluff.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it does.” Wing stood up. “I’m going to check on the hubbub outside, see if there’s any new developments.”
“Knock yourself out,” Beak said. “You’ll want to go to the town hall, by the sound of it. I’m going to try to sleep.”
“Have fun,” Wing said. “Dream of disturbing human things.”
“I’d rather not, thanks.”
“You’re welcome!”
Wing left, and Beak was alone with her thoughts. She took the bag to her room, stepping softly past the nesting hollow. The hatchlings were almost asleep, though two still kicked absently.
Beak got ready as best she could. She’d planned to take off the ugly human clothes, but found that the air was uncomfortably cool without them, so she left them on. Except for the shoes; those were loose enough that she was certain they’d fall of by themselves while she slept.
If she slept. Her nest was distinctly uncomfortable now. Human bodies were fully capable of curling up into a proper harpy sleeping position, but not for long. Everything hurt. Beak grumbled to herself and straightened out, head and legs lolling out of the nest.
This is stupid, she thought, rearranging pillows. I could be asleep now, after a normal trip home … a flight home! I miss flying so bad. She dwelled upon it, feeling the ache like a lost limb. In a way, she had lost two. Really they’d turned into arms instead, but those wouldn’t let her fly.
Maybe there’s a way I could, she thought. Everybody knows about the auntie a few towns north who made herself a wing replacement after the injury. What did she use?
Beak’s thoughts went interesting places before Wing returned home, and tapped on her door with an update.
“They’re all sleeping in the town hall,” Wing said. “Except the centaurs, who apparently had to get home on a timeline. Something about the money they made at the festival. They left their human in the care of the minotaurs, which is hilarious to see; so tiny. The room is glowing with pixies on every flat surface. I can’t imagine how anybody’s getting sleep with that going on.”
“Sounds terrible,” Beak said, shifting position again.
“Glad to be in your own nest?”
“I would be, if it was actually comfortable.” She sat up. “Hey, do we still have those gardening supplies in the shed?”
“Still there. Why?”
Beak pulled her shoes back on. “I might as well do something productive while I can’t sleep.”
“Have at it,” Wing said. “Wake me if you need proper feet.”
“Will do.”
Wing went off to her own room, leaving the house silent. Beak crept past the nesting hollow again, and out to the storage shed.
There she found wooden poles, tarp, and enough miscellaneous supplies to follow through on a very bad idea.