Autumn dyed the streets in orange leaves and wan canopies. Indrá had closed shop early to fetch his father supper. Fall Father's Day customs demanded every child return what was owed.

He clutched a paper bag with a rye loaf and a brown-glazed turkey to his chest. Sons and daughters beset with tasks much the same sent him looks of greeting that oft went unanswered.

An artifact that flies, thought Indrá. I'm sure Father knows how. That he neglected to teach me means to ask is to forfeit. Perhaps the Tome watches both product and process?

Indrá's mind may stray but his caution remained. He kept from alleys and met the eyes of every passer. Days holier than this had made beggars of indolence and dead of folly.

My insight into flight draws only from birds: lords of the sky and rainers of white ruin.

Indrá veered past an alley humbled by filth and shouldered the Artifice All-Father's front door. In the workshop, his father was deep in the time cube's scripts and sketches.

"Father, I brought supper," said Indrá. Mōden waved to a table at his flank, silent and unturned.

I wonder what mystery keeps him. Indrá laid the bag where he'd been pointed and sat at his workstation. No matter. I've my own mysteries to attend.

He took a page and a quill and ink from a jar. A pigeon with splayed wings graced the paper in scribbles. Indrá studied it as he would a machine to glean the secrets from ground unto sky.

The material must be light. The shape I can mirror on the outside but the innards will differ greatly. Spirit batteries for the stomach and axles for the joints ...

It was deep in the night when Mōden arrived. He toted a leg of turkey and a slice of rye. Mirth tugged at his lips and he said, "The Cant of hovering?"

"Yup." Indrá unspooled his creation's wings like a paper fan. His brows were scrunched as if lovers longing to meet. "The Tome denied my pigeon even though it can fly."

"Show me."

The metal bird buzzed at the flip of a switch. Indrá released it lightly to his father's front. "See? It's flyin—"

Fwooo!

Mōden blew at the flapping wings and the bird teetered to a crash. "A pigeon allergic to wind!" He guffawed. "No wonder the Tome didn't like it." Mōden rubbed his son's drooped shoulders. "Eat, bathe, sleep. Who knows? Maybe a solution lurks in your dreams but you've spurned it all this time?"

=====

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Indrá found neither epiphany nor dream when his lids fell at last. Only an equation awaited that saw progress yet naught more—like a boulder rolled up a hill that grew and grew.

"Urgh!" He woke angry at his failure and bemused at his anger. That wasn't even a real problem; why am I upset? thought Indrá. Half of those numbers were fruits ...

Dawn's rays melted the ennui from Indrá's squint. He stepped over his father's fanned arm to the washroom. Then he stepped down the stairs and sat hunched over his workbench.

"My design isn't faulty; the materials are too heavy. But where can I find fabric as light as a feather?" He pinched the bird's wingtip. "Cotton'd be too frail and silk'd tear. What else?"

He froze. "I'm ... an idiot."

"Oh? You figured it out?"

Indrá yelped and fell over his chair.

"Good morning!" said Mōden, offering a hand. "I take it you've found your solution?"

"I think so," said Indrá as he took his father's hand. "Could you helm the shop today? I need to run to the market."

Mōden raised a brow. "You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

"Patience."

"... Is that a no?"

His father scratched his beard. "I'm not sure. Ask me again once you've closed up shop."

Indrá rolled his eyes and made for the storefront. "So he's hard of helping too ..."

"What was that?"

"Nothing!"

=====

"I sure am grateful for ya mendin' my light," said an older woman. "I do like a midnight tinkle. Were it dark I might've fell ayn' hit somethin' fierce."

"I'm happy to hear that," said Indrá, rushing the woman to the door. "Have yourself a good evening."

"You too, deary. If y'er hungrin', my table's got room—" The woman spun. "Now where'd that boy run off to?"

=====

Indrá sprinted to his workbench and tore at a parcel of butcher's paper.

"Wait," said Mōden.

Jittery, Indrá halted. "Yes, Father?"

"Are those dead pigeons?"

"Mhm."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Pluck their feathers."

"And then?"

"Toss them—" his father cleared his throat over-loud, "... into soup stock. I'm making pigeon soup for dinner."

"I see. Save me a bowl, would you?"

"Will do!" Glowering, Indrá hefted a pigeon and got to work. After a while a pile of blue-grey feathers lay at his side.

"Did you hear that?" said Mōden.

"Hear what?"

"My stomach's been making these noises ... It only does it at morn, noon, and eve. Odd, right?"

"I'll call the morgue," said Indrá, lugging the denuded pigeons to the stove beside the spirit generator. "Need to make sure they've a spot for a bigger fella."

"Let me know what you find!"

=====

Whoosh!

Ripples swam about a bowl of cold soup in the wake of a blur. Flaps and flutters joined Indrá's cheers as an avian half-feather, half-metal arced overhead.

"I'm impressed," said Mōden, arms crossed. "Most novices give up on the bird route—myself included."

"What was your solution, Father?" said Indrá, snagging the iron pigeon from the air.

"Remember when I told you 'hot air rises?'"

"I do."

"It also rises in a thin rubber film."

Indrá blinked. "You made a balloon heater?"

Mōden blinked. "The Tome entitled it, 'Hot Air Balloon.' C'mon, genius, let's see how you fare then."

Indrá bared the Philosopher's Tome to his invention. A silver beacon blossomed and stole the device into its bindings.

> A most fine wedding of iron and feather, it claims the mantle of its predecessor's better.

>

> Your entry is flush with wit and acuity but falls short in bearing wisdom's utility.

>

> For creating an artifact like no other, below you may find the Cant to hover.

>

> Receive thy name for a bird half-metal: the Philosopher has deemed it the Pigeon-Flayed Devil.

"So it's a tie?" said Mōden.

"A tie it is," said Indrá.