This is a terrible joke.

That is his first thought. His second thought, after running his eyes up and down the creature a few times, is to dismiss the first. It can’t be a joke. This thing changes its face in ways that suggest it isn’t a solid creature. If it isn’t a solid creature, it can likely reshape itself. If it can reshape itself, it must know next to nothing if it looks like that.

A third thought hits him with unreasonable yearning. He steps forward, hesitantly. “Your name’s Remara?”

“Yes I am Remara hello what is your name and can you teach me everything?”

He drapes the soapy tunic over his shoulder. “Remara, have you come from the Maker?”

The huge smile on its face sags a little, the eyes shrinking. “The what?”

His heart sinks, but he tries once more. “The Maker. Were you set here by the Maker? I’ve never seen something like you, but it’s happened before. New beings—entire families of creatures emerging from thin air. Our own eggs appear where no eye is looking… did you come from the Maker?”

Its head tilts to the side. The smile is compressed into a straight line from one side of her face to the other. “I am sorry I have never heard of what you are speaking of can you tell me more about this?”

His shoulders slump. If this was a visitor from the Maker, surely it would understand.

Shaking his head, he turns back to the river. This thing doesn’t seem dangerous, but it clearly doesn’t know better than to talk to him. He’ll take it to the edge of the Keep and let the others assist it. “Best you learn about the Maker from someone else. I know the Songspeaker’s apprentice. I’ll take you to her. Her name is Aria and she’ll be able to teach you whatever you need to know.”

“Oh okay I will follow you to the Songspeaker Apprentice Aria.”

Suds slime their way down his back and he grumbles, “I have clothes to clean and water to gather. Can you wait?”

“I can wait but can you answer the questions I asked you that aren’t about the Maker?”

“What questions?”

“What is your name and can you teach me everything or at least everything else?”

The corner of his mouth twists. He wades back out to the rock and lays his breeches down, soaking them. “I don’t have a name.”

“Then what do I call you?”

Scrubbing the cloth with soap, he deflects the question. “How is it you need teaching about everything but you know what names are? How do you know enough to speak to me?”

There’s a tinkling behind him, like airy chimes. The voice—gentle and soft, like Aria when she’s humming under her breath—says, “It is funny isn’t it I know how to speak to you but not to the others and I know my name but I don’t know why I don’t see anyone else like me and I don’t know what the name of us would be if there were more of us all together but I know that I am very hot and so I must be careful when I move but I learned that after I landed I don’t have an answer for you about why I know some things and not others.”

He scrubs the cloth together and beats it against the flat stone, picking through the stream of words in his head. “You landed? What do you mean?”

“I landed after traveling through the air I landed in a place that looks much like this.”

“So you can fly? Like a bird?”

“What is a bird?”

He twists around to stare at it—at her. The voice is clearly feminine. There is no smile on her face now. She really doesn’t know much.

Wringing out the breeches and his tunic, he slings them over his shoulder and wades back to shore. He chooses a different question. “You said you met others? Like me?”

“Oh no not like you they were sometimes smaller than you and sometimes larger than you by a little and sometimes larger than you by a lot and they ran around quickly and were many different shapes and made many noises but I did not understand any of it.”

He blinks, sifting through that description. “Animals?”

“What is animals?”

He turns from her and drags the livewood yoke-and-pails to the water’s edge, filling them to the brim. Once full, the open edges of the pails fold inward, growing together and closing the buckets. He sets the yoke across his shoulders and stands, groaning a little. “I’ll point animals out to you as we go. Follow me, I have to take this back home. Then we can—” The breeze shifts directions, and he stops as an acrid smell wafts past him. For the first time, he notices the blackened, smoking brush under her. Behind her is a trail of withered grasses spotted with char.

He manages, “You mentioned you’re very hot and have to be careful, but that path behind you doesn’t look careful.”

She stares at him for a few moments, before turning around to see. “Burned oh yes this is a little burned but not very much I kept it as small as I could when I learned what was happening when I touch anything you see the first place I fell there was very much more than this that burned and all the others—you say they are animals?—made many noises and left as quickly as possible and I did not want them to run away so I drank in all the fire and now when I move I take the fire back in as soon as it appears I cannot make less burning than this no matter how hard I try but now at least the other animals will sometimes peek at me and do not all run away unless I start moving toward them then they run.”

Her words are like a river in the rainy season. He shifts the yoke. “Well, follow me. Keep the burning as little as possible. The Keep can probably help with that, too.”

“Yes but could you please tell me what I can call you?”

The dead don’t have names. You shouldn’t be speaking to me. That is the correct answer, but he can already tell it will lead to all sorts of questions he doesn’t want. Instead, he reaches for the surname shared by all who have his gift.

“Wildspeech. You can call me Wildspeech.”

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By the time they reach his home, he is sure that teaching a wingling would be easier. For every answer he gives to a question, she has several more questions about his answer. Nearly every question reminds him how much information he takes for granted in maturity. A conversation that begins with identifying an acorn progresses into what trees are, then tangles up in the difference between trees, bushes, and young trees, and finally ends with him trying to explain why not every tiny animal is going to become a large animal.

As bewildering as it is to speak with her, he enjoys it. He hasn’t spoken this much since the day he returned to the Keep, alerting them to what was happening to their missing members. It is comforting to exchange so many words and the yoke sits lighter on his shoulders by the time he approaches his tree.

“This is my home. Can’t invite you in. It’ll harm the tree if you come in hot through the roots.”

She makes a soft chime that he takes for agreement.

“I need to fill the reservoir. Want to watch?” he asks, setting down the yoke. Without waiting for the answer, he unwinds the vines attaching the two pails to the yoke. Under his gentle tugging, the vines release their grip. He lifts the end of the vine, showing her little wriggling roots. “I’m no Tender, but a Tender shaped all this out of live wood and vines, coaxing them to work together. I couldn’t get these to do anything unless a Tender trained the vines that it was safe to release when they’re asked to.”

He picks up one bucket, tapping the closed top. Creaking, the bucket reverses the growth that closed it up. He carries the bucket around the side of the tree where there is a stone-lined reservoir dug between the roots. He pours the water in, continuing, “That Tender also trained these buckets to close up and release the water placed in them. I’ll make a few more trips, but when I’m done, I’ll rest it all together in the well and it drinks what it wants. That way, it’s cared for and it keeps trusting me.”

Remara’s form ripples and her smile takes up her whole face again. “Beautiful that is incredible it is not a tree anymore because it is not rooted in the ground like you told me trees are but this still behaves like a tree and you say it is because of something called a Tender what is a Tender?”

“Ah. Well. It’s a type of gift and a name as well. Tenders are skytes who—”

“Wait what is a skyte?”

He blinks. “Ah. Me. I am a…” He falls silent. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Skytes look like me, but more beautiful. I’ll take you to meet them soon.” When she bobs her head, he continues.

“Among skytes, there many gifts. A Tender is someone who shapes plants without harming them. They can coax a tree to offer shelter,” and here, he gestures to his home between the roots. “Tenders also make most tools and furniture, and as long as we keep those well-watered and leave them in the sun every few days, they’re happy to remain in these shapes. ‘Tender’ becomes that skyte’s surname, shared by all who have that gift.”

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“Surname?”

“Secondary name. Each also has a first—” he cuts that sentence off. It’s becoming easier to predict where each line of questioning will lead and he doesn’t want to follow this one any further. He stands and retrieves the second bucket, emptying it into the reservoir like the first. As he does, he thinks about the shape of his remaining time. The best thing would be to take this Remara straight to the Keep so she can be looked after by the skytes. Afterward, he can return to hauling loads of water.

His shoulders tighten at the thought of all the silence that will follow.

“Remara, are you in a hurry to go anywhere?” He is struck by the realization that he has barely asked her anything. Turning to face her, he demands, “Are you lost? You landed somewhere. Where were you before that?”

“I don’t know where I was before I only remember falling a long ways and I don’t know if I am lost because I still do not know where I am or where I was so I believe I am in no hurry I only want to learn from you and I have already learned so much please tell me is there very much more to learn?”

He blinks, the words stirring an old, familiar response to his lips. “Yes… there’s still all of it… to learn.”

She raises two yellow tendrils from her sides and stretches them up to the sky, spinning in place. “Wonderful that is what I want so please continue!”

His shoulders relax. There’s no reason to take her to the Keep immediately. He brings the buckets back to the yoke and wraps the vines back around the yoke-bar, waiting for the roots to re-attach. “I’ll make that trip to the river two more times. Come with me? I’ll answer more questions.”

“I would like that Wildspeech and I have my first question for the journey can you please tell me what those are called,” she thrust a tendril toward his legs, “and how you make them move like you do?”

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It is soon clear that this Remara means to learn form as well as information from him. By the time he makes his second trip back, her single solid base has split into two stubby columns that vaguely resemble legs and she stumps after him. If she wasn’t producing a continuous, cheerful stream of questions and conversation, the sight of such a lumpish, grinning creature scorching the ground and slogging determinedly after him would be nightmarish.

It is nightmarish. But he can’t stay afraid when she asks such childish questions.

“You say you cannot change your body to flow over the ground like I can and you have always had legs to move you around but you do change size over time starting out small and growing larger is there anything else about you that changes?”

“Some of the others I see—the animals I see—move through the air and do not use their legs very much how do they do that and what are they using to move?”

“Have you ever moved forward using the other things that are not legs what are these called and do you ever use them to move?” For this question, she closes the distance between them and points a tendril at his arms.

It takes the rest of the third trip to and from the creek to explain bird and insect wings, flying, the purpose of arms, the concept of fins and swimming in water, and then to explain that while some animals do travel below ground it is not the same as swimming through water.

“Incredible and you are a part of this every single day I cannot believe it tell me surely now you have taught me everything there is to learn have you not?”

The corner of his lips twitch up. “Oh, no. This is practically nothing.”

“How much more is there to learn?”

“All of it,” he says. The words are bittersweet on his tongue, a paraphrase of the words spoken by the assembly at the Ceremony of Gratitude. How long since he last attended? The next one is tomorrow. His fingers twitch on the yoke as he approaches the reservoir for the third time and empties his pails. He considers the layout of the clearing used for the ceremony. The underbrush surrounding the clearing is thick. Nobody would see him if he is careful to stay in the blackberry bramble—no, that’s where the more mischievous winglings pretend the adults don’t know where they’re hiding.

He could climb up one of the trees, or beg a ride from a squirrel into the upper branches. Risky. There’s no predicting the flight paths of the performers, and one of them might see him as they fly by. Then he would be at fault for disrupting their joy and concentration.

As if he isn’t enough of a burden to the Keep. As if the Maker isn’t angry enough with him. He shakes himself, the ache in his gut dull and familiar at this point. He will remain in his nest tomorrow and sleep through the ceremony again.

“Friend Wildspeech the last two times we came your dwelling was not open but I can see inside now and I think you have a visitor is this a someone that you know?”

His lungs tighten. He isn’t expecting anyone. He sets the empty pails in the reservoir to soak and hurries around. Remara is leaning forward at an impossible angle to peer at his front door, which hangs open. He hasn’t taken two steps toward it before a bluejay scrabbles out, squawking as it clears the doorway and takes flight.

He watches the bluejay go, relaxing as it vanishes into the forest canopy. He has a vague sense that, in a time before, he would have shouted after it. Threatened it. He might have said something like, “I recognize you! I know where you hide your food! Come back again, and I’ll tell the nearest hawk where to find you!”

He straightens his tunic and ducks inside. It used to be that he was the best at dealing with exactly this kind of bird, but he can’t access the necessary anger anymore. Now they’re stealing from him. Tittering about him in the branches. Mocking him from overhead. They never dared do this before.

They know. They can tell he’s different. Only mother Falcon isn’t gloating over it.

His toolshelf has fallen. His tub is upended. Bits of moss, twigs, and feathers are scattered everywhere. He kneels, gathering bits of his nest into the curve of one arm for a few moments, then standing and letting it fall to the ground again. He will need to re-weave the entire nest.

The bag of supplies Aria brought is ripped to shreds. The food is gone. He wanders around the burrow, picking up what the bluejay left behind: a few patches of moonweave for his legs and any other injuries, a couple flasks of honeyed blackberry wine, and his freshly sharpened stone knife—likely courtesy of Edge Stonemason. He wonders how Edge is doing, and if he managed to make friends with that squirrel that took a liking to him two years back. He never did find out how that unfolded.

“Friend Wildspeech you are very quiet all of a sudden did you know that someone who just left I think you showed me that that kind of someone was a bird is it a friend of yours why did it leave so suddenly?”

Remara’s words jerk him from a daze. He lifts his face to see her standing, still leaning forward at that angle. “Ah. No. Not a friend. It stole from me—took food.”

“What is food?”

He presses his lips into a thin line, the rest of his energy draining out through his feet. He has to re-weave his entire nest before he can go to bed and that will take hours and he can’t stand the thought of one more question when all he wants to do is sleep. “Remara, come with me. I need to take you to the Keep. The others can help you better.”

The crude, smiling face vanishes, like ripples in a pond melting into a smooth surface. She straightens up like a column. Her featureless face bows forward and she nods her head twice, letting her arms hang by her sides.

He picks up the tattered sack, exits the burrow, and shuts the door firmly. “Come.”

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It is about half the distance to the Keep as it is to the creek. They built his home far enough that they don’t have to look at him every day, but not so far that he can’t reach out for help. He reminds himself that he’s perfectly within his rights to speak to them, only that it’s very uncomfortable. For everyone. As long as he keeps his arms wrapped and doesn’t linger too long, he has a right to enter the Keep and ask for help. He was assured of this.

He hasn’t needed to do so since they built his home. Hasn’t wanted to.

The scars down his back burn. He wants a needle, thread, and cloth in addition to more food. He can’t stand the openings at the back of his tunics anymore and it’s too shameful to ask someone else to sew it closed.

Before he even reaches the first home, a whistle jolts him from his thoughts. Someone lands a few yards ahead of him—a broad-shouldered skyte with bare, sculpted arms and earth-toned, loose-fitting tunic and breeches. In a moment he recognizes the waist-length silver braid, the oddly square chin, and the gentle gray eyes of Stem Tender.

Those same eyes had been the first he’d seen upon emerging from his egg, cracking it and unfolding into the world at the same time as Aria. It was Stem who had helped them both stand and stumble out of the remains of their shells, teaching them how to spread their wings so the feathers could dry and be seen by the community eager to greet them.

He drops his eyes, murmuring, “Good day, Stem.”

“It’s Eldest Stem, now.”

The voice is sorrowful and the words hit him like blows. He raises his face, stunned, to see a simple crystal pendant, signifying the leadership of the Keep, hanging from Stem’s neck on a twine cord.

Eldest Fennel aged on. Nobody told me. They held her parting ceremony without asking me to join. They celebrated the new leader without including me.

He lowers his face, then drops to one knee to offer respect. His fingers clutch the torn sack so hard that his knuckles ache. Of course it all happened without him. It should not be a surprise. It should not hurt.

It should not hurt.

“You come to the Keep with a strange creature. What is this that follows you?” Eldest Stem asks.

He has all but forgotten Remara. Chagrined, he says, “Eldest, I don’t know what she is. She calls herself Remara. She’s not an animal. She speaks as one of us. She can change her shape but barely knows anything. I found her this morning, and I thought the Keep could help her. She seems…” he pauses, sifting his interactions with her for descriptions. “Eager. Like a wingling. She’s very hot and may do harm in ignorance. Please take care of her.”

There is a long pause before Eldest Stem replies, “Yes… I see what you mean.”

Miserable, he twists his head around to look behind himself. For a moment, he isn’t sure what he’s looking at. Then he laughs, startling himself.

Remara has bent one of those horrible leg stumps and is laying on it, as if kneeling on one knee, but she doesn’t seem to be sure what to do with the other leg stump. It moves to the side, then it sticks out behind her. She wobbles off balance, then flings her tendrils out to the side and sticks that leg back out to the side. Her features have returned, and the expression they form is a crude version of sadness. Perhaps disturbed? He isn’t sure, but she can’t mimic the pose he’s taken.

“I think she’s harmless,” he finds himself saying. “She only needs teaching.”

“I take your word for it,” Eldest Stem says. “Please, rise. Remara?”

Remara’s voice is as uncertain and wobbly as her pose. “Yes hello I am Remara and I understand you are Eldest Stem perhaps you can explain what the change of name from Stem to Eldest Stem means and also what is the Maker and and and why do you have those on your back and my friend Wildspeech does not?”

He freezes, shutting his eyes. He doesn’t need to see what she is pointing to. “With your permission, Eldest, I will return to my home and leave her in your care,” he blurts.

“Granted.”

He bolts back the way they came, Remara’s protest falling behind him with every step. “Wait but will I see my friend again and when…”

It is only when he reaches his front door that he remembers he didn’t ask for more food. He decides that doesn’t matter enough to pursue. In fact, he doesn’t need to fix his nest today. He can finish it tomorrow. There’s plenty of material to form a loose pile, and that is good enough. He enters his burrow, shuts the door, and drags the fallen toolshelves in front of it. He sweeps bits of moss and down into a mound, then falls across it, waiting for sleep to swallow him.