On Wooden Wings

The Fleet. Four Months Ago.

"Move your head a little bit to the left."

Clarita let out a breath. "You've been working on my nose for more than a week."

In response, Domingo set down his chisel, this one with a v-shaped head (she was beginning to wonder how many he owned), and stared at her with supreme patience. Clarita sighed, then turned her face to the left. Behind him, the door stood open, a compromise for the sake of her modesty as Domingo refused to carve anywhere else. As she heard the methodical sound of metal biting into wood, she tried to distract herself by letting her eyes wander around Domingo's room. It was poor entertainment, considering that she'd long since memorized even the grain patterns of the floorboards.

It had been a simple enough plan: have Domingo craft a wooden model of her so that she could safely test her flight harness. The Auto-bird was her masterpiece, something that would guarantee her the rank of Çelebi if demonstrated at a Promotion Trial. The masters of the Fleet held a special weakness for those who could master the winds and seize the legacy of their spiritual founder, Ahmet Çelebi. Clarita believed that she'd created a mechanical harness capable of wing-assisted flight, but she wasn't crazy enough to attempt a test flight herself. The only way she was going to get any useful results would be if she could approximate how the harness would react with her strapped into it, and that meant creating an accurate model, or , in this case, finding someone to create it for her.

A sound plan. She just hadn't expected that it would take months.

It wasn't that Clarita didn't appreciate the effort that Domingo was putting into the project. After all--except for that hellish week where she had to pose with her arms suspended, resting on an imaginary brace--she just stood still (or sat) while Domingo hammered, chiseled, and cut. But the Auto-bird was almost ready for a field test and Clarita was getting impatient. The next docking at Jolo was less than half a year away.

Clarita stood up, and Domingo made a small, exasperated noise. "Clarita..."

"Dom, listen, I don't need something that can take my place in falsafa. I can't afford to waste too much time on--"

"Waste?" Domingo asked, in an injured tone. He laid down his chisel and picked up a hammer.

"I didn't mean that," Clarita said, picking her words carefully. While Domingo had, surprisingly, turned out to be good company, she'd learned the hard way that he was vindictive and easily offended. "The model is fine, it's good enough--"

"Good enough?"

The hammer hit the wood with unusual force, and Clarita jumped back, unnerved by how loud the harsh cracking sound was in the small space.

"What does that even mean? You're going to be hundreds of feet in the air!" Domingo was glaring at her as if he found the thought of her leaving the ground to be personally insulting. "What if something goes wrong? What if you turn the wrong way or pull the wrong lever because, because when you did your test I got your hip wrong, or your elbow, or, or your nose?"

Clarita was ready to answer his rising anger with her own, but there was something in his voice, in the strain on his face, that gave the girl pause. She smiled.

"Domingo Malong... are you worried about me? Little moro me?"

To her great delight, Domingo actually blushed, looking quickly down and busying himself with carving a notch between the fingers of the model. "Don't be ridiculous. I just... I think it's crazy what you're doing. You're taking a huge risk, and for what?"

Clarita sat back down, and for a few minutes there were no sounds other than those Domingo's tools made as they steadily chipped away at the wood.

"I made a promise." The words were out before she realized that she had decided to confide in him. "A deal... with my father. If I'm promoted to Çelebi by my next homecoming, then I get to stay on the Fleet for good."

"That sounds like an easy enough deadline to avoid."

Clarita barked out a harsh laugh. "I come from Jolo. The Fleet docks there at least twice a year. At the worst case, I've only got six months."

For a long moment, Domingo was quiet. "A Çelebi at fifteen, huh?"

Clarita felt heat rush to her face. Most students studied for more than a decade before they passed their Promotion Trials, the demonstrations of learning and ingenuity required before one was allowed to teach at the Fleet. Without another word, she rose once more to her feet and headed toward the doorway. Domingo intercepted her, his hand encircling her wrist.

"You're the smartest student I've met here. If anyone can do it, you can." His eyes were earnest and searching, and Clarita felt like one of the Vaucanson figures which had so captured his imagination. "And whatever I can do to help, I will."

Maybe Clarita's surprise showed on her face, or maybe the boy hadn't really meant to be so direct, but Domingo let go of her wrist abruptly and turned away. "I'll... see you tomorrow."

Clarita stepped out into the hallway, then turned and smiled at the back of Domingo's head. The boy had begun to clean the chips and wood shavings from the floor, and was studiously avoiding any glances in her direction.

"See you tomorrow," she said.