Seeds With Wings

He made pride look cool. His smile was cocky. His outfits were splendid. His presence, angelic. Despite seeing him only once or twice a year, here he was walking into the annual Festival of Fellowship. Of course, not too far from him was his partner, or colleague, possibly friend. We didn’t even know their real names.

Somehow, we knew he went by Thorn, she by Rockie–we heard him call her that once, though it was never affirmed. We also knew that they once lived on this island. They seemed to be in a matured youth, roughly in their twenties. The few times he returned, she came as well. She was reserved but strong in stance. She wasn’t as flashy as he was, but she unarguably had that flair–flowy, thick hair, stern eyebrows, and style in her clothes that made a statement without any nature of being flashy. If we truly believed ourselves to be the seeds of the island, then they were flowers of the world.

We admired them. The elders hated them. Adults in the gray. Seeing them appear at the festival was a surprise. Our island, Athiktos, treasured this festival, making Center Pasture a decorated grassland: dozens of food tents, lantern lights, held up in the air by wooden posts hanging all throughout the field, the huge wooden stage, having constant performances during the night, and, most importantly, stations where experienced individuals can apply the streaks to our faces and bodies: they were called burns. Everyone wore the uniformly-cyan, knitted garments they handed out a week earlier; females were given knittings designed more as basic dresses, while men received two simple attire: the upper portion extending to the wrists and the lower portion reaching the ankles. The Festival of Fellowship was always memorable. The lights made the night look golden, the performance songs kept the air occupied, while the soups and sweetened breads kept us satisfied. The festival never failed its purpose: maintaining unity through history. That’s why Thorn and Rockie stuck out.

“No shot, that’s Thorn!”

“What are the chances! You think he’s got stuff for us again?”

I knew that Jole knew the answer. In our heads, we were craving it, yet we resisted our want to be depicted as greed and ungratefulness. Thorn was already swarmed with younger boys. He was picking them up, horseplaying around, dishing out noogies, wrestling them to the ground. He was a light to the moths. It wasn’t until he pulled something out of his flamboyant jacket that they all stopped and circled around him. He was showing them something.

“If Thorn and Rockie are here, you think Fowl is here too?”

“Definitely.”

“That’s not gonna make the night end well then, is it?”

Fowl was older. Maybe in his forties. Aggressively wavy, long hair with some hints of gray. Once more, his relationship with the other two was not known, but it was understood that he had their higher regard. Making his way up the cobble stairs onto Center Pasture, he was viewed by everyone. Tall, not bulky but broad. His face was toned and his expressions were stony, yet he had a slight air of weariness. His attendance drew reverence. In his few travels back to the island, he barely interacted with us younger individuals. He scarcely had any interactions, apart from Thorn and Rockie. All three of them were on the lower end at the entrance of Center Pasture, where a few tents were aligned. While Thorn made his way over to us, Rockie and Fowl stood in place, as if to admire the scenery.

“Be cool, be cool.”

“I am cool. You be cool.”

We were already getting tense, fixing up our cyan garments, though with droplets of excitement brewed in.

“Whattup boys. How we doin’ gentlemen. Ya’ll are growing like crazy–you must think ya’ll are hot stuff, huh. Ya’ll boys get yourselves a girl yet or what?”

“Nah Thorn, you know it’s not like that around here.” I flashed Jole a look, silently calling him out on his changed manner of speaking.

“Man, ya’ll boys must be starvin’.” He chuckled. “Aye, I respect it tho.” He began to pull something out of his silky jacket. “I brought ya’ll boys something. Out there, they’re called rings.”

He handed each of us a hollowed sphere, perfectly uniform, ridiculously shiny, seemingly heavenly. We rotated it in our hands with lost eyes and opened mouths. This is mine? It stole my eyes and massaged in me a sense of ownership. Jole did not hesitate and asked, “what were you showing the younger ones?”

“Well, they were in dire need of some bling.” With that, he left us, only adding coal to the bright flame of which we viewed him as. He was as cool as ever.

“What do you guys think a bling is?”

“Stop worrying about that, and stop changing how you talk around him.”

With the night continuing, as skits of our island’s past were displayed, accompanied by music played on older lyres, we enjoyed everything. We could see in the distance Thorn wildly dancing with a group of little ones egging him on–he was not perceived with smiles by older individuals. Even Rockie seemed to be enjoying a bit of herself, conversing with a female of her age. Spotting Fowl was difficult, until we heard what was to disrupt the night.

“Who do you believe yourself to be? You deceive your own thought. You cannot return, consumed and reeking of vice, and play hero! We know all of what you are, so do not come to shed your guilt with false deeds that exploit our unknowing innocents!”

All of Center Pasture had come to a pause, with Fowl and Mel, a respected elder, directing the island’s attention–Fowl was silent. I did not know at the time: Fowl was offering buckets worth of fruits and vegetables, which he brought from the ship, as a gift to the festival. Following Fowl’s silent response, Mel, with a provoked air, raised her right hand and slapped his chest. “Your soul spills out.” Not forcefully, as her age fed her weakened state. Though the festival’s joy abruptly rotted into weariness that night, I would only begin to feel true apprehension the next morning. Thorn was found dead.

Every other morning, our island commits to rooting. From the earliest you can wake up, essentially when your mother wakes you up, you kneel. Until the break of dawn, you plant your right knee into the soil, letting your knee ache with tightness, forcing it to become red when you rise. It’s an act of humility. The redness in the knee, seen on everyone by everyone, unites us. We all see each other with it and we remember.

Some time before I was born, our island was facing a tragedy of flame; the lands were in ruins, all wooden structures depleted to the hungry burst of red, consuming our ancestors' lives and island. They had a choice: leave the island through sail, or commit to one another and combat the fire. We had decided to be seeds and plant ourselves into our land, Athiktos.

Athiktos represents our willingness to offer ourselves to one another. Apart from the necessary sacrifices for the differences in saved resources and foods, the burns required the greatest acts of unity. Some lost their faces, others body parts, few, nothing. Those with great differences felt disparity in beauty, ability, identity. We promised, having learned that balanced sacrifice is what saved the lands, that all would become one and the same–a communal identity. We sought to implant ourselves as seeds upon Athiktos, to become one with the island. Athiktos is more than land. More than home. It is us.

His body was found on the sand at the bottom of Libertas, the highest elevated cliff on our island. As I was kneeling, waiting for the light of the sun to break through, I was kept in thought. Would they ever root? Did Thorn root the morning of the day in which he decided to jump? Upon seeing the baby rays of light, I rose up, dusted off my knee, and walked in a different path towards the education building–I didn’t want to walk by Libertas. That day we were assigned to wear our hazel garments. As I was treading down the dirt path, occasionally stretching my asleep leg, I saw Rockie by the water, barely having her feet dipped in the waves. Did she root today? Something massless tugged my conscience towards her. I resisted, feeling tense because I scarcely interacted with her. But, I had to know–my sorrow from Thorn was more.

“Hi, I don’t mean to interrupt, but–”

“You had no idea who he really was.”

She was right. Hearing her tone–indeed matching her stern disposition–I decided to hold my tongue. Yet, still facing away from me out towards the sea, she broke the silence.

“He said he hated the cold, but that was never it. It was raw guilt. He never wanted to admit it, but he couldn’t wash it off his body. Instead, the idiot covered it with his pretentious clothing. Blaming the cold. What a joke.”

She sounded bitter, but I could hear the cracking in her voice, assuming it would be consistent for her to be teary.

“What do you mean? We always appreciated his joy and–”

“He sold his body! Every woman and man out there got a taste of him! That fool got what he wanted. You know nothing!”

She began to cry and I felt a pulsing. What?

“I don’t understand. What are you speak–”

“You don’t understand because you’re here. He left because he wanted more. You see it, I see it, we all see it. He’s special. He has the charm. Had it. But the charm was never set ablaze here, so he went where it would.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you really think, with this island’s sick standards, he felt the reward of which he truly deserved. He wanted the whole thing. And the world gave him what he wanted. He was everyone’s desire. And that fool. That fool was forced to give his body to them.”

“Forced by who?”

“By himself!”

I was scared. I felt things begin to shatter within, losing shape and density. The rush of slowly understanding what I did not know was stripping my lucidity.

“What about you? Why did you leave Athiktos?”

She hesitated, squirming her feet more within the sand, burrowing deeper and deeper.

“I understand what has shaped people. But, I had hope, continue to hope, that there can be something more. It was not enough here. And Fowl, he’s the reason. He brought us back to the festival on purpose. Thorn saw what he left and was left with only what he left for.”

“Thorn missed this?”

“He loved it. And he only realized it that night.”

After rooting the second morning after, I felt off. It felt different. Usually, this routine helps me to drastically warm up for the day, preparing me with a very calming and relaxed feel. That morning, I felt tense. Normally, seeing the red knees was an assuring comfort in predictability. That day, it felt uncomfortably imposed.

We were assigned to wear our grayish garments. It was supposed to be an eventful day, considering that our education section was allotted time to play handball by the bay. As I waited for my fifteen minutes, I watched how everyone was joyously engaged, those playing and those cheering. With the sun completely out, the waters moving soundfully, the scene was perfect for our weekly, competitive handball game. Yet, everything and everyone seemed off to me. It all seemed stuck. Jole ran out to the side, for his fifteen minutes were up, coming up to me and breathlessly saying, “Jrooth, are you seeing this? Everyone is on their game today.” I gave him a nod, watching Jamson out in the field, towering over everyone, singlehandedly catching the ball over Joon, and doming a perfect corner goal with a spicy speed. With that goal, his allotted time was immediately over, despite just substituting in for Jole, and I was now allowed in. Before stepping in, I twitched over at Jole for an unfamiliar thought rushed into my head: “Don’t you think Jamson wants to play more?” As I jogged into the center stage, I felt his discomfort piercing the back of my head.

Later at communal lunch, where all of the island comes to Center Pasture to fellowship with a meal, I noticed that the boat Fowl and the others arrived on was still here. I have not seen Rockie or Fowl in days, and I could not help but realize that this was the longest they have stayed on the island. With a group of us gathered around, eating a minted-tomato soup, I zoned out of the conversation the guys were discussing–they were chattering about something my ears failed to awaken to, making a sloppy mess at the table. Everyone on the island was either at a table, roaming while eating, or laying on blankets in the meadows–all were fellowshiping during this time of lunch. Though I saw uniformity everyday, seeing everyone in gray prickled my mind. My eyes were set on a not unusual but uncommon conversation, where an education instructor was reminding Myla, a shorter female in my age class, that her bottom garment was not long enough, failing to reach her ankles. For no defensible motive, I continued watching, as an elder walked over to Myla, beginning to scold her with intent. The scene was not alarming. It was not even a scene. It was not worth watching. Yet, with my attention entirely engrossed in it, I broke through the guys’ conversation, gesturing in Myla’s direction. “Do you guys think it is actually that serious?” I immediately felt the heat. Not only did I awkwardly disrupt, but some instinct told me that the question was, somehow, off. Caught off guard, they looked at me confused, glanced towards where I pointed, and watched the exchange unfold. With a basic understanding, Jole asked concerningly, “Is everything good, Jrooth?”

Obviously, it was a ridiculous question; I was challenging our island’s custom. Their eyes began to ripple past my skin, crawling into my soul, discerning the nature of which I was discovering as well. I was uneasy. Why do I feel guilty? When I could bear no longer, someone else took the heaviness of their attention. The whole island’s attention. Fowl. His voice was heavy and thick. Powerful, not forced. He put sufficient behind it where all on Center Pasture heard it. He withheld enough so you were forced to focus on it. Hearing him call out, no, even talk, was something no one was comfortably accustomed to.

“I know that many of you are uncomfortable with our prolonged stay. I can assure you. We will be leaving. We will not be returning.” He paused, surveying the island’s looks and attitudes, learning that he held our alerted consciousness. “With this, I offer any of you. Come with us. Learn of the world. Find truth. Be more than what you are and discover what is to be.”

Rockie stood next to him. He controlled our senses–eyes bolted, ears extended, skin awakened. With some eyes, I noticed, we began to search for a response. There was a hint of movement in muttering. With uneasiness mustering, wind swifting through, Fowl waited. He stood, almost at the center of the whole field. Then, Mitra arose. One of the oldest females on the island, whose grandmother had founded rooting. Her voice was coarse and weak, yet assertive. When you heard her voice, you listened.

“Demon of the sky. You will not thieve the seeds of this land. This garden's treasure.”

“Mitra. You know what I offer.”

They were the only ones standing. By no metrics was it an argument, but their demeanors battled thoroughly. Her weary eyes scanned around her. Mitra was a powerful woman. She needed no more respect from this island’s people. She began to breathe heavily. With anxious gazes upon her, she kneeled. She rooted herself into the ground. It was as if the island’s geometry shrunk, time paused, and the world’s axis realigned itself on her. “Our seeds will bloom here.” Radiations began to originate from her, hitting the rest of us, stimulating our need for inspiration. As the radius increased, people began to root with her. Wherever they stood, they began to kneel. She created a wave that was emerging towards me. As if my bodily autonomy was lost, I felt the onset to kneel. But I met Fowl’s eyes.

Only Fowl and Rockie were left standing. I noticed I was too. The guys around me stared at me. I could see, peering at me, Jole was afraid. I connected with Rockie. Her intensity seemed to communicate to me. You must be sure of this. Mel detected me: “No, do not be unwise, child! You know nothing of the world!”

“That is why he is compelled. Come.” From a great distance, Fowl offered his hand.

Sitting up against the border of the boat, I struggled to perceive my state. My mind was conflicting, not of my decision, but of my emotions. I looked at Rockie–without a smile, her manner seemed shallow and lifeless. I looked at Fowl, hunching over the front of the boat. Viewed from the back, with his hair coming down like a mane and his sleeves baggy and heavy, he truly did appear as a winged creature.