Roger Taylor - The fall of Fyorlund

‘Look, Hawklan,’ he said breathlessly, thrusting his beak forward, pointing in the same direction.

‘Where?’ said Hawklan.

‘There,’ replied Gavor impatiently. ‘There. Where I’m pointing.’

‘I can’t see anything,’ began Hawklan. ‘Only clouds and sk-’

He broke off as his gaze, working through the mov-ing tufts of white, fell on the cause of all the attention. The sight dispelled his sun-warmed lethargy and drew him first into a sitting position, and then to his feet, though slowly, as if fearful of disturbing the wonder he was looking at. For a moment he felt disorientated and he glanced down briefly at Gavor. The gleaming black iridescence of his friend against the soft green grass reassured him and he looked up again at the large white cloud in the distance.

For a large white cloud is what it appeared to be, one of the great wind-borne flotilla gliding silently and gracefully overhead. Except that rising from its upper surface were rank upon rank of towers and spires, like a vast and distant echo of Anderras Darion, glinting white and silver in the sunlight.

As he stared, Hawklan saw that the surface was etched with a fine mosaic that could be smaller buildings though it was too distant for him to identify any details.

As the great shape moved, so, like any other cloud, it changed, and Hawklan saw the distant towers slowly, almost imperceptibly, rising and falling in response.

‘What is it?’ he whispered, unconsciously imitating the hushed tones of the nearby Riddinvolk.

‘Viladrien.’

Gavor spoke the word at the same time as the man in the group, and the effect, combined with the almost unbelievable sight in front of him, made Hawklan start. Before he could speak again, Gavor said, ‘One of the great Cloud Lands.’

Gavor’s tone also reflected the awe of the other watchers and Hawklan himself sensed it was a time for watching and not talking.

‘I must go to it,’ said Gavor and, without waiting for any comment from Hawklan, he stretched his great blue-sheened wings into the breeze and rose up into the spring air.

‘It’s too far,’ Hawklan whispered softly to himself, without understanding why he said it. ‘Too far. You’ll break your heart.’

As he watched Gavor go, flying straight and pur-posefully in the direction of the strange and stately Cloud Land, Hawklan thought he caught a faint sound floating softly in the air all around him but, as he strained to hear it, it slipped from him.

For a long, timeless moment, Hawklan and the pic-nicking Riddinvolk stood on the sunlit hillside in silent communion as the great shape floated by. Less capti-vated than the adults, the children alternated their attention between the Cloud Land and their silent parents but, sensing their mood, they remained still and quiet.

In the silence, Hawklan seemed to hear again the strange soft singing all around him but, this time, he allowed it to move over him and made no wilful attempt to listen to it. He had never heard such a noise before, nor could he understand it, but he knew it for an ancient song of praise and rejoicing, though now it was filled with a strange regretful longing. Eventually, as the Cloud Land faded into the distance and was lost amongst its neighbours, the children began to tug tentatively at their father and ask questions. The man knelt down and put his arms around his two boys. Hawklan eavesdropped shamelessly, his own immediate sense of wonder being slowly overcome by curiosity.

‘It’s one of the Viladrien,’ the man said, almost rev-erently. ‘Where the Drienvolk live. The sky people. They float in the sky like the Morlider islands float in the sea.’

‘Are they bad people like the Morlider?’ asked one child anxiously.

The man smiled; rather sadly, Hawklan thought.

‘Not all the Morlider are bad,’ the man said. ‘I’ve told you that. But no, the Drienvolk are kind and friendly. They’ve never harmed anyone.’

‘Will any of them come down?’

‘I wouldn’t think so. From what my grandfather used to tell me, they don’t like being on the ground. The air’s too thick for them. They feel closed in, crushed. They need the space of the skies to be happy.’

Hawklan’s curiosity overwhelmed him totally and he walked over to the group and introduced himself. The man welcomed him. He was rubbing his neck and wriggling his shoulders.

‘I couldn’t keep my eyes off it,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘How long have we been watching it?’

Hawklan shrugged. ‘Some experiences can’t be measured in ordinary time,’ he said enigmatically.

The man looked at him thoughtfully and then nod-ded a slow agreement.

‘Did you hear that noise?’ Hawklan asked.

The man shook his head. ‘No, I heard nothing,’ he said. ‘I didn’t dare to breathe for fear of disturbing the silence. Did you hear anything?’ He turned to ask his wife.

‘Someone was singing,’ volunteered one of the chil-dren casually. ‘It was all around.’ She met Hawklan’s green eyes squarely and openly.

‘All around?’ Hawklan queried.

The child opened her arms to encompass the moun-tains and the plains and the sky. ‘All around,’ she confirmed. Her father looked at her suspiciously. ‘All around, Daddy, as if the mountains were singing to the Vil… Vil… ’ She gave up her attempt on the word, but finished her speech. ‘But it was very soft, Daddy, the music.’

Hawklan intervened gently. ‘There was a faint sing-ing noise, I’m sure. Maybe it was the wind. Anyway it’s stopped now.’

The man smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘The appearance of a Viladrien is supposed to be associated with strange happenings. I’m well content just to have seen one. What a sight. What a thing to tell them back home.’

‘They’ll all have seen it,’ said his wife prosaically.

The man refused to allow his spirits to be damp-ened. ‘I don’t care. I’ll tell them anyway. I’ll wager we had the better view up here,’ he said excitedly. ‘What a sight,’ he repeated.

‘Indeed,’ said Hawklan. ‘Can you tell me anything about them? I’ve never heard of anything like an island in the sky. What kind of people live on them?’

The man laughed. ‘You’re Orthlundyn aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Don’t they teach you the Old Lore in Orthlund?’

Hawklan smiled and shrugged self-deprecatingly. ‘A little,’ he lied. ‘But not all of us listen as we should.’

The man laughed again. ‘Well, I can’t tell you much,’ he said. ‘Only old school tales. My great-grandfather was supposed to have met some of the Drienvolk once… according to my grandfather, that is. Very high in the mountains, when he was young and had got separated from his parents in the mist. Said they showed him the path. Said they were friendly but a bit strange-shy, in a way. And they floated in the air. I never really believed it, but it’s a nice family tale, and the Drienvolk are supposed to be kind and gentle.’ The man’s manner quietened a little at the mention of his grandfather, and he looked almost longingly after the departed Viladrien.

‘And you’ve never seen one before?’ offered Hawk-lan gently.

The man shook his head, ‘Apparently once they were supposed to be quite common, but no, I’ve never seen one until today. Nor met anyone who has. They say sometimes the odd one has been seen far out to sea, but… ’ His voice tailed off into a shrug.

‘I wonder why one should come now?’ Hawklan mused.

The man looked at him. ‘That’s a strange question. They’re carried on the air like the Morlider Islands are carried on the sea. They must go where the wind takes them-where Sphaeera wills.’ He almost intoned the last part softly as if repeating something he had learned many years earlier by rote.