Rascal

As I peer back on the many years of my life stretching behind me like spectres, I find amidst them a few gems that I frequent regularly. Of course there are the months I first learned the giddy joys of flight, or the heady triumph of the day I summited the Icespire Peaks, or the dizzying ecstasy of escaping the Reaching Spirit. Yet amid those fondest memories lies what to an outside observer would appear an outlier. I am of course speaking of the day young Master Rascal and I repaired his wings.

Working beside Rascal, shoulder to wing, the time flittered away into an ecstasy of conversation, good-natured ribbing, and a fair number of arcing projectiles. I must admit, within that workshop I rather lost the poise of adulthood and fell back on the simpler structures of childish hooliganism, chasing the boy across the room with a beam brandished in my talons, falling into retreat only upon his hoisting of a baton far surpassing the girth of mine, and finding my courage to reengage in combat only upon the attainment of a similarly deadly weapon with which to match his own.

Between bouts of giggling immaturity, we worked on refining Rascal’s wings. Basing them upon mine alone was insufficient, for I knew the boy would one day attain heights I could only dream of reaching. Thus we bandied about a plethora of ideas; testing, discarding, modifying, and developing each one as we went.

It was during these periods of focus that it became evident that this would be our last interaction for quite some time. Once I had accomplished my latest goal of summiting the Grey Trees, I would find myself once more called to the great unknown in search of new challenges to surmount, while he too felt the irresistible call of a journey singing in his dreams. I toyed with the concept of aligning my travels with his, but soon discarded the notion. He would be traveling with a partner, and I would be loath to prove myself bothersome to their enjoyment of each other’s company. I admit, rather shamefully, that I also considered delaying the completion of his wings so as to hoard our time together, yet I knew in my soul no force conjured by myself could stop their completion.

I stood before him as he tried on his repaired wings, feeling at once both a great sadness and an immense pride settling upon me. I felt as a father must beholding his child ready to leave the nest, and though I wanted nothing more than to clutch greedily onto him, I knew I could – would – not. What followed next was a tearful farewell, a hug too soon ended, and a glimpse of my student gliding away from me.

I think a large reason why I am able to look back on that memory without the sting of loss is because – though I did not know it at the time – I would see Master Rascal once again several years later. And it would be as though we had never parted ways.

– From the narrated memoirs of Westley North, intrepid adventurer, daring explorer, heartthrob, and proud teacher.

Growth is an abstruse, tumultuous thing. People often think of it as a linear progression: hair lengthening, size increasing, wings being built. The truth is that growth encompasses so much more.

When Rascal took Ramal’s paw and the two of them set out from the City, the meerkat had grown much over the past few months. The wings strapped over his back were a testament to that. But he had much growth still to go. Every day he would grow more, just as with every flight the wings would, altering their structure minutely to be a better listener, catching dust and haze like stories and beliefs, struts and canvas adjusting to their permanent companion as limbs and fur did.

Some days the growth was not in the right direction: Rascal would forget to listen or speak a work too harshly; some days the wings would collide with foliage or be strained out of shape. But these changes were never close to being beyond repair, and as Rascal and Ramal patched the wings, they patched their relationship too, strengthening both.

Then there were the days that Rascal and the wings grew suddenly. A realisation of how snuggly Rascal and Ramal fit together, and the wings grew flaps; an epiphany that Rascal could spend a lifetime with Ramal, and the wings became lighter; a kiss… and suddenly the wings produced enough lift for two.

Rascal and his wings had indeed undergone much growth by the time the Grey Trees loomed on the horizon once more. But one thing had not, and never would, change. And as the jerboa and the meerkat re-entered the City, they did so the very same way they had left, with its paw in his.

The wind screams. You bare your teeth, fighting to stop them chattering. You can do this, you tell yourself. You can fly. You can fly. You’re not afraid. You’re Scamp.

You hear a light thump behind you. It takes all of your willpower to tear your gaze away from the ground so far below you and glance to your side. There’s a creature there, watching you. It takes you a moment to realise they’re a meerkat, for there’s a strange pair of appendages on their back that they tuck away before approaching.

“Pretty windy up here, hey?” they offer nonchalantly, their steps assured and steady despite the tearing wind and the dizzying drop below.

“Who are you?” you demand, wondering how they were able to get up here so effortlessly when the climb stole all the strength from your limbs.

“Me?” grins the stranger. “I’m the one and only Rascal. What’s your name?”

Your narrow your eyes at them. Suspicion wails within you to lie, to hide, lest they try to take away this one thing you were always meant to do. They wouldn’t understand. No one does.

But the climb exhausted your limbs, and the strain of clutching onto courage has drained your mind, and you can barely think of anything to say except the truth. “Scamp.”

“Hiya Scamp, it’s nice to meet you. Whatchya doing up here then?”

“I’m going to fly.” The words come out weak and silly. You try again, angrier. “I’m going to fly! You’re not going to stop me!”

“Stop you? What makes you think I’d try that?” gapes Rascal.

“Well… why are you here then?”

Something glistens in their eye. A flash of memory. A rush of emotions.

Without smirk, without fuss, simple and genuine, they answer you.

“I wish to help you, Scamp. If you would allow me, of course.”