Paper Wings

Scent of Evolution

The wolf ran free, long unused muscles unwinding. He sampled the unfamiliar scents on the wind: birds the likes of which he had never encountered before, rivers of icy water, and soft, powdered snow. No man-scent anywhere. He tossed his head in frustration, then listened for scampering rodents and small creatures, for tall, antlered beasts, for others like him. Tentatively, he walked a small circle. There were no bars, no chains, no cage, no familiar faces. He dug in the snow, huffing ice crystals from his nose and leaping after shadows, thrilling in his unaccustomed freedom.

Running with the wind, breath exhaled in steamy puffs, he saw a herd of caribou and stopped, watching. They scented him and stiffened. He drank their fear like an elixir and barked triumphantly. Then he grinned, teeth bared in the moonlight. There would be no feasting on caribou tonight.

Tonight he wanted to play. The herd was waiting. Slowly, body low to the ground, he approached them. Moments later, the caribou began to run.

The wolf howled, snapping long fangs, and gave chase. They had never before run from a predator like this. With every burst of speed they added, every muscle that screamed, he loped easily behind. Nipping playfully at their hooves, he followed every dodge and dart. To their great confusion, he pulled ahead of the herd and barked for them to keep up. Eventually, he selected a young bull, barely more than a year in this world, and separated it cleanly from the others. This bull was no stranger to separation; too old to trail the cows, too young to challenge the elders, he finally began to slow. The wolf knew this game, and he was patient tonight.

In a clearing, far from the herd, the bull tired and stopped, coat glistening in the moonlight. Sides heaving and head held proudly aloft, he waited for the massive jaw to close around his throat. The wolf stood at the edge of the clearing, then lowered himself to the ground and crawled towards the bull, tail persistently wagging.

Warily the bull stepped away, but the odd overtures continued. The wolf approached again, and this time the bull did not move. He lowered his antlered head. Slowly, the wolf advanced, tongue out, panting. They touched noses, smelling each other's history, weaving a friendship in gestures of the tail and tilts of the head. Tonight, the wolf knew, they would run together, stag and canine, stride for stride. He smiled.

They galloped over an expanse of white snow, kicking it into the air between them. In the icy Alaskan night, the wolf blood ran hot and he panted small jets of steam under the starry sky, shaking off the snowflakes that dotted his lashes. The bull searched out the best winter grasses and lichens while the wolf chased lemming and white snowshoe hares in the underbrush, snapping playfully at their scampering tails. They stopped for water and watched their reflections swirl in the river while owls soared overhead.

The bull led the wolf to a peak where green light touched the earth in a masterpiece of colour. The sky was alive, begging to dance, reaching fiery arms down to the ice and trees below.

The silvery moon cast shadows under the pines, and the wolf howled at the measureless beauty, his music in harmony with the moon and the stars and the footfalls of the caribou.

They cut back through the herd, the older bulls not daring to chide the one who ran with the wolf.

In the dark dead of night, the moon dropped down to touch the huge and shadowy peaks. They paused in a clearing, and the wolf stretched -- a long and luxurious extension of muscle -- his seemingly inexhaustible energy finally ebbing. The bull touched his nose and huffed gently. The wolf yawned, exposing long pointed teeth, but the bull was unafraid. The wolf lay down under the light of the setting moon, lids closing over bright yellow eyes, watched over by his young caribou companion.

The large brown eyes of the caribou regarded the teeth and fur of an enemy whose world he had shared this night. He nudged the thick ruff of the wolf's neck, and received a low whine in response. Then his eyes widened in fear as the creature seized and transformed into a pale, bare-skinned human shivering in the snow. The bull whirled and darted away. Alone, tail flipping to signal danger, he cantered back to his herd.

A little charm around the man's neck glowed and a moment later, he vanished.

Remus managed to climb to his feet after the journey by Portkey. Looking around hazily for his belongings, he noticed, with a moment's disquiet, the pleasantly exhausted quivering in his muscles that he hadn't felt since before... since long before he had left England. He stumbled over to his clothes and quickly covered his raw, icy skin, then lit a fire with his wand. For the rest of the night, he slept beside the dark flames and dreamed of running free with a black dog, white stag, and brown rat.

***

Remus woke several hours later, wonderfully refreshed. Eyes closed, he rolled his shoulders and wiggled his toes. He opened his eyes to the light of a snow-white morning. His muscles tingled as he stood and rubbed the backs of his arms. Though it made no sense, images from the night before flashed before his eyes: chasing, playing, running with a dark stag. Prongs?

He shook the thought away and recalled green fire dancing in the sky. Aurora Borealis. He did not understand the memories, but his body was whole and his mind was clear. Smiling slightly, Remus read the old parchment and queried the orb; its golden depths were, as expected, unchanged. Hoping he had correctly guessed Peter's course, he took a final look around the snow-covered heaven and pulled the Portkey-sock from his case. There was a familiar jerk at his navel, and he left winter behind.

***

Remus' feet slammed into solid ground so abruptly that he dropped his case and fell to his knees. Standing and steadying himself, he looked around. He had arrived in some kind of urban natural space, with thin grass underfoot and sparsely-leaved tall trees overhead. Colourful modern statuary dotted the lawn. The air smelled of old garbage and diesel, but the gentle breeze carried a hint of the crisp, clean mountains beyond the city. Beyond a wrought-iron fence, not more than a hundred metres to his right, Muggles thronged a busy street. None came into the park, and few even glanced through the bars of the fence. Remus was alone and unseen amid the swarming masses.

He picked up his case and the sock that had fallen on landing. It was heavy and misshapen with some rectangular, straight-edged object inside. Remus reached in and pulled a book from its knobbly cotton interior.

Roaming Roffense's Unrivaled Guide to Wizarding Ecuador and the Galapagos Islands, courtesy of the Fairbanks, Alaska Portkey Issuance Office. Come again soon!

Remus smiled, doubting that either Myra or Mrs. Tree would have sanctioned the note for him. He thumbed through the guide, intrigued by the colourful illustrations and promises of a 'land like no other'. Tearing himself away from a chapter about mangrove forests where the trees seemed to have legs, he flipped back to the first page.

¡Bienvenidos a Ecuador!

Ecuador: an innocent enough destination from which the rainforest to the west was readily accessible. He had promised Whirling he would not to go to Manaus. At the time it had seemed a reasonable assurance to give. What he now meant, Remus thought with just a twinge of guilt, was that he wouldn't get caught.

Remus turned back to the guide. A brief welcome, written in both English and Spanish, was followed by several pages of adverts offering lodging in hostels, recommendations for restaurants and shops in the city, tours of a sandy coast, cruises to an archipelago of isolated islands where unique magical creatures flourished in the middle of the Atlantic, guided mountain climbs up Cotopaxi, Tungurahua, Chimborazo, Sumaco and the country's many other active volcanoes, and markets that sold fresh rainforest herbs, alpaca skins, handcrafted cauldrons, and magical musical instruments such as the quena. The adverts were followed by a brief guide to the diverse landscapes: the volatile Andes, cool pacific coast, and lush rainforest. Remus turned to the chapter about the Amazon, its rivers and regions, indices of flora and fauna.

Then he noticed a plain insert, unassuming beside the flamboyant moving pictures on either side, but in a position of prominence in the centre of the book. He lifted it and read: Rules and Restrictions on Magical Travel / Reglas y Restriciones en Viaje Mágico. Remus skimmed the extensive list, noting that beside every restriction was a name and a number. He found the key at the bottom; the numbers, apparently, were the value of the bribe expected by the named official in order to bypass the listed rule. Remus chuckled to himself. Considerate, he thought, for them to have printed it so clearly.

Roaming Roffense in hand, Remus walked through the wrought-iron gate and stepped out into the city.

Slightly short of breath in the thin air -- the guidebook informed him that Quito was located 2850 metres above sea level -- he absorbed the sights and sounds all around. People crowded the streets, most of them heads shorter than Remus, with dark hair and skin and bright clothing. They seemed focused entirely on getting to wherever they were going as fast as humanly possible and avoiding collisions on the way. Guards stood on various corners, armed with large automatic firearms and holding the leashes of menacing German Shepherds. Remus couldn't help but stare at the weapons as he passed, wondering if they were, as the Prophet so often intimated, no more than Muggle wands for killing one another. Angular and ugly, they certainly didn't seem to be nearly so intimidating as the eleven and a half inches of birch and dragon heartstring in his pocket.

Busses poured black fumes into the mountain air; tin-roofed hovels stood beside worn down mansions and glass skyscrapers, and a towering statue of the Virgin watched over it all from her cliff high above the city.

He walked quickly, weaving through the crowds, pretending that he knew exactly where he was going and hoping that the wide-eyed children with frayed clothing and tin pans wouldn't notice him. Finally, he turned onto a quieter side street and examined the city map in his guide. It required several minutes to associate the bright, caricatured streets and pictures to the cement thoroughfares around him, but he eventually located the nearest Broomstick Registry office and walked quickly to it.

***

Remus left the grotesquely orange office building feeling rather satisfied with himself. He'd met the heavily moustached Broomstick Comptroller, or the 'Jefe' as he preferred to be known, made his intentions clear by pointing at the monochrome insert, and received a stamp on his hand in Maria's Best No-Wash-No-Rub Semi-Permanent ink, granting him license to travel South America nightly by broom for one month. After leaving the office, Remus' money bag was desperately light, but for a first bribe, he considered it quite successful.

As he walked, the last night's transformation dragged his heels, sapping what energy he had, and he located a small Muggle hostel fancifully called The Magic Bean. The inexpensive room was clean and relatively private, so he curled up under the crisp, white linens in a bed beside the window. Looking out at the mountains and listening to the bustle of the street below, the noontime sun streamed into the room and warmed his face as he read the guidebook. Soon a contented sleep overcame him, and he allowed his head to fall onto the irritated illustration of a sloth in a tree, hoping to wake an expert on Amazonian culture and life.

The following morning, Remus purchased dry goods for the next week of travel, calculating that it would take him at least that long to reach his destination, and then went in search of a Quidditch Supply Store.

Just outside the third merchant with no brooms for rent, and certainly none that Remus could afford to buy, he was accosted by a street urchin with short black hair and blacker eyes. The boy was clasping a rooster against his chest, but he dropped the disgruntled bird and grabbed Remus' hands in his own grubby brown ones. "Senor, por favor." He smelled faintly of incense and old tyres. Pulling Remus down the street, he stopped in front of a small shop.

It was less a shop, really, than a red awning held up tenuously by several metal poles in an alleyway between two high walls. As they walked farther into the alley, the smell of incense grew stronger, and the ambient light from the street dimmed among the bric-a-brac lining shelves and tables. An old man with dark skin and a flat nose was sitting on a three-legged stood towards the back; he smiled at the child, who informed him immediately, "El quiere un palo," and held up Remus' hand to show the stamp.

The old man nodded and Remus followed him to the dark, back wall of the alley, glancing out at the street as the shadow of the large rooster crossed the entrance behind him. He fervently hoped that this wasn't a trap to part the gringo and his belongings.

Behind the rows of indigenous crafts sold to tourists, ponchos, and various brightly coloured bags, they arrived at a collection of broomsticks gathering dust in the corner. Remus breathed a sigh of relief. Very eager to please, the old man held out several brooms for Remus to examine. They were all old, some probably made before the first Comet ever left the line. They had broken twigs and scratched handles, but Remus, who had ridden the school brooms for many years, could tell the shabby from the unserviceable.

He finally selected an old Swiftstick; sturdy and fast at low altitudes, it would serve his purpose nicely. Then they began to haggle.

Remus wasn't very good at it.

He talked the price down a bit, and the length of the rental up, but was afraid to insult the old man by asking a price too low; the old man and his grandson could certainly use the money more than Remus. By the time he left the little alley, Remus had the Swiftstick tucked into his case and just enough money left for a few weeks' travel, even in this country, where a Galleon went a long way.

Three days. He had seventy-two hours starting tomorrow noon before the broomstick turned around and flew back to its owner. Three days and half a continent to cross.

So what are you worried about? asked a voice in his head that reminded him uncannily of James Potter.

***

He found the bus depot and bought a ticket to the end of the line. The narrow roads descended from the towering volcanic Andes, etched into the mountains and surrounded by lush forest, continually erased by landslides and rebuilt by men. The road crews were as industrious as the ants around their feet, largely ignored passing busses full to burst with passengers and cargo. Precariously steep walls of mud rose to the left, and the land fell away in a great gorge to the right.

Small streams cascaded from the mountains above at every turn, tumbling onto the roof of the bus before dropping hundreds of feet into the ravine below. The water was often loud enough to drown the chatter of the passengers and the syncopated rhythms of salsa music blasting from speakers by the driver. Condensation from the tumbling falls fogged the windows, and droplets of water scattered into the air revealed myriad rainbows. Remus, bouncing on the stiff bus seat, watched it all out the open window and felt more alive than he had in a very long time.

By late afternoon, the landscape flattened and the bus bumped its way through the rainforest proper. Vivid was the only word that came to Remus' mind. Even the guidebook's moving illustrations hadn't begun to capture it. Insects hummed and raindrops dripped on banana leaves in a ceaseless chorus. Iridescent butterflies the size of Remus' head flitted in the green-yellow light outside the open bus window, and Remus considered climbing onto the roof with the children the next time it stopped. All around was the smell of evolution, the nectar of exotic flowers and decay of fallen leaves. This was a land of life; more species than would ever be counted by man, Roffense had noted, fought for a mere eighteen inches of nutrient-rich topsoil. In the canopy, monkeys howled and parrots spoke. Tree roots rested above ground hundreds of feet from their trunks, as vines thicker than a man and older than civilisation hung from their topmost limbs.

There was no room for memory here. Life thrived only in the now, fierce, unforgiving, and beautiful. Even as the blue and white mosquitoes of the evening hovered around him, hoping to draw just a little blood, Remus fell in love with the Amazon.

Having reached the end of the road, the end of all roads, and disembarked the bus, he pulled in a breath of thick, humid air and noticed that his shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin.

A Quichua shaman living by the side of the River Napo was listed in the guidebook as the man to see about lodging at the edge of the forest. After a brief and silent appraisal, he agreed to take Remus in for the night. He smelled of grain alcohol and strange herbs, and offered to expel Remus' demons with the soft shaking of dry siripanga leaves.

Remus smiled. "My demons?" he asked sceptically.

The shaman nodded, smiled toothlessly and continued to chant over him, voice blending with the rustle of the dry leaves, the wizards swathed in a thick fragrant smoke that filled the paja-roofed wooden cabana. Remus watched, fascinated; the magic of this shaman was rooted in the teeming earth and riotous colour of the forest, brewing complex potions from the saps and barks of the land around him, a diffuse magic without the aid of a wand, a commune with the snakes and insects and life.

Afterwards, the shaman listened to Remus' story.

"There is a place," he said, voice worn with age, "far down the river where the Howler monkeys do not go, a place where the Dark grows. This place, the snakes say, evil wizards from far away come to dwell. They are frightened." Dark eyes bored into Remus', and the shaman spoke quietly, "I fear."

He stood and pointed to the small community outside his door. "There are stories of a time, when the grandfather of my grandfather was still alive, that the dugbog and lethifold plagued our homes. Much has been forgotten. I do not know if I can protect my children should they come again."

Remus offered to show the man special wards to keep dark creatures from the rooms where his children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews slept. They were simple spells, old blood-magic and dubiously legal, but he'd known them since he was very small and his parents wanted to keep the silver from his curious reach; for the most part he'd found them to be effective.

In return, the shaman offered him the use of a small magical canoe. Three inches in length on land, it would expand to full size when set in the water. From a man who had no worldly possessions but third-hand cast-off clothing, a cauldron, walking stick, and quena, it was a priceless treasure.

"I promise to return it to you," Remus told him.

The shaman smiled. "In the morning, you go towards the Dark. I think you will come out," he said, and patted Remus atop the head.

***

For the next four days, Remus would travel by canoe for the twelve hours of equatorial sunlight and mist, often dozing to the motion of the river. The river was at times wide, brown, and lazy, then fast and curving, made treacherous by floating trees and jagged rock walls. The toucans and capuchin monkeys voiced their surprise at the sight of a canoe that seemed to power itself downstream and floated on the air when the water became too rough. Luckily for Remus, no members of the International Enforcement Division of the Statute of Secrecy heard their cries.

Each night, when the blazing sun set, he pulled the canoe onto shore, watched it shrink to the size of the wild oranges growing by the banks of the Napo, slipped it into his case, and pulled out the old Swiftstick. He took a quick dinner on the riverbank, supplementing the stores from Quito with wild coconut, mango and other fruits growing by the banks. He collected a few tagua nuts, prized by craftsmen for carving and by birds and agouti for eating. He learned the sounds of the nocturnal frogs, insects, and mammals, how they sang alone or blended their chirps, cheeps, and creeks with the raindrops on the bromeliads to play out the symphony of the forest. Gigantic owl moths, seductive and dusty, wings alive with intricate patterns of brown, grey, and two bright yellow eyes, flew among the banana leaves. Remus extended a hand, and one alit. Staring at its alluring beauty in the moonlight off the river, he felt his chest tighten painfully.

The moth took flight and so did Remus. Though he had not purchased permission to fly by day, by night the river was his.

He lay flat against the broom, urging it faster and faster, toes almost grazing the water below as he resisted the temptation to soar above the canopy. Over the Windscreen Charm, wind ruffled his hair and rivulets of rainwater ran down his neck. He closed his eyes and kicked the broom forward until everything fell away but the unrelenting speed.

***

Flying. Glowing Smile. Burning eyes. Blur of shadows, trees, moonlight.

Sirius opened his eyes, gasping for breath. His heart raced weakly and he clutched the threadbare blanket over his chest. In the distance, he heard the screaming of the others' nightmares. The Crouch boy, who had entered -- how long ago? -- stumbling and crying, eyes wide with fear, wouldn't live much longer. The guards knew it, and their morbid excitement shook the stone of the fortress.

As they gathered for the feast, Sirius, on the other end of the fortress, felt the fog lift ever so slightly. He'd been dreaming, but couldn't remember of what. All he knew was that it felt different than the nightmares. He rolled over and pressed his face into the cold, damp stone, lifeless but reassuringly solid beneath his body. This was the floor. He stood and grinned darkly; it held him up. He remembered the cold, that this was a cell, and that he had not always been here. He was Sirius Black, imprisoned in Azkaban for crimes he did not commit, and the dementors would never take his soul.

These were the things he remembered -- these and the whisper of a dream.

Suddenly, he swung his head to the left, convinced he'd just missed a flash of movement. The memory was so close, almost tangible. He reached out to touch it but felt only the stone wall beneath his fingers. Sinking back down to the ground, he studied the hand in front of him. It was connected, via his arm, to his body, but seemed to take on a life of its own.

Five fingers. As each moved in turn, he watched the tendons tighten, muscles flex, joints pivot. Blue veins took blood away. A pulsing artery returned it. Each knuckle stood in sharp relief against the surrounding flesh. Each finger ended in a long, grimy nail, black with bruising. The hands rubbed together slowly. Each could feel the other's touch until he lost track of where touch ended and feeling began. He watched the shadows they cast on the floor. Perfect machinery. Perfect...

He snapped his head right this time, long, matted hair flying into his face. It was there, just beyond the range of his vision, waiting. He closed his eyes.

Flying

There.

In the brown muck of memory, the mud hut of his mind, something small and shiny gleamed. He examined it more closely: a memory of flying.

You've been acting weird for days now.

I know.

Why?

Why do you think?

Relax.

Easy for you to say.

Full moon's not for a few days yet.

I know.

...

I just--I'm a little restless is all. It'll pass.

I've brought you something.

?

A long, polished handle held out between them. Another broom rested against a nearby tree.

Are you joking? That's James'. He'll kill you if he ever finds out you took it.

He knows.

Wide eyes stared up at him.

Come on, Remus, I want to fly.

They'd flown. Merlin, had they flown. Cool air on their faces, waxing moon overhead, all Scotland, it seemed, stretched out below. Sirius hovered when he found himself unable to keep pace with the other boy's reckless exuberance. He doubted that the Nimbus had ever been pushed to such speeds, even by its masterful owner, and thanked his stars that James wasn't watching this. Watching Remus fly, Sirius could almost feel his friend's abandon, free of rules and control, escaping even gravity. Finally, shivering with more than just the cold, Sirius dropped down to the grass. Remus pulled out of a monstrous dive to land softly beside him. Very lucky James wasn't here.

Holding the Nimbus reverently, his cheeks were flushed, brown eyes glowing in the moonlight, and hair hopelessly windswept. Remus smiled, slightly out of breath, and whispered thanks. They walked back to the castle utterly relaxed. It was a perfect moment...

The smiling, softly glowing boy had left Sirius here to rot.

The shiny memory sank back into the mire before the dementors even noticed that it was there.

***

The River Napo soon merged with the great Amazon in the forests of northern Peru. Flying downriver, halfway across the continent, Remus felt a change in the air. A wooden house stood on stilts by the side of the river, partly obscured by creeping vines. He glimpsed flashes of green and blue-white wandlight through the blackened windows and faced the dangerous glare of poison dart frogs on the banks. Crocodiles snapped beneath the building, and there was a faint sound of laughter. This must have been the place the shaman spoke of, Remus thought, and drew the Remembrall from his pocket. Not far beyond Manaus, in a house of Dark Wizards, Remus could imagine the glowing beam of Peter's trail leading him inside.

"Was he here?"

It sat dully in his palm -- no light, no rat, just a small, dark sphere -- and Remus sped quickly on.

The following noon, as the daily rainstorm pelted the ground, river, and palm leaves with drops the size of Snitches, Remus dejectedly guided his canoe to the banks of the Rio Negro. The broom was growing restless in his bag, and the moment the zipper opened, it zoomed away in the direction of Quito.

Several miles upriver, Remus looked in awe upon buildings that rose to cloudy heights above the canopy: the rainforest city. He made his way to the port and the busy quays, finding it hard to imagine that he'd travelled so many thousands of kilometres through jungle where monkeys and anaconda outnumbered men, only to find another modern city.

Walking through rain-soaked streets, Remus saw the most strikingly incongruous sight of his life. There, surrounded by lush vegetation, brick buildings, and teeming insect life, rose an opera house whose ornate stone façade would have been more at home in Vienna, its imperial columns, domed roof, and curving steps a tribute to the glory of the nineteenth century. Remus imagined he could hear the faint sound of tuning violins over the drumming of the rain, and stood for several minutes just taking in the sight: the rain running off the dome, the sheltered portico, and sculptured frieze. He'd finally reached Manaus.

Now thoroughly drenched -- it wasn't called a rainforest for nothing -- Remus began to look for someplace to stay. Water squelched between his toes and began to fill his Wellington boots; it dripped off his eyelashes and the end of his nose. He wiped the water from his face and, with a sigh, pulled out the Remembrall.

"Was he here?"

Remus could have laughed at the dark clouds and towering opera house. Here, in the middle of the Brazilian Amazon, he'd found the trail.