Ezha's Gift

Ezha's Gift

By: Louis Williams

A splash of blue. Touch of Purple. Ezha tilted his head a moment, a claw tapping at his green scaled muzzle. What was missing? What else could he put on here? Something felt out of place, but it would be revealed in time. It always was. When creating one can't rush, after all. Forcing a work to finish is like trying to force a youngling to hatch. They come in their own time. Anything else and it's just....disastrous. What was on Ezha's mind wasn't the paint, or the canvas. What was on his mind was his father. The arcrod who had given him life, then proceeded to take it back from him one breath at a time.

His tail curled around him, clung to his ankles for a bit, as he stared at his work in progress. His mind drifting through the memories and pain of his life. His bulging eyes rotated upwards, seeing the canvas, but looking at the sky above the glass domed ceiling. Such a vast, empty space. With its streaks of reds, blues, infrared and ultra-violets that only they could see. His father, his younger brother and sister, all believed it to be beautiful.

When he was just six, Ezha had rode in the cock pit for the first time. The vast arrays of dials and switches all lined up, screens to the right and left, so many that it would bedazzle and confuse anyone of any other species. But for him, and other arcrod's, they just made sense. He could see each one, focus in on multiple at once, and his brain even subconsciously stitching together information seen on two different screens to form one image or table. Altitudes and angles. Approaches and dives. The ballet of commerce and travel played out daily upon monitors right in front of him.

It was all so....clinical. "All of this," his father said proudly, patting him on the back, "all of this is what we're made for. It's why we were created. We can do this, better than anyone."

It confused Zafra, his father, at first. Confused him on a level he didn't know was possible when his son Ezha shown him the first painting he made. A youngling's mockup of the cock pit. "Very good, Ezha, very good my star," he replied with a withering smile, his eyes rotating back just a bit as he looked into the distance. Towards the sky.

Ezha didn't see it then, but it was there. The confusion. The fear. The horror he felt in his heart that his own offspring would want something that was unnatural for them to want. Something that was strange for him to desire.

A splash of red now. His claw tip dabbled in a bit of red, white, and clearish paint to recreate the infared lines. Yes, the lines now. That was how they described them, and the fateful flight.

Ezha stood in the doorway of the academy. Just one more Arcrod in a sea of them. He was supposed to be learning to fly. In truth, he had been flying a long time at this point. Even taking some easy flights using his father's old Identity card, something that the Flight Authority didn't know about. The classes would be easy. Navigation. Theory of flight and lift. Space travel and worm holes. Easy things for someone who had been working with the best pilots on their planet. And Chamil Parcel had the best pilots. Better than even their military. His father had seen to that.

"It's not the craft. It's the pilot," he said, landing a heavy claw upon Ezha's shoulder. Zafra beamed with pride, his buldging eyes rotating over the sign and the doorway. "Not many of these students can say they've already flown enough flights to qualify for the first level exams."

"Not like I can tell them," Ezha said, holding in the heavy sigh.

"Now, now," his father replied. "Don't talk like that. No hatchling antics, remember? You're a grown arcrod now. Act like it." He said, then turned to face his child one last time. "You have everything?"

Ezhra nodded. He had most of the required uniforms. Leaving one out so he had room for his paints and easel. He was certain it wouldn't be missed.

Zafra wasn't one for emotion. He hugged his child one last time, then patted him on the shoulder. "I expect to hear good things."

Infrared and ultra violet lines now were painted behind the figure, who stood tall in proud above the horizon. His eyes towards the sky. The Chamil Parcel logo stood proudly upon the figure's chest. His chin and muzzle held high. His buldging eyes rotated skyward looking up. That's what he always did, thought Ezha. He always looked up.

It had been years. Dozens of years and hundreds of flights. Some through dangerous territory, carrying cargo that that the military wouldn't specify to places they wouldn't talk about. It was the stuff of tales and legends. The type of flying that gets distorted, like oil paint being splattered through water colors. Like dark painted lines drenched in alcohol.

But Ezha never talked about it. He never spoke of these to his father, to his brother or sister. He didn't speak of it to his occasional lover, a lovely female with a fire and passion for flying that almost matched Ezha's passion for paint. He had grown much older. His love for painting always living in secret, behind closed doors, in secret. Even his lover didn't know. His father didn't know, having almost forgotten that disastrous event at the academy with the easel that almost got him kicked out. He was supposed to have given it up. Flying is what he was good at, after all.

"Come with me," Zafra said, motioning to his son. "Let me show you something."

It was near evening now. Long past the time his father would usually be gone. It was no secret that he didn't work very much these days. The cancer eating into his body, pulling nutrients away from good flesh to feed the bad. He was wasting away in front of everyone's eyes, but Zafra didn't acknowledge it. Refused to talk about it. His impending death didn't matter. What mattered was the next flight. The next deal. The next bargain he could get for Chamil Parcel. He still fought and clutched with his remaining strength to keep the company alive. Thriving for his next generation.

They left Ezra's office, a smaller one with a single window view of the forest and city below, instead of the large, lush ones that sat on the opposite side of Chamil tower. The ones that over saw the beautiful space port and landing strip. Down the hallway, past a few of his old paintings: one of the academy, one of the first ship he piloted. The first work he did of the cockpit when he was so small. All hung on display for the viewing pleasure of just Ezra and the few visitors that ventured to his office.

They stepped onto the circular elevator, the brass doors closing in silence. As always Zafra looked upward, towards the sky. Watching the ceiling and waiting to see the wonderful infrared and ultra-violet lines of air and space travel crisscrossing the skies. Ezhra looked downward as his father looked up, wishing once more that he could see what his father saw. Wishing he could view it through his eyes.

As they stepped out of the elevator and walked into the vast open office, Zafra raised his claws as if in praise to the very sky itself, worshiping it for its vastness and beauty. "Take a look," he said, staring up into the sky. The vast, empty, dull sky. The office was massive, with a large domed glass ceiling so Zafra could stare up and watch the flights come and leave. A desk sat in the corner near the landing strip. There was a meeting table where Zafra still had face to face meetings, like the ancestors and creators did back before everyone just video'd in for every conference and call. Bronze colored pillars held up the thick glass upon earthen colored stone.

"What are we looking at, father," Ezha asked, his tail beginning to twitch in annoyance.

"I wanted you to see the beauty of my office one last time," Zafra said whistfully. "Before it becomes yours."

A large packet of paper was thrust into Ezha's claws. "Father, what..." he began.

"It's no secret I'm dying," he said. "And I must leave the company to either you or one of your siblings, or the state will get it. You have a gift." Zafra looked skyward. "You're a better pilot than either your brother or sister combined. You have a responsibility to use your gift and not hide it in the basement or in that cramped office."

As his father looked up, Ezha looked down, his eyes twisting and scanning the horizon. His breath caught in his throat for a moment. The walls felt as if they were closing in on him. Finally, Ezha found the strength to speak. "I don't know what to say."

"Stay here and think on it," Zafra said with a grin, mistaking his son's stunned gasps for pleasure. "Perhaps paint me one of those paintings you used to do so well when you were a youngling. I know you still have an easel or two in a closet here somewhere."

Ezha splashed one more dash of black on the canvas. "There," he said. "It's complete. Now, it just has to dry."

The stack of papers sat next to the easel, beside a sealed manilla envelope. "Like you said, father," Ezha replied. "I have a gift. It's my responsibility to use it." Ezha grabbed the manilla envelope and left the building. It was late, but there was still time to catch his flight. And this time, he wouldn't have to be the one flying.

When Zafra was healthy, he would come into work every morning promptly at seven. As he got sicker, seven became eight, which became nine. Soon, with treatments and medications that sapped his strength, that time got pushed to whenever Zafra could summon the energy to get through the door. But he had energy today. More than enough.

He walked through the tower, towards his private elevator. The circular doors opened silently and closed with barest of a whisper. The floor quickly rose upward, bringing Zafra towards his own office. And the response of Chamil Parcel's newest owner.

As the doors opened, Zafra gasped, his claws clutched bare are for a moment. His tail stood on end, nearly getting clipped in the elevator door. There, in front of him upon the easel was...him. It was Zafra in his youth, wearing the first uniform of his company. Every story he'd told his child was shown behind him in clips and images. The time he transported the food and blankets to the military when they nearly lost that skirmish on that moon. The time he had landed the craft even after it had been pummeled by the asteroids, the sparks coming off the large wings and fire billowing out of the thruster in the rear. The first date he took his mother on, when he had hijacked the plane of that billionaire. "It's all there," he said, his voice breaking.

The stack of paperwork sat next to the painting on the easel, unsigned. On it was a single brochure for an art academy. "Good luck my son," Zafra said looking up into the sky. He laughed as he grabbed the stack of paperwork from the easel. He certainly does have a gift. Zafra thought, at least he's going to use it.