Call of the Starling

Chapter 5

“So what are we going to do?” I hear Jay’s voice ringing out, echoing around the library. 

All nineteen of us are huddled up here, trying to figure out what happens next. Shock and anger are visible on all of our faces, but for some people, fear is the reigning factor. Because we know better than any Dark World employee who the weakest links of this chain are. And some of those people know that engraved on the link that is about to be shattered is their name, embossed in silver, reminiscent of a gleaming blade piercing the heart. Some of these people know that, unless we let the Dark World take four of us, they’re about to go.

Shrike speaks up. “We need to take their option,” he says, and a couple of us slowly nod. I can see it pains him to say it, but we all know he’s right. We can’t afford to have two less combatants that all the other teams, and this way, we’ll have our fifteen strongest. 

“But how do we choose?” Jay asks, his voice wrought with despair. “How can we willingly throw two of our number into the hands of the Dark World?” 

This time, it’s me who replies. “I’d volunteer,” I say. I can see Jay opening his mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “No, Jay, it makes sense. If two of us simply volunteer, we’ll save the team the mental anguish of knowing that they sent two teammates to their grave. It’s better if those who know they’re the weaker links stand forth and volunteer to go.”

Jay hesitates, but Eider stands up, a fierce light burning in his eyes. “No, no, no, no, no. And if you didn’t hear me the first time, no. If we take this option, we have to choose who to send. We can’t let our best fighters simply volunteer and leave. It’ll hurt to send whoever we send away, but we can’t lose this opportunity simply because it’ll be painful. We’re used to pain. We’ve grown up in a world governed by pain, heartache, and anguish. We need to - excuse the masculine term- man up, and do this how it has to be done. And how it has to be done does not include you simply getting up and leaving, Starling. We may have weaker links, but you aren’t one of them.” He steps back, the fire in his eyes fading slightly. “It’s up to us to win this. We’ve got to give it our best shot.” 

I unconsciously take a small step back, looking away. I can feel my heart pounding in my ribcage, and I breathe deeply. That meant nothing, I tell myself. He’s just concerned because you’re his friend.

Before I respond, Meadowlark speaks up. “He’s right. We need to choose who we send away. We can’t give up this chance simply because we’re afraid to hurt someone’s feelings.” I hear a couple of murmurs of assent. They quiet down as she drives the point home. “These lives are our lives. But I think that to every one of us, the most important thing is not survival. It’s knowing that our team will win, whether or not we’re there to claim the honours.” 

I know she’s right, and an unworthy emotion of relief worms its way into my mind. I shake it away. I shouldn’t be relieved. I was basically just told that I won’t be cast out. I’ll have to watch two of my friends be sacrificed instead. I have no right to be glad about that. They’re worth no less than I.

Jay speaks again. “Meadowlark and Eider are right. If we take the offer- and, as Shrike said, we’ve got to- we need to make the best use of it that we can. But which is better? To hold off the loss for another week or two, letting it eat away at our brains, or do we do it now?”

“Now,” say Eagle. “There’s no point in waiting.”

Jay nods. He knew we’d decide that. “Then how? Write names on little slips of paper and tally the votes? Or should we give people a chance to defend themselves?”

Avocet says, “We can’t let them defend themselves. This isn’t about having a way with words. It’s about staying alive.” 

Jay nods again, but he looks a little less sure of himself. He anxiously pulls on a loose strand of his dark hair. “Any objections?” he asks. No one speaks out. He nods again. “Then I guess it’s now or never.”

Eider and Sparrow hand out little slips of paper, and Murre follows with pencils. As I accept the pencil, I can feel tears forming in my eyes. Jay says, “I know that this is going to be hard, but we have to do it. Each of you write two names on the piece of paper. Order doesn’t matter. But when you do this, think about it. This is necessary to help us maintain the strongest team we can. So, personal thoughts aside, choose who the two weakest are. Once you’re done, give your ballots to me.

I can hear someone sniffle, and I feel as if a cold hand has wrapped itself around my heart; restraining me, suffocating me. I breathe deeply, letting out a rattling sigh as I try to regain control. I need to do this, I say to myself. For the team. Biting my lip to keep the tears back, I carefully print two names. And, before my willpower fails me, I stand, and hand the slip to Jay.

Five minutes later, we’ve all handed in our slips. Jay begins to open and read them, making notes on a small chart by his side. To my surprise, I can see that his eyes are covered by a sheen of tears, and a solitary teardrop is tracing its way down his cheek. I’d figured his manliness wouldn’t allow him to cry. But seeing him do so makes something inside me melt a little. It’s nice to know that he, too is human. He’s one of us.

Abruptly, Jay stands. He wipes the tears from his eyes, and sets his jaw. He wants to seem strong for this moment. Even if he isn’t. “We’ve made our decision, and I don’t see anything to gain by drawing it out any longer. The two that are going to be spared from the Clash are Robin and-“ his voice catches, and I hear Robin’s sharp intake of breath- “And Nighthawk.” He turns away from us, an expression of intense pain flooding over his features, and I can see him shaking. I immediately rush over to Robin, grabbing Murre’s hand and brushing a strand of hair out of her face as I do. I feel a crushing compulsion to busy my hands; to wrap myself up in some work; to practice for hours upon hours, until sweat stains my brow, and I am weak from exhaustion and hunger. But this need will have to wait. 

As the huddle of girls around Robin thins in one area, Murre and I dart in. Robin is on her knees, looking shocked and terrified, her lips set in a grim line. Her closest friend and tentmate, Wren, is beside her, squeezing her hand and rubbing her shoulder comfortingly. I can see that Wren is doing her best to stay strong for her friend. Robin doesn’t need any more pain. 

We spend about an hour this way, all huddled around each other, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Nighthawk is receiving the same attention. Jay has taken a real blow this time- Nighthawk, along with Brant, was his closest friend. Only a true leader could have taken this so stoically. 

Eventually, it’s time for dinner. We’ve agreed that Robin and Nighthawk will stay with us for one last meal, before knocking on the door that leads out of the 24-7 accommodation block and into the rest of the Dark World. Besides practice runs, we’ve hardly left the block since we were ten, when our formal schooling was over and the teams were formed. To us, it feels like knocking on the Doors of Death.

Avocet, Eider, Murre, Meadowlark and I all sit together. While the loss of the two will hit us all hard, we’ve escaped the pain of having lost a particularly close friend today. With Swift gone, it’s just the five of us. Even so, we eat our meal in relative silence, and the rich food seems tasteless and without texture.

After dinner, we know it’s time, and really, delaying the most painful part won’t make it easier. Nighthawk and Robin stand, looking at each other with an expression of subdued inevitability, and Robin grabs Nighthawk’s hand. It’s not a romantic gesture; it’s simply a way to keep her anchored in the moment. Then, biting her lip, she leaves the dining hall, Nighthawk at her side. We all hasten to follow, leaving the dishes only partially eaten. We can’t let them go without us. 

Murre and I try to push our way towards the front of the pack, so we can know we saw them the last time they saw us. Nighthawk and Robin are nearly at the door, fifteen metres ahead of all of us. Neither of them turns back as they take the last few steps towards the door. Nighthawk raises his fist, his combat-hardened fist colliding with the door as he knocks. The sound is soft, but it seems to echo forbiddingly around the hallway. He turns slightly to look at Robin, and, as the door opens, hugs her. Then, the two of them are seized by men waiting for them. The last thing we see before the door slams shut once more is a gun being levelled at Nighthawk’s head.