Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) by Esther Dalseno Read Free Book Online Page A

behind him.
    “You can call me Gabriel,” I said breathlessly, jogging to keep up with his long strides.
    “Is that your name?” said Orlando, not looking at me.
    “Yes,” I replied, “and can I call you Orlando?”
    “Well, that is my name,” Orlando said, distracted.
    I summoned all my courage and blurted out, “Will you have lunch with me today? Under the Jerusalem tree?”
    But Orlando suddenly froze, and stared at the sky with a quizzical expression. He was silent for so long that I began to deeply regret my enthusiasm.
    “You don’t have to,” I mumbled. “I didn’t really mean it anyway.”
    “Shhhhh!” Orlando hissed, his gaze still fixed on the heavens. His eyes darted over the clouds and the treetops like a madman.
    “What is it?” I inquired, deliciously petrified.
    “It is the damndest thing,” began Orlando, finally lowering his gaze to mine. “I could swear I’m being followed.”
    My imagination soared by this confession, and I was deeply touched by being brought into the realm of such close confidence. “For how long?” I whispered.
    “Every morning and afternoon this week. They follow me to and from school, they wait for me outside, like an escort. Like a guard.”
    “They?”
    “The swallows.”

 
     
     
     
     
    T ime passed; as this is time’s sole responsibility. The swallow-girl remained with us, and I grew to rely on her silent company, and would tell her all my musings. She never revealed a sign that she understood or commiserated with me, but occasionally her head would nod about empathetically in a funny little bob, and I would laugh at her.
    Mamma stopped calling her Lulu, and although she didn’t treat her quite like a daughter or even a human child, garnered her with more attention and affection than I had expected. Papa and I began to call her Volatile , the fleeting bird, and it suited her. All day she would accompany Mamma in the house if it rained, her legs growing stronger and her wings folded archly across her back, her tail flitting up at a mathematical angle. Mamma had sewn dresses for her, simple things made from old pillowcases, with slits in the back to accommodate her bird-like appendages. She grew steady on her feet, and it wasn’t long before she could run through the vineyard with Papa and I when it was dusk and no one could see her. I had a fit of giggles the first time I witnessed this – her wings beginning to unfurl and assisting the wind in lifting her upwards with every leap, tripping over her tail which was proving tiresome in this activity. Papa had looked at me very sternly then but I couldn’t stop. Volatile merely ignored me.
    Volatile grew more accustomed to human food, although she cared a great deal more for sandwiches than our homemade pasta, umbrichelli , and turned meat away. Once when Mamma presented us with stuffed pigeon at the table, Volatile had stared at the dish and begun to quiver. Papa immediately removed the pot, and lectured my mother a little too severely. Mamma had had a fit then, and threw the pot on the floor, and I picked up the pigeon legs and wings and middle bits and placed them quietly back on the table. And when Mamma was in her room, crying and rocking, and Volatile had hidden under my bed, Papa and I washed the dirt off the sad, deflated pigeon and we ate it in the barn, because we couldn’t waste food.
    Sometimes Volatile dug holes in the dirt and slurped the worms below like they were spaghetti. And as it turned to autumn, she watched the birds of the air migrate in magnetic V formations overhead, and she would make strange, strangled cries from the base of her throat and I would be sad for her.
    I liked to talk to Volatile, for there were few people I could really confide in. In those days, my favorite topic was Orlando Khan.
    Oh, how I loved Orlando Khan. The son of Zeus himself, so strong and tall and two whole years older than me, my only friend. My comradeship with Orlando Khan did not so much as