Pitkins could feel the wind blowing hard against his face.
(is this dream ever going to end?)
He was flying again. Aching, throbbing pain in his back. He wished the wound would just explode and send his innards flying out into the night sky like fireworks. Anything to end this pain. Disoriented. He remembered dreaming, and he remembered waking up and getting out of bed . . . .
(did I really wake up at all?)
He didn’t remember going back to bed, but he must have because here he was dreaming yet again about flying high above the trees in the northern region of Sodorf. Then, he realized suddenly, as he came to, that he wasn’t dreaming. But yet he wasn’t flying either. He was being carried. He looked down, and he could see the large talons of a bird gripping his midsection.
WHOOSH . . . WHOOSH . . .WHOOSH. The flapping of the wings of a large bird.
(the bird must have grabbed me from the window)
Suddenly, one of the bird’s talons severed the swelling wound on his back. Smushhh.
“AGGHHHH!!!!” He wished for death. Anything would be better. The pus that had been building up inside the wound oozed out like water from a punctured balloon, spilling all over his body and legs, covering them with a sticky goo. A few brief flashes of pain made him feel like his whole body was being struck by boulders falling down the side of a tall cliff. Then, the worst part of the pain was gone. What was left was a burning sensation like when a sticky bandage is quickly yanked off. The wound in his back was raw and exposed.
“I’m taking you to Master,” said the bird.
Pitkins had heard of animals that could talk, but this was his first encounter. However, given the circumstances, he had too many things on his mind to be thrilled. His primary concerns were the pain in his back and escape. But he was in too bad a shape to attempt escape, and the hundreds of empty feet below prevented escape better than the strongest jail cell ever could.
In the distance, he could see a cliff wall that they were approaching fast. The moon was full, and its silver glow lightly illuminated the valley like a powerful, yet soft, lamplight. However, as they neared the cliff, this put them at an angle where he could barely see the moon, and everything became nearly pitch black. Suddenly the bird swooped down lower. He was done for. This insane beast, this kidnapper, this clawed fiend, was going to throw him right against the cliff wall. His innards would make a nice paste to mix with his bones, which would be ground to powder, and he would make a nice stain on the cliff wall that maybe would attract vultures for a few days, but after that, nothing, no more Pitkins.
The cliff wall got closer . . . and closer . . . and closer still. Now he could see fine details of the cliff wall. Subtle color differentiations on its mostly gray rocks. A few small plants growing.
Now the cliff wall was so close he could see the small, individual bumps on each of the rocks. He was mere feet away. This was it. Time for the afterlife. Pitkins closed his eyes.
But he continued to feel air rushing against his face, although it had a slightly mustier feel to it. Somehow, the cliff wall had receded, letting him in like a mouth opening up for its meal. He saw nothing but pitch blackness and knew the bird must have somehow entered into a cave in the cliff wall.
Wind rushing against his face. Flapping of the wings of the large bird. Burning pain in his back. He figured even if he didn’t perish from a collision with hard stone, the pain from his wound would soon do the job.
Suddenly, he noticed the large bird was slowing down. The wings started flapping slower . . . then slower still . . . and then stopped flapping altogether. The bird was gliding. He felt himself set down onto a cold, rough, hard stone surface. He could hear the bird’s wings flapping again as it flew off into the distance, the sound thereof growing fainter and fainter. Blackness. All around him, pitch blackness. He saw nothing.
Then, he felt a pair of hands grabbing him. He was too weak to offer any resistance; plus, the hands did not seem overly threatening. Perhaps the bird had delivered him to a doctor. The hands forced him into a sitting position.
“Drink,” a low, guttural voice commanded him. He drank. It was a thick, steamy substance. It tasted bad, but not horrible. At least it didn’t nauseate him. “Now, sleep,” the guttural voice said. Pitkins was asleep before the sentence was completed. And a deep sleep it was.