ugly fool.
And so, feeling embarrassed, Bee flew only in secret now and then and found, when she did, that it didn’t bring her the delight it once had. Months of unseen moons turned into years, until she no longer went out on moonlit nights at all. Until one day, Bee had forgotten that she could grow wings, had forgotten that she could fly, had forgotten the one thing that had brought her such joy.
Almost a lifetime had passed, when, walking in the woods, Bee met a stranger with skin, hair, and eyes as dark as her own. After they’d exchanged the usual pleasantries about the weather, the price of cows, and so forth, the old woman dropped her voice to a whisper.
“You’ve forgotten yourself,” the stranger said. “So much so that you can’t even remember your own name.”
Bee had to admit that this was true, since she could not recall, no matter how hard she tried, any name other than the one her stepsisters had given her.
“It’s time to remember,” the old woman said. “Before it’s too late.”
“But how?” Bee asked. “How can I?”
“Climb to the top of the tallest tree in this forest,” the stranger said. “Then jump from the highest branch. As you fall, you will remember who you are.”
Bee regarded the woman with horror. “You think it’s worth giving my life to remember myself?”
The woman considered this for only a second. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”
For many months, Bee ignored the woman, thinking her mad. But, as months again turned into years, and she found herself growing heavier with sorrow, Bee finally decided that she had nothing to lose, for she no longer cared if she lived or died.
So she found an ancient oak in the forest, as high as three houses, and, branch by branch, climbed to the very top. There she sat, catching her breath and gazing down at the ground far, far below. Bee waited, until day turned to night, then she stood. She whispered her goodbyes to the living and said her greetings to the dead.
Then she leapt.
As Bee fell, soaring through the air so fast that it thundered in her ears, she remembered her name: BlackBird. And with it, herself.
Just as her body was about to hit the ground, as her skull was about to shatter on the stones, BlackBird threw back her head and laughed, her jet-black hair whipping out behind her, transforming into gigantic wings that lifted her into the winds, until she was soaring high above the trees—feathers glinting in the moonlight—once more gliding on currents of pure joy.
BlackBird never again forgot herself, her name, or what she loved. And so she spent the rest of her life flying through the skies and never again coming back down to earth.
Now, if you go into your own garden on a moonlit night, and if you listen very well, you will still be able to hear the echo of her laughter in the air.
Liyana bites the end of her pen. Then, recalling the time she stained her lips green, wipes her mouth. She selects a thicker pen, adding curls to BlackBird’s Afro, sketching in her wings. Liyana works slowly, in no rush to finish, since her comic book world is an infinite improvement on reality: the good triumph, the bad perish, and if chaos is reaped along the way, in the end everything is always set right with the world. Justice prevails.
Liyana often finds herself stepping into the long black leather boots of her feminist superhero. She fights crime, saves lives, pines for her lover, honours her mother’s memory. Truthfully, Liyana spends more time in Elsewhere than in London. She can be walking the streets, sitting on the tube, bumping into pedestrians, when in fact she’s alone and soaring through the air in a magical land.
“Ana, I need you!” her aunt shouts up the stairs.
Reluctantly, Liyana abandons BlackBird and LionEss (who bears an uncanny resemblance to both her aunt and Catwoman, an issue Liyana plans to resolve when the distant matter of publication arises), along with her drawings and pens, and returns to Earth.
5:48 p.m.—Scarlet
“Scarlet!”
Catching sight of the finial she’s placed proudly on a shelf balanced between a jar of sugar and a jar of salt, Scarlet stops sieving. She slaps the bag of flour onto the kitchen counter in a puff of white dust and hurries from the kitchen into the café.
“What is it, Grandma?” Scarlet asks, reaching the table.
Esme sits in her favourite spot beside the bay window, overlooking