A Tale Of Different Wings

The unmistakable scent of freshly cut lumber fills the space. A space about twice the size of his home's height and quadruple the length. The smell of cut wood only pushed back for prominence by the tangy odour of the excessive gas lamps hanging over workbenches and shelving units lining the walls. A great deal of warmth from the lamps swells the interior bare wood panelling, already bursting from the humidity of residing so close to the Atlantic Ocean.

Scattered papers thrown all about the in-laid, colourful wood flooring. Pale white planks now stained and dented with pools of oil. Light green and slightly yellow planks are placed carefully in geometric patterns. A relic on this island of Madeira, a famed workshop of Mr. Santos. His family lineage could be traced back through the annals of Funchal in Portugal and their years spent as the greatest parquetry family on this half of the country. Hence, laying the floors in some of the island's most prestigious locations. But while Mr. Santos' labour and skill were spent on his knees, his son's sweat and tireless hours were spent hunched over workbenches.

Francisco Santos is standing at his favourite table, under the flickering light of far too many lamps shooing away the rays of moonlight. A once relic of a barn turned makeshift lighthouse on the coast's edge overlooking a vast beach down below. In the far left corner from where he's standing is his pile of debarked wood and timber. From which he moves to and fro quickly, but rarely. Delicately carving and severing knots away from the pieces he likes. Moving from pile to desk to cabinets filled with small instruments without looking at their respective destinations. Often staring at this cloth-covered and bandaged fingers deep in thought. Expertly dodging the flipped over wooden buckets and many other tripping hazards littering the floor. Finally, he returns to the grooved planks right before the desk, depressed and soft underfoot from years spent in contemplation and manifestation.

Reaching to his right while keeping his attention on the small wooden intricacy in front of him, his bandages catch the edge of the cotton bag, only moving it out of reach. He breaks eye contact, looks at it and, while mumbling a few swear words to himself, lunges to the right keeping his left hand placed firmly on the project. Lifting his left leg into the air just enough to gain a few inches to pinch the twine strung around the neck of the bag between his fingers and begins to tug. But he loses his balance. His right foot hits the edge of the groove and slips out from under him.

Trying desperately to grasp the edge of the workbench with the left foot on the way to the ground, only to kick slight dents in the front of it. Letting go of his grip on the small wooden project, sending small wood, metal and rubber pieces skyrocketing across the barn in different directions. All clattering into walls or thumping against a dingy couch. However, two sounds he didn't anticipate were that of his back cracking while landing on the bucket he never picked up, giving much relief to a hunched spine.

The second sound was ruffling and scratching on long-dusty wood, coming from the upper storage of his barn. He spies the unstable ladder tossed lazily in the corner behind his timber pile and orients it upright to climb up and see what the fuss is about. Squinting through the stirred dust and failed projects is a small, brown barn owl flapping around frantically. Keeping his eye on the owl as if this is his new project, he leans very carefully this time, over to his right to slowly spin the hanging lamp, so it illuminates the back corner.

Shining just enough light to now see a few tiny splinters of wood and the culprit of such a volatile reaction. The larger of the few elastic bands resting against the owl's nest.

"I'm sorry little guy, "Francisco says wearily. "Did that band hurt you? Oh, I sure hope none of those splinters did any damage. Here, I'm going to come around to the other side to take a look at you. Don't move, little Coruja-das-torres, I'll be right there."

He climbs down and re-orients the ladder on the other side. Ascending once more, but with a bit of difficulty. Reaching the top, he sees the owl again through yet more dust, feathers and squinting from the gas lamp facing in their direction. "My God, that must be blinding for you. I'll get to that in a second. For now…" Francisco says, hanging on that last note.

He carefully pulls both hands up and in front of him onto the platform, now not trusting his dexterity as much. Slowly moving in to blot out the new sun with his left hand, and reaches for the elastic with the right. But as he makes contact, the owl steps over and starts to bite and tug at it like pulling a juicy earthworm from the soil.

Francisco, watching in pure curiosity, places his left hand under his chin as he steps down a rung to rest on it.

"That was my toughest elastic; I hope you know that," he says. "Man, look at you go."

Having a closer look at him, Francisco notices how many spots there are on the grey back. Contrasting completely from the snow-white belly and pitch-black eyes. A big head, short tail and long rounded wings begin flapping vigorously. Keeping the band in his beak, he spreads his grey and pale white wings and tries to fly upwards.

"I believe I just thought of a name for you, little Coruja-das-torres; what do you think about Oswald? It's a German name. It means God's power," Francisco says, smiling, hoping that Oswald will smirk at his knowledge. "And seeing as how you're just about t-," he's cut off by watching as this little barn owl snaps the elastic. "Minha nossa, yeah, I would say this name fits you. Why don't you come down to the workbench with me? I could use your help holding my ornithopter together."

He stares blankly through the upset dust lost in thought as he finishes those last few words. "Maybe you could help me with something, little guy," he says, pulling the elastic, which now does look like a big earthworm, and climbs down the ladder. He tosses it on a multi-coloured, paint-covered step-stool and begins turning off the valves to all the too many gas lamps. Waiting to twist the handle to the last one, still blinding the owl.

"Boa Noite, Oswald. I'll see you tomorrow," he says, turning the handle and walking out towards the house. Oswald ruffles his feathers, steps out from his nest and flies behind Francisco. On his way to find something a little more edible than dusty rubber.

A typical day passes by on the balmy island of Madeira, filled with rampant anticipation and the smell of fresh-cut meat. Cubed and only half the plate fried and seasoned with garlic, pepper and laid on top of some french fries. Leaving a regular plate out for his mom and grabbing his modified one.

"Olá, mãe. A comida está pronta," he yells towards her, walking outside towards the barn. Stepping slowly as he enters it, not knowing if this was too early for the nocturnal bird, in an effort to gradually make his presence known.

"What you're smelling right now is my dad's also famous Picadinho. I'll leave some scraps for you, but I don't make any promises!" He says, looking at his plate separated in half while walking past the slightly squashed bucket to plop down on the dingy couch and enjoy his meal. Retelling his day through mouthfuls of fries to a potentially sleeping owl. Finishing his half, he gets up and blows off the leftover seasonings walking towards the ladder. He excitedly clambers up with one hand and is greeted by two half-open and beady little black eyes staring back at him.

"Bom Dia, Oswald, I missed you," Francisco coos. "I made you a little something. I'll just leave this up here for you to… figure out."

He clambers back down and walks to his workbench, slamming his palms down on either side of his project, the ornithopter. "Alright, Oswald. I've got a plan for us – for me, but I'm going to need your help with this," he says, spinning around to face away from the bench. "But first, light! Sorry, little guy. I just won't turn on that one?" He starts walking to each gas lamp and turning their handles, emphasizing each word on the twist.

"Have you ever heard of a great man called Leonardo da Vinci? No? Well, just about… oh, 409 years ago now, in 1485, he drew the first design of an ornithopter while studying birds. So now, you see, I pretty much already understand these wooden, winged things. The French made their own two decades ago, and – I'll only admit this to you, Oswald – I'm just advancing on their designs," he says through gritted teeth, twisting the most stubborn of the valves.

"But that's not what I need your help with, little Coruja-das-torres. Nobody yet has made one that can be piloted by a man, and maybe Leonardo was onto something." Francisco walks back over to his grooved floorboards to pick up the scattered papers that now have a few rips and scratches in them. Some pieces are missing entirely as if torn from a beak with God's power. He sets them down on the workbench in the only vacant surface area and takes a longing look at the partially broken ornithopter.

Long and thick pieces of Azure Laurel wood form a bizarre, almost bird-like skeleton. More like a hollow triangle with extra parts. A long under-connecting piece of cylindrical wood with a few other elastic bands hanging loosely off it. A tiny metal hand crank in front rotates the cylinder, creating torsion in the bands that generate power for the wings, if only they were still fully connected. Thin wings made from tightly woven cotton, one laying shattered in collected parts and the other hanging limply to one side.

Francisco picks most of it up in one hand and walks to the ladder to have it join the rest of the abandoned projects pile. Upon which he comes face to heart-shaped face again. Resting in his nest, now adorned with a few shredded pieces of familiar paper, after devouring a good portion of the cubed meat.

"Oh, you enjoyed that didn't you?" Francisco asks. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind, maybe even make some rubber band shaped next time! Speaking of, I should probably take these ones off," he says, setting down the project and removing the excess bands. "These ones are toys, not food, not worms or whatever it is you like to eat out there. But here, you only get the finest Portuguese food on this side of the Azores."

Francisco begins stepping down slowly, deep in thought. "My dad would have loved to meet you, little Coruja-das-torres; he loved anything that enjoyed his cooking.

Reaching the bottom and shaking his head slightly, swinging his medium-length brown hair around, he looks to his desk with his equally brown eyes and plots. He scrounges through unorganized toolboxes and shelves filled with hooks and nails and screws, eventually returning to the grooves with a rubber mallet and a few of the finest metal nails his father's old barn could produce.

"I've got an idea, Oswald, since you love – or I guess, rather hate – these things," he says, looking to his right and lunging out again for the bag of rubber bands. "But I'm going to need you to… cover your ears, little guy. I chose my quietest hammer." He picks up a nail and begins pummeling it into the wooden window sill, placing a rubber band around it, so it hangs. Grabbing some paint-covered pliers, he holds the nail in place and hammers it upwards, trying to talk over the bending nail and its metal clanging. "You know, my name is Francisco!

It's nowhere near as cool as your name, Oswald, but it's fitting, I suppose," he yells, giving it one good final smack to bend it at a ninety-degree angle.

Then, repeating the process again to have it resemble a tougher staple. "Francisco means a free-man and being a free man inspired my love for flight. I do so hope this will be our first step together." After finishing the toy, he sticks a bandaged finger through the band and does a few stretch tests to make sure it doesn't fly off.

Satisfied, he grabs the damaged paper and a pencil and spends the rest of the night sketching a very rough design of Portugal's first manned ornithopter. Interrupted only by Oswald flying out of the front door again, shaking him from his trance to realize it is getting very late. Grabbing the mostly empty plate and turning off the many lights, he walks back to his home.

Days pass by on the island of Madeira, turning quickly into weeks. Nights spent deep in the research and rough design process. But his focus remained on earning Oswald's trust and getting him to play with the elastic. Every meal from then on featured little dishes of cubed meat that he would move further and further from his nest. Eventually feeling bold enough to place a few leading from the plate along the platform and placing the rest on top of the paint-stained stool in the corner.

Every other night, placing less and less up top and more and more on top of the chair. Finally, one night, as Francisco is sanding down a length of wood, he catches a feathery friend land on his plate and starts nibbling at chunks of leftover meat.

"Oswald!" He yells just quiet enough to not startle him.

“My little Coruja-das-torres, hello. I don't think you should be eating the stuff I put on that, but here, I got something else for you. Look, Look!" Francisco sets down the wood gently and tugs at the elastic band hanging from the nail, immediately catching the attention of the little barn owl. Now a little bigger, Oswald waddles across the workbench, knocking over a pencil sharpener and some twine.

Fluttering upwards first, landing on the window sill, to then hop down onto the nail and start yanking on the elastic. Which, from weeks of sitting idle, had already grown dry and cracked, snapping in half as soon as Oswald put any pressure down with his beak. Hooting gently as he glides down back to the plate, picking up a piece of meat and flying back to his upper platform.

"Well… little Oswald, it's not just Leonardo that is on to something. I have to get some stronger elastics," he says to himself, smiling with goosebumps running up his arms.

Those weeks turn into a month, with only a few pieces of wood lay finished and more than a few scrapped designs. But with a trust, earned and strengthened to show for it. Much like the new bag of German-engineered elastics that Francisco had shipped, with reinforced rubber to withstand such blows from an excited owl. From then on, Oswald would fly down just to play and tug on the bands, still all too commonly replaced. But they would last just long enough to force Oswald to squat low and fly up to try and rip the elastic off. Such flights worked perfectly for Francisco to deeply study and understand the workings of his wings.

The natural lengths of wing feathers and the ratio of wingspan to body size. Frequently, after remembering how much dust he picked up when Francisco first met him, he would throw some in the air around the bands to study the lift and how quickly the particulates moved around.

Eventually, as the weeks went on and turned to months, fewer and fewer designs were scrapped, more and more pieces of wood were sanded, and Oswald became ever more trusting. Some nights, forgetting the band altogether and landing on Francisco's shoulder to say hello before leaving. Sometimes just landing on the windowsill to nuzzle up in the corner and rest, listening to his friend idly whistle tunes. Finally, prompting Francisco to drop the design and spend a week building a makeshift home out of a large trunk and stick it in the window, which Oswald so deeply loved.

But one night later that week, Francisco watches as his friend starts bringing in ripped-up newspaper pieces and building a new nest while dropping a few on his workbench. One piece, in particular, shows a few lines of an article written about a man named Otto Lilienthal in Germany who is close to finishing the world's first manned ornithopter. Francisco immediately drops everything and rushes back inside the home to find his mother sitting at the dinner table, reading the daily newspaper featuring the same article on the backside.

"Olá, mãe. Posso ver isto?" Francisco asks, waiting a few seconds out of respect but still taking it from her hands before she could finish her sentence. Flipping it over, he confirms the date, September 24th, 1893 and continues to the backside to read the full article. Outlining who this Otto Lilienthal is and how close he is to finishing his design.

"Adoro-vos, obrigado," he says quickly, returning the paper to her loving and wrinkled hands before turning and walking away. Murmuring under his breath, despite knowing she wouldn't understand. "One day, you will see me there. Just like dad used to be." He walks back into the barn with newfound courage and gusto, spurred from the competition.

"Alright, Oswald, we got some work to do," Francisco says, rolling up his white, cotton sleeves. "I have to watch you fly."

He grabs the rickety ladder that's yet to move and places it on the other side of the barn.

Takes his ordinary hammer, now that Oswald is a little more accustomed to the sound of invention, and begins moving around the space, constructing five more elastic band toys for Oswald to destroy. All at different heights upon the walls to which he gestures towards for his feathered friend to notice and quickly attack before moving to the other. Francisco would stand at the top of the ladder backwards, ever more confident from months spent using it, and watch intently as Oswald would gracefully glide towards his shoulder. Eventually, spying the band and delivering all of God's power to it. They would continue this song and dance, studying, learning, and building well into the following year.

Reaching a deciding point where Oswald is no longer a little barn owl but a fully grown one. And to a point where Francisco's own pair of wings are no longer in pencil on page but in wood and thin cotton on the ground. Through many iterations, Francisco realized that his father's barn was either much too small to hold this ornithopter, or his wings were much too large for this space. So he designed it with such in mind, being easily detachable and as easy to put back together. Many nights were spent on the precarious mountain edge they lived on, piecing his design together and back apart again to test the endurance on the joints. Often heard laughing as he would lay down inside it and flap the wings a few times.

A few, rare, nights asking his dear mother to be the one to lay down and give it a few flaps while he stood above on the ladder. Dropping buckets of collected sawdust mixed with flour to simulate the dust picked up under-wing from Oswald. Every time, covering her in what should have been dozens of the country's notorious, pastel de natas.

But assuring her, through a constant smile and a belly laugh, that every single lost pastry was worth it. Confident, and with more tests than he'd ever admit to, he felt ready. But just not quite prepared enough to fly and stare into the sun as it rose or by the minimal moonlight. As the albeit short beach under his mountainside property was at all times filled with tourists and nearby residents during the day.

So Francisco would spend a day transporting it to his friend Lorena's house further down the mountainside, a little way outside of the public's eye, but still over a beach that was also much closer. Then, he would begin the setup process once more at midday, right on the edge. Laying the central body down first, getting to work putting it together, answering Lorena's questions about each part as he went.

"So this is where you've been for the better part of a year, crammed in your dad's old barn. Building, what? Exactly?" Lorena asks, cocking her head to the side.

"Funny, you look like my partner when you do that," Francisco chuckles. "This is my ornithopter; it flies. Now, imagine me laying down through that big hoop in the middle here and grabbing onto these front two hand-holds. These will be controlling the wings," he says, bending down to pick up the monstrous, fifteen-foot-long wings, placing them into the main body and attaching the many rubber bands along the hinged end.

"And these back two hoops I will stick my feet through to control these tail feathers; this adds my forward momentum and will keep me upright," he says excitedly, fitting what looks precisely like Oswald's tail feathers into the back of the oval-shaped body. Then, while he's lying down into a flying position to test the connections, Lorena notices a fifth small hoop still lying in the grass.

"Hey, idiota, you sound crazy but don't go off flying yet. You forgot a piece," she says, kicking it towards him.

"Oh, I don't need that yet," he says without looking. "That's for my project partner, the one your head movements reminded me of. My dear Oswald, a little Coruja-das-torres I found." Lorena, eyes wide and mouth agape, takes a good 30 steps backwards, watching her friend flap his wooden wings.

"Oh, you didn't," she whispers to herself while walking around to get another perspective. “Oh meu Deus, seu idiota! You built a wooden coruja?" Lorena yells, ending the sentence with her head in her hands.

"Well, are you going to give me a push or not?" Francisco yells back. Craning his neck to look over the edge of the mountain, down towards the water and sand just shy of a hundred feet away.

"I've spent many months on this and I am very happy that your water is much closer to the edge than mine. Come on, push me already!" Lorena walks back over and places her hands under the back wing braces.

"Are you absolutely sure about this, Francisco? I'm worried. You make me worried." She says.

"I have never been more sure of anything in my thirty years, Lorena. This is what I was meant to do. Now push! Lift and push!" Francisco screams, staring into the blue horizon ahead.

Lorena shakes her head and whispers a prayer, grunting as she lifts the end slightly and begins to push the smooth underbelly along the dense, moist grass until gravity takes hold and she lets go. She watches as Francisco and his wooden coruja vanishes from sight, only hearing slight pitches of his screaming through the beating of her heart filling her ears. Rushing to the edge she sees her best friend, a man she's called an idiota to for the better part of twenty years, flying. Plummeting for about fifteen feet to gain momentum, he pushes his feet outwards, straightening out the tail feathers and beginning to fly forwards towards the blue. Now feeling the flow of air fly past his cheeks, recalling how Oswald's facial feathers look right before he starts flapping his wings.

Using the central hoop around his torso to brace against, he gathers all his strength and thrusts all four limbs down towards the beach as hard as he can. Francisco and his not-so-different-looking wings begin to fly. Keeping his eyes focused on the horizon and glancing down to gauge altitude, he takes a few more thrusts with his tail feathers in different positions to understand the right rhythm. Which angle brings his eyesight below or above the horizon; how often can he go between flaps of his thirty-foot broad wings before the blue ocean gets closer or further away.

Feeling confident in keeping momentum and altitude, he begins moving his hand-holds closer to his chest and towards the wingtips to test his pitch and yaw. Turning right to face back towards a now distant Lorena and turning left to face the blue horizon. Stunned in absolute euphoria and the shocking state of learning in the face of literal flight or fight, he begins taking deep breaths. Turning back to face the beach, he starts doing calculations on speed and trajectory, deciding where and how to land; he gradually slows the beats of his mighty wings and gracefully glides down towards the beach. Landing roughly onto the wood stomach, grimacing in pain and blind with sand, sliding along until he comes to a stop.

Lorena, walking along the ridge keeping an eye on him, watches him get up out of his many hoops and start sprinting in a straight line. Taking a short break to scream out into the ocean before ripping off his shirt and diving into it.

Lorena would later run down to him, and they would spend the rest of the day lying on the sand, laughing and talking. Catching up about why and who this new Francisco was, a man who completed and successfully built a project for once. Portugal's first and only pair of wings, no longer caring in the slightest if Otto Lilienthal beat him to it.

Lorena and Francisco begin taking the ornithopter apart and lugging it back into his dad's barn. Where he would spend the next few months improving, testing, and adding to it now knowing that it works. Incorporating the cushions from his dingy couch so the landing wouldn't bruise as many ribs and a few wheels so he didn't need a push every time. But in Francisco and Oswald's brown and black eyes, the two most important additions were implemented. A final paint-job to match perfectly with Oswald's dark brown, grey and snow-white feathers and the last hoop installed to the right of where he lays down.

A hoop to hold the log nest Francisco built to fly together and fly they did.

After a week of more diligent flight tests, making sure every addition held up, Francisco assembled it once more on his property's edge right where he's done every previous test and roused Oswald for their sunset flight.

Sticking the log nest into the snug hoop, they pushed off and soared into the sunset. Every calculation, every nail and rubber band working as perfectly designed. But what Francisco did not foresee was Oswald sticking his big head out of the nest and playing with the elastics that controlled the right wing.

Tugging and biting with all of God's power, he snaps one. Thinking the wind is picking up and feeling some turbulence, Francisco begins heading down to the beach.

Oswald snaps another.

Flying further downwards, about 150 feet from the ground, he notices he has to push on his right wing harder.

A third is bitten off.

Now roughly 100 feet from the ground, he loses all control and they begin careening straight down. Oswald, so lost and focused on destroying elastics since he was a baby, snaps a fourth and isn't paying attention to the fall. Francisco does all he can to slow the descent, pumping his left wing and flapping his tail, to little avail.

Now 20 feet from the sand, Francisco grabs the log from the hoop and throws Oswald into the ocean moments before impact.

Crashing and blacking out.

Waking up days later in the general hospital, asking everyone that comes in and out of his room about a small log cast aside before they landed. Each shaking their head, no, trying to understand his pain.

Days later, back inside his barn Francisco leans against his workbench, defeated. With his right arm in a cast and sling. His arm, his heart, and a few ribs are very much broken.

Every night for weeks, Francisco would walk down to the beach and look for the log and his partner.

One night at the usual time where Oswald would be hooting for more meat, basked in candlelight, he spots an owl, waddling out of a collection of driftwood, snacking on whatever small lizards found themselves unlucky to wander towards God's power.

Francisco falls to his knees and cries, watching as his feathered friend drags his right wing limply along the sand.

Wiping tears from his eyes, he walks over and scoops his friend up, bringing him back into the barn. He would then spend the rest of the year using every small detail and ounce of knowledge gained by studying the owl's flight, building Oswald a new prosthetic wing.

"Only one of us deserves to fly, my friend," Francisco says softly.

Holding back tears, he lifts Oswald gently into the air as he takes off into the night.