Jiro was tired from the hunt, but he willed his legs and back to hold him in his flight, keeping his Lift steady. Cold air blasted against his skin as he sped up and tried to catch the boundary between light and dark, but the day—too fast—still caught on to him, and the night drifted off Aradack, the island of flyers.

He descended with a sack of meat over his shoulder as he flew past the wooden homes that clung to the side of a tabletop mountain. The rising sun in the east beamed on the face of the cliff as the cold night air dissipated in the light.

The Aradacko lived on high ground where they could see the valley and the rivers below and almost touch the sky above them. They built their huts along the cliff face of a tepui. They assembled among the shrubbery, like natural parts of the precipice, believing that being close to nature kept them anchored to their powers of flight. So they surrounded themselves with the forests, the earth, and the sky.

When Jiro finally reached home, he landed on the veranda of their hut. The floor made of shaved bamboo logs creaked under his weight.

He stood for a moment, contemplating as he glanced over the structure of their house—dowels roped and nailed together formed the frame. Neat strips of bamboo made the walls, and bundles of dried nipa molded the roof. Jiro caught the faded scent of parched grass and breathed it in, closing his eyes and feeling the curves of the logs beneath his feet.

When he opened his eyes again, he glanced at the windows. Their small squares of capiz panes had accumulated a thick amount of dust.

As he opened the door to their home, warmth greeted him at the entrance, and the soft scraping sounds of a spoon over the surface of a pot reached his ears. Something sweet wafted, lingering in his nose.

He stepped inside their small living room. A table and two chairs sat at the center of the floor, and a bench made of bamboo was pushed up against the wall beside a loom with an unfinished tapestry.

His eyes trailed to the hallway where another woven art of black and red stripes hung—an exquisite zarok piece his mother had made.

"Mama?" Jiro called, letting the door close behind him.

The scraping noise stopped, and a small woman emerged from the corner of the hallway. Delicate lines of years were drawn on her face, but she had aged gracefully. She was still beautiful with her round silver eyes and full lips.

Jiro had always wondered why he had not taken after his mother. Instead, he inherited all his father's physical attributes—angular face, curly hair, and darker-than-normal Darakan skin. The only physical inheritance he was grateful for was his height, though it was not often valuable to a flyer.

"Oh! Skies!" His mother exclaimed when she saw Jiro. "What happened to you?"

Jiro appeared filthy. He smelled like blood and sweat, and he might have looked like he had been to war or rolled around on the ground where the blood of the nouse they hunted had been spilled.

Jiro smiled, guilty. He didn't want his mother to know about the accident, how he almost died because of his carelessness. Telling her would only end in nagging. "I got too close to the butchering," he said.

He walked to his mother and took her hand, pressing it to his forehead.

"Skies," his mother said again. Her silver eyes grew with relief when she saw that he was alright. "Let me look at you." She took his face in her hands, and she smiled. She did this every time Jiro returned from his hunts. She had done it with his father, too—to welcome them back home. "What did you bring me?" she asked as she released him, but the warmth of her touch stayed on his cheeks.

His mother stepped back and patted her zarok skirt. She wore a shawl, and a colorful beaded necklace hung around her collar. Aradacko tattoos covered her neck and arms.

"I got the belly and the shoulder of a nouse." Jiro lifted the sack of meat from his shoulder, feeling its weight.

"A nouse!" His mother fastened her hands together with joy. "We can make tinola for supper. Are you hungry now? I can make you breakfast, but you must bathe first." She pointed at his skin, flecked with dried crimson blood. "And damn the skies and the old kings. You will do your laundry."

His mother continued to curse as she made her way to the kitchen.

Jiro followed, not minding his mother's swearing. He'd gotten used to it. "I'm not hungry, mama."

As soon as they turned to the small open kitchen where a fire burned under a pot, the sweetness in the air swelled. He recognized the scent even before he saw the jars filled with violet jam on the table near the grate.

"You've been making aratrov?" Jiro dropped the sack of meat on the floor.

Aratrov was jam made from the fruit of arat trees—nocturnal fruits that grew only on their island. They required harvesting at night and immediate processing to preserve their freshness. That meant that his mother had been up all night making jam.

"Well, I didn't have much to do while you were away. You've been gone for two days, and these will make us extra money or goods when they're traded."

"Everyone loves your jams, mama. Yours is the best, and I'm sure they will easily sell, but you shouldn't push yourself to work so hard. It's bad for your health. You should be resting." Jiro's worry was earnest. He had noticed several times now that his mother had grown unusually weak, unlikely due to her age. She was only in her early fourth decade, and only a small portion of her hair grew streaked with gray. She wasn't that old, but she was often tired. And on occasion, she breathed and coughed in distress. She didn't tell him anything despite the signs, so he only suspected.

"Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't do. I'm still able, and I'll work until I'm not. That is the way of the Maharlika. Besides, I'm already done." She scooped the last jam from the pot and dropped it into an empty jar.

Jiro sighed. There was no arguing with his mother. "Alright then. You should go to bed and get some rest."

"But these jams need delivering."

"I'll deliver them, mama."

"No. You're also tired from your hunt. You should be the one getting some sleep and a bath before anything else." She made a motion to sniff him and cringed.

"Alright." He slumped his shoulders in defeat. "I'll bathe while you rest. Then I'll help you deliver the jams."

"That's a good idea," she said, and a smile spread over her face.

Jiro was often annoyed with his mother when they argued, but he always let her win. He never wanted her to be stressed, or the nagging wouldn't stop.

He figured that all mothers were alike—infuriating to their children. But there was another side to his mother—the woman filled with light. Even when his father passed away, her brightness never dimmed. She was his support, like the cliff that held the houses of the Aradacko. Strong and dependable.

Jiro left the house and came to a waterfall, where he bathed and cleaned the blood off his clothes.

The wound on his side throbbed as he showered, but it had already crusted, quickly healing—an ability of the Aradacko. It wasn't deep, but he knew it would leave a scar—a remembrance of the rare moment when he tried to be foolish.

When he returned to the house, he found his mother sitting on a chair beside the loom. They gathered all the jams in two rattan baskets, one for each of them to carry.

They headed out and sold a jar of jam for a tee, a copper coin marked with a tree. Some houses traded goods like vegetables, grains, and dried meat. Almost everyone they went to accepted their offer. It wasn't long before his mother's basket emptied and his half-cleared.

When noon came, they reached a hut that Jiro was all too familiar with. Every time he'd flown past these parts, he tended to watch this house, glancing and hoping to see someone through the windows.

"Tatri's mother ordered jam again?" Jiro asked without letting his voice show his excitement. Tatri was popular among those his age, especially with the boys. She was the girl who made their heads turn—the one who made his heart beat faster. She wasn't the prettiest or the smartest, but something about her smile and how she often looked at him made his chest ache in wonderful pain.

When they descended on the hut's veranda, his heart knocked with quick thuds, and heat burned his cheeks.

"Yes, she was the one who first asked," his mother said when they landed. "That's when I decided to make them. I asked farmer Anz to send me arat fruits, and they came in the evening, so I had to make them."

"Oh," Jiro replied. He wanted to tell his mother to stop making jams, but he was too distracted to say more.

Jiro's mother knocked on the door. A tall woman with a round face opened it.

"Nana Ricka, beautiful blue skies to you and your son," the woman said. "Did you bring my jam?" she asked, glancing at the baskets in their hands.

"Yes, old friend. I did." Jiro's mother, Nana Ricka, took out one of the jars.

"Don't call me old," the woman at the door said with a playful tone. She gazed at Jiro. "I hope your hunt was successful."

"It was, thank you." Jiro nodded.

"Mama, who's at the door?" A young female voice called from inside the house.

Jiro straightened his back and held his breath again. An uncontrollable grin formed on his lips.

The girl came up to the door. Her round silver eyes glanced at Jiro and his mother. "Nana Ricka," Tatri greeted with a smile. "Beautiful blue skies."

"Beautiful blue skies to you, too. You're looking very lovely today, Tatri," Nana Ricka greeted.

Tatri gave a shy smile before her gaze turned to Jiro. "When did you get back from your hunt?" she asked.

Jiro stared. Her golden sun-kissed skin shimmered under the noon light. Her dark hair fell thickly over her shoulders. "Uh, this—" His heart fluttered. "This morning."

"I hope it went alright. Are the others back too?" Tatri asked.

He knew she was asking about Hako and Shoka. There was a rumor on their island that she was interested in both boys.

It's only a rumor, Jiro reminded himself. "Yes," he answered.

"They brought the aratrov jam," Tatri's mother said, raising the jar to her daughter.

"Oh, good. I could bring some to Hako." Tatri took the jar. "Thank you, Nana Ricka." She addressed Jiro's mother respectfully. Nana was the old Darackan word for mother, and a mother in Aradack was a mother to all the Aradacko. "It's good to see you." She gave a sweet smile to Jiro before retreating into the house.

After collecting the payment, Jiro and Nana Ricka flew off the veranda.

He couldn't help but smile. Seeing Tatri was the best part of his day, and his tiredness had become worthwhile.

Nana Ricka eyed him. "Why do you like that girl, Jiro?" his mother asked with a stern look.

A wave of heat flashed on Jiro's face. Was he that obvious? "I—" he started, but he wasn't sure what to say. A few moments ago, Nana Ricka was friendly with Tatri, but now something else stirred her tone.

"I see the way you look at her. She's pretty and cunning. You should be careful." The way his mother spoke was unfair.

Jiro wanted to argue with Nana Ricka. It was not Tatri's fault to be born that way, and yes, she flaunted her physical gifts, but that did not mean she was a conniving person. He didn't say what he thought out loud and only asked, "Why would you say that, mama?"

Nana Ricka looked at him as they soared forward. The wind swept her hair from her face, and a hint of a sad smile crawled over her silver eyes. "I've met girls like her. You are too innocent, and you do not deserve to be one of their victims."

.