Page 56 of Where Broken Wings Fly

Sliding her hand straight into his, Micah’s nervous eyes blow wide. He studies her tiny stature like she’s a venomous snake intent on sinking its fangs into him, rather than an excited six year old. I doubt he likes being touched so freely.

Outside the cabin, we walk around the back, ducking beneath an apple tree surrounded by an overgrown vegetable patch. I spot several chilli pepper plants blooming in the intense periods of rain and sunshine high on the mountain.

Micah looks over his shoulder. “Zach likes spicy food, and there aren’t exactly many takeaways up here. Killian started a mini chilli farm last year.”

“Good solution.”

“He thought so until Zach started sneaking chillies into all of his food to prank him.”

His voice is rougher than his brothers and raspy in a smoky, fascinating way. Everything about Micah is understated, from the hunch of his broad, muscular shoulders to the slightly overgrown hair that covers his eyes in a protective shield.

He makes himself small and silent, even though he’s just as well-trimmed as his twin brother. His presence is so intense, he could never slip under the radar. For some reason, I want to know more about him.

“The studio was a gift from Killian on my eighteenth birthday,” he explains, his voice still strained with discomfort. “Think he was sick of me getting paint everywhere inside.”

The simple, barn-like structure is built from rough hews of wood. Warm yellow light spills through the gridded windows, illuminating the circular stone slabs that act as stepping stones across the grass.

With another deep breath, Micah waves for us to go ahead. Arianna barges inside like she owns the place, leaving me and Micah to follow behind at a slower pace.

“Cool! Mummy, come look!”

“After you,” Micah invites.

“Thanks.”

Squeezing past him, I slip inside the studio and turn around to drink it all in. Rough, un-varnished wooden floors and panelled walls are revealed by candlelight, burning inside old-fashioned style lanterns built into the wood.

It cloaks the studio in a welcoming warmth that makes the lofty, cold space feel more like home. There’s a huge, three metre workbench that takes up most of the room. It’s cluttered with tools and drying masterpieces hand-carved to perfection.

“This is crazy,” I whisper in awe.

There are a mixture of clay and wooden sculptures cluttering every surface. Some are dried and ready to be varnished, while others are darker with the tint of wet clay, slowly hardening on drying racks. So many different creatures—wolves, deer, birds, even owls.

Paintings cover almost every wall, haphazardly hammered into place while others are stacked up in the corner to be packaged. I study the closest one, recognising the familiar landscape of Briar Valley depicted in all its lush, undisturbed greenery.

It’s like Micah’s recreating the world from behind the safety and security of these four walls. Each piece is stunningly realistic, a snapshot of reality caught in the permanent stasis of paint and ink. I’ve never seen talent like it.

“You have a real gift. These are beautiful works of art, Micah.”

He fiddles with his stained t-shirt. “No one sees my art. I sell it online and package it up for Zach to run into town.”

“The others haven’t seen this? Seriously?”

“I like my privacy and quiet.”

But he let us see, a traitorous voice whispers.

Arianna’s eyeing up a stunning sculpture of a butterfly. Each papery, stained-glass wing has been recreated in so much detail, it’s hard to believe that it isn’t a real butterfly fossilised in fresh clay.

She strokes the tip of her finger over its hand-hewn spine, her mouth hanging open. Her fascination for animals and insects has grown after our move here. There wasn’t much beyond cicadas and locusts in Mexico.

“No touching, Ari.”

“It’s fine,” Micah quickly says.

“I don’t want her to ruin your hard work.”

“It’s so pretty,” she coos. “I like it.”

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