A Whisper of Wings (3 page)

Nestled in amongst the forest eaves, the Springtime settlement of the Swallowtails spread like beehives off into the night. In the boughts high, high above, the treehuses shone with the light of lamps and candlefire. The houses gathered into clumps and drifts like stars high in the sky - hundreds of households ringing with the noises of village even time. Children played while women tended to the evening meals; girls laid aside their work clothes and dressed themselves in painted skirts and shining beads. The whole forest filled with life as a warm moon arose to spill its silver light across the trees.

Of all the houses in the settlement, none were as tall, as stark and perfect as the house of Nochorku-Zha. The family of Chief Nochorku were quite comfortably well off. They owned a number of fruit orchards and groves of succulent yams. Each noble house received a tithe taken from the common villagers. As ruler of clan Swallow-Tail, Nochorku-Zha had been given many gifts over the long years of his reign. Every day fresh presents were brought by supplicants who sought his good opinion. Nochorku-Zha’s two daughters had been well provided for.

There was metal enough to waste on sheer frivolities. A real iron pot bubbled on the stove, and an iron skillet hissed and spat above the coals. In the branches high above the sheltered hearth, the family tree lodge was wide and luxurious. It broadcast a statement of refined good taste and carefully preserved austerity;. Nochorku had created a unique expression of his own unsmiling personality.

Shadarii returned home with the lengthening of the shadows. She fluttered miserably down to tend the hearth, her heart still crying out with hurt from her disastrous day of dance. Javïra’s taunts festered deep inside her like a set of poisoned barbs.

There were fruit balls and lily bulbs stacked beside the hearth, and honey cakes were arrayed in bowls for the taking. Shadarii fed the fire and unhappily began to eat.

Shadarii was plump. The very thought of it made her miserable. The other dancing students were all slim and svelte - a fact they pointed out at every opportunity. The unhappier Shadarii felt, the more she ate; the fatter she became the more miserable she felt. It was a cruel circle.

One of the village wives had come to tend the chieftain’s fire. The woman sat by the iron skillet, her hands busy as she arranged meals into individual works of art. On the fire behind her, fat white wood grubs toasted on the flames. From time to time she turned the crispy delicacies with her chopsticks, sending juices sizzling across the grill. Shadarii licked her lips and reached out for a crisp, fried grub - then jerked away in guilt as Zhukora stormed in through the door. With no catch in hand, the huntress seethed inside a dark, brooding cloud. She shot Shadarii a withering glance, then helped herself to a cup of lily tea.

Shadarii retreated outside of the hearth hut. The village bustled with the warm activity of evening, and the air swirled with the woodsmoke of a hundred cooking fires. Beside the council lodge the evenings dancing had begun. Mistress Traveesha had been quite firm; tonight Shadarii’s services were definitely “not required”. The girl sighed and kicked her feet, stung by the sound of distant laughter.

A tiny creeping orchid clung to the gigantic house tree. The little plant seemed strangely tired and wan, and Shadarii made a silent ‘aaaaaw’ of disappointment. She held the twisted, wilted leaves and filled her heart with sorrow.

The girl closed her eyes and stilled her mind, reaching out to feel the flower’s pain. A gentle, unseen wind stirred softly through Shadarii’s fur as she bent down to kiss the flower, stroking at the petals with her loving little hands.

For a tiny, fragile moment the forest seemed to hold its breath.

The orchid sighed beneath Shadarii’s sweet caress, drawing strength in from the dancer’s glowing ïsha field. Bit by bit the petals slowly straightened, and the tiny plant spirit stretched in joy. It crooned and danced in gratitude, patting at Shadarii’s soul with little tendrils of delight.

Shadarii smiled; for once her troubled mind lay quite at peace.

The curtain to the hearth hut opened with a crash. Shadarii gave a guilty jerk and swiftly hid the orchid flower behind her wings as Zhukora stormed out from the hut, a struggling long-necked tortoise dangling from her claws. With a scowl she thrust the hapless creature into Shadarii’s hands.

“You! Do something useful for once in your life! Kill the beast and clean it.”

Shadarii looked unhappily at the tortoise, but Zhukora shoved the little dancer on her way.

“Well go on! Father’s waiting for his meal. What are you doing out here anyway? Eating again, eh? Rain’s blood girl, don’t you ever stop?”

Zhukora raised her hand, and Shadarii flinched away in fright. Zhukora ground her fangs and gave a snort.

“Oh stop cringing! Just go clean that tortoise!”

On a stump nearbye, a broken branch slowly grew a pair of glowing yellow eyes. The frogmouthed owl shed its motionless pose and gave a yawn, blinking as it contemplated a night spent on the wing.

Zhukora sighed and ignored the creature; gazing aloft, the long, lean huntress irritably tugged her hair.

“I’m going up to see father. There’s a meeting of the clan elders tomorrow. If he’s going to preside I’d better make sure he understands the issues.”

Zhukora brushed her hands off against her leggings. She looked around and seemed annoyed to find Shadarii still standing in the shadows. The red haired girl held the tortoise with a horrified expression on her face, and Zhukora gave an irritable sigh.

“Oh give it to the cook! Just go and fetch water for the tea.”

Shadarii silently surrendered up the tortoise, then spread her wings and fluttered off into the gloom. Zhukora poured herself more tea from the iron pot. She glowered across one shoulder, cradling her pottery cup, watching as her sister’s tail dwindled in the gloom. Zhukora sipped her tea and made a face, then irritably stood and hurtled the dregs into the ashes.

With a brisk flick of her feet she sprang aloft, fading silently into the black, sharp shadows of the evening.

“Father?”

The inside of the lodge always seemed dark. Zhukora’s tail lashed, her spine prickling to emotions that she dare not recognise.

Here the regime of tradition lay enshrined in all its glory. The room was austere and restrained, with decoration carefully pared down to a minimum. Zhukora smoothly knelt down at the edges of the shadow, her wings sweeping out to shade her impassive face.

“Honoured father, it is almost time to eat. Counsellor Kïkorï and his wife are joining us tonight. They bring news of the famines in the western tribal lands.”

The room remained frozen in unmoving, aimless darkness; Zhukora kept her gaze firmly riveted to the floor.

“Sire, the elders of the clan will meet tomorrow to discuss the coming toteniha festival. We must review the topics they will raise. You must decide upon your policies.”

Zhukora rose and trimmed the lamp, and the shadows swam and fled. There, beneath paired masks of Father Wind and Mother Rain, sat the high lord of the Katakanii’s clan Swallow-Tail.

Nochorku-Zha had bones that jutted hard like struts of steel. His jet black fur glittered with a sheen of grey - hair once as black and straight as his daughter’s now shone pure white with age. Long antennae stirred as he sat in the shadows of his empty home.

“He cannot commit a crime against you. He is higher in status than you. His own claim therefore must be the correct claim.” The old man’s wings stirred softly in the gloom. “This is the forest, child! Nothing ever changes. All is as it must be. In the perfect order, all creatures have their place. This is the divine necessity of stasis.”

“Father! Things are happening!”

“Nothing is happening. All troubles pass. We know this because our troubles have always passed. The forest is eternal; the Kashra are eternal. We bask beneath the Wind and Rain in the one-world of the earth.”

“Hush child. You shall be present at the council tomorrow to help me to my place. You may stay and listen to the wise decisions of the elders.”

Zhukora’s ears flattened.

“Yes sire. As you say.”

At a hundred and ten years of age, Nochorku stood as a pillar of the clan society. Even so, his inner strength had faded; since the loss of his wife in childbirth, a spark had slowly died within him. Nochorku had slipped into a strange, vague world of self involvement, and the only glories of his life were precedent and tradition.

Zhukora glared down at the ground, her eyes glittering with bitterness. Would he have ruled against the interests of his own eldest daughter? Would he have shamed her before the whole assembled clan?

Oh yes. Oh yes indeed…

Time passed, but the old man felt no need to speak. He asked no questions about Zhukora’s life. It was a dull pain that she had almost grown used to. Zhukora finally stood and smoothed her gleaming hair.

“I shall fetch your jewellry, father. Someone might come to visit us during dinner. It would be wise to be prepared.”

“Yes. Well hurry on, then!”

Zhukora knelt dutifully behind her father, tying gleaming belts and headbands into place. Suddenly the old man chose to speak once more.

“I dreamed your mother’s Ka again last night. She came just after midnight when the moon was full. She always did love the moon; it always brought the red out in her fur…

“She’s disgraced herself again! The Dancing Mistress came to me with yet another complaint about her! She refuses to toe the line and work with other girls.”

With that, she stepped out into space and plunged towards the ground. Dark wings flicked out to deftly slow her fall. The huntress landed silently, her face poisoned by a welling tide of bitterness.

Shadarii emerged from the hearth shelter, a bowl of water balanced in her hands. Zhukora gave the girl a vicious shove, sending Shadarii sprawling in the dirt.

“Get out of my way! You useless little cripple! You slew my mother with your cursed birth! You bring shame upon my mother’s soul and shame upon our house!” Zhukora’s voice cracked with hate. “Keep away from me! Take your fat arse and go eat where we won’t have to look at you!”

Shadarii hunched beneath the onslaught, her antennae bowed. Pale ïsha fields of pain flailed brokenly about her. Zhukora stared down at her in fury, her chest heaving, thenith a sudden lurch the elder woman turned and stormed away.

Shadarii wept in silence, covering her face in shame.

Overhead, laughter rose to tear at her in spite. Javïra whirred past with a giggling stream of girls behind her. They were sneaking off into the night - off to meet their sweethearts in the forest bracken.

The laughter bubbled on. Shadarii crushed her ears crushed between her hands and fled, launching herself out into the dark.

She flew in vain. No matter where she went, her pain followed close behind.

Notes:

1) ïsha: The background aura or magical field generated by Ka (spirits). Kashran antennae sense the subtle ïsha flow around them, interpreting the changing character of the fields. ïsha perception shall be rendered as seeing “colours” or reading “tastes”, although the actual sensations are radically different. The Kashran sensitivity to ïsha is one of their most delicate, discriminating senses.

2) Kashra: Contracted from the words Ka –shis Shatra Ramuuh - “Children of the Wind and Rain”.