A Whisper of Wings (41 page)

Aaaah the Speaker! Such a wise and pious man…

A nobleman in the house! The girl’s parents were ecstatic. Their status had soared like falcons on the wind; travelers had come from far and wide to stop and talk to Totli-kana the master potter. Her father had spun his stories far into the nights, selling more pots in one afternoon than he had previously sold in weeks.

Harïsh gazed fondly at her patient, brushing at the long locks at the right side of her face.

“Ah my funny friend. Strange wounds and giant fish. What a mystery you are! If only you really understood me. Where are you from? Will you want to go back there when you’re well?”

He looked at her, not understanding a single word but pleased to hear a friendly voice. She heaved a sigh and looked up at him through puzzled eyes.

“So where might you be from, my friend? We know you can’t be from the forest, even if you are a giant! You’re no alpine savage; there’s no notches in your ears, no scars carved across your back…” The girl glanced across her shoulder to make sure they were alone. “You’re-uh-you’re not circumcised, so you can’t be from the plains.” She felt her ears blush hot. Harïsh pressed the back of her hand against her cheeks. Dear Rain - there was no shame in giving an unconscious man a bath. She had brothers! She’d seen it all before.

The girl pulled her earring and tried to puzzle out the problem.

“Perhaps you come from the coast! The fish might have brought you from the sea. Is that it? Did you come from the great wide ocean?”

It never mattered that he didn’t understand her. The girl suddenly puffed out her chest with pride.

“I went to see the healers once again. They’re pleased with the way I’m taking care of you. The Healer-Major says I show great promise.”

Suddenly the girl looked left and right, then leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially in the Stranger’s ear.

“You mustn’t tell my Mama, not yet, but I’ve taken my first examination for the healers. I’ve learned the herb lists off by heart, and they let me study the paintings that show the surgeon’s art. Isn’t it fantastic! They-they said I have strong hands and a healing touch - with the sheep I mean. You know, setting bones and pulling teeth. But what if I could do it for people? Wouldn’t that be fantastic!”

The Stranger listened, reading every tiny inflection of her tone. He looked up at her, gripping her hand as she poured out her woes.

“My ïsha power isn’t very strong, but that isn’t everything, is it? They say that I have clever hands! I can make medicines. I fixed your fever, I really did! And I helped Usha’s egg when she gave birth. If they take me, I can really go on to be something! Something that really matters!”

The girl paced back and forth across the room, her brown wings thrashing at the air.

“I want to do something with my life! If I could heal the sick - be someone people could look at with respect and love!” She came over to the Stranger and looked into his eyes. “I mean, wouldn’t that be worth fighting for? Wouldn’t that be worth - well - keeping secrets from my Mama?”

The girl slumped unhappily on the bed.

“Mama would go wild if she found out. Papa says I’m to be a potter just like him! I’ve had enough of pots! ‘Tread the clay, Harïsh! Harïsh, go mix the glazes!’” The girl gave an unhappy snort. “What sort of life is that? Clay in your fur and charcoal in your hair. Fire sprites hissing jokes behind your tail! I have a talent, a skill that makes me happy. Isn’t that better than kilns and pots and clay?”

Somehow the Stranger seemed to understand; he was the only man who ever listened to her. He sat looking at her now, filling her with that strange feeling that had been nibbling at her nerves for days. It was like-like having little butterflies fluttering in her heart.

The girl dove her nervous fingers down into her pouch, looking for something to occupy her hands, and she felt the shape of her round clay flute. Harïsh took it out and stared unhappily at the thing, wondering why she felt like laughing even as she felt so strange.

The stranger’s tail went stiff. He stared at the flute, something sparking deep within his eyes. She handed it to him, fascinated by the sudden changes in his face.

“Oh! Have you seen one before? It’s a clay flute. My father makes them. It’s not like a proper reed flute. They’re actually rather difficult to play…”

The Stranger raised the flute up to his lips and blew a single, perfect note. It sang out like the haunted crooning of a ghost. The girl gave a shiver, the hackles rising all up and down her fur.

High up in the rafters, the household spirit uncurled from its sleep, and Harïsh blinked in astonishment as the Ka danced to the stranger’s song. The nobleman’s green wings lifted to the touch of unseen winds. Finally he let the music end. The Stranger looked across at Harïsh with bright, shy eyes. She took the flute back in her hands, afraid to meet the stranger’s gaze.

“Thank you. I… Thank you for letting me see.”

The girl hastily scrubbed her eyes and handed him back the flute. She felt honoured to give the instrument into the hands of such a master.

The Stranger’s eyes shone with light, and for the first time he seemed utterly alert. Suddenly the girl had an idea; she clapped her hands for attention, firmly pointing to her breast.

The stranger frowned, turned his hand towards his chest and pursed his lips in thought. Suddenly he reached out to touch the girl between the breasts.

“Yes! Harïsh! I’m Harïsh!” She touched herself again. “Harïsh.” The hand went to tap him on his naked chest. “Your name? What is your name, do you remember?”

His fur felt warm; too warm. Perhaps he had been sitting too long in the sun? The stranger touched his breast and screwed up his eyes in thought. Finally he gave a shrug; if he had a name, it was long fled and gone. The loss clearly troubled him.

He seemed exhausted. Too many concepts had come much too soon. Harïsh gently laid him back upon his bed.

“My poor, sick friend. We’ll get you well. The fish would never forgive me if I let him down, now would he? I’ll change your dressings and then we’ll let you sleep in peace.”

She stroked his handsome muzzle and stared down at his precious, troubled face.

“We can’t just call you ‘stranger’. Would you like a name? Shall I give you one?” The girl looked out the window and watched the waving grass. “What if we call you Keketál, ‘the river’s gift’? I think that’s rather strong and handsome, don’t you?.”

Keketál. Yes, it had a gallant ring to it. Harïsh felt well and truly pleased.

When he grew stronger, she would teach him how to speak once more. It would take time, but he would learn. The girl stroked her patient’s hair and gave a smile.

The scuff of sandals made Harïsh’s ears twitch. Xartha stood staring at the stranger with her big wide eyes. The tiny girl was only four years old, the absolute picture of her doting mother. Harïsh glared down down at her baby sister and gave a scowl.

“I thought I told you not to follow me any more!”

The little girl just stood and stared. Harïsh sniffed and tried to ignore the little brat as she smoothed back her patient’s fur and tucked him in his bed. She let her hand linger softly on his brow.

Maybe he was too warm? His forehead felt hot. Harïsh leaned closer and ran her hands across his fur.

Xartha still stood there watching her, and Harïsh’s concentration shattered. She gave an ill-tempered snarl and stomped off to find her mother.

Mama stood in the foreyard turning sheep’s-milk into cheese. Everything about Harïsh’s mother seemed neat and crisp and clean. Her bare breasts were high and firm, and her fur always held a smell of new-spun wool. Harïsh marched towards her, wailing all her woes.

“All I ask is that you look after the others from time to time. You are the eldest, my love. You’re of an age to be helping me around the house. You’ll have a household of your own some day. There’s no time like the present to learn a woman’s duties.”

“Harïsh - perhaps you and I should have a little talk. A mother notices things. I think you might be taking this business with our guest just a little too seriously. I should like you to spend less time with him.”

Harïsh went stiff with panic, then saw her mother’s suspicious eyes and hastily ducked her head. Her mother was having none of it. She gave a sigh and folded up her arms.

“Harïsh, look at me. Come on, look into my eyes.”

Harïsh jerked up her face and defiantly set her jaw, and her mother slowly nodded to herself.

“I had guessed as much. I would have spared you this if I had caught it earlier. Ah well, I suppose we all learn through our mistakes. Pain is just another part of growing up.”

“Indeed? Well then, I’m glad to hear it. A man like that has a family who are searching for him. He has a whole life waiting for him just beyond our reach. I’ll not see my little girl weeping once he finds his memory again.” The older woman’s words were soft and gentle. “Draw back a little, my dove. Infatuation with a mystery can only lead to pain.”

Harïsh felt tears spring to her eyes.

“He’s hurt! He needs my help. Mama, I have to care!” The young girl wept, her head cradled in her hands. “I’m not infatuated. I’m not! He’s just so helpless. He needs me! I can help him! I really can! I won’t do anything wrong - just let me care for him. It’s all I ask! Please.”

***

Desert winds stirred the dust into a semblance of life. Tiny figures shimmered in the haze, plodding onwards through a land of suffering. They walked by day, they walked by night, and still the horizon never came in reach; it was as though they walked the pathways of the damned, condemned forever to a world of thirst and emptiness.

Without plants, without life, the desert held no ïsha field to lift beneath Kashran wings. Shadarii had simply led her followers out into a lifeless void; they had staggered in her footsteps over weeks of utter nightmare. The Pilgrims had almost reached the end of their endurance. A last few drops of salty water rattled in their drinking gourds, and no one had eaten for longer than they could remember.

Still Shadarii wandered on. Perhaps she sought the world’s edge; perhaps she had finally lost her mind. Shadarii, Kïtashii and Tingtraka took the lead, and the other hunters shambled forwards over broken, crumbling earth. Mrrimïmei hung upon Totoru’s arm, her waist now noticeably thickened by the egg inside her. She carried it in grim silence, firmly keeping to the forefront of the march.

Wind picked at the branches of a dead accacia tree, and one or two of the hunters tottered over to inspect the wood for beetles. They found nothing - not even a single termite. Kefiru kicked the tree and brushed his hand across his bloody lips; suddenly he turned, his antennae twitching to a hint of ïsha scent.

A bearded lizard darted from the rocks. Kefiru’s throwing stick span through the air to smash the lizard’s skull. The hunter flung himself upon the corpse and swiftly cracked its neck.

Food!

The hunter laughed and snatched up his kill. The lizard was longer than his leg - a veritable feast! Kefiru hid and made ready to devour his meal.