A Whisper of Wings (43 page)

The girl clutched Keketál against her breast.

“He’ll live! Just you see! I’ll make him live.”

Her father gave a shrug and sat down to watch and wait. He dealt with the inquiries of his neighbours, explaining the reasons for disturbing their summers night. His daughter stayed relentlessly at her post, her blonde hair shining like a beacon in the dark.

The night dragged on with agonising slowness. Keketál’s breathing slowed and quietened against Harïsh’s breast, and soon he began to shiver with the cold. It felt hours had passed, and still the healers hadn’t come. Keketál muttered something in a weird lilting tongue; Shashashii? Shagarii? Harïsh simply couldn’t understand. He spoke to her, reaching out to touch her face with trembling hands.

His temperature could fall no lower without doing further harm. The wound must be opened up and drained immediately. There was no one else to do it; Harïsh calmly spoke towards the banks, calling out towards her audience.

“We’re taking him back inside. Get me a knife, a bowl and a hollow reed. Cloths and blankets - and someone powerful! I need someone to hold him.” She hitched Keketál’s face up beneath her arm. “Someone help me lift him on the shore.”

Men helped her lift him up the banks and then man-handled him back into Harïsh’s home. They dragged him close up by the fire and scampered clear to watch Harïsh at work.

The little potter’s girl allowed her mother to strip away her dripping dress and wrap her in a blanket, never once pausing as she saw to her patient’s needs.

“I need someone with power. There’s going to be blood. I don’t have the ïsha to control it.”

Lord Ingatïl, the village Speaker, knelt at Keketál’s head. She spared him a glance of gratitude before she turned back to her task.

She held a flint knife above his wound. A sour red scar gleamed against the poor man’s fur. Harïsh felt herself make ready; it was as though she were far away, watching someone else crouching dripping on the floor. Harïsh felt his pulse beneath her hands and simply knew what she must do.

Harïsh felt a wave of panic. Blood welled from the cut to spill through her steady fingers. The girl bit back a surge of bile and carefully scored the flesh again. Suddenly she felt the muscle part, and something hot and filthy spurted up across her hands. A vile stench of pus sent her audience staggering in revulsion.

Sweet Rain! Keketál’s wound had festered deep beneath the skin. The girl scraped the abscess clean and flung the muck into a bowl. She squeezed and scrubbed, washing out the wound with extract of wattle bark.

A sudden commotion sounded at the door as a group of healers shoved the crowd aside. Two journeymen made to snatch Harïsh back from her patient, but the Master Healer held up his hand and stopped them in their tracks.

The girl was doing just fine by herself. The abscess had been swabbed fresh and clean. Harïsh tossed her knife into a bowl, her hands still strangely calm and steady.

The tall old man led her out into the open air where dawn brushed crimson feathers against the dark horizon. Harïsh felt herself sit down upon a log as a blanket was gently laid about her shoulders. Harïsh looked out across the village rooves as though waking from a dream.

“No, little one. Not with all that filth inside him. The knife and spell must work in partnership. Though your ïsha power is very small, your instincts mark you as a healer.”

The old man led the girl back inside and softly sat her down by Keketál. Two healing mages bent above the patient weaving shimmering fields of force. The Master healer felt Keketál’s brow and took his pulse; with a slow nod of satisfaction he wandered slowly over to see Harïsh’s parents. The potter and his wife bowed low before the nobleman.

“Totli-kana, Nurïman-kana, with your permission, we would like to train your daughter as a surgeon. She has the talent. She has the need. Any other future would leave her broken and unhappy.”

The potter looked up in alarm.

“But mighty lord, she is to be a potter like her father! We mean to wed her to the potters of another village!”

“You have two sons who can still be potters. The world will never lack for young girls to be wives. I say this maiden is something very special. Cherish the treasure that Rain and Wind have brought you.”

The two parents looked down towards their daughter. She sat with the stranger’s head cradled in her lap, staring down into his face in adoration. Totli-kana made to go and speak with her, but his wife put out her hand. The woman led the villagers from the room and left Harïsh at peace.

Harïsh never even noticed that they were gone.

Keketál opened up his eyes and ran his tongue across his lips. Harïsh gave him a sip of tea and carefully wiped his mouth as he reached out to touch her face.

“Harïsh…”

The nobleman smiled, falling down into a gentle, healing sleep.

Notes:

1) Quirt - A mnemonic aid based upon the alpine “music sticks”. Basically a stick whittled with marks, each mark representing a different message that the courier has leaned by rote.

2) The slings used by plainsfolk are used mostly by shepherds to drive Dingo dogs and wedge tailled eagles away from the flocks. A true marksman such as Harïsh will often wear three such weapons, each of different lengths and intended for use at different ranges.

Chapter Sixteen

As the wet seasons¹ waned and the days grew long, the Vakïdurii and Katakanii tribes drew together on their yearly route of march. The time had come for the great moth feasts high up in the mountains, where every year the bogong moths came flocking to the caves. Untold millions of them sheathed whole cliff faces with their furry bodies, and both tribes joined to feast upon the meaty morsels, growing fat and sleek on the delicious fluttering snacks. Trade took place and rituals were shared. For once mere tribes seemed slightly meaningless as brotherhood glowed deep within the trees.

Sixty thousand Kashra gathered by the caves. After months of starvation, the people drooled at the thought of stuffing themselves sick with meat. Zhukora looked upon the teeming peoples and knew her time drew near; power was about to tip into her hands, and all because of one tiny little thing. She looked towards the bogong caves and knew that she had won.

- For this year, there would be no moths.

Moths needed rain, and the trees were stiff and dry. Oh they would come - in weeks or days; Serpent could feel them slowly drawing near. But meanwhile bellies went empty and people grew angry. Once again the treeferns were butchered into starch. Frogs and water bugs were devoured by the enormous mob - even earthworms and woodlice seemed better than starvation. The commoners hungered side by side, Vakïdurii and Katakanii suffering together. The nobility and priesthood still lived in luxury by skimming off their tithes. The people watched their children starving and felt the anger growing in their hearts.

Time had finally played into Zhukora’s hands.

A vast, gangly spider blundered across a strip of bark. The hairy “huntsman” sprawled larger than an outstretched hand. It was flat and brown and ugly, with a face even its mother couldn’t love. The beast had an inordinate amount of trouble coordinating all eight legs; from time to time it would stop to take stock of its surroundings, as though counting up to see if all its limbs were there.

Down amongst the leaf litter, all seemed perfect with the huntsman’s world. The creature sat back to lay plans for another busy day, and a long pink tongue shot out between its fangs to clean its dainty feet. The spider wriggled with satisfaction as it basked in the morning sun.

“Mine!”

“No, mine!”

A hand lashed out to snatch the spider. The creature thrashed its spindly legs and tried to fight, unable to even bite its way to freedom.

The Katakanii boy stooped and hurtled a rock, and the other boy instantly ducked the shot. With a squeal of fury he hurtled himself upon the other boy. They grabbed each other’s ears and fought a mighty battle in the dust.

The hapless spider landed on its back beneath a bush. It waved its clumsy legs, trying to make sense out of a topsy-turvy world. It was just beginning to grapple with the concepts of up and down when a pair of squealing giants crashed into the brush beside it. The spider flipped right side up and scuttled off as fast as it could go.

“Needle dick!”

“Thief! I’ll kill you!”

Suddenly the boys were hauled high into the air; both children blanched as they found themselves surrounded by lean, fantastic figures dressed in black.

The woman shone like a figure from a dream. It was her - the lady of the skulls! The Vakïdurii boy jerked as her blue eyes pierced clean through his soul, reading his every secret, his every sin…

“Uh - well we was together at the time. Takii’s my friend. But-but I saw it first!” The little waif miserably hung his little head. “I-I was hungry…”

“If that’s what you really want, then here you are. Here’s my knife. Daimïru will give you another. You can hack each other up to your heart’s content, and all over a spider.”

The Katakanii boy whimpered as Daimïru pressed her knife into his hands. He dropped the weapon and scrubbed his palms against his fur.

“I didn’t mean it, honest! He’s my friend…” The boy scuffed his moccasins in shame. “I didn’t mean it. I was hungry is all. It’s all there is.”

“Bring your fathers to me, and I shall show them where to find food. We shall hunt on the plains and find enough for your families and friends.”

The woman turned her perfect face towards them, and the two boys stared at her in awe. When she took their hands, they almost fainted. If she had asked them to battle monsters for her, they would have fought and died for her on the spot.

The children bowed and clattered up into the air; Zhukora sighed and retrieved her knife, staring up after the two retreating boys.

“They say purity of purpose may only be achieved through suffering.” Zhukora bitterly gazed up into the trees. “It is a hard path we fly, my love.”

“It is worthwhile. Your victory will be their salvation.”

The group of Kashra rose through the air on silent wings and drifted off into the light. Down in the leaf-litter, the huntsman spider struggled up across a mossy log. It cleaned it feet, worked little paps beneath its jaws, and then blundered on its way without a worry in the world.