A Whisper of Wings (46 page)

*Of course child! Speak with thy acolyte. Take thy time.*

Shadarii staggered over to Kïtashii and swiftly told what she had found; the power of it, the majesty - all that it could mean to them! The spirit offered miracles - sorcery such as the world had never seen! Their mission could finally go on.

Kïtashii put her hands behind her back and slowly paced the floor, and Shadarii watched her nervously, waiting for her advice. Kïtashii finally whirled, her little face alive with joy.

“Yes. I say yes, take it! Oh Shadarii, think what it means! It’s a sign; Mother Rain must have led us here herself!”

Shadarii went stock still. The decision quivered there before her. This would change everything. No more little dancer moping in the moss. This would be an end, just as it was a beginning. The old Shadarii would be laid aside forever…

Kïtashii saw the thoughts inside her teacher’s mind.

“Don’t fear it, Shadarii! The world cries out for something new. What’s left to us? Kotaru’s gone, our tribes reject us. Since you have another destiny, I say embrace it! Take the mask and wear it. Dance the dance, Shadarii! Dance and see where the music leads!”

Shadarii whirled and faced the Ka, then threw out her hands and opened up her soul. The spirit seemed to shriek in ecstasy. Shadarii threw back her head and offered up her body to the flames. ïsha plunged down like a knife, and power poured into the dancer in blazing stream of light. Shadarii swelled in triumph and rose against the storm.

Mrrimïmei rose shrieking from her blankets as grass bloomed beneath her bed. The sand erupted into life; flowers shot like comets from the sand. The pilgrims shouted in alarm, snatching up their blankets and dashing for the rocks.

Ancient seeds exploded with new life. Springs thrust sweet water high into the air, showering like rain across the sands. The pilgrims stared in amazement as a naked figure danced above the miracle with ïsha swirling all about her in a daze.

Shadarii!

Kïtashii was laughing dizzily as the desert bloomed. Shadarii flung out her hands, pouring life into the wilderness. Plant Ka squealed in ecstasy as she drew them from the ground, swirling all about her in a dance of selfless love.

Mrrimïmei’s jaw dropped down in astonishment as a tree beside her suddenly swelled with ripened fruit.

“Kïtashii! What’s going on? Where are Shadarii’s clothes?”

Kïtashii laughed and danced her dance, too far gone in merriment to hear. Tingtraka pressed her hand against her throat and slowly walked down into the grass.

“Clothes? She doesn’t need them any more! Don’t you see? A primal spirit is never clothed. She’s taken on the power - taken on the role!”

“But-but she’s not a spirit! She’s just Shadarii!”

Tingtraka didn’t heed. The girl joined Kïtashii in cavorting by the pool, and Shadarii laughed as her followers came spilling down onto the soft green grass. She had the power! She was the chosen one, the Avatar of Mother Rain. The girl danced for joy, thrilling to the feel of moonlight across her naked fur.

She would make a legend. She was given to the ages. Now the story of Shadarii would begin!

Notes:

1) The alpine Kashra recognise 6 seasons: Many-wings (The high of summer, with plentiful insects and woodgrubs), Sky-grey (full honeycombs and overcast skies), Frog-sing (a warm wet season), Rain Weeping (heavy rains, flooded rivers), Chill (the deep, cold winter), and New-flower (when the world warms and the wattle trees bloom). To this the High altitude clans will sometimes add “Wind-Battle”, a time of wild rain and wind storms, which are taken as evidence that even the marriages of gods can sometimes be stormy.

Chapter Seventeen

The creek shone cool and sparkling clean, while overhead a band of cockatoos clowned in the trees. Keketal gazed up at their antics and gave a funny smile.

A line of old clay potsherds leaned against a fallen branch. With a flash a broken milk jug passed on to meet the otherworld, and Harïsh laughed as she flicked her sling back into her hands.

“See? Easy! Now you try. Go on.”

Keketál stood watching the young shepherdess. She stood slim and long and lanky - all great bright eyes and laughing boyish curves. Her breasts were new enough to still be an embarrassment; she was trying to learn to live with them.

All of the village women wore nothing but skirts wrapped about their hips, and the occasional water jug balanced on their skulls. Though the sight of bared breasts should have been completely commonplace, Keketál still found his eyes drawn in blushing fascination.

Keketál awkwardly hefted his sling and tried to keep his mind upon the job. He picked a rose-quartz pebble from the stream and shook it free of water. This ‘sling’ device seemed easy enough to use; he need only whip the stone around his head and let it fly. Keketál poised the sling, took careful aim and fired. He stared eagerly at the target, waiting for it to shatter into a thousand little bits.

“Keketál! Look out!”

The man gave a squawk, then frantically dashed aside as his slingstone crashed down into the grass behind him. Keketál tripped and fell straight into the stream.

“Keketál!”

Harïsh dashed to her patient’s side as he cursed and smashed his fist against the water. Harïsh sighed and shook her head; accidents and Keketál just seemed to go together. She calmly made the offer to help him rise, but Keketál sniffed and tried to hold his fragile dignity.

“I can be helping self, thanking very much!”

“Oh no you can’t! Now I’m not having you strain yourself, so accept my hand or you can just sit in there and suffer!”

The nobleman took Harïsh’s offer with poor grace and allowed himself to be dragged from the stream. Harïsh seemed rather strong for a girl her age; she had also picked up a vulgar habit of laughing at her elders. Keketál gave a sniff and haughtily wrung out his tail.

Harïsh usually wore two or three slings about her forhead, each optimised for a particular range. She ran one weapon’s thongs between her fingers as she spoke.

“Look, you just whip it, see? It’s just like throwing, only your arm is longer.”

She demonstrated once again, hurtling a heavy stone into a shard of pottery with depressing ease. Keketál glumly looked down at his sling and heaved a mighty sigh.

“Maybe sling is not meant for I. Keketál make accident again.”

Poor Keketál. He tried so hard to be a help. Clearly he was not used to freeloading on his hosts; he had tried to get up early to tread the clay, but father wouldn’t hear of it. A noble, labouring? Never! What did he think daughters were made for?

It had not stopped Keketál from sneaking out to chop the wood. Harïsh had been furious when she’d found out. A man with a stomach wound swinging a stone axe? Absurd! She had told him off quite thoroughly until he had wilted like a dying flower. Her heart had softened in an instant; the poor girl was quite hopelessly in love.

Beside the stream, all seemed clean and quiet. The trill of bell-birds filled the air, and the ïsha murmured sleepily to the caress of water. It was good just to be together. They walked along the rocks together, teetering as they carefully tried not to wet their sandals.

Keketál was not quite used to the feeling of his clothes. Sandals, kilt and crossbelts… All so simple, but all so very strange.

And he just kept staring at Harïsh’s smooth bare breasts…!

She noticed his interest and cocked her pretty head. Keketál felt his ears burn bright red, coughed and tried to find some way to cover himself.

“Uh - Harïsh. You are to watching shep today?”

“Sheep. Watching sheep. Yes, I’m minding them this afternoon. I have the shift after Mixtli.”

“Aaah. Shall I come as well? Shep-sheep make for nice sleepy thoughts. Harïsh can talk and talk until she drops. I listen and learn some more goodly talkings, yes?”

“Listen and learn some more speech.” The girl wagged her finger at him. “And no, there’ll be no lazy afternoon for you! Great leader Keketál offered to help in the house raising, didn’t he? And so now he gets to spend a hot afternoon labouring in the sun.”

Suddenly the rock moved beneath her feet. The girl gave a squeak and pitched towards the water, but Keketál snatched out and caught her, dragging her safely up into his arms. She clung gratefully against him, laughing as he swept her completely off her feet.

Finally held in Keketál’s arms, Harïsh simpered prettily. Embarrassed, Keketál swiftly set the disappointed girl down on the grass and dusted off his hands.

***

A blazing meteor clove above the desert waste. In its wake, life exploded from the desolation; grass burst out across the sand as springs miraculously appeared. The world burst into life inside Shadarii’s wake.

The naked dancer clove the air like a streaking spear of light. The pilgrims whooped with laughter as she led them on a merry ride. Behind them, a swathe of green sprang up beside a whole new river. Shadarii squandered power wantonly, throwing her arms out in delight as she reached out to shape a world!

Lady Starshine felt the wind whipping through Shadarii’s hair and shrieked for joy.

*Oh Gods, I had forgotten what the touch of life was like! To feel the power in these forms. To see the world through bright new senses! Oh Shadarii, do'st thou see, my love? Do'st thou see what we can be together?*

The spirit laughed as Shadarii caressed her with her mind. Starshine thrilled to the little dancer’s touch.

*We shall become a power in this world, my love! Where your sister is death, you shall be life. Ashes swirl in her footsteps while you leave only petals! I shall show you powers undreamed of. We shall fight evil and scour away all pain and want. It shall be the golden age of Shadarii!*

Shadarii chided the boisterous spirit.

~We shall first find out what is wrong with the world, and then we shall heal it. I shall be a builder and a maker! No more killing, no more anger. I shall give the world a gift of peace!~

*Thou must be ready to fight, my child. Thy enemies are legion. War lies upon thy path.*

~Fight? When I can do all this? Fa! The world is far too beautiful for fighting!~

Shadarii made a triumphant barrel roll, swooping dizzily through the air. Behind her, the pilgrims laughed in merriment as she led them far out into the desert sky.

***

Girls giggled around the village stream, chattering happily as they balanced tall pitchers on their heads. It was house raising time; a moment for excitement. There were boons to be collected by the menfolk. Who would choose whom? Girls slyly swapped opinions and then filled the air with laughter.

Harïsh swooped across the stream and spread her wings for landing. The advantages of being a potter’s daughter are few and far between, but tonight they made a difference. She had the most spectacular water jug any girl could hope for. Harïsh leaned down to peer into the stream, briskly checked her hair, her earrings and her make-up. When she thought no one was looking she quickly pinched her nipples to a blush.

She dipped her jug down into the stream and carefully filled it to the top. Balanced serenely beneath her load, Harïsh climbed her way towards the village square.

Her opponent rose from the grass beside the stream. Namïlii was a long, thin streak of a girl with delicious bedroom eyes. She looked Harïsh up and down and gave a haughty sniff; from the dizzy height of sixteen, a fifteen year old seems nothing but a child.

“And what are you doing here? This is no place for little girls. We women are having a private conversation.”

“Well I’m sure you’re constantly talking about your privates. As for me, there’s work to be done, so good day!”

Harïsh cruised up the hill, never once spilling a single drop of water. Namïlii opened her mouth to try tossing out a final parting shot, but unfortunately Harïsh had already gone.

Another girl sniffed wriggled her elegant whiskers.

”So Namïlii, do you have your eyes on anyone in particular? Someone with coloured wings, perhaps?”

That did it! Namïlii shot the girl a narrow glance and proudly took her leave. Soon they’d see just who chose boons from whom! They all might be laughing on the other side of their faces.

The village square had become a centre of a bustling industry. Men thatched and wove, stripping saplings and trimming strips of wood. All through the thirsty afternoon the young men of the village hurtled themselves into their task, and the house grew with amazing speed.

A circular perimeter of saplings had been thrust into the ground, then their tops were bent down and lashed firmly into place. Soon the grass thatching would be spread across the dome. A house was rising out of nothing more than a bunch of sticks and grass.