A Whisper of Wings (48 page)

Harïsh gave an incoherent shriek and ripped off her headband. Keketál caught her before she could find a handy stone. Hupshu meanwhile tried his best to hold the other girl at bay as Harïsh flung dirt into Namïlii’s eyes.

The women lunged towards each other with murder in their eyes. Keketál flung out his hands and ïsha flashed, sending both women tumbling in the dust.

“Disgraceful! Namïlii, what would your mother say if she saw you making such a spectacle? Harïsh, have you no shame? Trying to take the prerogatives of a full maiden…!”

“Lord! I am a woman! A woman!” Harïsh clutched at her chest in anger. “I have as much right to reward a builder as the next girl! Lord Keketál has asked me, and I want to give!”

“My dear, you are nothing but a little girl. You have not yet had your sixteenth birthday.”

“Birthday?” Harïsh threw off Keketál’s hands. “I’m more of a woman than that Namïlii can ever be! Just because I don’t screw every living creature in the village…”

Namïlii gave an incoherent shriek of rage. She tried to gouge Harïsh’s eyes, only to be caught and shaken like a rattle by Keketál. Harïsh stood her ground before the village speaker.

“Lord Ingatïl, I am a woman and I claim a maiden’s rights! My body speaks for itself! Let Namïlii prove I’m not a woman.”

It was an interesting problem; Lord Ingatïl paced slowly back and forth, his long wings slowly beating at the air. Finally the old man turned and tapped his nose.

“Here is my judgment. The law of ‘four virtuosities’ must hold. This is the accepted measure of adulthood. Harïsh, are you adept in four separate arts? Prove to us your skill, and we shall accept you as a woman grown.”

“I am a shepherdess. I tend the flocks, I shear and spin, weave and milk. No girl in the village makes finer cheese! No one in the tribe can match me with a sling!”

“Harïsh, your prowess with the sling has caused us trouble more than once. We still remember the incident with the High Seer and the wasp’s nest. As for your cheeses, their taste is… memorable, to say the least. We shall conceded that you have this skill.”

“I say again, where is her art? Would you compare this prancing little imp with me? I am a musician of the first degree, skilled in both the flute and the long grass pipe! I am a poetess, trained in the creation of running stanza’s! And for my fourth virtuosity…”

“What?” Harïsh snapped her fingers underneath Namïlii’s nose. “Why you puffed up river toad! You dance like a pregnant ewe. I’ll out-dance you any day of the week!”

Namïlii grabbed her own pitcher and proudly marched to the centre of the clearing. She stood there waiting, flipping up her tail in challenge. Both women balanced their jugs between their ears and stood delicately poised and waiting.

Men ran for their instruments, and soon clay flutes warbled like a flock of bumble bees. The two women stood with the tall jugs balanced on their heads and held their arms out level with the dusty ground. With a nod from Lord Ingatil, the little orchestra suddenly found its footing and began to play. A sigh rippled through the crowd as the slender dancers gracefully began to turn.

They moved with the timeless suppleness of sweet young river grass. Harïsh and Namïlii both bobbed slowly down upon their haunches, rose and turned a stately pirouette, the water jugs never once shifting on their heads. They slowly turned and closed their eyes, concentrating carefully as the music cycled through its chords.

Full circle; both women’s faces were serene with concentration. They snapped their fingers once, bobbing down to start their stately dance once again. Harïsh kept her lashes closed as she matched her opponent move for move.

The rhythm slowly gained momentum. Men began to clap in time to the rising music while women chorused admiration as the dancers dipped and span. Keketál found himself joining in their heady beat, grinning as Harïsh calmly flitted him a glance. He blew a kiss as he watched his girl of gold; she felt his aura touching her and gave a glowing smile.

The musicians exchanged a set of evil glances, and suddenly the music increased its beat. The dancers slid into the higher speed without a hitch. They dipped, they whirled, they bobbed in place. Each girl kept the measure without an error, turn after turn, each one slightly faster than the last.

Again the music sped its tempo. Clapping hands drummed the girls on ever faster, and a bead of sweat trickled slowly down Namïlii’s brow. The girl gritted up her fangs and tried to stop her hands from shaking. She fell behind the beat, blinking as she saw her enemy cruising through the turn. Namïlii gulped and tried to make more speed.

Her jug began to tilt; Namïlii felt the balance shift and tried to compensate. Suddenly the jug was tumbling through the air. Namïlii gave a shriek as her water jug smashed against the ground. The girl screamed out words Keketál had never even heard as the crowd surged forward to Harïsh and whirled her in the air. Her father grinned at her and clasped his hands in victory.

Harïsh shouted as Keketál took her in his arms, then grabbed his face and locked him in a wild, delirious kiss. Keketál dizzily clung against her, half fighting her and half lost inside her touch. It was wrong - she was only fifteen! And there was something else - something he couldn’t quite remember. It burned him, shrieking in anguish somewhere in his mind…

Harïsh loved him; only a fool could fail to see it now. Keketál finally sighed and let the moment take him, content to drift within the wonder of her arms.

Chapter Eighteen

The sound of the crowd surged like a forest washed beneath a restless wind. It was the sound of life, of rage and thunderous power, and its ïsha currents shook the forest to the roots.

Zhukora listened to the ebb and flow. Finally the gamble had begun; racial destiny hung teetering in the balance. On one side lay absolute extinction - on the other, Zhukora’s blazing light of change.

And on both sides lay her death. Zhukora saw her ending and was not afraid. She had made her bargain with the gods; the time of Zhukora finally had come.

Daimïru knelt behind her. The stark white skull-face craned up towards Zhukora in expectation, her child-like eyes gleaming in the shadows of her mask.

Daimïru waited for her leader to whir into the air, then followed Zhukora out across the Jiteng field. The sun shone down upon them both, transfixing them with light as they rode the tossing power of a people’s rage.

The moth-feast had become an absolute disaster, but even in the face of starvation, traditions had been ruthlessly enforced. The nobles had been allowed to glut themselves on moth meat, leaving nothing but pathetic pickings for the poor. As a result, the Kashra had fallen on their fragile home like a ravening horde of ants; where they moved, not a single living thing remained. Paradise had finally turned into broken wasteland. Desperate hunting parties snarled and fought, and for the first time in a thousand years, violence blossomed in the people’s hearts.

Zhukora’s followers had hurtled themselves into a frenzy of salvation. She had taken the hunters and formed them into enormous killing teams. Forsaking the ancient laws, she had fired whole regions of forest, driving panic-stricken game onto the people’s spears. The commoners no longer cared for custom.

The people leapt to their feet as Zhukora flew across the field, sixty thousand voices thundering out her name. She swirled up before the waiting Kings and sketched a graceful bow before her waiting enemy.

Tekï’taa lay back caressing a shamefaced serving girl while old King Saitookii glared across the crowd. Beside the kings, the elders of the both tribes had gathered about a wasteful feast of food. There were the counsellors and poppinjays - Dancing Mistress Traveesha and lordly, fat old men. Black clad in her wooden armour, Zhukora turned towards the Kings, shaping every word and moment into tools of her desire.

“My Lords, the game teams are ready. The entire peoples of our tribes are assembled. We await only your signal to begin.”

Nochorku-Zha flattened his ears and glared into his daughter’s face.

“You have overstepped your authority! There are sixty thousand people out there! You were asked to arrange a simple jiteng game. Can’t you even do that properly?”

“Why father, the game directly concerns the people. Therefore it is right that they attend.”

“Right? Right?” The old man puffed out his fur. “We decide what is right, not some hatchling girl and a mewling bunch of commoners! You should have consulted with the other Chiefs!”

“The presence of your people disturbs you, father?”

“Disturbs me? Pah! It’s disastrous! What are you going to do with them all afterwards, eh? You didn’t think of that, now did you. There’s no food for all these vermin! They’ll pay for their foolishness with hungry bellies and screaming children!”

Zhukora gave a smooth gesture of her hands.

“Daimïru has seen to food. For the first time in weeks, there will be enough.”

“We are not fools, Zhukora. We know about your bushfires! We shall take this matter up with you at a later time. You might find that status can be a fragile thing!”

Zhukora bowed before Nochorku-Zha, her face strangely lit with calm.

“All power is fragile, father.”

“Power? Power is eternal!” Nochorku-Zha spoke for all of them - the assembled chiefs and kings. “It is enshrined in our way of life!”

“That is a foolish, dangerous belief.” The black-furred woman shone with an almost magical inner light. “Power is lent from one person to another. It is a gift, and a gift may be withdrawn unless it is a gift of love.”

King Tekï’taa had ignored the entire exchange. Zhukora’s entourage of Skull-Wings seemed to amuse his tastes.

“So Zhukora! Still you insist on consorting with commoners. I suppose a noble must be forgiven these little whims. We would never stand for it in the Vakïdurii, but there you are! Each to their own.”

“Aye my lord. Rooshïkii is my trusted friend. Although she is young, she has more intelligence than many thrice her age. She was the first Skull-Wing from the Vakïdurii tribe.”