A Whisper of Wings (52 page)

*Don’t be impertinent! The whole social order is my idea. Who do’st thou think relegated milk-mead as a prerogative of the nobility?*

~You?~
Shadarii blinked in sudden interest.
~You invented milk-mead?~

*Don’t be ridiculous! Milk-mead is as old as the Kashran race. Silly child! Milk-mead governs the colour of a Kashra’s wings. Once upon a time all Kashra bore bright wings. I installed a system of discipline amongst the patriarchs of the third dynasty, and coloured wings were thence onwards reserved only for the autocrats. The system has remained universal ever since.*

There it was again; a hint of a glorious rich past. Shadarii’s brushes fell into her lap.

~Tell me about it! What third dynasty? Why did they need a social structure? When was all this? How long ago?~

*There is no point in telling thee.*
The spirit sniffed in hauteur.
*It is all quite irrelevant!*

~Tell me! Lady Starshine, please! I need to know!~

*No! I shall not tell thee. Thou art destined for greater things than childish curiosity!*

Shadarii picked up her brushes with a snort of irritation.

~Fine! Don’t tell me then. And don’t expect me to fly up to that hill you like, either. You can damned well sit in there and suffer. The rest of us have work to do.~

Shadarii went back to her labours. She had an alphabet to finish and a manifesto to prepare. She had just made progress into the glottal stops when Starshine’s voice returned.

*Not go to the hill? Not even for a while?*

~Not even for a minute!~

The spirit went into a huff.

*Bah! Thou’rt becoming more difficult every day! I wonder why I ever agreed to this bargain in the first place.*

~You are free to leave whenever you like. At least my head would be much quieter.~

*Ha! And how would ‘Silent Lady’ fare without her miracles?*

~Mother Rain would not abandon me without power. My faith shall sustain me. Go; I have no need of you any more.~

Starshine quivered; her bluff was well and truly called.

*I shall stay. Someone must look after thee, though Rain knows, I get no thanks for all my work!*

Shadarii primly dipped her brush.

~Your efforts are noted, if not always appreciated.~
The girl reached for a fresh pile of pages.
~Now will you kindly leave me to my work? We are trying to sow the seeds of eternal peace!~

***

“Here we are my boy, here we are. Spearhead rock! T’is a few years since I was up here last, but the view always stays the same.”

Lord Ingatïl wheezed heavily, utterly exhausted by the flight. The old man sat beneath a gigantic cypress tree and let his old wings droop.

Spearhead rock jutted high above the restless trees. Keketál and Ingatïl could see the bright pastureland about their little village. Other villages lay far beyond, scattered all up and down the river. From high on the rock, it all seemed like some distant fairy land. Keketál drew a breath and leaned back against the gnarled old cyprus tree.

“Iss beautiful. Muchly greenings, muchly peace. Food to eat and long days in the sun. Keketál thinks Lord Ingatïl iss a lucky man.”

“Lucky? Why do you think so?”

“Iss happy here. No problems that cannot being solved with just a little jug dance.”

“It isn’t all so smooth, my lad.” The old man scratched his hide and peered at Keketál. “There’s things I want you to understand. You’ve come to us by surprise, and I’ll confess I like you, but you don’t quite fit in. You ask questions no one else sees fit to ask. You see things with a different eye. So before you make any, well, any lasting decisions, shall we say, I feel we should share a word or two.”

“Uh - decisions?”

“Let’s just say I feel something in the wind, eh? If you were hankering to settle down, then you should know us better than you do.”

Ingatïl guided Keketál’s gaze out across the river, tracing the shapes of unseen lines all up and down the land.

“The river here belongs to us, The Ochitzli tribe. Downstream there is a lake, and that belongs to the painted Zebedii. They live in villages made out of rafts, and raise frogs for food - so be wary if one of them invites you to dinner! Inland from us to the south are our real neighbours, the Takoonii and Harapa. True shepherds. Good people. My wife is a Takoonii.”

“The ancient enemy. A people so savage, so terrifying that all contact is forbidden! They disappeared into that evil place a thousand years ago. Who knows whether any of them still survive? Still, the old laws remain; we are forbidden to ever approach the mountains.”

The old man repressed a shudder, then shook the thought away and turned back to his companion with a sigh.

“We’re a people of habit, Keketál. For a thousand years there has been peace, but we owe our tranquility to our customs. Everything we do is ruled by precedent, do you see?”

Keketál simply didn’t understand. Ingatïl tried again.

“Keketál, we don’t change the way we build our houses. We don’t change the way we think. We have food in plenty because our population always stays the same. No women fight over fashions since our clothing is prescribed according to our station. Custom, always custom. There’s sense behind it.”

Ingatïl heaved a sigh. He could see that wild look in Keketál’s eyes; there was trouble in the offing for good and sure.

“Ah bugger it. Enough’s enough. There’s eighty eight people in my village, and each one of them has a soft spot for you. I can foresee an interesting life.”

The old man scratched vigorously at his hide.

“Now don’t you tell my lady where we’ve been today! She thinks we’re out fishing. There’d be hell to pay if she found out where I’ve been.”

Lord Ingatïl passed Keketál an old stone jug, popping off the cork with an air of relish.

“Beer! Hupshu’s finest brew. Don’t tell me you’ve never drunk a beer? Go on boy, drink! T’will get that wan expression from your face.”

Keketál hesitantly sniffed the jug. The smell of the liquid was rich and powerful. Ingatïl borrowed the pot and took a pull, leaning back to heave a grateful sigh.

“My boy, the spirits gave men beer because they knew we would have wives. Each is a comfort in its own way. Beer has the advantage of being a trifle quieter.”

Keketál took the jug and hesitantly tried a little sip. It was sweet! Keketál pricked up his ears and eagerly began to drink.

Lord Ingatïl rubbed his nose and made a sour face.

“Women women women! Bah! Harïsh said we were to keep you from the beer. Say’s your stomach can’t handle it.” He took a short pull from the jug and passed it back to Keketál. “No beer indeed! Little wowser! She’s hooked you, but she’s not landed you yet. There’s still a few freedoms left to us in the world. Beer is one, and Spearhead rock’s another. - Can’t live without my wife, mind you. Still, sometimes a man just needs the rock, eh?”

Keketál waited for Ingatïl to finish with the jug. He stared out at the clouds and let his mind wander into dreams.

His Lordship leaned on his elbow and solemly regarded Keketál.

“I wonder, boy. I wonder where you might be from. Those eyes of yours have seen much hardship. You once knew another place than this; a place where someone tried to kill you with a spear.” The old man looked up into Keketál’s eyes. “What do you remember lad? Is there nothing there at all?”

Keketál stared unhappily at his toes. He wriggled his feet inside his sandals and felt strangely ill at ease.

“Always iss everyone asking about Keketál’s memories. Keketál has no memories; only sun and trees and River-Bend. Iss all Keketál needs. He wants nothing more.”

They lay back and shared the beer beneath the vast old cypress tree. The sun shone down upon a distant world and filled the air with peace.

Keketál suddenly touched his lordship’s arm and pointed off towards the mountains. A thin veil of smoke swirled from the woods far to the north.

“Firefighters from the northern villages. Probably Marsh-Side, the village Hupshu’s bride comes from. They’ll be coming here for help.” The old man heaved creakily to his feet. “And help we shall! There’s a creek line between us and the fire. We’ll do a controlled burn on the other side and dam the fire before it spreads too far. T’is much the same every summer.” The Chieftain bent to take his bag. “You go ahead, lad; your young wings are faster. Find my son and tell him what we’ve seen. He’ll gather up the men to fight the fire.”

Keketál hesitated, but old Ingatïl irritably waved him on his way. “Tut tut! Come on, I’m not so old I can’t fly home. Speed is of the essence! Off you go!”

Keketál gripped the old man’s hand and did something no plainsman would ever try. He took a running leap and simply threw himself clean off a cliff three hundred spans high. Ingatïl gave a croak of shock and raced over to the precipice, just in time to see a tiny figure spearing straight towards the ground. Keketál flicked out his wings mere moments before spattering to destruction. Somehow he caught the ïsha and shot off across the trees.

Lord Ingatïl stared down at the sickening plunge the boy had taken and slowly scratched his hide.

“Well! It seems the world still has a surprise or two to offer after all!”

Harïsh sat on her bed, busily embroidering a clean white skirt. It was a dreadful process full of stuck fingers, curses and snarled thread. Nevertheless she still seemed bright and gay as she hummed a merry wedding song. The kilt was of the finest Zebedii linen, the type of dress a girl might choose for a bridal gown…

Something quivered by the window. Harïsh opened up one eye and glared towards the windowsill.

“Xartha! I swear, if I stick my head out there and find you…”

A sharp scent stabbed into her nose. Smoke! Harïsh stared out the window and saw the shadows in the sky, then dove her hand beneath the windowsill and came up with a struggling handful of little sister. Harïsh tucked Xartha hard beneath one arm and raced towards the door.

“Xartha! Go to the assembly point, quickly! The teachers will take you down the river with the other children.”

The men would fight the fires while the elder women would wet the thatch and guard the village. Harïsh grabbed up a staff and made ready to drive her father’s flocks downstream.

Something was following her again! Harïsh didn’t even have to look; the little four year old had patiently trotted in her sister’s tracks. Harïsh gave a gasp of exasperation and dragged the little miscreant off towards the village square.

Harïsh dumped her sister with the other children and raced off to save the sheep. Behind her the village boiled like an ants nest stirred by a stick.

The world thundered to the death-screams of a hundred thousand plants. Tiny Ka swirled everywhere as village men dove into the storm. Teams dragged blazing torches through the grass, deliberately back-burning as the bushfire swept towards River-Bend.

The whole village operated in drilled, efficient teams; every man knew his place, and only poor Keketál was left aside. He watched Lord Ingatïl’s son, Ingatekh, direct the building of the firebreak and wondered if there was something he should do. Minute by minute the gap between the brushfires grew smaller. Rain help anybody sandwiched inbetween…

Refugees! The refugees! Keketál suddenly remembered the tiny figures he had seen from Spearhead rock. They might be trapped between the firebreak and the bushfire. Keketál swooped quickly over towards Ingatekh, son of Lord Ingatïl.

The other nobleman stood snapping orders to his subordinates. An Ochitzlii nobleman wasted no time on explanations; he merely expected to be obeyed. Keketál alighted on a tree stump and sketched a shallow bow.

“Accents not important now! What about the peoples we saw in front of fire? There is a way for them to leave, yes? How will they escape being caught between two dreadful burnings?”