A Whisper of Wings (62 page)

The pigrims had taken refuge in an empty Katakanii village. The lodge rocked as Tingtraka staggered through the door to spilla handful of herbs upon the rug.

“Tingtraka!”

The huntress clawed her breast and spat to ease her burning lungs.

“Her-herbs from the - the mountain tops. Roots from the bottom of a lake.” The girl scraped her filthy hand across her eyes. “Not much… Don’t even know if they’re… they’re right.”

Tingtraka sobbed for breath and half collapsed against the lodgehouse wall. Kïtashii snatched up the herbs and furiously began to scrub them clean.

Mrrimïmei! Kïtashii swore with words no twelve year old should know. She cursed ceaselessly as she jammed on her disreputable pair of leather moccasins, then took up a bag and a pair of digging sticks.

“Kïtashii?”

The little girl snatched up her pack and flung herself to Shadarii’s side. She clutched her teacher in an adoring kiss, winding desperate fingers through Shadarii’s hair.

Notes:

1) The plainsman “quirt” is used in much the same manner as an alpine message stick, but has the advantage of being somewhat more portable.

Chapter Twenty Four

Harïsh and Lord Looshii stared about themselves in awe. The forest loomed about them as eerie as a tomb, enclosing them within a cavern that stretched out to the very edges of the world. The air smelled fresh and thick with leaf mould and decay. Here and there a leaf spiralled hundreds of spans towards the forest floor. Water dripped and flowers blossomed. Everything was green, shot through with shafts of golden sun.

If you listened, you could almost hear the plant life grow…

Harïsh felt the fur crawling all along her spine as a sense of worship pressed in upon her soul. This was a place of majesty, a place to treat with absolute reverence. Harïsh looked around herself and bruised the silence with a sigh.

“Dear Rain. I never thought it could be so beautiful…”

Lord Looshii had lost himself in the caress of the forest breeze. Every breath drew in a new world of pure sensation; it was like sampling fine wine that rolled and sparkled on the tongue.

“Paradise! Pure paradise.”

The travellers drifted down across a creek and nestled thankfully in the ferns. Lord Looshii let anxious eyes roam about the shadows down beneath the trees.

“Uh - perhaps we’d best get a wriggle-on. Can’t dawdle all day, eh? Your husband must be worried sick!”

Harïsh barely seemed to hear. She was sniffing at the forest mulch, her antennae quivering as she searched across the mould.

“Oh -
sniff
- Keketál always frets. I love the silly boy to bits! He really ought to take life more calmly, though. He’ll give himself an ulcer the way he carries on.” The girl scuttled across the ground and finally found a tiny pair of shining leaves. Earth flew as she exposed a twisted clump of root.

“Look my lord! Fire root! It’s fire root!” The girl held the disgusting tuber up in triumph. “Sweet Rain, look! It’s everywhere! The stuff’s growing here like weeds.”

Lord Looshii examined the root and assumed a pained expression.

“Is this a good thing? I mean it doesn’t look very tasty.”

“What? No no my Lord, it’s a herb. An incredibly rare medicine!” Harïsh ripped at the leaf mulch and dragged another root-clump from the ground. “You could trade five sheep and still not earn half a spoonful!”

“Aaaah I see, It’s valuable!”

“What? Oh yes. But it cleans wounds. You make a tea out of it to cure fevers.” The girl blushed. “It also… Uh, well, if you rub it on a man’s… Anyway! It has other uses too.” She began to empty out her chest pack and stuff it full of roots. “No one’s ever touched the crop! Ha! The savages don’t even know how to use their medicines!”

“Do you think we should?” The nobleman looked nervously about the trees. “I mean, it isn’t ours. Someone might object.”

“Object? It’s just growing here in the ground! There’s no fence, no marks. It’s just the bounty of the… My Lord?”

Lord Looshii stared up across Harïsh’s shoulder, carefully raising up his open palms. Harïsh slowly turned to see a figure silhouetted in the light.

A girl stood above them, a near naked child with quicksilver eyes and the slim curves of an eel. Long white hair streamed in an unseen breeze as the little savage watched the interlopers.

The savage sang something in their musical purring tongue, and Harïsh answered her, watching carefully for her chance to strike. Lord Looshii nervously flicked his eyes from girl to girl.

The little savage followed their conversation with sharp intelligence. She eyed Harïsh’s sack and spoke out once again. Harïsh never once shifted her gaze.

“She wonders why I need a whole sack of root. Am I a thief who trades in medicine? I told her no. I am a healer. I need the roots for my work. I must go home now. There are many many sick people who are waiting for me to treat them.”

“Did she believe you?”

“She’s a savage. Even so, they must respect healers.”

Harïsh carefully held up her hand to show the blue tattoos across her palm. The savage’s ears lifted as she sang another string of questions.

Harïsh’s eyes narrowed.

“She says I may have the roots, but she would like a favour in return. There is a patient for me, someone I must see. She says my tattoo means I can’t refuse.”

Harïsh nodded wearily and reached out for her bag, then swiftly threw it straight at the child’s face. Harïsh drew her dagger and bared her fangs in hate.

“Surrender, you little bitch! Surrender or I’ll rip your bloody tripes out!”

The tiny savage gave a laugh, and Harïsh blinked as the knife whisked out of her hand. An unseen force then hoisted her through the sky and pinned her up against a tree. The savage held Harïsh helpless, grinning up at her from beneath her cloak of silver hair.

His Lordship decided to take off and go for help. The sorceress never even glanced in his direction. Looshii gave a squawk, and seconds later dangled upside down beside Harïsh.

“I think we might do just as she requests…”

The tiny savage grinned, and Harïsh suddenly dropped back to the ground. She stared sullenly as the little girl placed a flower into her hands.

“She-she says we are creatures of violence. She sorrows for us and offers us forgiveness.” Harïsh’s pride was stung, and the girl almost wept in anger. “She said not to worry, she is not allowed to hurt us. Her teacher would never allow it.”

Harïsh looked into the little girl’s eyes, startled by an intelligence that seemed to pierce through her very soul. The lass simply smiled and waited for Harïsh to reach her decision, and the healer rubbed at the tattoo across her palm.

“She’s not dressed like the others. She hasn’t met a plainsman before. I think this might be a different tribe. See the shells she’s made into a skirt? She might be from far away.”

“No. No I don’t think so.” Harïsh stared at the silver girl, feeling something strange come prickling across her spine. “There’s something strange about her. Maybe she’s some sort of priest. I don’t think she’d try to hurt us.”

Entering the treehouse felt like stepping through into a holy shrine. A silent group of foreigners formed a ring around a single bed, and not a single creature stirred at the entry of the strangers.

Harïsh slowly approached the sickbed at the centre of the floor. She looked down into the face of love, and felt her spirit soar.

Harïsh felt herself fall down to her knees. It was like being drunk! It was like the dizzy joy of making love to Keketál - the delicious peace of sleeping in his arms.

It was a girl; nothing but a girl. A round, plain creature with a power you could almost touch.

Harïsh quickly bent to work. The woman’s fever burned like a furnace, and Harïsh’s spirits sank as she heard the fluid deep inside the woman’s lungs.

It was hopeless. Harïsh numbly let her hands fall to her sides, unable to meet the little savage eye to eye.

“I can do nothing. There is fluid in her chest. Bubble bubble when breathings, understand? Bubbles! This one is to die now. She-she will die.”

The patient had all but gone. She was drowning inside herself. For some reason ïsha healing was unable to cure the disease. Harïsh had never seen anything like it before.

The little savage came back again. She plucked at Harïsh’s hands and tried to lay them on the patient’s chest.

“You! You heal, yes? You wake Beloved One. Make her think clear for just one second, two? Please! Please try! She wake, she burn it all away. Don’t let my Teacher die!”

Harïsh felt sick; she didn’t know the words to make the little creature understand.

“Look, I’m a surgeon. I cut, yes? Set bones, bring babies.” Feeling the little girl’s despair, Harïsh wiped a tear back from her eye. “I’m sorry. I-I can’t help you. We can only… only make the passing easier.”

Tingtraka heard. She pulled herself back from her trance and slowly cleared her eyes. She knew what must be done, and somehow the decision could be faced with utter calm.

“Kïtashii, Shadarii’s dying. This girl can’t heal her. The disease is too far gone.” Tingtraka deliberately broke the circle of healers. “Lift her up. We’re taking her outside. Leave the robes. Just get her out into the open air.”

“Stop! Tingtraka, what are you doing?”

“Taking her outside onto the jiteng field where the Rain can fall on her. It’s the only way.”

They took Shadarii on a blanket, carefully braking the long fall to the ground. The plainsfolk followed in their tracks, crying as openly as anybody else. Tingtraka led the party over to the jiteng field and had Shadarii laid across the grass.

“Quickly! Sister Mouse, Brother Fish, enchant a sacred circle. Kïtashii, lose your clothes. We need you to dance as you have never danced before! You have to call the Rain, Kïtashii. You have to call the Rain!”

People ran to do as they were bid. Sister Mouse and Brother Fish quickly danced out the perimeter of a circle while Kïtashii tore away her beads. She ripped Shadarii’s dao from their sheaths and laid them at her feet.

The two women clasped each other tight, then Tingtraka broke away and sat at Shadarii’s side. The pilgrim closed her eyes, bowing down to lose herself in gentle meditation.

Silence fell. The sea people looked expectantly over to Kïtashii as the dancer stood with knives folded across her chest. Beside her, Tingtraka gave a sigh and let her chin fall to her chest. Harïsh hesitantly reached out to find Tingtraka’s pulse. She looked up at Lord Looshii’s eyes in horror.

“She-she’s dead!”

Kïtashii drew a breath and ripped the knives across her chest. The tiny savage danced and sobbed, flinging out her arms towards the clouds. The girl ripped again, slicing herself so that pain split through the ïsha. The little girl threw back her head in exultation, tears spilling down to mingle with her blood.