A Whisper of Wings (7 page)

They had never needed words; the spirit had always been there whenever she was needed most. Shadarii’s soul soared on wings of adoration.

Oh Mama. Oh Mama I love you so…

Far off in the darkness, two shadows gazed down at their prey. The High Priestess stroked her hands together, her gaze locked upon Shadarii’s face.

“I want her. Raw - untrained! Did you ever see such power? We need only shape her mind and we shall finally have our weapon to rule the tribes.”

Kanoochi nodded slowly in agreement.

“The Dancers have rejected her. Her family will want her gone. I shall ask Nochorku-Zha.”

“Don’t be a fool! Have you learned nothing? Go to the power in the family. Zhukora runs the lodge of Nochorku-Zha. T’is her we must convince.”

Kanoochi’s ears flattened.

“Zhukora will be difficult to bend to our will…”

“Oh I think not. You see, we have something that Zhukora needs. We need only awaken her desire for what we have to offer.” The High Priestess bared her yellow fangs. “Oh yes, she will grasp the chance to please us. We shall show her how to become Zhukora-Zha.”

Down in the lonely glade, Shadarii opened out her arms. The spirit flowed around her, lighting up the night with song as the Priests sheathed their claws and faded back into the darkness.

Notes:

1) Kashran measurements are based on the handiest available marks. Measurements are standardised as the “tail” (circa 3 feet in length) and the “span” (1 wingspan, or circa 7 feet). The typical hunting spear is 3 tails long (the longer shafted weapons having greater range and striking power).

2) Remnants of a dead creature can be haunted by the creature’s Ka. Kashra therefore make no use of leather, skin or bone for fear of offending the previous owner. Sudden house fires, sickness or unlucky hunts are serious threats well within the capabilities of a malicious Ka.

3) Jiteng: A formalised team sport designed to be the outlet for competition and aggressive energies.

*) Kashran dead are cremated, thus paying the Fire spirit for its aid to Mother Rain. The remaining ashes are carefully buried.

Chapter Three

Zhukora hung poised in the air like a malevolent black wasp, her tail swirling as she shifted her grip on her catching staff. Beside and below her, skull-faced helmets glittered in the ïsha-light as Zhukora’s players quivered at their leash.

Zhukora’s team arrayed themselves with geometrical precision. There were twelve players, one for each month of the Kashran year. Slatted wooden armour sheathed the players from head to toe; Zhukora’s followers were clad in pure jet black - their masks were cruel white skulls that faced the world with a snarl of death. The team were fast and ruthless. Zhukora inspired an insane élan; The “Skull-Wings” played on with shattered limbs and broken wings, screaming home with goals against impossible odds. They attacked with a savagery that ripped lesser teams to shreds.

Their opponents’ armour glowed with all the colours of a forest spring as each player sought to outshine the others with his costume. Their name seemed to suit them; the “Splendid Orchids Flowering”. The “Orchids” made a confusing contrast to their silent, stark opponents.

A second, more subtle difference could be drawn between the teams; Zhukora’s followers had the dull grey/brown wings of commoners. Out of all twelve players, only two of them were noble; social rank bore no weight against ability.

Prakucha dipped and wove within the enemy’s front rank. As captain of the clan’s prime team, he drew enormous status, and the huge crowd of watching tribesmen yelled in approval. The huge hunter flexed his biceps for a pair of squealing girls then blew a kiss towards Zhukora, flipping around to show the girl his tail.

Zhukora ignored the man in stony silence. Her team flickered with energy like an extension of her own will, yearning for the signal to begin. Daimïru hovered at Zhukora’s tail where she belonged, following her leader in devoted silence. Zhukora looked over to her beloved friend and gave a savage smile, bringing Daimïru a dizzy breath of life.

The game of jiteng was a sacred ritual. The rules were deceptively simple; hoops were placed on poles at either end of a clearing, and a sparse group of trees provided cover and terrain. The players battled for possession of an irridescant ball, which could be caught and handled only by the player’s catching staves - sticks two tails long tipped with cups of woven wicker. The butt end of each staff ended in a densely padded tip, and any player struck in the head or torso by the staff was disqualified until the next goal had been scored. At the scoring of a goal, the “dead” team members were restored to play. Any players within ten spans of the ball were fair game for an attack. No player could leave the field without forfeiting their right to play.

The first team to score four goals was declared the winner; an arduous task that sometimes might take an hour to achieve. The rules were simple enough to be easily understood, and therefore widely open to interpretation. Like all things amongst the alpine Kashra, the game’s simple form had become a thing of complex subtlety; each match was treated as a unique piece of art.

For a thousand years the tribes had set aside the art of war. The age of battles had been deliberately removed from Kashran history; fighting and conflict were utterly unknown. Even the tales of the ancient wars had been forbidden.

Instead there was the game.

More than half the clan had come and watch the game. A hush fell across the audience as the umpire shook the ball out to be blessed by Father Wind. He muttered the obligatory prayer and whirled the ball inside his catching staff.

“Spread wings. Ball high!”

The umpire hurtled the ball into the air, and the two Rovers crashed together with a roar. The Orchids’ player snatched the ball and hurtled it safely back into his team, where Prakucha arrogantly claimed the prize and bellowed out in joy.

Zhukora clenched her fist and signalled the attack.

“Fork formation, Rovers high: Go! Go!”

The sky exploded into frenzy as Skull-Wings shot off in all directions. The Orchids blinked as a clear path to the goals suddenly opened up before them; they surged forwards in a ragged phalanx, each man desperate to outstrip his fellows in the all-out race towards the prize.

Players screamed as black shapes thundered down onto them from above. Wings tore and armour cracked as Zhukora’s team blasted through the Orchids’ ranks. Prakucha laughed and dove away, leaving his men to deal with the attack. The flightpath to the goals lay open; he could score the point alone!

He never even saw the figure streaking at him from below. A staff hurtled up through the air to smack into Prakucha’s chest, then swooped smoothly back into Zhukora’s hand.

The Skull-Wings snatched the falling ball and speared for the goals. One player caught and passed, then another and another; the Orchid guards whirled in confusion. Slim and lithe, with blonde hair spilling out beneath her sinister helmet mask, Daimïru snatched the ball, then turned a somersault and hurtled the ball with demonic speed. With a triumphant howl the Skull-Wing team scored the first goal of the game.

Young villagers hammered wildly on the trees whilst older, wiser watchers sniffed contemptuously at the play. The umpire argued bitterly with Zhukora as Prakucha stalked back onto the field. He shot a killing glance towards Zhukora and then sullenly rejoined his team.

The argument with the umpire went on. While there was no rule against throwing a staff, the umpire pleaded with Zhukora to replay the point in the name of good sportsmanship. The Skull-Wings were hearing none of it; Zhukora gathered up her players and clawed back into the air.

Zhukora massaged the root of her left fore-wing where the injury from yesterday’s dive still bothered her. Down in the audience, the dancing girls had formed a cheer squad for the Skull-Wing team, and the women laughed and wheeled as the umpires shook the ball.

“Spread wings. Ball high!”

With a scream of rage the Skull-Wings drove back their opponents while Zhukora snatched the ball, hurtling it back into her team. Daimïru deftly caught the throw and drove down into the enemy. Zhukora ripped out with her ïsha, making Orchid’s swerve and fall as she cleared the way for yet another wild charge for the goals.

Suddenly a shadow cut the sky, and something smashed into Zhukora’s back. The girl crashed to the ground, wrenching her left wing as she tumbled through the grass. With a hoot of laughter Prakucha jammed his foot into her rump, using his fallen enemy as a springboard back into the air. Zhukora snarled and clawed up from the dirt; she was out for the rest of the play.

Damn him!

The sky erupted in a furious melee. A shrieking Skull-Wing threw herself into a tackle, dragging an Orchid player to the ground. The Skull-Wing goal guards streaked forward, abandoning their posts to claim the ball, and with a wild bellow they stormed across the field. The ball lashed towards the hoop, only to recoil from the goalpost, and players collided as each one scrabbled for the prize.

Blonde Daimïru took the ball, wheeled through the air and made a perfect pass, only to be brutally tackled from behind. The girl struck a treetrunk and rebounded, only to have her enemy launch himself at her throat. The Orchid screamed and punched her face, hammering her skull against the dirt. With a roar of hate a Skull-Wing tore the man aside and smacked his helmet straight into the Orchid’s face, dropping him unconscious in a shower of blood.

The umpire snatched the ball and thrust it into Prakucha’s hands. Zhukora ground her fangs and went to put an arm about Daimïru’s shoulders.

“Alright?”

The other girl nodded, her hands wrapped about her chest. Soft blonde hair spilled out beneath her evil mask, hiding her eyes as she tried to hold the pain. Zhukora reached out to fold the other woman in a sizzling spray of healing ïsha.

The horn blew, signalling recommencement of the game; Zhukora cursed and drew away, the healing barely just begun. The other girl shivered, still trying to gulp for breath.

Shadarii glumly finished healing a tiny wattle tree. With trembling hands, the girl tended the plants about her bathing hole just as she had promised. In her numb, blank state an oath seemed a very precious thing; Shadarii slowly moved from tree to tree, her hands stroking ïsha though the leaves.

Even the slow, soothing sound of water failed to reach her. Her life lay in ruins; she sadly bowed her head and stared down into the rock pool, her eyes barely registering the soft gleam of the waters.

A shining presence slowly drifted down the rocks. The water Ka softly laid its ïsha field beside her, and the water in the pool began to steam. With anxious ripples, the spirit tried to coax her in, stirring up the water with a hopeful little splash.

Shadarii gave a weary smile; have a nice hot bath and try to forget your troubles? The Ka felt like a doting aunt. It was really very sweet. Shadarii softly closed her eyes and sent her thoughts out into the air.

~Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.~

Actually, the water did look good. It had been a long, tiring day, and a bath would be pure magic. Shadarii slowly plucked the laces on her halter, bending down to swing her heavy breasts free from their cage. She closed her eyes to savour freedom’s kiss across her fur.

Deep amongst the bushes, the grasses rustled, and a face peered from a grevillea bush and dropped its jaw in shock. A young hunter stared in rapture at the plump vision glimmering before him. Kotaru gulped, his heart hammering frantically in his breast.

The girl began to slip out of her skirt, leather slowly sliding across her orange fur. Kotaru gave a whimper, and the girl suddenly looked around. Kotaru jammed his fist into his mouth and froze.

Rain and Fire - how beautiful! Kotaru breathed out in wonder; he had never seen a noble girl so close, so beautiful, so… so… so unclad! The breeze carried just the faintest hint of the woman’s spicy smell, and Kotaru breathed it in rapture, every fibre of his being drinking in her soft perfection. Kotaru sighed, trapped and held within her beautiful green eyes.

There were dimples on her backside; Kotaru smiled, propped his cheek against his hand and gave a sigh.

He was a tall, beautiful young hunter dressed in scraps of wooden armour. Kotaru’s wings were plain and brown, and his fur as grey as moon dust. He seemed tousled, travel-stained and weary, but the eyes that stared at Shadarii were lit with shining dreams.

The girl turned her back to him and ran her fingers through her hair. With gentle, flowing grace she bent her face towards the water, her exquisite backside pointed at Kotaru’s nose; with an almighty crash Kotaru fell back into the grass.