A Whisper of Wings (20 page)

“So that’s it! You’ve found yourself a man to dream of? Well keep dreaming, girl! You know as well as I just how far he’s going to run when he discovers you can’t speak!”

Shadarii fell down to her knees and wept as the Priestess spitefully twisted home the knife.

“A virgin you are, and a virgin you’ll remain! You’ll not miss it, girl. Just thank the Ka that the Priesthood wants to take you!”

***

“Flowers for my bride to be! Gifts for the mother of my unborn children! A perfumed rose to grace the hair of my devoted ladylove.”

Massive, polished and perfect, Prakucha unfolded from the darkness and proffered up a tiny flower. He had lain in wait outside Zhukora’s lodge, knowing that eventually she must pass by. He made a mocking bow and grinned as he saw Zhukora’s hate-filled eyes.

“What? No kiss? No trembling hug or breathless promises? You disappoint me. Surely you have at least heard how a bride should act?”

The huge hunter barred Zhukora’s way, leaning his enormous bulk against the door.

“You know my dear, you worry me. You lack the gentle feminine graces. Sometimes you seem barely female at all! You have the body of a spratling boy and the soul of a tiger cat. It will be a great pleasure to break you in at last.”

Zhukora’s breast heaved in rage, and she glared at Prakucha with murder in her eyes.

“Withdraw your offer of marriage, Prakucha! I will give you but one warning!”

“Ooooh! Do you think to kill me through an excess of wedded bliss? I think not! We’ll soon have the wild Zhukora well and truly tamed!”

Zhukora rammed the man aside. She stood in her doorway and then gazed at him slowly and carefully, like a hunter gazing at unwanted, butchered prey.

“You were warned, Prakucha. The consequences will be no one’s fault except your own!”

The girl turned and disappeared into the shadows. Prakucha slowly backed away, the humour slowly dying in his eyes.

“Javïra dear - don’t play with knives, darling. Your mother wouldn’t like it.”

Mistress Traveesha looked up from sewing beads upon a costume, scowling as she saw her niece’s latest antics. The girl pranced up and down the hearth waving a disreputable pair of dao. She posed herself in the firelight, admiring her shadow on the lodge-tree’s trunk.

The first act of Zhukora’s tenure as a consellor had been to change the schedules for the totenïha ceremony. She had insisted that her sister make the dance a farewell before she departed from the tribe.

So now a knife dance was to be played in public! A knife dance! Zhukora had insisted upon it, backed by a chorus of her followers. The young people were all eager to see - a vulgar delight seemed to be overcoming all good taste and tradition. Annoyed by the clash of knives, Traveesha jammed her needle through her leaf-leather costume and gave an irritated sigh.

“Javïra, put those things down! You’ll cut yourself.”

“I’m practicing, Aunt. Shadarii’s moves looked so good I couldn’t bring myself to resist!” Javïra gazed at the clean lines of her delicious body. “I think I might make a good partner for Shadarii in the dance. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I’m sorry my dear, but there’s really nothing I can do. The Priests are most insistent. We shall find lots of other dances for you; now do put those wretched things away!”

Javïra laughed, and her teeth flashed as she swung her knives.

“Just practicing, Aunt, just practicing! I have a feeling that it still might come in useful.”

Javïra hurtled a dao through the air. The knife smacked into the treetrunk, spearing though the shadow on the wall. Javïra stared at the weapon, her whole body thrilling to the sight of gleaming steel.

“Yes Aunt! It might just come in very useful indeed.”

Notes:

1) Zho: “Learned”. A title somewhat different from that of “Zha” (“Revered”).

Chapter Seven

The dawn came cruel and bitter, and the cold sliced beneath the fur to draw pain straight from the skin. Clan Swallow-tail sat beneath the grey predawn light and suffered it in silence. Wisps of steam curled from their nostrils to hang like twisting wraiths, while here and there a child coughed, the sound strangely lonely in the eerie forest hush.

Deep amongst the ferns, a speck of brightness wavered. Faint cries and chatter carried on the breeze as piece by piece the forest filled with glorious drifts of song. The Katakanii clans filtered through the leaves at the appointed hour.

Voices rose as Swallowtails yelled greetings through the green, and tribesfolk broke into a run as they dashed to meet old friends. The forest erupted into chaos as ten thousand voices pealed out in joy. Dancers from a dozen villages whirled up into the air. Hunters hammered one another on their backs as married daughters clasped themselves in their mother’s arms. It was the yearly binding of the tribe, the time of totenïha.

In the middle of the pandemonium, solemn ceremonies were taking place. The counselors of the five clans all spread wings before King Saitookii, and the High Priestess made blessings while her dancers consecrated a circle for the jiteng games. The common folk paid the ceremonies not the slightest bit of heed; those with kin in the Swallowtail villages wandered off to dump their gear, while others streamed out into the woods to snatch the prime camping spots beside the streams. Old women gratefully followed younger folk towards the baths, keen to steam their bones and forget the rigours of the march.

All in all the Totenïha ceremonies were off to their normal start.

***

Totenïha brought its usual gift of joy, and for a few brief days the tribe pretended that the famine had gone. The people sang and danced beneath the trees, whooping with laughter as they spread their wings to fly. Children tumbled in the waters while hunters scoured the riverbanks for food. Young women flocked to watch the Jiteng players at their games, gazing adoringly at their latest heroes.

Of all the Katakanii there was but one small group who had no time for play. The Past holders were scarcely allowed to stop and catch their breaths as they laboured day and night to make the holiday a triumph for their tribe. The girls woke at dawn, snatched up a hasty meal and dashed to start their warm-ups before the other tribesfolk had even stirred from bed. At night the hunters came to coax the girls into the bracken, showering them with gifts and soft enticements, but for once even Javïra could scarcely find the energy to smile. The hunters sighed and irritably waited for the times to mend. Once the main ceremonies had come and gone, the girls would soon spark back to their normal selves. Wingshedding had always been one of the finest times of year. The nights were warm, the bracken soft, and the girls would soon prove more than willing…

Far off in the forest, two girls sat and painted masks beside a stream amidst an arsenal of gleaming knives. A bird-wing and a swallow-tail, Shadarii and her companion worked in silence, their brushes moving with a gentle, fluid grace.

Shadarii’s companion was a compact little white-furred girl with delicious amber eyes. Hatïkaa had an overbearing character and muscles hard as iron. Shadarii primly tried not to take offense at the other woman’s manner. Sometimes Hatïkaa could be funny; it was the other times that wore Shadarii’s temper down. Hatïkaa’s only interests in life were her sex life and her child; she had been married for nearly half a year and already had an egg about to hatch. Shadarii had nervously edged away from inquiring about the details.

Shadarii lived inside a world of pain and misery. All her hopes were dying right before her eyes. Even her little dream of love had begun to wither in her heart. Hatïkaa looked over at Shadarii and wrinkled up her snout.

“Fer skreg’s sake, girl, cheer up! Not still moping, are you?”

Shadarii gave the other girl a hurt, resentful look. Hatïkaa wiped her nose and sniffed in disgust.

“Oh stop looking at me with those bloody awful eyes! If you can’t change it, don’t worry about it. There’s nought you’ll get from fretting but a set of wrinkles.”

Hatïkaa jammed her brush into the paint and babbled on, ignoring Shadarii’s silence.

“Your sister’s the talk of the tribe. Been like this long, has she? Regular tigercat, they reckon! Still, my younger sister’s heard her talk - says the girl speaks sense. She’s off to listen to her again tonight. There’s some sort of meeting every evening now; hundreds of folk come to see her!” Hatïkaa gave a shrug. “I don’t know why anyone bothers. Keep away from ‘em, that’s what I told my sister. She called me a ‘reactionary’! Said a ‘new age of justice’ was about to dawn. Ha! Do you get that?” The woman gave a snort. “Justice? There isn’t any justice in this world ‘cept what we make ourselves! Keep friends in high places and try to play the game.”

Hatïkaa scratched herself in a most unseemly fashion, then pointed her dripping brush straight at Shadarii’s nose.

“Take your problem, now. Is that justice? No! But there’s bugger-all you can do about it ‘cause you’ve let them walk all over you! Now if it were me, I’d tell ‘em all to stuff it! There’s ways and means of disqualifying yourself for the priestly life, if you get my meaning.”

Shadarii sighed and passed the paint; she had long ago switched off to Hatïkaa’s prattle, and barely heard a single word the other girl had said. Feeling strangely tired, Shadarii rolled up her eyes as Hatïkaa started up her dialogue once more.

“I like the storyline for the dance. You do a good job when you get moving. Mother Rain fights Poison for the love of Father Wind, eh?” The woman shook her head in admiration. “Pure magic! We’ll show ‘em a fight like they’ve never seen before! Scare the loin cloths off ‘em, so we will!”

The woman adjusted her breasts, comparing them against Shadarii’s with a scowl.

“Don’t fancy playing beside you if you’re shakin’ it in the buff. Maybe we should both wear body armour?”

Shadarii primly straightened up; most certainly not! There was a proper way of doing things. Had the woman lost all sense of decorum?

Hatïkaa shrugged and made a face.

“Aaah who cares. I suppose you’re right - it’s a chance to air the fleas in anycase.” She gave a snort. “I’ll play the bad guy. You’re soft and cuddly, definitely a Mother Rain if e’er I saw one.”

Shadarii began to beam in sudden pleasure.

“You’re as fat as a pregnant woodmouse anyway! Get ‘em all thinking about mother’s fresh made bread. Good image, eh?”

Shadarii angrily went back to her painting and glared resentfully at Hatïkaa, wishing the creature would shut up or go away. Hatïkaa had no intentions of doing either one.

“I thought this dao dancing would come in useful! After I was expelled from my deportment class my father reckoned I should be a dancer. Said anything I wanted to do would be just fine as long as I did it far away from home. So I takes up dancing. Lots of folk to talk to. Oh I talked myself hoarse, I did! They hadn’t heard good gossip in years! We talked and talked… No dancing done, but you can’t have everything, now can you? ‘Course, some of the girls got their noses out of joint; I mean there’s no one else to blame if you let other people see your private life, now is there? Anyway, we had some fun. Then all of a sudden the Dancing Mistress comes over all bright and eager and asks me to go play with knives - waaaaay out in private where no one else could see me. My very own secret task!”

Shadarii silently applauded the Bird-wing’s Dancing Mistress. The woman was a genius! Unfortunately that didn’t help to bring Shadarii any peace. She set her mask aside to dry, carefully propping it on a stick beside the stream; Mother Rain seemed to glow with life all of her own.

Masks were always worn with reverance and pride; the wearer lost identity, giving themselves utterly to their role. The dancer rose above the world of flesh and became one with a greater whole…

Shadarii’s moment of artistic reverie was all too short. Hatïkaa tossed down her brush and wiped her hands off in the grass.

“Hey red-tail! Come on, shake it honey! We’ve only got two more nights to get the sequence right.” She snatched up Shadarii’s heavy dao and twirled them nimbly around her fingertips. With a careless toss she threw them to Shadarii, who caught both weapons with a thoughtless ease.

The two dancers rehearsed their choreography of blows and parries. The weapons slashed and chopped in graceful arcs, steel ringing as the knifeblades crashed and glittered in the air. Points and handles, butts and edge all had astounding, lethal possibilities.