Read A Whisper of Wings Online
Authors: Paul Kidd
“Zhukora, enough! You shame our champion with your stupid prattle.”
Prakucha merely shook his head and smiled indulgently.
“Honoured elders, this poor girl is clearly wounded and hysterical. I take no offence. Perhaps it would be best to simply let her have her say…”
Zhukora gave a scream of anger, then whirled and smashed her armoured fist against the ground.
“Don’t you dare patronise me! Why if you had half the balls of a real man I’d…”
Nochorku-Zha hurtled out his hand.
“Zhukora, this has gone far enough. Have you forgotten the Jiteng game? Have you no interest even in hearing of the final score?”
“What?” Zhukora wiped her face; she simply didn’t understand. The world was going mad. “Father, it doesn’t matter!”
“Why of course it matters! By leaving the field, you have lost the game. Prakucha and his Splendid Orchids have proved their skills once again.”
The girl’s brain hammered with a raging headache. The smoke of burning houses still hung above the trees, and yet the council chatted amiably about some foolish game!
Her father shook his head in wonder.
“Zhukora, have you no congratulations to offer the winning captain of the game?”
Zhukora stared at the elders, then pressed a hand against her skull as a throbbing headache raged inside her head.
“It doesn’t matter! Can no one see? Our village lies in ruins! Our homes are violated, families will go hungry, and still you-you waffle on about some stupid, futile game!”
Young hunters stirred and muttered in agreement with Zhukora’s words. Old Counselor Fotoki glared at the girl across his folded arms.
“One of the hardest lessons we must learn in youth is perserverance. The rules of jiteng are quite clear; any player who leaves the field forfeits their right to play.”
Zhukora wept in sheer frustration.
“Rules! Does nothing matter but your stupid, endless rules?”
“You must learn the value of submission. Rules embody a perfect, ordered harmony. The game should teach you…”
Zhukora hurtled her helmet to the ground.
“The game doesn’t matter! We have been robbed! Homes burned, goods destroyed…”
Fotoki smugly settled in his seat.
“Of course the game matters! It has demonstrated the strict principles by which we live…”
The huntress found her self control. Tears streaming down her face, she tried to speak with reason; her voice sobbed in a torment of iron discipline.
“Father, give me a dozen hunters! Volunteers who wish to go. Just let us try to find the looters’ trail…”
She opened up her eyes to see her father wearily waiting for her to cease. He held her up for ridicule before the tribe.
Zhukora’s whisper carried to the silent crowd.
“Has Katakanii honour gone so low?”
The answer dripped from Nochorku’s pinnacle of righteousness.
“You are a foolish, twisted creature. You have shamed my teachings with your wild, destructive ways. Honour and violence do not intermingle. If someone has stolen from us, we must only regret that they did not simply ask us to fill their needs. What is a house burned or a few possessions broken? A year from now, who will really care?”
Zhukora gave an incoherent scream of anguish, then whirled to face the villagers and opened up her arms. Nochorku-Zha impatiently hurtled his cup aside.
“Zhukora! That will be enough! You are dismissed. Go to the lodge. You are in disgrace!”
Zhukora stood, her wing hanging like a broken banner, and every eye hung on her as she stalked proudly through the crowd.
It was not Zhukora who suffered a disgrace. The young folk turned away and lost themselves in bitterness.
Long blonde hair rippled in the night as Daimïru landed on the ground beneath the lodgetree of Nochorku-Zha. The hearth hut lay within an inky pool of shadows. Daimïru hesitantly crept towards the door, her eyes blinking nervously and her pulse hammering in her throat.
“Z-Zhukora?”
Daimïru’s voice quavered as she fearfully dragged her hair back from her face.
“Zhukora, please! Please let me speak with you. I did it for you! You were hurt - I couldn’t bear to see you tear yourself apart.”
Something black moved inside the doorway. Daimïru’s wings fluttered miserably.
“Please, I only wanted to help you. I did it because I love you. Please don’t hate me!
“Please?”
The silence stretched, leaving the golden huntress racked with agony. She almost spoke again, but seemed to lose all hope; Daimïru hung her head and softly turned to go.
A weary stir of motion came from deep inside the hut. A sick voice whispered in the darkness.
“Come, enter. Come and laugh like all the rest of them.”
Daimïru crept through into the dark, her antennae quivering to the scent of pain. Zhukora sprawled despondently before the fire, her head propped upon her knees. Her spirits had plunged down from their mighty heights to smash to pieces on the ground.
The smell of sickness hovered thickly in the air. Zhukora’s hair hung unbound to hide the tell tale tracks of tears.
“Sit a while. Sit beside the ‘warped and twisted thing’. Come and see the mad creature who thinks life is more important than a mindless set of rules.”
Zhukora sighed and closed her eyes. Daimïru hung her head, unsure quite what to say; she had come prepared with speeches, expecting hate, expecting fury. But to find this? It felt like being struck full in the face.
The women sat together staring down into the ashes. Daimïru reached out to softly touch Zhukora’s back.
Zhukora hung as listless as a slowly dying bird.
“How do I ever dare show myself again? Did you see how he mocked me? All the world has seen just what the great chief feels about his eldest daughter.” The words trailed off in bitterness. “Poison! How they must all be laughing at me…”
“They didn’t laugh at you. No one laughed; they all knew you were right! Just go and ask. Go outside to any campfire and you’ll be cheered as a hero!”
Daimïru found her strength, and wild eyes flashed with power.
“You were in the right. When the cowards fled it was you who fought! You shamed them all!”
“My father…”
“He is nothing! What is he compared to you? Like a candle held against the blazing sun!” Daimïru’s words trembled with emotion. “You are the future, you are our strength. Go and I will follow you! Stay and I will serve you! Call and I shall fight for you while life still burns in my body!
“There is a dream in you. Something wonderful, something fine. To touch you is to feel the burn of glory. It’s like-like being awake for the first time in my life! We need you. If you surrender, we are beaten. Remember who you are! Remember what you mean to us!
“Remember The Dream!”
Daimïru clenched Zhukora’s hand, and Zhukora slowly straightened as strength flooded back into her soul. She looked out across the darkened village, drawing a deep breath down into her lungs.
Daimïru had been right; the people had not laughed at her. Not one! She looked around to meet Daimïru’s burning eyes, and the girl reached out to touch Zhukora’s drooping wing.
“Your wound - may I help to heal you? I would be honoured.”
The black huntress hesitantly stretched out on her bed while Daimïru knelt quietly at her side, her hands reaching out to stroke Zhukora’s fur with a quiet ïsha tide. Smooth fingers brushed across the injured wing, bringing in a blissful flood of cool.
Zhukora sighed, her muscles letting go as pain simply drained away. Daimïru murmured comfort in her ears, coaxing her down into the gentle sleep of healing. Zhukora whispered as Daimïru’s ïsha folded her in sweet, protective arms.
“You… you are a very precious friend, Daimïru. You are very patient.”
The last spark of fury left her; Zhukora’s antennae slowly drooped.
“So very, very patient…”
Zhukora’s breathing softened with the kiss of sleep. Daimïru gently ran her fingers through Zhukora’s fur, her eyes hidden beneath sheets of golden hair.
“Whatever you need in life, that’s all I want to be. Whatever dream you dream, whatever path you fly, I will be there at your side.
“Always…”
Daimïru’s hair spilled down to fold Zhukora in a screen of silk, and the forest moon arose to sheen the world beneath a kiss of light.
Notes:
1) The alpine peoples consider themselves to be divided into four tribes, all of whom share a common culture and language. These are the Katanakii, the Vakïdurii, the Urïshii and the Hohematii. Of these tribes, The Katakanii are the most wealthy, and the Vakïdurii by far the most populous. The Urïshii keep to the colder southern alps. The Hohematii confine themselves almost totally to the highest peaks, and are infamous for their Jiteng rules - which require the sinking of 5 goals rather than the normal 4.
2) Ingots approximately the length and width of a forefinger. Iron is rather less common than gold, which is quite plentiful in alluvial deposits in upland streams.
Chapter Four
A tall tree burned beneath a sheath of orchids while butterflies circled in erratic joy, their wings flickering like flames. They danced in peace and happiness, safe within the endless forest calm…
“YOU DID WHAT?”
Butterflies scattered. Flowers shook. Prince Tekï’taa gulped and hunched beneath the storm.
“Well, I-I…”
“You idiotic cretin! You droolin’ imbecile! Fire curse the day your useless egg was wished upon my lodge! Rain only knows why I didn’t smash the shell! I’d rather have had an omelette than a useless, snivelling son!”
The Prince flattened down his ears, his pride smarting beneath his father’s lash; half the tribe was witnessing his misery.
“Sire, there were reasons! The very best of reasons…”
The King of the Vakïdurii strode back and forth across the clearing like a juggernaut of granite.
“Reasons? I’ll give you reasons!” The King ground a finger into his son’s scrawny breastbone. “You want to replace me, don’t you boy! Well you won’t - and do you know why?” The old King ground his teeth in fury. “You’ll fail because you’ve got the mental prowess of an oaken stump! I’ve seen brighter critters lying belly up on the bottom of a pond!”
Prince Tekï’taa’s ears flushed red. He almost shook with anger, but swiftly lowered his gaze as his father swung around.
“Do you know what you have done? Do you?”
“I’ve saved the tribe! There’s food for empty bellies! We’ve proved ourselves against the Katakanii.”
“You’ve started a war, you fly-brained fool! A war, like what they have in the old, old stories!” The King clapped his hands against his skull. “Peace has reigned for nigh a thousand years, but oh no, my idiot son decides to start the first killin’ match in all recorded history!”
The Prince slammed his spear against the ground.
“We can beat them father! Let them come if they be fool enough.”
“Arrogant idiot! Didn’t you even stop to think? We don’t want to fight them; there’s trouble enough just keepin’ food in all our bellies! So what will the Katakanii do now, eh? Did you consider that? They have enough iron to throw away! Even their wretched hatchlings have knives. You arrogant, thoughtless, connivin’ little…”
The returned raiding party knelt unhappily in the dust as King Latikai pelted them with abuse. Well distant from the rest of them sat a single lonely figure. The young hunter had half-healed wounds across his chest and wings, yet it was he who had arrived home first. The King looked down at the boy and gave a derisive snort.
“You there - the one with the dopey look! What’ve you got to say for yourself?”
The hunter smiled dreamily into empty air, seeming never to have heard. King Latikai gave a snort; they were all as useless as each other.
“Veterans, eh? Veteran hunters. Well I hope you’re proud of yourselves! This’ll take some fixin’. I thank Wind and Rain you were at least smart enough to think of wearin’ masks. With luck they’ll not know who you were or where you came from. I’ll see what can be done to reaffirm our cordial relations!” He glared down at his son and suddenly felt sick.
“Oh get out, all of you! And you can stuff that dried fish up your arses for all the trouble it’s caused. Go on, out of my sight before I’m pukin’ ill!”
The hunters swiftly fled the scene - all except the dopey one who seemed blissfully ignorant of the whole affair. The King gave a snarl and stamped away to find his wife.
These youngsters were more of a problem every day!
Latikai’s wife sat beneath a flowering wattle tree. She jammed a needle through a complex knot of embroidery and gave a huff of disapproval.
“Damned fool boy! This is your fault. He needs a father’s iron hand!”
“My fault? T’was you that let him become a dandy!”
“He’s a bully! I’d never thought I’d see the day I’d be ashamed of my own son. He’s dangerous, and I say he should be watched.”