A Whisper of Wings (40 page)

Zhukora could scarcely believe the new joys each day would bring. Daimïru flew ever at her side, and a people’s love surrounded her like a fiery blaze. New dawns saw her soaring high above the forest world, new territories drifting past her tail.

They were magic, precious days. The Dream had been planted in the peoples’ minds, and Zhukora tended it with love.

Unrest spread like a disease; with the passing seasons, hunger grew. Daimïru’s elite Skull-Wing guards relentlessly trained themselves in combat skills, and each clan gained its nucleus of Skull-Wing warriors, all chosen from the finest hunters in the tribe. Zhukora smiled and felt her time of destiny draw near.

***

“A jiteng game? Why how terribly amusing. The Katakanii have a positive obsession!”

King Tekï’taa lounged on his cushions idly sipping tea. He held out his cup, scarcely taking notice as a girl hastened to serve his needs. The new King of the Vakïdurii waved to his royal herald with a langorous smile.

“So Zhukora is outside? Do show her in! It’s always such a pleasure to meet with old, old friends.”

The herald bowed and hastened off to do as he was bid. Tekï’taa fondled the backside of his serving girl, becoming more than just a little interested with his graceless explorations. The girl bore his touch in silence, her eyes screwed tightly shut as she swallowed back her shame.

Zhukora strode in through the door, gleaming as cruel and magnificent as a hawk. Daimïru strode at Zhukora’s side, her sim face strangely savage against her stark black uniform. King Tekï’taa pursed his lips in appreciation, grinning as the woman met his eyes.

Delicious!

Tekï’taa clapped his hands together, his voice rolling musically out across the air.

“Zhukora! Or rather, Zhukora-Zho. What a delight to see thee once again! Traders have already told us of thy marvelous good fortune; ambassador, and at only twenty five years of age! It seems that youth is finally gaining a hand in government!” The King showed no inclination to invite his guests to sit. “I presume there is a reason for this most delightful call. If you will dismiss your servant, we shall begin our discussion. Commoners are barred from the presence of the King.”

Zhukora’s face remained unmoved.

“Daimïru is my chosen counselor. Surely as companion to an ambassador she has the right to stay?”

“A commoner for a counselor? Really Zhukora!” The King paddled his hands in a fingerbowl and dried them on a towel. “Oh I suppose the girl can stay. I’m sure her opinions will be amusing, at the very least…”

Zhukora sank to the floor, her long hair spilling down around her like cloak of silk. She turned her pure blue eyes upon the King.

“I have a certain amount of business with your tribe. It’s tiresome, but I’m sure we’ll soon be done.”

Daimïru passed her a quirt¹, and Zhukora made a great show of studying the first few cuts.

“Ah yes. Firstly, my lord, there are allegations that Vakïdurii tribesmen have carried off two young dancers from our tribe. I am afraid there is some evidence to sustain such an accusation.”

Tekï’taa steepled up his fingers.

“I should hate to contradict such a charming guest. One hesitates to point out that if this is true, then what can two female ambassadors hope to do about it?”

King Tekï’taa swirled his teapot, pouring a drink out for his guest. Zhukora cunningly passed the cup on to Daimïru, forcing Tekï’taa to pour a second measure for herself.

“King Tekï’taa, my people feel that they have grievances against your own. Whether we can substantiate these claims or not is quite irrelevant. The people believe they have been wronged, and so we must present their case. Justice must be done.”

“Justice? For the people?” Tekï’taa sputtered in his tea. “A fine state of affairs when we are dictated to by a horde of flea-bitten commoners!”

“Bah! Impossible!” The King insolently swirled his teacup in his hand. “A trial between two tribes? No judge could be trusted to vote against their own tribe. The case would never be resolved! No no girl, thou’rt speaking utter nonsense!”

“Lord King, we have no need for councils! Let Wind and Rain decide!” Zhukora’s gaze glittered from beneath exquisite lashes. “We suggest a game of jiteng - your finest team against the Skull-Wings, here on your own home ground. The teams can meet in one month’s time when our two tribes join together for the bogong feasts. Each tribe will wager an indemnity - say one field of yams. To the winner goes the spoils!”

“A game? Here, on our home ground?” Tekï’taa licked his lips. “It could be a good idea at that!”

The man leapt up and began to pace the floor; his popularity had suffered since he had taken on the Kingship. Another field of yams would more than restore his position.

“Done! We’ll hold the game at the end of the feasts. Unfortunately the Wrens have been dissolved. No matter! The Mantises will more than match your Skull-Wings. You’ll see what pure nobility can achieve against these worthless commoners!”

A terrified young girl softly stole into the room - a delicate little creature scarcely thirteen years of age. She bowed swiftly, pressing her face against the floor in abject terror. Tekï’taa gazed at her with hungry eyes, suddenly losing interest in his other guests.

“I will ask you to leave me now, Zhukora. It seems Rooshïkii has once more come to discuss her father’s debts.” He smiled wickedly at the trembling girl. “We shall have a nice cozy little talk, won’t we my dear? I’m so glad you’ve finally come to your senses…”

Tekï’taa glared at Zhukora and gave a long, slow hiss. He dismissed Rooshïkii with one sharp wave of his hand, and Daimïru swept the girl beneath her arm. Zhukora graced Tekï’taa with a short, clipped bow and retired from the royal presence.

The outside air smelled cleaner; Zhukora drew in a grateful breath and let the wind blow through her hair.

“No need to fear, Rooshïkii. You’re safe now - Zhukora protects you. Does your father know you’re here?”

The young girl shook her head. She had stilled her tears, fighting back the sobs as she stared up at the tall, commanding foreigners.

“You are a brave girl, Rooshïkii. A brave girl but a foolish one. Your King is evil, and we shall bring justice down upon him soon.” Zhukora lifted up Rooshïkii’s face. “Rooshïkii, look at me! No more crying now. How much does your father owe the King?”

The young girl ashamedly smeared tears from her eye.

“F-Five fingers of silver, honoured one! Five whole fingers!”

Zhukora removed her jewellry of office and placed it in Rooshïkii’s hands. The little girl stared in astonishment as she caught hold of a fortune.

“No debt is worth the price of your pride, Rooshïkii. Even so, I bow to you. You had the courage to try.” ïsha currents stirred through Zhukora’s hair. “You can go home in safety now, or if you want, you can remain with us. The day is coming soon when tribes will no longer matter. We will need brave souls like you, Rooshïkii. Courage like yours is utterly without price.”

The little girl stared in adoration up into Zhukora’s eyes.

“I will come. I swear I will follow you forever.”

Rooshïkii fell down in a bow. She gazed up once more into Zhukora’s face and then dove into the tree tops; the last they saw of her was the flickering of her soft beige wings.

***

Harïsh danced dizzily through the grass, her sweet voice filling up the world with magic. The girl’s skirt swirled around her soft young hips, and golden hair shimmered in the breeze. The girl buried her face in her bunch of flowers and gave a dreamy sigh.

To be fifteen is a wondrous thing; but to be fifteen and in love? Aaaah, now there is a magic spell indeed…

With dizzy little steps Harïsh stole down to her favourite water hole. She hitched up her skirt and softly crept into the lovely, soothing shadows. Harïsh peered down into the pool, her golden eyes blinking at her wavering reflection. The girl pushed back her hair and stared critically at the thin face that gazed back up at her.

Ugh! So dimpled. So-so innocent! Harïsh sat on the gravel and plucked miserably at her clothes. Homespun wool and a sling for a headband. How tomboyish! How-how unladylike. Still, once per day she had to watch her father’s flock. The sling had to be carried somewhere. At least it kept her hair back from her eyes².

Would he mind? Would he really mind? He was a nobleman, used to a fine house and linen bedsheets; how could he even look at a girl who dug clams from the stinking mud? If only she could be a real lady…

But then, he had smiled at her yesterday - really smiled! She had seen him looking at her with those beautiful brown eyes; could it really be that he saw something she did not? The girl peered cautiously back into the water, biting her lip as she took a second glance. Could someone really love this face? Oh she hoped so. She hoped it with all her heart.

The girl dredged up all the power at her command and somehow managed to kill the water’s chill. She glanced furtively about herself, bared her long boyish shanks, and slipped slowly down into the pool.

Small breasts bobbed merrily in the water, as Harïsh heaved a sigh and sank back to lounge in luxury. There was a delicious wickedness in pampering herself from time to time. One long leg stuck from the water as she contentedly soaped her thigh. The girl lay back her head and smiled, imagining her hands as being his. She gave a sigh and let the image linger in her mind.

The girl tossed back her hair and stalked regally from the bath. She dried herself swiftly on a towel and angrily wound up her skirt. Little sisters were such a pain! With a flash of wings Harïsh headed back for home.

Something black and twisted rose to crouch beside bathing pool, its snout sniffing at the unfamiliar scent of soap. The creature leaned over to peer into the pool, snarling down at the reflection of a fleshless skull.

The black beast sank back into the shadows. It stared across the wide green plains and gave a low hiss of desire.

The stranger lay in his rumpled bed staring out the cottage window. The man blinked and sighed, feeling the pain ebb slowly through his wounds.

His thoughts were strange and crystal clear; no memories rose up to disturb his silent reverie. The stranger’s mind had been wiped blank of all his past - even the memory of his memories was gone. He never even realised the lack. People came and people went, jabbering at him with nonsense sounds that tickled at his ears. He was aware of nothing but a dreadful sense of loss.

Why? What was lost? Surely he would know it if something had gone. The stranger touched his woollen kilt and the bandages about his waist. He had his clothes, he had his wound; everything was just as it should be.

The stranger’s world was nothing but an empty void. There was no one but himself, the villagers, and the girl of gold.

Outside the house, Harïsh fluttered gaily to the ground, dodged her father’s wary eye and ducked in through the door. She came bouncing into the sickroom and joyfully set down a bunch of flowers. Golden eyes sparkled at her guest.

“You’re up! Did you do that by yourself? How marvelous!” Perhaps he was finally getting better. “How do you feel? Is the pain as bad today?”

He rolled his head to look at her, troubled clouds drawing across his eyes. Harïsh patiently touched her stomach and mimed her words.

“The hurting down here. Is it alright today?”

He gave a sorry grimace and touched his bandages; the pain must still be bad. The man saw her looking at his face and gave a little smile, and Harïsh felt her young heart skip a beat.

The Village Speaker had been quite firm; the river spirit had given the stranger to the house of Kana, and so Harïsh’s family would be responsible for his care.