by Paul Kidd
A hush fell across the bystanders as the fun began. A young house builder stepped forward and curled a finger towards a blushing shepherdess.
“Kürimal! I claim my boon!”
The girl dashed out and stood on tippie-toe to take her kiss. The young herdsman shyly brushed her lips, and the crowd made sound of appreciation the girl pressed deeper into her partner’s arms.
A stifled snarl of rage came from amongst the other girls. Keketál saw a young woman brushing tears back from her eyes as she fled for home. Hupshu’s warning rang suddenly all too clear; this game was dangerous.
“Namïlii, I claim a boon of you!”
A tall fisherman called triumphantly out across the field, and Namïlii came forth to give the man his due. She took him and devoured him with a sizzling kiss. Namïlii left her victim dazed, eyeing Keketál as she sauntered back towards the other girls.
One by one the workers claimed their prizes, and the women met the choices with delight or with disgust. Slowly the little ceremony drew to a close, until Keketál found himself finally thrust out into the open.
The little group of maidens seemed to draw a breath. Keketál stared from one face to the other, his ears flushing as he saw the women gaze at him with desire. The man tried to beat a hasty retreat, but Hupshu steered him firmly back in place.
“Now look! It’s an insult not to choose anybody. Just make it quick and it’ll all be over.”
“But-but who?”
“Well I don’t know! It’s your kiss! Who would you most like to get a kiss from?”
Suddenly Keketál met a pair of frightened, hopeful eyes. Harïsh had hidden back behind the other girls. The girl jerked away, trying not to show him the yearning in her gaze.
“Keketál will claim his boon. He asks a kiss of sweet Harïsh.”
Harïsh! The girl nearly swooned as joy seemed to pour into her like a stream of light. She came into his arms, craning up to offer him the gift she craved to give. She closed her eyes, trembling as he slowly bent to kiss her parting lips.
“Stop!”
A voice cracked out across the yard; the partners whirled to see Namïlii charging the village square.
“Stop! He cannot claim a boon from Harïsh! Choose another. Choose a boon from the maidens! It is the law.”
Keketál looked down at Harïsh in confusion.
“Why? You say choose, Keketál makes choice! Why not Harïsh?”
“Harïsh is not a woman! You cannot claim a boon from a mere child!”
Harïsh flew straight for her enemy’s throat, and Keketál frantically dragged her back by the heels. Suddenly the air seemed full of thrashing wings and tearing claws.
”You bitch! I’ll rip your eyes out!”
“Piddling little child! I’d like to see you try!”
“Slut!”
“Tart!”
“Whore!”
“Child!”
Harïsh gave an incoherent shriek and ripped off her headband. Keketál caught her before she could find a handy stone. Hupshu meanwhile tried his best to hold the other girl at bay as Harïsh flung dirt into Namïlii’s eyes.
“Who are you to say if I’m a woman or a girl?”
“Little girls should be back pissing diapers in the nursery, not planning an evening on their backs!”
“You skinny whore! Just ‘cause half the village has ploughed your Fire-damned furrow!”
The women lunged towards each other with murder in their eyes. Keketál flung out his hands and ïsha flashed, sending both women tumbling in the dust.
The huge nobleman dangled one female in either hand.
“Enough! Be still.”
Lord Ingatïl came bustling over and tapped his foot in anger.
“Disgraceful! Namïlii, what would your mother say if she saw you making such a spectacle? Harïsh, have you no shame? Trying to take the prerogatives of a full maiden…!”
“Lord! I am a woman! A woman!” Harïsh clutched at her chest in anger. “I have as much right to reward a builder as the next girl! Lord Keketál has asked me, and I want to give!”
“My dear, you are nothing but a little girl. You have not yet had your sixteenth birthday.”
“Birthday?” Harïsh threw off Keketál’s hands. “I’m more of a woman than that Namïlii can ever be! Just because I don’t screw every living creature in the village…”
Namïlii gave an incoherent shriek of rage. She tried to gouge Harïsh’s eyes, only to be caught and shaken like a rattle by Keketál. Harïsh stood her ground before the village speaker.
“Lord Ingatïl, I am a woman and I claim a maiden’s rights! My body speaks for itself! Let Namïlii prove I’m not a woman.”
It was an interesting problem; Lord Ingatïl paced slowly back and forth, his long wings slowly beating at the air. Finally the old man turned and tapped his nose.
“Here is my judgment. The law of ‘four virtuosities’ must hold. This is the accepted measure of adulthood. Harïsh, are you adept in four separate arts? Prove to us your skill, and we shall accept you as a woman grown.”
Harïsh threw herself clear of Keketál, then opened up her hands to show the tattoos of a healer.
“I am a surgeon! The High healer himself wishes to take me as his student. Lord Keketál is my proof of skill!”
Ingatïl scratched his nose and grudgingly conceded.
“Harïsh, you are indeed a healer. You do credit to our village.”
The girl furiously pointed to her magnificent water jug.
“I am a potter! My father has taught me how to glaze and fire. My own wares are for sale at the markets!”
“Harïsh, you are a talented potter. Your work exhibits a considerable charm.”
“I am a shepherdess. I tend the flocks, I shear and spin, weave and milk. No girl in the village makes finer cheese! No one in the tribe can match me with a sling!”
“Harïsh, your prowess with the sling has caused us trouble more than once. We still remember the incident with the High Seer and the wasp’s nest. As for your cheeses, their taste is… memorable, to say the least. We shall conceded that you have this skill.”
Namïlii whirled towards Lord Ingatïl and flung her hands out wide.
“My Lord, these are crafts, not arts! Is this virtuosity? There’s no creativity in merely making pots!”
Harïsh’s father spoke out from the crowd.
“I heard that, Namïlii-toka! You just see how long you wait for your next water jug!”
The girl hissed in spite and ignored the interruption.
“I say again, where is her art? Would you compare this prancing little imp with me? I am a musician of the first degree, skilled in both the flute and the long grass pipe! I am a poetess, trained in the creation of running stanza’s! And for my fourth virtuosity…”
A crude voice hooted from somewhere in the audience.
“No one does it better!”
“My fourth virtuosity!” Namïlii spoke on regardless “is the skill of dancing.”
“What?” Harïsh snapped her fingers underneath Namïlii’s nose. “Why you puffed up river toad! You dance like a pregnant ewe. I’ll out-dance you any day of the week!”
“Why you little she-goat! You’ve never danced a step in all your life!”
By way of answer Harïsh snatched up her empty water jug. She glared in challenge at Namïlii.
“Well?”
Namïlii grabbed her own pitcher and proudly marched to the centre of the clearing. She stood there waiting, flipping up her tail in challenge. Both women balanced their jugs between their ears and stood delicately poised and waiting.
Men ran for their instruments, and soon clay flutes warbled like a flock of bumble bees. The two women stood with the tall jugs balanced on their heads and held their arms out level with the dusty ground. With a nod from Lord Ingatil, the little orchestra suddenly found its footing and began to play. A sigh rippled through the crowd as the slender dancers gracefully began to turn.
&n
bsp; They moved with the timeless suppleness of sweet young river grass. Harïsh and Namïlii both bobbed slowly down upon their haunches, rose and turned a stately pirouette, the water jugs never once shifting on their heads. They slowly turned and closed their eyes, concentrating carefully as the music cycled through its chords.
Full circle; both women’s faces were serene with concentration. They snapped their fingers once, bobbing down to start their stately dance once again. Harïsh kept her lashes closed as she matched her opponent move for move.
The rhythm slowly gained momentum. Men began to clap in time to the rising music while women chorused admiration as the dancers dipped and span. Keketál found himself joining in their heady beat, grinning as Harïsh calmly flitted him a glance. He blew a kiss as he watched his girl of gold; she felt his aura touching her and gave a glowing smile.
The musicians exchanged a set of evil glances, and suddenly the music increased its beat. The dancers slid into the higher speed without a hitch. They dipped, they whirled, they bobbed in place. Each girl kept the measure without an error, turn after turn, each one slightly faster than the last.
Again the music sped its tempo. Clapping hands drummed the girls on ever faster, and a bead of sweat trickled slowly down Namïlii’s brow. The girl gritted up her fangs and tried to stop her hands from shaking. She fell behind the beat, blinking as she saw her enemy cruising through the turn. Namïlii gulped and tried to make more speed.
Her jug began to tilt; Namïlii felt the balance shift and tried to compensate. Suddenly the jug was tumbling through the air. Namïlii gave a shriek as her water jug smashed against the ground. The girl screamed out words Keketál had never even heard as the crowd surged forward to Harïsh and whirled her in the air. Her father grinned at her and clasped his hands in victory.
Harïsh shouted as Keketál took her in his arms, then grabbed his face and locked him in a wild, delirious kiss. Keketál dizzily clung against her, half fighting her and half lost inside her touch. It was wrong - she was only fifteen! And there was something else - something he couldn’t quite remember. It burned him, shrieking in anguish somewhere in his mind…
Harïsh loved him; only a fool could fail to see it now. Keketál finally sighed and let the moment take him, content to drift within the wonder of her arms.
Chapter Eighteen
The sound of the crowd surged like a forest washed beneath a restless wind. It was the sound of life, of rage and thunderous power, and its ïsha currents shook the forest to the roots.
Zhukora listened to the ebb and flow. Finally the gamble had begun; racial destiny hung teetering in the balance. On one side lay absolute extinction - on the other, Zhukora’s blazing light of change.
And on both sides lay her death. Zhukora saw her ending and was not afraid. She had made her bargain with the gods; the time of Zhukora finally had come.
Daimïru knelt behind her. The stark white skull-face craned up towards Zhukora in expectation, her child-like eyes gleaming in the shadows of her mask.
“The jiteng teams are now assembled. The Chiefs and Kings begin their feast. It is time.”
“Yes my love. Time to ride the winds.” Zhukora reached down to touch her beloved’s streaming golden hair.
“I love you.”
Daimïru waited for her leader to whir into the air, then followed Zhukora out across the Jiteng field. The sun shone down upon them both, transfixing them with light as they rode the tossing power of a people’s rage.
The moth-feast had become an absolute disaster, but even in the face of starvation, traditions had been ruthlessly enforced. The nobles had been allowed to glut themselves on moth meat, leaving nothing but pathetic pickings for the poor. As a result, the Kashra had fallen on their fragile home like a ravening horde of ants; where they moved, not a single living thing remained. Paradise had finally turned into broken wasteland. Desperate hunting parties snarled and fought, and for the first time in a thousand years, violence blossomed in the people’s hearts.
Zhukora’s followers had hurtled themselves into a frenzy of salvation. She had taken the hunters and formed them into enormous killing teams. Forsaking the ancient laws, she had fired whole regions of forest, driving panic-stricken game onto the people’s spears. The commoners no longer cared for custom.
The people leapt to their feet as Zhukora flew across the field, sixty thousand voices thundering out her name. She swirled up before the waiting Kings and sketched a graceful bow before her waiting enemy.
Tekï’taa lay back caressing a shamefaced serving girl while old King Saitookii glared across the crowd. Beside the kings, the elders of the both tribes had gathered about a wasteful feast of food. There were the counsellors and poppinjays - Dancing Mistress Traveesha and lordly, fat old men. Black clad in her wooden armour, Zhukora turned towards the Kings, shaping every word and moment into tools of her desire.
“My Lords, the game teams are ready. The entire peoples of our tribes are assembled. We await only your signal to begin.”
Nochorku-Zha flattened his ears and glared into his daughter’s face.
“You have overstepped your authority! There are sixty thousand people out there! You were asked to arrange a simple jiteng game. Can’t you even do that properly?”
“Why father, the game directly concerns the people. Therefore it is right that they attend.”
“Right? Right?” The old man puffed out his fur. “We decide what is right, not some hatchling girl and a mewling bunch of commoners! You should have consulted with the other Chiefs!”
“The presence of your people disturbs you, father?”
“Disturbs me? Pah! It’s disastrous! What are you going to do with them all afterwards, eh? You didn’t think of that, now did you. There’s no food for all these vermin! They’ll pay for their foolishness with hungry bellies and screaming children!”
Zhukora gave a smooth gesture of her hands.
“Daimïru has seen to food. For the first time in weeks, there will be enough.”
“We are not fools, Zhukora. We know about your bushfires! We shall take this matter up with you at a later time. You might find that status can be a fragile thing!”
Zhukora bowed before Nochorku-Zha, her face strangely lit with calm.
“All power is fragile, father.”
“Power? Power is eternal!” Nochorku-Zha spoke for all of them - the assembled chiefs and kings. “It is enshrined in our way of life!”
“That is a foolish, dangerous belief.” The black-furred woman shone with an almost magical inner light. “Power is lent from one person to another. It is a gift, and a gift may be withdrawn unless it is a gift of love.”
King Tekï’taa had ignored the entire exchange. Zhukora’s entourage of Skull-Wings seemed to amuse his tastes.
“So Zhukora! Still you insist on consorting with commoners. I suppose a noble must be forgiven these little whims. We would never stand for it in the Vakïdurii, but there you are! Each to their own.”
Zhukora turned to view her group of attendants.
“They are my soul mates, my Lord. I do not believe that coloured wings signify ability.”
“Soul mates? One of ‘em looks like a child!”
“She is thirteen, great Lord. An artist and a sculptor. It is the girl Rooshïkii, who you placed in my care as a boon.”
Tekï’taa’s pushed his attendants’ hands away.
“That-that little girl is still with you?”
“Aye my lord. Rooshïkii is my trusted friend. Although she is young, she has more intelligence than many thrice her age. She was the first Skull-Wing from the Vakïdurii tribe.”
“The first?” King Tekï’taa jerked in alarm. “There are others?”
“Sire, there are now perhaps two hundred Vakïdurii members of the Skull-Wings.”
Vakïdurii chiefs shot up in alarm. One old woman pointed a quaking finger in accusation.
“Witch, you’ve deceived us! You’d have our own folk playing on the field agains
t us!”
Zhukora’s power cracked like a swelling storm.
“Deceived you? You accepted a challenge; the Skull-Wings against the Mantises. I made no mention of tribes.”
“But our own tribesman might be playing against us!”
From the Katakanii lines, Mistress Traveesha rose to glare at the Vakïdurii leadership.
“What? Oh never! Zhukora would not be so perverse!”
Zhukora turned her gaze upon her fellow Swallow-Tail.
“You are quite wrong, Traveesha. At least half the Skull-Wing team upon the field will be Vakïdurii. They no longer think in terms of tribes, but in terms of nation. They are mine, and I am theirs; it is all that matters now.”
King Tekï’taa peeled a fruit, glaring at Zhukora with distaste.
“This is a most bizarre jest, my lady! I hope there is good reason for your behaviour.”
The girl cocked her head and peered at the assembled company from beneath her streaming hair. Suddenly she seemed every inch a scheming little girl.
“It is not so much a trick as a riddle. The answer to the riddle is very simple. There shall be a reward for anyone who can answer it before the game is done. The riddle is this: What does it mean if your own people wish to play against you?”
