by Paul Kidd
“Lord Keketál! And what will you do now, stranger?”
The cry rippled triumphantly through the crowd, but Keketál seemed utterly uninterested in answering. The Chairman angrily rose up to his feet.
“The house has addressed you with a question, sir! You are obliged to answer. What do you intend to do?”
“We shall leave. River-Bend will go elsewhere.”
“You can’t leave! We have made a vote! It is the will of the majority.”
“Then the majority may stay and live by it! You have forfeited the right to our loyalty!”
Keketál’s ancient companion leaned upon his staff.
“Flint-Wash stands with Keketál!”
“And Thistle-Field!”
“And Whisper-Tree!”
The house erupted into mayhem. Speakers struggled from the press to stand with Keketál while other nobles gave a vengeful roar. The Chairman held out his hands to silence the crowd, and one hand sank slowly down to point damnation at Lord Keketál.
“Foreigner, be gone! Take your vagabonds and go. Seek solace with another tribe; you break with the Ochitzli forever!”
Keketál cast his gaze across the ring of hostile faces.
“The Ochitzli are gone! Keketál sees nothing here but the slaves of mountain savages.”
The Chairman made to reply, but Keketál had already marched away. The young lord rose into the air and began to plan a war.
***
Sheep bleated as two hundred people grimly turned their backs upon their homes. Flint-Wash village was dead and gone; It’s people snatched up their belongings and filed in behind their chief. Not a single villager deigned to spare their homes a parting glance.
Keketál held Harïsh warmly in his arms and brushed his lips against her hair. The girl looked up at him with a lover’s adoration in her eyes, then watched Flint-Wash village empty out into the plains.
Old Kotekh the Speaker leaned upon his staff and spoke to Keketál.
“Watch, boy, watch. The Ochitzli tribe is gone; they don’t know it yet, but the cowards killed it yesterday. A thousand years of tradition struck dead in a single afternoon.”
“Keketál is sorry, Lord Kotekh. Keketál could not make them see.”
“Then they’ll deserve the fate that Poison has in store for them. The savages will suck away their souls.”
The old man chuffed and flapped the cobwebs from his creaking muscles, wringing his staff of office in his hands.
“I am one hundred and thirty seven years of age! A proud noble. Too old to bow and scrape before some stinking forest savage. I have seventeen children living. Sixty seven grand children scattered through three different tribes. My seed numbers three hundred and ninety three! There’s our army. There’s the claws to keep our people safe!”
Harïsh held tight to Keketál’s arm and looked at the ancient Chief in shock.
“My lord! So-so many?”
“Eh? What of it girl? Not much to show for a hundred and thirty years of age. I’ve bounced in the sack a few more times than that, I’ll tell ‘e! My youngest is six months old. There’s life beneath the old kilt yet! Never disappoint a lady - there’s my motto.”
Harïsh’s ears blushed red.
“But-but my Lord! So many children - it’s against the law!”
“Laws are for fools. This is my village. My clan! These are my people. No one tells us how many young we bear - how many sheep we breed. Our lives are our own.”
The old man nodded as his people struggled past him with their herds. They bowed grimly to their chief, their packs already strapped tight across their bellies.
“My people. Born and bred meself!” The old man slapped his pouch. “Got my first wife in my pocket. My father’s ghost goes in the staff. I explained it all to ‘em. Flint-Wash goes with us. We’ll not leave even our dead to the likes of savages.”
Seance singers¹ began to gather beside Speaker Kotekh. He jerked a gourd from one mans hands and thrust it at Harïsh. She blinked down at the liquid, her antennae flaring high with shock.
“Milk-mead. For you. Marry the dozy idiot tonight and be done. You’re going to do it anyway. We could do with some cheer tonight beside the campfire.”
“M-Married? My Lord!”
“Dear spirits girl! The way he keeps gazin’ at ye almost makes me whiskers curl. I’ve a sleeping robe that should fit the two of you. Call it a wedding gift. Anyway - new beginnings are a good time for weddings.”
Keketál’s ears burned hot. He swiftly stepped forward to Harïsh’s rescue.
“Lord Kotekh - The other villages have arrived. With your permittings, Keketál shall lead us down the river.”
“Eh? Oh. Yes, I suppose it’s time.”
The old man cast one last glance across his home, then turned towards his men.
“Torch ‘em! Every house - every barn! Bind the household spirits and keep them safe against your hearts. Flint-Wash travels with us. We leave no ties behind.”
Thatch crackled as the villagers gave their houses to the flames. Harïsh stared down into the fires, the death of River-Bend still etched within her eyes.
“My love - Is hunting very difficult? Will we have food enough to live.”
“The land is rich, my love. Keketál shall teach you how to hunt.”
The girl stareded down at the smoke. Thick and filthy - just like the smoke that had smeared the skies across her mother’s grave.
“Do you really want to marry me, Keketál? I’m happy as I am. I will love you as long as you will let me. I ask for nothing in return.”
“No - I will marry you. Keketál shall wed his love.
“This iss not the end. Our lives begin anew.”
The girl let Keketál lead her down the hill towards the villagers.
“What colour will my new wings be, I wonder? Is there any way to tell?”
Keketál held the girl against his heart and slowly walked towards the south.
“Gold; I think that you will always be Keketál’s girl of gold.”
***
The representatives of the Ochitzli tribe gathered to pay their homage to the demon queen, each man dressed in all his formal finery. Speakers and guildsmen, shepherds and priests, they waited in silence as the sun broke out above the forest eaves.
In the small hours of the dawn, the rainbow people came.
At first it seemed just a sound, like a distant rustling in the leaves. Slowly it grew until the ïsha thrummed with power; piece by piece the air filled with wheeling, dancing shapes. Every tree and branch dripped beneath a rain of colours.
The mass surged forwards like a flood and spilled onto the plains. It washed across the meadows and splashed against the trees while spirits looped and chittered in the sun. And over it all, behind the colour and the relentless bubbling motion, there burned a brilliant joy.
The people of the mountains threw out their arms and sang.
Plainsmen stared up in amazement as naked women in brilliant masks whirled through the air. There was laughter and dancing, music and delight. The wave crashed across the villagers and swept them up into its heart; carpenters and shepherds were kissed by naked dancing girls, while old noblemen found themselves knee deep in laughing children. Drums hammered like the pulse beat of the world, and villagers laughed as the gongs rang out into a final glorious crescendo.
Suddenly the music stopped. All eyes turned towards the slender figure standing at the dance’s heart. Power flooded out of her to set the skies ablaze with joy.
“To Mother Rain we make this promise! One land, one folk, one will! Mountain and forest, grass and plains shall finally be united. The Kashran race will be whole at last!”
Lightning flashed, and Zhukora stood wreathed in a blazing sphere of light. The people sank down to their knees and gazed at her in awe.
Slim curves shimmered as Zhukora’s naked figure slowly emerged onto the grass. She stood unveiled before the people in absolute perfection, as pure and beautiful as
morning dew.
“Look upon me and rejoice, for I am yours! I give myself to you and cast aside all mortal trappings. I am the spirit of the people, and a spirit hides from no one’s eyes! I am the mountains and the plains, the rivers and the valleys. Join with me and share within The Dream!”
She walked amongst them, revealed and uncaring, sheathed within a power that reached out to clench the heart. When Zhukora walked, the mortals bowed; where her gaze fell, the villagers lost themselves in love. She was unreachable and perfect; the virgin queen of power. She had passed beyond the chains that held mere flesh.
She had become the spirit of the Dream…
Daimïru looked up at Zhukora with tears spilling freely down her face. Zhukora bent and kissed her on the mouth, sending the blonde girl reeling backwards in a swoon. The plainsmen rose and began to sing her name; Zhukora turned and rewarded them with the love inside her eyes.
The Dream had taken her. Zhukora felt the worship of her people all around her and walked on into the arms of destiny.
***
Deep within the world of green, something small and beautiful squealed in delight. The tiny flower Ka burst up into the air, wheeling past a glittering waterfall. It flung itself into the arms of love and sang in delirious glee.
Shadarii held the creature in her aura as the forest suddenly erupted into joy. The love had finally returned! The forest soul was back where it belonged. The tiny orchid span and danced as a rain of spirits rushed dizzily down between the leaves.
With Ka looping wildly past her wings, Shadarii swirled around and round beneath a waterfall, ïsha glowing as her power spilled out into the woods. Dry brown ferns suddenly glowed with growth, while mosses spread and flourished all across the broken rocks. Shadarii embraced the world she loved and lost herself within a joyous dance.
Behind her, faces peered at the vast grandeur of the forest roof. The smell of forest soil had struck the pilgrims like an axe. Ferns and orchids, leaf and bark; the pilgrims lost themselves within a dream, slowly rediscovering the gentle gifts of home.
The sea-people edged cautiously down into the trees, awed by the discovery of a strange new world. They blinked as Kïtashii hurtled aside her tiny skirt and launched into the pool, then joyously followed her down into the shade,
Little Kïtashii broke the surface with a roar. Half a ton of sand and dust had suddenly drained off her fur. The girl snatched a bunch of soap leaf and furiously scrubbed her back. Her lips curled up in pleasure as she scratched, her wings drumming at the water as she scoured her itches clean. Tingtraka giggled as a little water Ka danced beneath her tail.
“Paradise! Skreggin’ paradise! I never knew how much I missed the sound of leaves. It feels like I’m back inside my mother’s womb!”
Kïtashii smiled as she watched Shadarii twining auras with an orchid Ka. The skinny girl scratched herself beneath one little teacup breast and flicked her long antennae in glee.
“It’s so good to see her home again! This is where she’s needed. She was right to come. We’ll make the forest green again! We’ll teach the people peace. There’ll be picture-words and stories! New ways of doing old, old things. The sea peoples and the forest will share in hope and love!”
Kïtashii spoke with fanatical belief shining in her eyes. She somehow saw a world of peace and happiness; a place where every thought would be treasured like a priceless jewel. Tingtraka envied her that sense of utter certainty. She posed naked in the pool as she cocked her head in thought.
“Kïtashii, where do you suppose all the people are?”
“Eh? What on earth are you babbling about, girl?”
“There’s been no spoor of hunters. No ïsha trails, no tracks. Not even a Ka hovering around a kill site. You didn’t notice?”
“Faith no! I’m a dancer. Where am I going to learn how to hunt?”
“Well take if from me, there’s nary a hair of a Kashra’s tail.” Tingtraka planted her fists upon her bony hips and stared around at empty air. “The ducks will be coming soon. Where’s all the nets and snares? I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
Without her coat of dust, Kïtashii seemed three shades lighter. The little girl hopped on a rock, drying herself inside a swirling ïsha cloud.
“Eh, we’ll find people, don’t worry. They can’t have gone away! We’re just outside of usual territory, that’s all.”
Tingtraka gazed at her friend through hooded eyes.
“Can you see Shadarii getting lost?”
“No. Ah well, perhaps we have the seasons wrong. It’s been a long, long time you know. No one counted the days.” Kïtashii knocked out a broken-toothed old comb and passed it to her friend. Tingtraka obligingly began to drag the snarls from Kïtashii’s silver hair
“I’m worried, Kïtashii. Shadarii isn’t… She doesn’t care about herself.” The girl sadly looked at Mrrimïmei. “I fear for her. What chance has such gentleness against the powers of hate.”
Kïtashii lay in silence across Tingtraka’s lap, watching as Shadarii groomed an old fisherman’s back. Kïtashii’s eerie silver eyes grew hard.
“Do you really think Shadarii might be in danger?”
“I think we had better find some forest people. I want to know what’s happened while we’ve been gone.”
“You go then. Search the forest. I’ll stay by her side where she can be protected.”
Protection…
Shadarii’s knives still safely lay inside Kïtashii’s pack. Tonight they must be polished bright; the little girl sank down to watch and wait.
Notes:
1) The souls of dead plainsfolk are very much a part of the community. A priesthood of Seance Singers keeps the living in a measure of contact with the dead.
Chapter Twenty Three
Sun beat down onto the mud as bullrushes sagged with heat, while between the roots, tadpoles waggled little tails and dreamed their froggy dreams. There were butterflies above and little fish below; despite the rancid smell, the wetlands seemed a place of perfect peace.
Kangaroos lounged bonelessly in a patch of dappled shade. The young males scratched their bellies while the oldsters snored. It was time for their siesta, and the world seemed a fine and sleepy place.
A plump female cropped her way towards the water’s edge, strong teeth snipping at tender shoots of wild wheat. The creature munched its meal and gazed out across the water as something tall and silly wagged its wings nearby.
“Yah boo! Go away! Run!”
The kangaroo sat back and scratched itself in puzzlement. It finally bent back to its meal without a worry in the world.
“Hey you! Yaaaah! Yaaaah! Nick off!”
Hupshu suddenly tripped and fell into the mud, and the kangaroo immediately bounded off into the brush. A hideous screaming noise instantly arose, and the entire herd of kangaroos exploded into flight.
Hupshu shook out his mud encrusted kilt, then fluttered hesitantly over the water. The Kangaroo lay dead at Keketál’s feet, and his spear made a liquid sucking sound as dragged from the creature’s chest. The kangaroo still thrashed in its death throes. Keketál coldly clubbed its skull with his new stone mace, and the sound sent shivers racing right through Hupshu’s soul.
The prey was dead. Please Rain let it be dead! Hupshu wiped his mouth and tryed to make a manly little laugh.
“Uh, so you hit it then! One shot, eh?”
Keketál carefully wiped the spear and stuck it point down in the sand beside the other weapons.
“Come over here. Hupshu must make learnings how to clean the kill.”
“Clean? Oh! Uh, alright. Can’t have dirty meat…”
Keketál took his captured metal dao and split the corpse’s skull, then poured energy into frightened Ka that slowly rose into the light.
“Hupshu! Quickly, bow and ask forgiveness. Hupshu must thank the prey for its meat.”
“Oh - really?”
“The kangaroo ancestor will be angry if we abuse her children. She
will makings bad luck on our hunts. If we never take too much, if we always askings pardon for the taking of a life, then she will allow us what we need.” Keketál sighed and reached out for his knife. “Surely you must be knowing these things?”
Hupshu shied away from the bleeding kangaroo, his antennae quivering as he watched the creature’s Ka.
“Lord Keketál, I’m a brewer! I make beer and wines. I’ve never… I mean, some men do! My father just always said… He said we should respect life.”
“You can respect it. Keketál just wants to eat it too.” Keketál glanced sidewise at Hupshu. “Hupshu ate mutton at Harïsh’s jug-wobble dance. How you get meat if you not kill?”
“W-well the village butcher… You know. You don’t actually…”
Keketál gave a grunt to show the colour of his thoughts. Hupshu sighed and knelt down beside the prey; the fur felt warm and soft beneath his hand.
“Keketál. Do-do they always do that?”
“What, die?”
“No. You know, scream. I never thought an animal could - well, feel such pain.”
“Why should mister ‘Roo feel pain any less than Hupshu or Keketál? Poor thing. When Keketál must kill, he kills clean. No suffering. Quick!”
The man jammed his knife into the ground.
