by Paul Kidd
The crowd shouted while the dancers leapt and kicked the air. Safe inside her gorgeous costume, Shadarii slowly felt herself tingling to the thrill. ïsha sparked and tribesmen cheered as Shadarii rode the waves of joy with laughter bubbling in her heart.
The two girls whirled their tails and cut the circle boundaries. According to tradition, dances held within a sacred circle were inviolate. By slashing through the circle the dancers gave an invitation to their audience.
Flutes fluttered in a cue; it was time to change the rhythm. Javïra signalled, making Shadarii spring high into the sky, but to Shadarii’s surprise the other girl stayed firmly on the ground. Javïra threw out her hands and stopped her dance, posing in grinning triumph for the audience.
Shadarii sailed up into the air alone. The musicians had all acted on Javïra’s cue, suddenly stopping short; Shadarii had been deliberately set up to be a fool.
Never!
Shadarii rolled and tumbled in sky, the firelight rippling through her orange fur. She landed in the centre of the sacred circle, hurtling herself into a triumphant pirouette. She danced her heart out in a dizzy swirl of joy. Shadarii streamed with energy, the ïsha rising out to swirl in brilliant shapes about her to hold the crowd enthralled.
The High Priestess stroked her chin while idly chewing on a leg of roast goanna.
“So Nochorku-Zha! Your youngest daughter does not speak?”
“Quite so, your Reverence. To our regret, the girl’s tongue is accursed.”
“It’s no tragedy. I suspect that she makes up for it in many other ways.”
“If only it were so, your Reverence. I fear the girl is utterly useless. Such a disappointment to her mother.”
Nochorku-Zha went back to gazing at the dance. He scratched his hide and wondered who the fat little dancer in the ribbons might be.
Out beside the fires, Shadarii swam in a dizzy cloud of ïsha. A young Priestess stiffened as an eerie shape came to settle like a whirling cloak about the dancer’s wings.
“Reverence, look!”
The dancer threw back her hair, hurtling out her arms to greet the wandering Ka, and it danced with her in joyous harmony. One by one more spirits came to join the revelry. They swooped and swished between the crowds, rattling the pots and tickling the children. One pretty girl squeaked in alarm as her skirts were lifted by a passing ghost. The High Priestess watched the dance in growing fascination, then sank back into folds of fat and slowly stroked her chin.
“I confess your youngest daughter interests me, Nochorku-Zha. She seems to have long been kept within the shadows.”
“She has little enough to recommend her, Reverence. A sharp pair of eyes and nothing more. Good hips! She’d spawn eggs like a fish if she had brains enough to snare a husband. Hmph! Small chance of that. A speechless girl is no use to anybody.”
“Quite. Still, I should like to speak with her.”
From her place nearby, Mistress Traveesha gave the Priests a sidewise glare.
“The girl is a dancer. The Pastholders have already claimed her!”
“But of course! I simply feel such skill should be complimented.”
Out on the open ground, Javïra fumed in rage. Her trick had failed; far from being a laughing stock, Shadarii had moved in to steal the show. The audience clapped to Shadarii’s beat, yelling in encouragement as she whirled deliriously before them. Javïra furiously leapt into the light, snatching up her place beside Shadarii. The red haired girl took Javïra’s hand, forgiving her for ever having left her in the lurch.
Javïra snarled. As Shadarii skipped her way between the fires, Javïra jammed out her foot. With a jerk of terror Shadarii tripped and fell, her left hand plunging deep into the coals.
Shadarii hurtled back her head and gave a silent scream. The ïsha ripped with agony, and all laughter died. Tears streaming from her eyes, the dancer gazed in shock at Javïra’s triumphant face.
Javïra laughed aloud, her cruel voice ringing in the hush. The girl pointed at Shadarii’s hand and shrieked with mirth. The laugh went on and on, mocking at Shadarii’s pain. The gentle dancer staggered to her feet, her heart suddenly brimming up with hate. The Ka gathered all around her soul.
ïsha punched out like a giant’s fist, smashing Javïra to the ground. Javïra croaked, her eyes standing out in shock, and Shadarii advanced a pace, her body trembling in rage. She clenched her blistered fist and slammed the ïsha hard into Javïra’s guts.
Lightning blazed; Javïra screamed as something tore inside her. Power ripped up the ground like the lash of a gigantic whip, blasting fur from Javïra’s hide and smashing her against a wattle tree. The girl writhed across the dust and howled in agony.
“Stop! Please! Someone help me! Shadarii, I didn’t mean it. Please don’t!” She crawled away in panic, cringing in the dirt. “Help me! For Rain’s sake, someone do something!”
Shadarii moved in for the kill, a ball of lightning shaping in her fist, but suddenly the storm of ïsha died inside her claws. Shadarii snapped her head around to see the High Priestess shielding Javïra’s back.
Shadarii’s anger died as she blinked in shock at her snivelling victim. The High Priestess strode into the sacred circle waving genially with her arms.
“Be calm! Be calm! T’was just a minor accident. It was merely angry spirits, nothing more.”
Traveesha clutched her niece against her breast, her face a mask of hate.
“She tried to kill her! We all saw it! That monster tried to kill my precious dove!”
Shadarii helplessly shook her head, tears streaming down her face as she clutched her injured hand. She hadn’t meant… She-she had never wanted to really hurt…
The old Priestess smiled and tried to soothe the crowd.
“Peace! Peace good people! An excited girl - a blaze of pain. The Ka merely lashed out in her defence. Possession, that is all. T’is best the episode ends here.”
With all due dignity, Nochorku-Zha rose creakily to his feet, leaning heavily on Zhukora’s arm.
“The feast is over. Disperse for the night. Finish your meals at home”
The old man stiffly turned to go. Zhukora turned a despising glare upon her sister before stalking off into the darkness.
Shadarii stumbled over to Javïra’s side, her face torn by anguish. She tried to reach out in apology, only to be met by Traveesha’s snarling fangs.
“Out of my sight! Get out! You’re dismissed from the dancers. You’ve danced your last, you vicious little animal!”
Shadarii sobbed in misery, trying to drag out the words to show her shame, but the Dancing Mistress slashed out with her claws.
“I said out of my sight!”
Shadarii stumbled back and fled. Traveesha rocked her niece and softly murmured in her ear.
“Shhhhh. Forget her. Oh I’m so sorry! Oh my precious, how could I have known? She’s gone now. It’s all over.”
Javïra’s eyes were red with agony, and her voice shook with the power of hate.
“Sh-she’ll pay for this! By Wind and Poison, that crippled bitch is going to pay!”
Shadarii wept in misery, as the healer murmured spells across Shadarii’s injured hand. The agony of the burn slowly faded as magic lit the forest gloom.
The healing came only slowly. Shadarii’s mind had turned blank with shock; her world had shattered like a ball of ice. Better they should let her die. Never to dance? What was she to do? Rain help her, what was she to do?
Something dark and deadly burst in through the night. Zhukora stood over her, shivering with rage.
“Father may have done with you, but I haven’t! You’ve shamed us before the High Priestess and dragged our family’s name into the dirt! Your one chance to be some use to us and now look what you’ve done. Are you satisfied? Well?”
Shadarii utterly ignored her, her eyes lost inside a nightmare. The girl rocked back and forth, back and forth… Zhukora shrieked in anger.
“Listen to me! Did you hear just what I sai
d?”
Zhukora lashed out with her fist and Shadarii’s head snapped back, blood spraying from her mouth. She made no move to defend herself, no cry or squeal of pain; Shadarii simply lay where she fell. With a cry of hate Zhukora flew up into the family lodge and firmly slammed the door.
Shadarii let the healer quietly help her to her feet. The girl simply sat upon a log and felt her daydreams die.
***
The burial ground lay waiting. Trees reached out with jagged claws to scrape against the cliffs, creaking softly in the breeze. The branches whispered dreadful secrets in the dark, plucking at their shrouds of dying leaves.
A living creature broke the breathless quiet, reeling blindly through the dark. Grave markers* leered from the shadows as dry raven’s bones scattered emptily across the ground.
The burial grove of the summer village was a very special place, for it was here that Shadarii’s mother lay. The mother she had never known; who had never held her newborn baby girl.
The mother she had slain.
The marker stood just as she had left it. The grave tree mouldered in comfortable silence, covered in plates of cheerful orange fungus. Shadarii crammed herself against the rotten bark, bright tears staining the bark as the girl wept in torment.
The girl’s grief sent ripples chasing through the ïsha fields. Far above her, the forest seemed to take a breath of wonder. Something marvellous began to happen; rising from the stillness of the woods, a shining Ka began to fill the air with light.
Mama!
Shadarii shed tears in grief and joy, gasping as the loving spirit spilled around her face. The girl joined with her mother in an ecstasy of communion, drinking in the love that she had never known in waking life.
They had never needed words; the spirit had always been there whenever she was needed most. Shadarii’s soul soared on wings of adoration.
Oh Mama. Oh Mama I love you so…
Far off in the darkness, two shadows gazed down at their prey. The High Priestess stroked her hands together, her gaze locked upon Shadarii’s face.
“I want her. Raw - untrained! Did you ever see such power? We need only shape her mind and we shall finally have our weapon to rule the tribes.”
Kanoochi nodded slowly in agreement.
“The Dancers have rejected her. Her family will want her gone. I shall ask Nochorku-Zha.”
“Don’t be a fool! Have you learned nothing? Go to the power in the family. Zhukora runs the lodge of Nochorku-Zha. T’is her we must convince.”
Kanoochi’s ears flattened.
“Zhukora will be difficult to bend to our will…”
“Oh I think not. You see, we have something that Zhukora needs. We need only awaken her desire for what we have to offer.” The High Priestess bared her yellow fangs. “Oh yes, she will grasp the chance to please us. We shall show her how to become Zhukora-Zha.”
Down in the lonely glade, Shadarii opened out her arms. The spirit flowed around her, lighting up the night with song as the Priests sheathed their claws and faded back into the darkness.
Notes:
1) Kashran measurements are based on the handiest available marks. Measurements are standardised as the “tail” (circa 3 feet in length) and the “span” (1 wingspan, or circa 7 feet). The typical hunting spear is 3 tails long (the longer shafted weapons having greater range and striking power).
2) Remnants of a dead creature can be haunted by the creature’s Ka. Kashra therefore make no use of leather, skin or bone for fear of offending the previous owner. Sudden house fires, sickness or unlucky hunts are serious threats well within the capabilities of a malicious Ka.
3) Jiteng: A formalised team sport designed to be the outlet for competition and aggressive energies.
*) Kashran dead are cremated, thus paying the Fire spirit for its aid to Mother Rain. The remaining ashes are carefully buried.
Chapter Three
Zhukora hung poised in the air like a malevolent black wasp, her tail swirling as she shifted her grip on her catching staff. Beside and below her, skull-faced helmets glittered in the ïsha-light as Zhukora’s players quivered at their leash.
Zhukora’s team arrayed themselves with geometrical precision. There were twelve players, one for each month of the Kashran year. Slatted wooden armour sheathed the players from head to toe; Zhukora’s followers were clad in pure jet black - their masks were cruel white skulls that faced the world with a snarl of death. The team were fast and ruthless. Zhukora inspired an insane élan; The “Skull-Wings” played on with shattered limbs and broken wings, screaming home with goals against impossible odds. They attacked with a savagery that ripped lesser teams to shreds.
Their opponents’ armour glowed with all the colours of a forest spring as each player sought to outshine the others with his costume. Their name seemed to suit them; the “Splendid Orchids Flowering”. The “Orchids” made a confusing contrast to their silent, stark opponents.
A second, more subtle difference could be drawn between the teams; Zhukora’s followers had the dull grey/brown wings of commoners. Out of all twelve players, only two of them were noble; social rank bore no weight against ability.
Prakucha dipped and wove within the enemy’s front rank. As captain of the clan’s prime team, he drew enormous status, and the huge crowd of watching tribesmen yelled in approval. The huge hunter flexed his biceps for a pair of squealing girls then blew a kiss towards Zhukora, flipping around to show the girl his tail.
Zhukora ignored the man in stony silence. Her team flickered with energy like an extension of her own will, yearning for the signal to begin. Daimïru hovered at Zhukora’s tail where she belonged, following her leader in devoted silence. Zhukora looked over to her beloved friend and gave a savage smile, bringing Daimïru a dizzy breath of life.
The game of jiteng was a sacred ritual. The rules were deceptively simple; hoops were placed on poles at either end of a clearing, and a sparse group of trees provided cover and terrain. The players battled for possession of an irridescant ball, which could be caught and handled only by the player’s catching staves - sticks two tails long tipped with cups of woven wicker. The butt end of each staff ended in a densely padded tip, and any player struck in the head or torso by the staff was disqualified until the next goal had been scored. At the scoring of a goal, the “dead” team members were restored to play. Any players within ten spans of the ball were fair game for an attack. No player could leave the field without forfeiting their right to play.
The first team to score four goals was declared the winner; an arduous task that sometimes might take an hour to achieve. The rules were simple enough to be easily understood, and therefore widely open to interpretation. Like all things amongst the alpine Kashra, the game’s simple form had become a thing of complex subtlety; each match was treated as a unique piece of art.
For a thousand years the tribes had set aside the art of war. The age of battles had been deliberately removed from Kashran history; fighting and conflict were utterly unknown. Even the tales of the ancient wars had been forbidden.
Instead there was the game.
More than half the clan had come and watch the game. A hush fell across the audience as the umpire shook the ball out to be blessed by Father Wind. He muttered the obligatory prayer and whirled the ball inside his catching staff.
“Spread wings. Ball high!”
The umpire hurtled the ball into the air, and the two Rovers crashed together with a roar. The Orchids’ player snatched the ball and hurtled it safely back into his team, where Prakucha arrogantly claimed the prize and bellowed out in joy.
Zhukora clenched her fist and signalled the attack.
“Fork formation, Rovers high: Go! Go!”
The sky exploded into frenzy as Skull-Wings shot off in all directions. The Orchids blinked as a clear path to the goals suddenly opened up before them; they surged forwards in a ragged phalanx, each man desperate to outstrip his fellows in the all-out race towards the prize.
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Players screamed as black shapes thundered down onto them from above. Wings tore and armour cracked as Zhukora’s team blasted through the Orchids’ ranks. Prakucha laughed and dove away, leaving his men to deal with the attack. The flightpath to the goals lay open; he could score the point alone!
He never even saw the figure streaking at him from below. A staff hurtled up through the air to smack into Prakucha’s chest, then swooped smoothly back into Zhukora’s hand.
The Skull-Wings snatched the falling ball and speared for the goals. One player caught and passed, then another and another; the Orchid guards whirled in confusion. Slim and lithe, with blonde hair spilling out beneath her sinister helmet mask, Daimïru snatched the ball, then turned a somersault and hurtled the ball with demonic speed. With a triumphant howl the Skull-Wing team scored the first goal of the game.
Young villagers hammered wildly on the trees whilst older, wiser watchers sniffed contemptuously at the play. The umpire argued bitterly with Zhukora as Prakucha stalked back onto the field. He shot a killing glance towards Zhukora and then sullenly rejoined his team.
The argument with the umpire went on. While there was no rule against throwing a staff, the umpire pleaded with Zhukora to replay the point in the name of good sportsmanship. The Skull-Wings were hearing none of it; Zhukora gathered up her players and clawed back into the air.
Zhukora massaged the root of her left fore-wing where the injury from yesterday’s dive still bothered her. Down in the audience, the dancing girls had formed a cheer squad for the Skull-Wing team, and the women laughed and wheeled as the umpires shook the ball.
“Spread wings. Ball high!”