by Paul Kidd
Shadarii; a message of three parts.
When an artist created a rockpainting of a story, they made a simple representation of each object they depicted. Could an abstract word be shown in much the same way? What if words could be made into pictures? What if one day Shadarii could paint her words for everyone to see? Finally she would have her voice!
So if one… one simply tried to paint a sentence like a story is painted on a rock, what then?
An object seemed fairly simple to depict. If you needed to say “rock”, then a rock could be drawn on the bark; but what about an action? Running? Flying? Difficult, but possible…
- What about something truly abstract and unseen? What about an emotion or a name?
Shadii-Dalu-rïkra. Precious gift of love. How do you draw a picture of love? Two partners joining in the bed? Surely not! “Precious gift of sex”? Hardly a name one wanted to be stuck with - Although perhaps Javïra…
Bah! The problem still remained. How? How to show it? Shadarii scratched her pretty nose and frowned; there was an idea almost forming in her mind. Almost but not quite…
Bah!
It wasn’t working. There were too many indefinable words. Just thinking through a list of peoples names made her brain whirl. Shadarii, Zhukora, Nochorku… Who could possibly find a way to turn them each into pictures? What use was a sentence made only of things and objects?
Damn!
Shadarii had a dream - a dream of knowledge being held and cherished like a treasure. Day by day an untold wealth was lost! Each old man who died took with him a thousand stories. Every grumbling old woman owned a store of cranky wisdom. If it could only be captured. If there were some way other than ritual dancing, something that could be stored and kept in a single form without endless reinterpretation…
“Shadarii!”
Little Kïtashii stood on the banks, her silver fur covered by a patched and faded set of clothes.
“Shadarii, the council says we must all help gather food in the gardens!”
Oh? Shadarii spread her wings and rode the smooth, soft ïsha currents of the river, swooping down to land beside the skinny little girl. Shadarii let herself be led up into the trees to where the forest was being stripped back to the bone.
The Swallow-tails were desperate for food. Guests were coming, and the garden groves had already been plundered bare. Even the seed stocks had been eaten; the trees were stripped of fruit, the yams were dug and the nuts all picked. Hundreds of women splashed in the river harvesting bullrush roots while men hauled angrily at empty fish traps. Every last scrap of food had been combed out of the forest, and still it wouldn’t be enough.
There were more people in the clan than in the year before. Ten years of good weather had increased the forest’s yield, and the population had expanded to match nature’s bounty. Now the price was being paid; a single average year had triggered off a famine.
For the moment, the forest was overrun with frantic furry shapes. All around Shadarii, teams of women laboured in the undergrowth, grubbing in the mud for yams. Men split treeferns to reach their tasty pith, making the forest ring to the sound of hundreds of blades. It was ugly and destructive, and Shadarii looked on their works with disquiet. Treefern pith was tasty, but what of next year? It took seven years for a treefern to grow. Every fern around the village would soon be gone! Surely the elders had a plan?
There was real hunger here; babies wailed while hard-faced women tore into the dirt with digging sticks. Shadarii’s tail fell. While the nobles had dined off meat and honey, the commoners had made do with pounded seeds and stringy roots. No commoner would ever lower themselves and complain.
But still, Shadarii saw…
Shadarii smiled as the women gave her welcome. She was often here, healing plants or sniffing out wild berries for the children. She had an uncanny talent for divining hidden tubers and nests of tasty ants. Within minutes she was swiftly burrowing through the soil, forming an impressive pile of roots behind her. A dozen other women followed her, trusting her antennae to find the food their eyes had missed.
Mistress Traveesha’s dancing class came trooping down into the grove, the haughty faces of the girls soured by ill humour. They had clearly been dragooned into the workforce, and gardeners smirked and hooted as the dancers wandered past.
Shadarii wiped a muddy hand across her face and grinned as Javïra minced fastidiously through the ferns. Her fine white fur had been freshly preened and scented - her skimpy clothes were carefully arranged. Javïra watched in horror as laughing gardeners tossed each other fresh dug grubs and muddy roots.
Mistress Traveesha wore a painfully understanding expression.
“Alright girls! Now we must all pitch in if there’s to be enough food for the ceremonies. We must show that in these hard times we can all cooperate together, eh? So chins up! Everything will be alright as long as we all keep smiling!”
With these stalwart words of wisdom she left her students to their own devices, hurrying home to a hard earned cup of tea.
The leader of the nearest digging group sniffed and wiped her hands, eying her new workforce with a professional gaze.
“Alright me precious lovelies! If your ladyships would be so kind as to step this way, I’m sure we can accommodate you. There’s digging sticks down on the mat and baskets by the trees. I’d suggest you take your off your jewelry and dump it over there.”
Srïhooni’s elegant figure cringed back from the dirt.
“How do we… I mean…”
The Gardener gave a derisive snort as one huge hand curtly beckoned to Shadarii.
“Hey copper-locks! You’re one of ‘em! Take our precious ladyships and how ‘em how it’s done.”
Shadarii had no wish to be anywhere near the other dancers; since she had been away from their company she had felt better every day. With a curt swish of her tail she fluttered off into the trees, and one by one the other dancers followed, their wings daintily carrying them high above the grime.
Digging stick in hand, Shadarii demonstrated the heady skill of excavation. Like all things, collecting yams involved a ritual; a tiny piece of tuber was left attached to the root stalk of the plant, ensuring that there would be a new yam to collect next year. Shadarii soothed the angry little plant Ka with a caress of energy, thanking the little creature for its precious gift of food.
Easy!
She flipped the root into the basket and silently indicated other yam plants lurking in the brush. The dancing girls fell to their work with astonishing ill grace.
“Ow! I broke a nail!”
“Get off my tail!”
“My nail! Skreg it, it’s ruined!”
Slowly and painfully, yams were yanked out of the dirt. Most girls dug vast trenches to find a tiny bulb of root. Shadarii quietly dug up three yams to the other dancers’ one. She diligently soothed the offended plants, taking the time to heal the few that seemed sick or old.
Javïra stared at her, and the look within her eyes seemed strangely disturbing. She jammed her stick into the dirt as though stabbing into someone’s heart. Shadarii ignored her and let her mind wander off into her private dreams.
Eyes. Brown eyes that sang with wonder, and one, sweet, perfect kiss…
Srïhoonii tugged unhappily at a root and slung it in her basket.
“What’s up with fatzo? What’s she got to smile about?”
Javïra jerked a root and hissed in spite.
“She thinks it’s funny, don’t you Shadarii! You like laughing at us, eh?”
Shadarii never even heard; she stared serenely off into the air, her hands delving down to coax another tuber from the earth. Javïra bared her fangs in hate and went back to her digging. She planted both feet in her hole and threw her weight against a stubborn piece of root.
“Awk!”
The plant pulled free in a rush of dirt, and Javïra hurtled back with a squawk. The other girls laughed as she struggled upright with a tiny yam held in one hand. Javïra th
rew the root into the bushes and shrieked in hate. She saw Shadarii smiling quietly in one corner and slammed her fist against the ground.
“Don’t you smile at me you freak! Don’t you dare smile at me!”
Shadarii looked resentfully at Javïra and turned back to her digging. Javïra hissed and threw a dirt clod at her foe, and the lump struck Shadarii on the shoulder with a cruel thump.
“You think you can smile at me, eh? Well go on! Smile!”
Shadarii’s ears went flat, but she kept on with her work. Javïra groped for ammunition, suddenly the centre of attention.
“Hey you! Hey cripple! I’m talking to you!”
Another dirt clod flew; Shadarii winced as it crashed into her side. She ground her teeth and closed her eyes, refusing to react.
“Do you like it? Do you like the dirt?” More earth showered Shadarii’s hair. “Go on! Here’s some more! Grovel in the dirt!”
One of the other dancers scowled unhappily.
“Uh - hey Javïra…”
Javïra was enjoying herself; her spiteful face sneered in triumph as another lump of dirt shot through the air.
“Go on, Shadarii. Why don’t you ask me to stop? Just open up your mouth and say it!”
Shadarii stood up to leave, her fists clenched and her face rigidly controlled. She began to stalk slowly down the hillside.
A dirt clod smacked against Shadarii’s skull. Shadarii hunched, filth spattering from her shoulders, then stood very, very still…
“Go on Shadarii! What are you going to do about it? Get you boyfriend to protect you? But you don’t have a boyfriend, do you? You don’t have anybody! No one’s ever going to touch you, because no one’s ever going to love a…!”
Shadarii whirled. Javïra’s fangs flashed in victory; she had seen the sudden pain and terror in Shadarii’s eyes.
“Is that what you want, Shadarii? You want it, eh? You want it! You want somebody to…”
Suddenly the air filled with slashing wings. Javïra screamed as Shadarii flew at her in rage. Fur tore and hair ripped as the women tore each other into shreds. The Gardeners threw down their tools and raced up to the scene as Srïhoonii wept in fright.
“Stop them! Somebody stop them!”
The chief Gardener’s teeth were set in a wild grin of delight.
“Leave ‘em! I bet three yams on the fat red one!”
The two girls brought no science to their fight, no clever moves or planning; it was simply an explosion of hate. They kicked and rolled across the dirt. Javïra yanked and tore out a fistful of Shadarii’s hair, but the fatter girl wasted no time on causing minor injuries. She bit and clawed, blood bursting out between her fangs as she sank them in Javïra’s arse.
“Shit! Get her off her! Get her off!”
“She’s killing her!”
“Poison, stop her!”
Hands tried to drag the girls apart. Shadarii clawed back to her victim, sinking in another vicious slash.
“Shadarii! Shadarii, no!”
“Stop it! You’ve won! Shadarii, stop it!”
Strong arms dragged the girls apart. Javïra looked like she had been mauled by angry crocodiles. Girls ran to tend her, gently lifting up her battered, bloodied head. A dancer looked up in horror at Shadarii.
“She’s mad. The girl’s insane!”
“Oh emu shit!” The old Gardener spat at Javïra’s face. “It’s only what the skeg deserved. I saw what she was doing! She’s got just what she was asking for.” The burly woman put an arm about Shadarii’s shaking shoulders. “Come on love. We’ll clean you up a bit, eh? Well done! You showed ‘em a thing or two for once eh?”
Dazed and shaken, Shadarii let herself be led away. Javïra somehow managed to raise her head, spitting blood past a newly broken tooth.
“Bitch! I’ll k-kill her! You just see!”
Srïhoonii stared down at Javïra in distaste.
“You’ve done quite enough for one day! I hope you’re proud of yourself!”
Javïra’s lips bled.
“Y-you see? I-I told you the bitch was dangerous!”
“Shut up, Javïra!” Srïhoonii curtly signed to the other girls. “Come on. Let’s get her home.”
Notes:
1) “Fists of years: Alpine custom for counting numbers counts all five fingers on the right hand, and then the wrist, forearm, elbow, upper arm and shoulder and so on down the other arm. This allows ten numbers to be tallied for each arm. A “fist” is made when the last finger is closed when reaching the number twenty.
Thus if a hunter touched her left forearm to indicate a number, she would be signaling the number fourteen. A touch of the right shoulder would be ten, etc. A “fist of fists” = Twenty times twenty.
Chapter Five
A kookaburra whirred through the air to land upon a treebranch. It was a fine fat bird with plumage like a moulting feather duster. The creature cocked his head and rolled its eyes, sniffing eagerly for the scent of fun. He stropped his beak and sat back to watch the entertainment far below.
“Pass drill seven! Even numbers, go!”
A confused mass of figures lurched into action above the meadow. The jiteng players were a gorgeous sight against the shifting forest leaves; with their bright blue armour and their whirring wings, the “Superb Blue Wrens” made a brave show in the streaming forest light.
A ball flashed up through the air. Kotaru made the catch and tore off towards the goals while the other players dutifully wove up in support. They were tired and they were hungry; here and there a figure lagged unhappily behind. Nonetheless the unit stormed forward with grim determination. Kotaru looked back across his shoulder and felt a surge of pride.
It was time to see how much the weeks of training had achieved. Kotaru punched the ball back towards the pack, grinning as two figures streaked to snare the prize. They used a perfect double-pronged assault, one to snare the ball, and one to cover the catcher’s tail. The two players streaked down with the lethal grace of stooping hawks, wind streaming through their fur.
High above, another Wren hurtled herself down towards the narrowing gap between the other catchers. Kotaru squawked in shock and flung his hands across his eyes.
“Mrrimïmei - No!”
All three players smacked together with a titanic crash, ploughing through the daisy bushes in a tangled heap of limbs. With an awful grinding sound the whole heap slowly tumbled to a halt. The ball dropped down to thud atop one player’s upturned rump.
The air split with a raucous howl of laughter as the kookaburra whooped with glee. Kotaru ignored the beast and swooped down to the aid of the injured players.
“Totoru! Tingtraka! Mrrimïmei!” Kotaru lifted a girl from the top level of the pile. “Mrrimïmei, speak to me!”
Kotaru’s star catchers moaned beneath the remnants of the daisy bush. Players wearily hauled the victims to their feet and dragged them off towards the water buckets. Kotaru sighed and watched them go, failure weighing heavily on his heart.
Mrrimïmei still sat amongst the ruined daisies. The girl wept silently, her face twisted up in shame. Thin shoulders shook as Mrrimïmei scrubbed furiously at her eyes.
“I tried! I r-really tried! I only w-wanted to… to…” The girl gave up and hurtled her helmet to the ground. “Everythin’ always goes wrong! Why can’t I ever do anythin’ right?”
“Oh Mrrimïmei…”
Kotaru sat down on the ground beside her while the girl shed tears of frustration. What should he do? Kotaru simply had no idea.
His new jiteng team had surprised him. Strangely enough, they all really seemed to like him. It was a nice kind of feeling. He trusted them, and for some reason they seemed anxious to please him. He had intended to be their leader, and instead he had somehow ended up their friend. Kotaru felt that he had found the richer path.
The memory of her still glowed within him like a fire. The vision of the girl who had rescued him hung bright before his eyes. Kotaru felt the thrill of it; the sure ce
rtainty that they would meet again!
He was captain of the Wrens. If the Wrens could win the tribal games, the King had said they would be sent against the Katakanii.
One simple win, and then they would travel to the Katakanii lands, where She would be there waiting for him, her eyes as bright and green as forest jewels. They would laugh and talk - really talk at last! He would make a song for her, and she would fill the air with the magic of her voice.
His mind whirled dizzily down from the heights of his imagination; for now, reality lay here amongst the daisies. Mrrimïmei snivelled unhappily beside him. Kotaru supposed he should be angry; Mrrimïmei was petulant and rash, but she always tried so hard…
“T’is alright, Mrrimïmei. T’weren’t your fault. We simply made a few mistakes is all. We’re still new to it.”
The girl wailed in misery.
“It was my fault. It was! I tried! I really tried…” The girl sobbed, reeling with fatigue. “I always ruin everything!”
Her nerves were worn to a ruin. Mrrimïmei was a nice girl who simply lacked all confidence in herself. She almost seemed to cause her own accidents, as if accidents gave her an excuse to stop trying. A reason to halt before she could be forced to put her abilities to the test…
Inspiration! Treat the cause and heal the symptom; to stop Mrrimïmei’s accidents, she must be given confidence. The thought seemed so simple it was positively warming. Kotaru gave the girl a hearty shake and smile.