by Paul Kidd
In the morning, a nasty shock awaited them. The lake had somehow shriveled overnight. The water had dropped to an alarming level. Clearly a disaster was at hand!
The toads duly shuffled out to take their turns beside the banks. Each glanced suspiciously at his neighbour, suddenly noticing how sleek and fat he seemed. When each toad was sure that no one else could see, he swiftly took a gulp of water, desperate to snatch his share before the supply was gone.
It was a sour, hostile day. Toads rarely spoke to one another. Each creature glared at his companions and shot them dark, suspicious looks. In the evening each toad waddled down into his hole, so grossly swollen that they could scarcely squeeze in through the door.
Day by day, the lake shrank with terrifying speed. The toads forgot their rosters. Each creature simply shouldered his way down to the lake and sucked up all the water he could find. The lake dwindled away, wasted by the toads’ dreadful, selfish greed.
Finally the lake was dry. The toads were bloated up with stolen water. Each creature burrowed down into his hole and sealed shut the door, afraid the other toads might come to steal his horde. The toads sat in their burrows in smug, suspicious silence, thrilled that they alone were smart enough to survive the awful drought.
The lakebed dried and cracked. The water lilies withered up and blew away. There was only dust and silence - hot sun and stifling air. Soon there was no sign that the lovely lake had ever been…
The summer fled. Autumn flourished as the wet season came again. The rain fell at the appointed time, just as it always had since time began. Only this time there was a difference. The lovely lake had gone. Water poured down into the lakebed and simply drained away. It leaked out through the cracked, dry mud and turned the soil to dust. Other ponds began to grow, but the toads never came up from their holes to see.
Deep beneath the earth the toads still hid, oblivious to the world. They sat swollen up with jealousy, guarding their little treasures even when there was no longer any need. Though each toad had more than he could use, their selfishness had made them poor. No mud, no lake - no nice evenings paddling their feet in fellowship. Nothing but an empty life of greed.>>
Kefiru winced unhappily, stung by the moral to Shadarii’s tale. She came and kissed him warmly on the nose, then led him over to a strip of hard-baked mud. The other hunters gathered in amazement as Shadarii took a digging stick and opened up the earth, then plunged her hand into the dirt and hauled up a struggling prize. Before their startled eyes the girl held up an enormous bloated toad. Shadarii grinned and squeezed it to release a delicious drink of water. She drank half of the toad’s stores, smacking her lips as she stuffed the furious amphibian back into his lair.
Water! She had found water in the desert!
Shadarii read the ïsha waves and found the toads far beneath the ground. She led her followers to them one by one, showing them the places they should dig. Soon the little group was covered in a cloud of flying earth. The Pilgrims laughed as their prizes were hauled from the ground.
Shadarii sat and watched her children with a smile glowing on her face, then curled up beneath the dead accacia tree and quietly fell asleep.
***
Harïsh shot bolt upright in bed and blinked into the dark. Her chest heaved, and her fur was drenched in sweat. The household spirit writhed frantically in the air about her , desperately trying to drag her from her bed.
Keketál!
The girl flung herself into the sickroom. Keketál lay thrashing in delirium, dripping wet with sweat. He was burning hot to touch. The girl sobbed and desperately dragged the huge man out of bed.
“Mama! Papa! Quickly, wake up!”
Harïsh struggled to her feet, hauling Keketál with all her might across the cottage floor.
“Papa! Help me! Papa we need you!”
Her parents burst into the room; Harïsh wept as she tried to drag Keketál across the ground.
“It’s the wound! It’s infected inside him. You have to help me!”
No one moved. The girl ground her teeth and heaved with all her might.
“The river! Help me get him in the river, quickly!”
Suddenly Harïsh’s father pushed his daughter clear, then lifted the tall stranger up into his arms. Harïsh led the way down to the river, tears spilling unnoticed down her face.
They burst out onto the riverbanks. Totli-kana stared down at his daughter with his wise grey eyes.
“What now? Where must I take him?”
Harïsh hurtled her arms about Keketál’s body and dragged him down into the icy water, gasping as the cold stabbed through her like a knife. She had to get Keketál’s temperature down, even if it meant a massive shock to his body.
Harïsh tried to still the chattering of her teeth. She wiped her eyes and snapped an order to her brothers.
”Hochtli, Mixtli, fly! Go to the village of Circle-Tree and bring the master healer. Now! Go!”
The two boys saw the tears flashing in their sister’s eyes and sped off to do her bidding. Harïsh barely even saw them go.
“Mama, the healers will need hot water, blankets and boiled root bark from a wattle tree. Crush a green ant’s nest and save the juice.”
“I’ll fetch it, love.”
Harïsh wept and rocked her patient to and fro. His breathing eased as his temperature spiraled slowly down.
“Papa, I’m frightened! What if he dies?”
“Well it won’t be from you not trying to save him.” The old potter took a seat upon the bank. “Is it really worth such a fuss girl? If he’s dying anyway, it might be a kindness to let him slip away in peace…”
The girl clutched Keketál against her breast.
“He’ll live! Just you see! I’ll make him live.”
Her father gave a shrug and sat down to watch and wait. He dealt with the inquiries of his neighbours, explaining the reasons for disturbing their summers night. His daughter stayed relentlessly at her post, her blonde hair shining like a beacon in the dark.
The night dragged on with agonising slowness. Keketál’s breathing slowed and quietened against Harïsh’s breast, and soon he began to shiver with the cold. It felt hours had passed, and still the healers hadn’t come. Keketál muttered something in a weird lilting tongue; Shashashii? Shagarii? Harïsh simply couldn’t understand. He spoke to her, reaching out to touch her face with trembling hands.
His temperature could fall no lower without doing further harm. The wound must be opened up and drained immediately. There was no one else to do it; Harïsh calmly spoke towards the banks, calling out towards her audience.
“We’re taking him back inside. Get me a knife, a bowl and a hollow reed. Cloths and blankets - and someone powerful! I need someone to hold him.” She hitched Keketál’s face up beneath her arm. “Someone help me lift him on the shore.”
Men helped her lift him up the banks and then man-handled him back into Harïsh’s home. They dragged him close up by the fire and scampered clear to watch Harïsh at work.
The little potter’s girl allowed her mother to strip away her dripping dress and wrap her in a blanket, never once pausing as she saw to her patient’s needs.
“I need someone with power. There’s going to be blood. I don’t have the ïsha to control it.”
Lord Ingatïl, the village Speaker, knelt at Keketál’s head. She spared him a glance of gratitude before she turned back to her task.
She held a flint knife above his wound. A sour red scar gleamed against the poor man’s fur. Harïsh felt herself make ready; it was as though she were far away, watching someone else crouching dripping on the floor. Harïsh felt his pulse beneath her hands and simply knew what she must do.
“I love you!”
She pushed down hard and made the cut. Keketál arched as she drew a bright line of blood across his heaving flesh.
It hadn’t cut through!
Harïsh felt a wave of panic. Blood welled from the cut to spill through her steady fingers. The girl b
it back a surge of bile and carefully scored the flesh again. Suddenly she felt the muscle part, and something hot and filthy spurted up across her hands. A vile stench of pus sent her audience staggering in revulsion.
Sweet Rain! Keketál’s wound had festered deep beneath the skin. The girl scraped the abscess clean and flung the muck into a bowl. She squeezed and scrubbed, washing out the wound with extract of wattle bark.
A sudden commotion sounded at the door as a group of healers shoved the crowd aside. Two journeymen made to snatch Harïsh back from her patient, but the Master Healer held up his hand and stopped them in their tracks.
The girl was doing just fine by herself. The abscess had been swabbed fresh and clean. Harïsh tossed her knife into a bowl, her hands still strangely calm and steady.
“I don’t know what else to do. There’s no power in me. I cannot heal him further.”
The Master Healer gently helped her to her feet.
“We’ll take it now, my girl. All that’s left is to tidy up and work a trick or two. The real work is done.”
The tall old man led her out into the open air where dawn brushed crimson feathers against the dark horizon. Harïsh felt herself sit down upon a log as a blanket was gently laid about her shoulders. Harïsh looked out across the village rooves as though waking from a dream.
“Did I do right, Lord Healer? I didn’t know. Someone had to do something.”
“You saved his life. You committed yourself to the action that you felt was right. Tonight you discovered the gift of courage.”
“If-if I’d had the power. If I held enough magic I could have simply made a spell to make him right.”
“No, little one. Not with all that filth inside him. The knife and spell must work in partnership. Though your ïsha power is very small, your instincts mark you as a healer.”
The old man led the girl back inside and softly sat her down by Keketál. Two healing mages bent above the patient weaving shimmering fields of force. The Master healer felt Keketál’s brow and took his pulse; with a slow nod of satisfaction he wandered slowly over to see Harïsh’s parents. The potter and his wife bowed low before the nobleman.
“Totli-kana, Nurïman-kana, with your permission, we would like to train your daughter as a surgeon. She has the talent. She has the need. Any other future would leave her broken and unhappy.”
The potter looked up in alarm.
“But mighty lord, she is to be a potter like her father! We mean to wed her to the potters of another village!”
“You have two sons who can still be potters. The world will never lack for young girls to be wives. I say this maiden is something very special. Cherish the treasure that Rain and Wind have brought you.”
The two parents looked down towards their daughter. She sat with the stranger’s head cradled in her lap, staring down into his face in adoration. Totli-kana made to go and speak with her, but his wife put out her hand. The woman led the villagers from the room and left Harïsh at peace.
Harïsh never even noticed that they were gone.
Keketál opened up his eyes and ran his tongue across his lips. Harïsh gave him a sip of tea and carefully wiped his mouth as he reached out to touch her face.
“Harïsh…”
The nobleman smiled, falling down into a gentle, healing sleep.
Notes:
1) Quirt - A mnemonic aid based upon the alpine “music sticks”. Basically a stick whittled with marks, each mark representing a different message that the courier has leaned by rote.
2) The slings used by plainsfolk are used mostly by shepherds to drive Dingo dogs and wedge tailled eagles away from the flocks. A true marksman such as Harïsh will often wear three such weapons, each of different lengths and intended for use at different ranges.
Chapter Sixteen
As the wet seasons¹ waned and the days grew long, the Vakïdurii and Katakanii tribes drew together on their yearly route of march. The time had come for the great moth feasts high up in the mountains, where every year the bogong moths came flocking to the caves. Untold millions of them sheathed whole cliff faces with their furry bodies, and both tribes joined to feast upon the meaty morsels, growing fat and sleek on the delicious fluttering snacks. Trade took place and rituals were shared. For once mere tribes seemed slightly meaningless as brotherhood glowed deep within the trees.
Sixty thousand Kashra gathered by the caves. After months of starvation, the people drooled at the thought of stuffing themselves sick with meat. Zhukora looked upon the teeming peoples and knew her time drew near; power was about to tip into her hands, and all because of one tiny little thing. She looked towards the bogong caves and knew that she had won.
- For this year, there would be no moths.
Moths needed rain, and the trees were stiff and dry. Oh they would come - in weeks or days; Serpent could feel them slowly drawing near. But meanwhile bellies went empty and people grew angry. Once again the treeferns were butchered into starch. Frogs and water bugs were devoured by the enormous mob - even earthworms and woodlice seemed better than starvation. The commoners hungered side by side, Vakïdurii and Katakanii suffering together. The nobility and priesthood still lived in luxury by skimming off their tithes. The people watched their children starving and felt the anger growing in their hearts.
Time had finally played into Zhukora’s hands.
A vast, gangly spider blundered across a strip of bark. The hairy “huntsman” sprawled larger than an outstretched hand. It was flat and brown and ugly, with a face even its mother couldn’t love. The beast had an inordinate amount of trouble coordinating all eight legs; from time to time it would stop to take stock of its surroundings, as though counting up to see if all its limbs were there.
Down amongst the leaf litter, all seemed perfect with the huntsman’s world. The creature sat back to lay plans for another busy day, and a long pink tongue shot out between its fangs to clean its dainty feet. The spider wriggled with satisfaction as it basked in the morning sun.
“Mine!”
“No, mine!”
A hand lashed out to snatch the spider. The creature thrashed its spindly legs and tried to fight, unable to even bite its way to freedom.
“Mine! I saw it first!”
“You Katakanii offspring of a clam! T’is mine!”
Two scruffy little boys faced each other. Both were wild and skinny. The Katakanii and Vakïdurii children bared their fangs.
“Bugger off! I found it. I’m gonna eat it!”
“T’was mine! You stole me spider, you filthy pussball!”
“Maggot!”
“Shit eatin’ Katakanii!”
The Katakanii boy stooped and hurtled a rock, and the other boy instantly ducked the shot. With a squeal of fury he hurtled himself upon the other boy. They grabbed each other’s ears and fought a mighty battle in the dust.
The hapless spider landed on its back beneath a bush. It waved its clumsy legs, trying to make sense out of a topsy-turvy world. It was just beginning to grapple with the concepts of up and down when a pair of squealing giants crashed into the brush beside it. The spider flipped right side up and scuttled off as fast as it could go.
“Needle dick!”
“Thief! I’ll kill you!”
Suddenly the boys were hauled high into the air; both children blanched as they found themselves surrounded by lean, fantastic figures dressed in black.
A voice spoke - a low pitched female voice that seemed to carry all the majestic power of the Wind and Rain.
“Very well, who started this?”
The two boys stared in fear at a slender figure in the shadows. Light glittered from a pair of cobalt wings.
“Well boys? Has neither of you anything to say? Were you fighting over nothing?”
The woman shone like a figure from a dream. It was her - the lady of the skulls! The Vakïdurii boy jerked as her blue eyes pierced clean through his soul, reading his every secret, his every sin…
“T’wasn’t me
, milady. T’was him! I saw the spider first!”
“Hmmmm. Really?”
The boy wilted slowly.
“Uh - well we was together at the time. Takii’s my friend. But-but I saw it first!” The little waif miserably hung his little head. “I-I was hungry…”
Zhukora closed her eyes and ran a hand across her face. Her voice grew sharp with streaks of pain.
“Hungry for a spider? Hungry enough to kill for it? That’s what you both said, isn’t it. That you wanted to kill each other.”
Zhukora signed to Daimïru, and the other hunters let their captives go.
“If that’s what you really want, then here you are. Here’s my knife. Daimïru will give you another. You can hack each other up to your heart’s content, and all over a spider.”
The Katakanii boy whimpered as Daimïru pressed her knife into his hands. He dropped the weapon and scrubbed his palms against his fur.
“I didn’t mean it, honest! He’s my friend…” The boy scuffed his moccasins in shame. “I didn’t mean it. I was hungry is all. It’s all there is.”
“What does your father do, lad?”
“He’s a metalsmith, my lady. A good one!”
“Hmmmm - and what of you, my little Vakïdurii spitfire?”
“Me pa’s a hunter, ma’am! Only there’s nothing to hunt. All the animals is dead and gone, see?”