Walls of Wind
Part I
By
J. A. McLachlan
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
WALLS OF WIND, PART I
First edition. May 30, 2017.
Copyright © 2017 J. A. McLachlan.
Written by J. A. McLachlan.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Author’s Note
BEYOND THE WALL
COUNCIL RELATIONS
CHOICES
HUNT
Author’s Note
On a world in which each species has only one gender, the very concept of gender could not exist; therefore, there would only be one pronoun used for sentient beings. Unfortunately, the English neutral pronoun, “it”, has the effect of conferring object or animal status. Because there is no way to avoid gender classification without depersonalizing the characters, I have used the pronoun “he” throughout this novel; it is the more commonly used pronoun and will therefore be less intrusive.
BEYOND THE WALL
Briarris
I heard a low cough at our door. Of all the sounds on Wind, this was the one I was dreading. The window shutters were tightly latched so I could not see outside even if I had wanted to, but I knew what waited at our door.
Perhaps no one else had heard. I looked behind me. Even that slight movement brought on a wave of nausea. The hot, heavy air of stillseason sickened me despite the rotating fans overhead.
A second cough, louder, from behind the door. My sibling, Ocallis, emerged from the back room. He didn’t hurry to the door, but he didn’t hesitate. He looked at me as he passed and I grabbed his arm.
“Don’t open it,” I whispered.
“It’s Rukt’an.”
“He is Ghen.” I shuddered, feeling my nausea return. Ocallis laughed.
“Have you forgotten our last sight of Ghen?” I demanded, recalling the day we had sneaked down beyond the Ghen compound to watch them at their training. The growls and howls of their mock battle, the snap of vicious jaws and treacherous clash of spiked backs, the grip and rip of clawed fists, the slip of feet on dampened field... we fled in terror. I felt that same fear today.
“We aren’t going to battle,” Ocallis said.
I looked him in the eye and said no more.
A third cough sounded at our door. Matri hurried from the washing room, huffing at our rudeness as he passed us to open the door to Rukt’an. They stood there, swaying gently in unison so that each was the still point of the other’s vision, their hands moving in signs that were meaningless to all but them. They were beautiful together and they didn’t know it; some fundamental misunderstanding blinded them. I saw it for a moment, then it was gone and they were just Bria and Ghen once more, trying vainly to communicate.
Rukt’an extended and retracted his gruesome claws to complete the symbols our parent made with his longer, twice-jointed fingers. The Ghen larynx isn’t designed to issue the high-pitched notes Bria use to communicate. Nor could Bria utter the guttural grunts and sub-vocal clicks and sighs of Ghen speech, or distinguish words out of those sounds and half-sounds. It had taken most of the five years they lived together for our parent and Rukt’an to learn to speak together, using gestures and signs that they developed between themselves. Pointless, all of it. How could I have imagined anything beautiful in it, even for a moment?
Matri stepped aside and Rukt’an entered. Through the open doorway I could see our city, absolutely motionless. I would have to walk through that deathly stillness beside Rukt’an. I turned and ran for the washing room and threw up into the waste basin. I leaned over it, waiting in case there was more, and closed my eye. The Storyteller’s chant from my childhood came back to me:
Bria are often sick during stillseason. When the wind dies it takes with it the dance of slender trees and tall grasses. When the wind dies the billowing clouds disappear, leaving only the ghostly Sphere inert upon our sky. The fluttering streamers upon our buildings, lampposts, fences all hang limp and still. When the wind dies our single, unmoving eye loses perspective. The world flattens itself upon our retina in lines and colors like a drawing on a wall with only our own movement to give it substance. We stumble half-blind into our houses, groping to close window shutters and gulping in the fabricated breeze of our tightly-wound overhead fans. For one month every year the city must run itself. Street lamps hang still and dark while house lamps alone illuminate the city from dusk till dawn.
When the wind dies we are reminded that we must trust all things to the Creator Wind, who moves through our lives as invisible and as substantial as the wind.
I did not appreciate the reminder today.
Ocallis burst in on me. “Stop throwing up. It’s time to go.”
I opened my eye. “I don’t know why we have to live with Ghen.”
“You want to mate with a Ghen you don’t know? Without even being joined?”
My ears twitched with embarrassment. “No,” I said quickly. “It’s just... pointless to have to live together a full year before we mate.”
“It is civilized.”
“It isn’t civilized; it’s expedient. A trade, nothing more.”
“A trade without which neither Ghen nor Bria can survive.”
“I know my duty.” But I don’t have to like it, I thought, staring down into the bowl of vomit.
“Why do you dislike Ghen so much?”
“I don’t trust them.”
“So don’t come. You don’t have to be joined if you don’t want to.” His scornful voice stung me. I looked up at him, leaning against the wall, as beautiful and self-possessed as the mythical Dayannis.
“What if there are Broghen?” I said, to rattle him. Stories of the mythical Broghen, Ghen-like but born of Bria—huge, mindless, devouring monsters—are so deeply embedded in both our species’ barbarous pasts that at one time Bria refused to mate altogether. Until the Wind spoke to Dayannis, womb-parent of our races, bidding him to join with Heckt’ur, the mightiest and wisest of Ghen. According to the story Dayannis bore no Broghen, but the customary two Bria and single Ghen, and every Bria since has done the same.
Ocallis laughed at my barb. He was my twin in appearance, but unlike me he was eager to join with a Ghen for future mating.
“Even if there really were Broghen,” he replied, “I would take the risk in order to have children.” He meant it, and I was grudgingly impressed. If there had been a real Dayannis, he would have been much like my sibling.
“I want to carry my Ghen mate’s child as well as my own,” he continued. “Don’t look so shocked. It’s not as though I’m going to exchange my fur for scales, or puff up twice my size, or grow a second eye, a heavy jaw, a set of claws...”
I threw up again. Above the sound of my retching, I heard Ocallis laughing.
That is the last of that, I thought. I stood up, wiping my mouth with finality.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“You know I have to be joined to sit on Council.” I washed my hands in the water basin.
“There are other careers.”
“Not for me.”
I swept out of the washing room, passed Matri without a word, opened the door and walked outside. Rukt’an followed me at once. We waited for Ocallis, who doubtless remembered to blow gently on Matri’s face and receive his breath in return before stepping into adulthood.
I would have gone back to do so also, but wasn’t certain I could force myself outside again. If I had not already thrown up, I would have done so now. Ocallis, when he reached us, looked equally ill. We stumbled forward, each of us clutching convulsively to one of Rukt’an’s a
rms, trying to deny with our minds the message of our confused, disoriented eye, trusting that Rukt’an would not let us walk into the trees, buildings and lampposts that reared at sudden angles as we moved and receded, step by halting step, immediately before us.
I had never been outside in stillseason. My skin itched and sweated with the weight of my fur in the hot, still air. I gulped for breath, my lungs laboring to suck in the oxygen that normally blew freely into my nostrils with the friendly wind. Eventually I closed my eye, having to depend on Rukt’an anyway, and the nausea receded, allowing me to concentrate on breathing.
By the time we reached Festival Hall I was dizzy and disoriented, ready to surrender myself to the first Ghen who approached me and hating myself for my weakness.
Rukt’an opened the door. A gust of air blew across my face. I gasped in pleasure. Even so I hesitated, while Ocallis marched in boldly. It takes more strength to do what you must than to do what you wish, even when the task is equal. I forced myself to enter.
Rukt’an led us to two of the chairs that circled the huge hall. They were Bria chairs, slender and softly padded, with high, straight backs to lean against and armrests at both sides. I saw only a few of the solid, backless Ghen stools with their single armrest attached to the left side (as though a Ghen must always be ready to reach for his hunting knife!) The few I saw were unoccupied; Ghen are more comfortable standing.
Ocallis and I sank into the chairs, crossing our legs modestly and drinking in the fan-blown air, blinking in relief at the dance of streamers from every wall and every handspan of the ceiling. We stole quick glances at the throng of Ghen swaying or walking in courteous, continuous movement about the hall. Half of them were our age, six years; the other half were five or six years older, here for their second joining. At least Bria only have to go through this once.
Ghen music filled the room and already a few Bria had risen to sway to its hypnotic rhythm. I saw one or two Ghen watching me, taking in the delicate planes of my high cheeks and narrow nose, my wide blue eye and sleek, blond fur. I tapped my left foot, a nervous habit, until I noticed several Ghen turn to stare at the rhythmic movement of my long blond thigh. I stopped tapping at once, feeling the heat of embarrassment rush over my face, dilating my eye...Merciful Wind, this just got worse! The Ghen nearby were all staring at me now. For once I was grateful not to be able to read their expressions. I looked away, and saw the door, and considered it...
A low guttural voice made me look back. He was small for a Ghen, not much taller than me. He was looking at the other Ghen, who at his words stopped staring at me and moved away, as though he had reprimanded them. Of course this was a foolish notion, but I was glad, nonetheless, to be left alone. I watched him thoughtfully, but he didn’t so much as glance my way.
I tried to regain my composure but like all Bria I was thrown off-kilter by stillseason and the strong mating scent being emitted by the unjoined Ghen. Most were nearly two heads taller than any Bria and their heavy, gray scales only emphasized the cords of muscle that bulged on their legs and across their stocky bodies. I rose and walked among them, feeling as fragile as crystal between rock, keeping as much distance as possible in the crowded room.
I don’t like feeling diminished. Annoyance began to overcome my timidity, followed by a familiar, grim resolve. Then I saw what I was looking for.
He was standing in a corner, talking with another Ghen. The two of them were so intent upon their conversation they were barely moving, and had forgot to look for potential mates. In one it was self-assurance. He was tall even among Ghen, as solid as a house, as casual as though he knew he could turn and choose any Bria in the room. His confidence was compelling. He was a natural leader, I felt it even where I stood.
The other Ghen was small, about my height; muscular as all Ghen are, but less certain. He spoke earnestly, punctuating with large gestures the guttural sounds that came from his throat, but there was a hesitancy about his stance, a diffidence in his refusal to look about the room. I glanced back to where Ocallis sat, looking at the roomful of Ghen and biting his delicate underlip in indecision.
I crossed the room toward him and told him that I’d found the best of the Ghen, but he must choose between us. Ocallis laughed softly.
“If you wanted him, Briarris, you wouldn’t let him see me.”
“Better he see you now than later, and regret his choice,” I said. “Capture his attention and then let him choose.”
Laughing still, Ocallis headed where I’d pointed, swaying in satisfaction when he saw him. Ocallis moved sideways, then closed in at an angle, never again glancing at the two conversing Ghen but stopping where they would catch Ocallis’s profile, where the gentle movement of Ocallis’s long legs could not help but distract them from their conversation. Seeing his purpose, I stepped forward, my back toward the conversing Ghen, preventing other Ghen who quickly gathered around from obstructing their line of vision. Ocallis continued to move with the music but slowly, languorously, arching his ears with interest at the Ghen who eagerly approached him, accepting from one a drink, from another a small appetizer, showing delight at its wild flavor, even reaching delicately for a second.
When the large Ghen broke off his conversation, Ocallis’s ear twitched almost unnoticeably. When he approached, Ocallis barely stopped himself from preening. The Ghen stood quite close, just out of Ocallis’s range of vision, watching him intently, waiting for him to turn. Ocallis ignored him.
At that, the large Ghen grimaced in laughter, and then Ocallis cocked his head, looked sideways at him, bright-eyed with amusement. Holding his gaze, Ocallis reached sideways to the tray of appetizers, lifted one to his open mouth and slowly bit down into its juicy center.
The Ghen stopped laughing and took Ocallis’s hand but Ocallis withdrew it and beckoned to me as he had promised. I turned, almost holding my breath as the Ghen looked at the two of us standing side by side. Then he called something over his shoulder to his friend. I let my breath out slowly.
Was he calling the smaller Ghen because he offered no competition, or because he was worth more than he appeared? Who could fathom a Ghen? Igt’ur shuffled forward looking awkward, even a little frightened. Igt’ur, who would never have approached me, the second prettiest Bria in the room; who would surely have noticed me turning down Ghen after Ghen until only he was left, but who now knew only that I gave a slow blink as though to say “what difference?” and let him take my hand.
We presented ourselves to Council Chair and Chair Ghen, who stood within an arch of fluttering streamers beneath the most powerful fan in the room. Our names were recorded in both Bria and Ghen registries and we were assigned a co-joining pair. Then Council Chair said, “May the Wind blow over you and strengthen you and make your joining fruitful.” Chair Ghen grunted something to Igt’ur and Mant’er, Ocallis’s chosen Ghen. In my mind I translated it as “mate quickly and serve the Ghen again soon.”
Igt’ur should then have led me to the new house I was to share with him. I watched as he went to Rukt’an for directions and knew that I had chosen well when he accepted what Rukt’an had to tell him.
Then Rukt’an helped me to my new adult home. Had Igt’ur insisted on his rights I would have refused him after all, rather than let him see me blind and helpless in the streets of my city.
By the time Igt’ur arrived, pulling the cart of his belongings, I had wound the overhead fan and mastered my nausea enough to arrange my things about the house. Its door was on the south wall, which meant the two main windows faced east and west. The more expensive homes were on adjacent streets, with windows opening to admit the stronger north winds.
It was an older house, and modest, as befit a councilor. It had seen thirty stillseasons already. I hoped by the time I was a senior councilor, I could have it torn down and rebuilt in a more modern style. I’d thought of moving into one of the new developments down-peninsula, near the Symba River, but this location was more convenient to Council Hall.
My house had only two interior walls, one dividing the large front room from the two smaller rooms behind, and another between the room for washing and elimination, and the room where our children would one day sleep. I decided to hang my lifedance on the long front wall, where the brightly-dyed strips of cloth could flutter in the breeze.
I was standing on a chair, pounding a spike high up into the wall dividing the main room from the back two, when I heard a quiet cough at the door. I continued pounding, a little louder, until I was satisfied. Then I stepped down and reached for my lifedance. Again the cough.
I mounted the chair and placed over the spike the taut rope stretching from end to end of the four-handspan-long pole that held the fabric wallhanging—similar to a work of fabric art, but no one would call a lifedance art; especially not in front of a real fabric artist.
My lifedance, like my life, was only one-third finished and hung at an angle until I slung over the unfinished end the two cloth pouches, loaded with pebbles and joined by a length of rope, to balance it. Just before stillseason I’d added, beside the long, narrow strips of fabric that represented my childhood, a strip of gray to represent my joining with a Ghen, and beside it a deep russet piece, the color of my first cappa-wood house with its bright, sap-oil finish. I adjusted the pouches, removing a pebble from each, until I was satisfied that my lifedance hung straight.
My parent had begun my lifedance for me, sewing on the first long, slender strip of fabric, the color of his pelt; beside it a gray, the shade of the Ghen that quickened my seed in my parent’s womb; and beside that, a tawny blond that matched my own pelt, with a second the same color beside it to represent Ocallis. Up to this point, our lifedances were the same.
There were half a dozen more strips from my early youth—dark, ruberry red for the time I ate myself sick in a patch that was barely ripe, a bright turquoise-blue for the time I fell into the Symba, and beside it an exquisite piece, eggshell-beige delicately speckled with a deep russet. I’d gone with my matri to pick the turquoise strip the day after the river incident, and fallen in love with the speckled fabric.
Walls of Wind I Page 1