A Whisper of Wings Read online

  A Whisper of Wings

  A Novel by Paul Kidd

  © Copyright 1989, 1997, 2011 Paul Kidd

  [email protected]

  Chapter One

  Deep within the sighing forest, high up in the cold air of the mountains, there lay a world of ancient, eerie beauty. It was a world of hushed, still shade and velvet light; a world of towering trees. Earth and forest, Wind and Rain were bound forever in their calm, unhurried harmony.

  The forest made a blanket that wrapped the world in darkness. It was a place of sharp, clear water; of endless cool and soothing wet. The trunks of regal eucalyptus trees soared into a distant canopy, and beneath their trunks lush tree-ferns spread their fronds above the mould. Lorikeets drifted bright as flame far up above, while bellbirds made the hollows echo to pure, clean peals of sound. In the dark places, platypi crept into the streams while echidnas snuffled long soft noses through the fallen leaves.

  Something soft and beautiful slid silently above the ferns, slowly banking through the mists beside a waterfall. Fur rippled as a supple figure sank down beside the stream, and the young Kashra female peered about herself in awe. Her wings - huge orange butterfly wings that sang and flashed with colour - folded smoothly at her back. The girl sighed in wonder as she lost herself in the hypnotic beauty of the trees.

  The Kashran girl made a strange, fox-like figure framed against the ferns. She stood round and full of body, with heavy breasts and solid hips. Tall pointed ears framed a fox’s face, and green eyes shone as she turned her muzzle towards the delicious scents of trees and mist.

  The girl wore a simple skirt and halter made from tanned autumn leaves. Shadarii's fur glowed like orange flame in the subtle forest light, and a long bushy tail waved gracefully behind her rear. Curling red hair spilled down Shadarii's shoulders like a rush of liquid fire, and long, delicate antennae quivered at her brow.

  Shadarii drew softly closer to the waterfall, savouring the delicious kiss of mist across her fur. Her face craned up towards the swirling trees as she reached out to touch the presence in the depths that lay behind the shadows, her antennae shivering to the caress of unseen winds.

  Ïsha¹, the underlying soul that shaped the world; Shadarii felt it all about her as she merged into the flow. It radiated from the trees and from the water; it shone like brilliant jewels where the birds sang their songs. Shadarii sank into the currents and felt her spirit drink and heal.

  Shadarii spread out her hands in joy as something vast and powerful stirred behind the falls. An ancient awareness slowly surfaced from the deeps, swelling out to surge towards the enraptured Kashran² girl. The Ka spirit rose forth to caress her with its ghostly touch, filling Shadarii’s mind with the precious gift of peace.

  She was welcome, treasured, and the cool peace of the waterfall opened out to enfold her. Held safe and sound from prying eyes, Shadarii lost herself within her own private world. The sun was warm, the water sweet, and loneliness could sometimes be a soothing thing.

  Shadarii let her garments drop and stood gloriously naked in the morning sun, poised upon the water’s edge with a dancer’s easy grace. She sprang out across the water, her wings flipping out to swoop her though a lazy, twirling dive. There was a flash of fur, a splash of light. Plant souls streamed down to dance gleefully in Shadarii’s wake as the unseen beings of the forest rejoiced around their gentle Kashran friend.

  Shadarii: The silent one.

  The girl who had no voice.

  ***

  Far off in the forest, a wallaby sat cropping sweet new grass; a neat, bright little creature with a handsome black striped snout. The wallaby sat back on its great hind feet and scratched its fur, long ears twitching to a fly’s persistent buzz - the only irritation marring a perfect springtime day.

  Twelve spans away a deadly shape lay silently beneath the ferns; a shape as cruelly beautiful as an polished blade. Black fur shone like liquid night, sending icy highlights rippling as the watcher stole towards its prey.

  The girl’s slim body was an instrument of taut perfection. Streaming hair of purest black spilled down across her spine, half shading a sharp, thin face driven by the power of a pair of cruel blue eyes.

  She lay in utter silence, her long spear firmly nestled in its woomera¹ as she watched her victim graze.

  Something dark and wicked quivered in her spear. The Ka of a Tiger Cat had flowed into the weapon one dark night to make its home, and now the spirit chittered as it sensed the blood of living prey.

  The wallaby peered in suspicion at a distant patch of shrub. It began to sink back down to graze - paused - stood once more…

  The huntress threw, and her spearshaft flashed, jamming through the target’s squealing flesh. The wallaby hurtled back its head, coughing in surprise as a second spear transfixed it through the chest. It fell kicking on its side, writhing out its life in agony across the forest floor.

  “No!”

  The huntress sprang to her feet, snatching up her spears. She launched herself out across the clearing to crouch above the jerking corpse.

  “How dare you! This is my kill! Mine!”

  Her voice rang clear and magnificent even in her fury. The girl’s wings flashed iridescent blue as she posed defiantly across her prey.

  “Come out! Show yourself! Who’s the fool who thinks that he can steal from Zhukora?”

  Something languidly stirred high up in the trees. A huge, arrogantly handsome male sank to the ground and gazed at the angry huntress with bored, insolent eyes. Zhukora’s ears flattened as she recognised her foe; blue eyes glittering in her unforgiving face.

  Zhukora wore her hunting clothes with rakish style. To the Katakanii tribe, elegant simplicity was the highest form of art. Zhukora’s halter bared her throwing arm; long leggings and supple moccasins clung lovingly against her legs. Great butterfly wings framed her body - jet black and splayed with patterns of magnificent royal blue. She was slender as a coiling snake, and fully twice as deadly.

  By contrast, the intruder seemed merely indolent and bored. Vast, corded muscles were sheathed beneath a coat of thick red fur. His face was cultured and refined, dominated by a pair of insolent brown eyes. Like Zhukora he was a swallow-tail, his wings flaring out into florid, trailing fins.

  Zhukora finally broke the silence. The girl’s voice dripped with the venom of absolute dislike.

  “Go away, Prakucha-Zho*. My spear struck first; the kill is mine.”

  Prakucha was a noble

  like herself, and so Zhukora addressed the intruder with his formal title. She fixed him with her glorious eyes and speared him with her scorn.

  Her enemy felt her power and gave a cool, delighted smile.

  “Oh Zhukora-Ki! Always so full of fight. Must you be so absurd? Anyone can see that the kill belongs to me.”

  Prakucha used the ‘Ki’ endearment reserved for little children. Zhukora remained utterly unmoved. Long hair spilled down across one eye, shading the dangerous glint of female fury.

  “I say my spear took the beast.”

  Prakucha shook his head, as though explaining simplicities to a child.

  “And I say that mine was the weapon that struck first.”

  “Then that is a lie.”

  The male hunter clucked his tongue.

  “But I cannot lie! I am your superior. Are you challenging me? Me, a hunter of the upper tier? Oh Zhukora, do be reasonable.”

  A great flight of rainbow lorikeets came spilling through the sky, only to spill through the treetops and disappear as they caught the ïsha scent in the clearing down below. Suffused by a cold, slow fury, Zhukora’s fist clenched about her spear.

  “I name you thief! The clan assembly shall be the judge of this!”

  “Zhukora,
you are but twenty five summers old. No husband. Not even a lover! So who will the elders find in favour of? You or I?”

  Zhukora’s face went blank with shock. Was the man insane? Her jaw dropped open in astonishment.

  “You dare? I am Zhukora! I am the eldest daughter of Nochorku-Zha**! My father is the clan Lord!”

  “Oh Zhukora, the man is old! Already he can hardly cast his vote at council; when he has gone, who shall the Swallow-tails choose to be their lord? Their finest hunter, or an arrogant virgin girl?”

  The girl’s antennae rose.

  “I-I am his eldest! Mine is the right. Mine!”

  Prakucha looked down at the girl and laughed as though the world shone bright and new.

  “Ah Zhukora! To be so young. So very, very young…”

  Zhukora let her spear fall, and her enemy laughed at the expression on her face.

  A cry came from above; three figures swooped down onto the grass behind Zhukora, and a blonde female snapped into position at her side.

  The new girl hovered near Zhukora with an avid, protective air. Her fur was a golden honey brown - a mildly pleasing colour that merged with her dull brown wings. She had the watchful, predatory air of a hunting hawk, staring at Prakucha with a pair of wild black eyes.

  “What is it, leader? What is he doing here?”

  The group tightened defensively about Zhukora’s dominating presence. Prakucha sardonically raised a single eyebrow.

  “Your hunting companions are commoners? Oh Zhukora, how terribly quaint your notions are. No wonder the council despairs of your behaviour.” The massive hunter bowed mockingly towards the new arrivals. “Your hunt leader and I have had an enlightening conversation. I believe her thinking has become much clearer.”

  Prakucha clapped his hands together and approached the kill.

  “Well! This has been a pleasant interlude, but the day grows old. I really must be moving on.”

  Daimïru tensed and made to move; Zhukora made a tiny gesture with her hand, and the golden furred girl reluctantly subsided. The thief bent above the huddled corpse, a long dao axe/knife glittering in his hand. With an easy chop he hacked into the corpse’s skull, setting free the spirit of the prey. The little Ka wailed in disbelief, drifting aimlessly about the ferns in shock.

  The hunters all ignored it; no one made apologies to the spirit; no one gave the ritual gift of energy to soothe the creature’s soul. Prakucha tore out Zhukora’s angry spear, reclaiming his own weapon before swinging the corpse across his shoulder by the tail. With an airy gesture of his hand, the thief flew on his way.

  Zhukora stood completely still, her eyes ground shut in fury as she shivered, slowly drawing in her breath. The other hunters recognised the mood and wisely opted to stay silent. They retreated to the shadows, waiting for Zhukora to find her self control.

  Zhukora reeled with anger; a whole kill gone! A hunter’s status depended on their generosity. The meat could have been given to the poor, winning her praise around the fires. Instead Prakucha would bask in stolen glory. Zhukora clutched her skull and felt the hate stab through her brain.

  Prakucha! The old order, crouched across the forest like a spider in its web. The rules choked her every way she tried to turn; a whole future trapped by scheming bureaucrats. The girl snarled with rage, jerking as she dreamed of Prakucha’s throat bursting between her jaws.

  When Zhukora opened up her eyes, she seemed rigidly in control once more, and her voice shone falsely bright and brittle.

  “Thank you Daimïru. Thank you gentlemen. Let’s get on with hunting, shall we?”

  From a tree above, a fat green cicada began to buzz, its music almost loud enough to stun the ear. The sound filled the sudden silence as Zhukora’s hunters stared at the ground in shame.

  The youngest male - an iron smelter’s son - gripped at his dao in seething rage.

  “Zhukora, how long do we have to stand for this? Is it a crime just to be young? That kill was yours, leader! He knew it just as well as we!”

  “Then we shall find another! It’s only a dead wallaby.”

  The second male dug his spear into the sod.

  “It’s more than that. It’s an attitude! The whole tribe’s stagnant. Nothing changes! Everything’s choked by rules. It feels like-like slowly drowning under clay!”

  “The game’s drying up, too. There’s more people than there were last year. Something has to change. The old ways just aren’t enough any more.”

  Daimïru silently cleaned Zhukora’s bloody spear. She knelt and reverently placed the weapon back in her leader’s hands as Zhukora gave the males an icy stare.

  “The old ways are the only ways. There’s nothing you or I can do to change them.”

  The girl looked down at the patch of blood upon the ground.

  “Nothing.”

  Zhukora suddenly hurtled herself up into the air. With a hard glance at her companions, Daimïru snapped into place behind her leader’s tail. The other hunters hastened to follow in Zhukora’s wake, their wings whirring in the gloom.

  Far below, the wallaby Ka began to wail in fright. Fresh blood sparkled in the sunlight, glittering like jewels, and the Ka wept as the blowflies drifted down to feed.

  ***

  Leaves rustled as a hand stole around a fallen log, a vile yellow slug dangling from its elegant black fingers. Mucus bubbled as the slug writhed in indignation.

  A delicious tang of mischief quivered in the air, curling across the senses like an exquisite, wild perfume. Slowly, carefully, the hand dipped down towards a costume made of finest silk, and the fat slug dripped slowly down onto the clothes.

  The hand paused a single, precious moment in delight, the silent flourish of a true artiste at work, before fading back into the ferns.

  “Shadarii!”

  The hand gave a guilty jerk, and Shadarii’s head shot up out of the bracken.

  “Shadarii! Dozy wretch, now where have you gone?”

  The imperious voice pealed out across the clearing. Shadarii swiftly flitted from the scene of her crime, her gorgeous wings sweeping open to carry her across the forest floor. She alighted daintily in the middle of the clearing, her eyes lowered to avoid Mistress Traveesha’s baleful gaze.

  The Dancing Mistress stood glowering in a fog of dire humour, dismissing her with a quick sniff of her nose. The lean grey teacher turned back to address the other students.

  “Since we are finally all together, we shall begin. First cycle, second movement, and I shall expect better timing from you this time around!” The woman’s tail curled primly up behind her. “Shadarii, no more of these flighty innovations. The dance is prescribed exactly thus and so! You must not presume to improve upon works crafted by your betters. If you wish to be a Past-Holder, you will have to learn the dances in their perfect forms. Would you change history because you want your tail to the left instead of the the right? Fa girl!”

  A dozen maidens waited sourly around the clearing, all noblewomen training in the art of dance. Their carefully tended figures gleamed with svelte perfection, and Shadarii tugged her scruffy hair and slowly shied away; to seek friendship was to find rejection, and it seemed always best to keep well clear.

  Shadarii rarely missed the company. Who could be sad when the trees were oh so green? When the little tadpoles nosed along the streams, Shadarii felt at peace. Shadarii had known no loneliness; the forest world was hers to care for, and in return, it gave her love.

  To Shadarii, the role of Past-holder seemed a precious, holy thing, but to the other girls, it simply offered status in the clan. In a world that cried out for skillful artisans and hunters, a dancer was a rare and precious thing. Few families could afford to keep a daughter who provided no food for the lodge. A dancer never laboured, she never fished or wove or span; she became the ultimate status symbol, a creature devoted purely to the arts.

  For untold ages the Katakanii had nurtured their ancient, subtle culture. Theirs was a world of pure refinement, of exacting f
orms and carefully delineated structure. Every word and deed was measured to ancient formulae; as the treetrunks held aloft the forest roof, so tradition formed the bones of Katakanii life. Shadarii’s people hunted the rainforests for their food. They dug the tubers from the dark old soil and reaped the wild grains from the riversides. They were the Kashra, the folk of Father Wind and Mother Rain, timeless and unchanging.

  Tribal dancers preserved the stories of the past. Each tale had been recorded as a complex formal play. The centuries had refined the art into exquisite delicacy. To learn the Katakanii’s repertoire of ritual dance became the love-task of a lifetime.

  Shadarii burned with one shining, simple need. She sought to tap the wonder that she felt within her soul, and so she gave herself to the magic of her craft. When she danced, she felt set free into a world of beauty, and her supple body spoke the tales that her tongue could never tell.

  The dream of knowledge burned bright within Shadarii’s heart, and so she glumly suffered Mistress Traveesha’s scorn; for the sake of knowledge, Shadarii would endure.

  Mistress Traveesha paused in thought before sending her dancers scurrying off into the bushes.

  “Shadarii, you shall lead the chorus dancers. Javïra my dove, to your place! Everyone attend the cues and listen for the harmonies. Come along, the day is wasting!”

  Shadarii’s great orange wings flipped out to catch the ïsha, and she swirled high up into the air, taking her place in the branches of a silver eucalyptus tree. Far below her, the dance seemed ready to begin. Mistress Traveesha briskly flitted to the sidelines, and with a sharp clap of her hands she signalled the rehearsal to begin.