Jo Clayton - Shadowkill

Stripped to his dry rough hide, Kikun strolled away from the cluster of buildings and walked along the ruts to the wharf. Shadith looked at him, found herself looking away, forgetting him, looking back, startled each time she saw him. His hands were empty, he had no weapon, nothing visible anyway. She looked away again, forgetting him again as she heard yells of anger and disgust, then a rattle of shots from the largest of the crumbling warehouses.

Shadith lifted the stunner, waited.

In the boat, Kikun slid behind the driver; as the kana jerked away, the sauroid took his helmeted head into an enveloping embrace, twisted sharply. With a continuation of the neck whip, Kikun flipped the local into the river on the shore side, used a boathook to shove the body under the wharf where it got hung up among the rotting piles.

Kizra dropped beside Tinoopa.

The woman touched her arm in greeting but said nothing. Like the Jili, she knew when to keep her head down.

The women sat and waited. No one spoke.

The curtains were pulled back from the windows and moonlight streamed in to fight with the candles. Shadows flickered over the faces of the women and the silent girls.

Clouds were blowing in, rapidly thickening and there was a dampness in the wind that howled around the towers, rattled the diamond panes and crept through the cracks; it promised a storm before the night was over.

Matja Allina opened her eyes and sat up. “Kizra.” She cleared her throat. “Play. Something light. Quiet.” She closed her eyes and sank back.

Kizra rested the arranga on her knees, tested the strings, then went with meticulous care through the complex process of tuning though she could see that the jagged disconnected sounds were setting the women’s teeth on edge.

Shadith inspected the fingernail she’d glued on to replace the broken one, then swept her hand along the harp strings.

Happiness came by me again

(clap your hands, oh yes oh yes)

Yesterday

(clap your hands, my dears)

He wouldn’t stay

I wrapped him in my arms

Displayed my charms

Like smoke he slipped away

She played a lively tune, brought them onto their feet swaying and clapping a counterrhythm.

Sorrow came by me again

(clap your hands, o softly softly)

And stayed a while

(clap your hands, my dears)

To caress and beguile

Bittersweet

Is better neat

And tastier

Than honey

I would not let him go

But he faded so

Like smoke he blew away.

dancing in the drafts.

When she finished, she thought a moment, then let her fingers walk the strings in a simple tune that slipped without thought from dreamtime, maybe from her past. It was a happy tune with a tinkly, spritely lilt to it. There were words, but not in the Irrkuyon langue. She played the tune and played with the words; translation was useless, but maybe she could… Yes. Section by section. She smiled, a dreamy inward smile. It wouldn’t be elegant, her rendition, but maybe amusing. Considering the situation. Why not. “Step easy, Stepchild,” she sang…

Step easy, Stepchild

Watch where you walkin

It’s wolfdays, Stepchild

Bourghies in your garden

Humming along with the tune her fingers were elaborating, she considered the second section.

Stoop swiftly, Gyrfalcon

Your Eyases are shriekin

It’s catdays, Gyrfalcon

Pussy on the pantiles

Kizra stopped singing and whistled softly along with the arranga. Yla was leaning against the Jili’s knee, tearstreaks drying on her face. She was good at whistling and proud of it; she tapped her fingers a moment to catch the rhythm, then whistled with Kizra, the sound flowing like water from her, flute song melting into the more abrupt arranga tones.

Step easy, Stepchild

Wasps are in your willows

It’s rage days, Stepchild

Stingers pricking wild

Go grimly, Grimalkin

Your kittens cry for dinner

It’s hunger days, Grimalkin

Famine in the straw

Ingva couldn’t whistle, but there was a tradition of nonsense syllables in the Irrkuy women’s culture; she caught up the rhythm and blended her voice with Yla’s whistle. “Ba ba vay ba lay la vah,” she sang…

The song went on and on, blending the Stepchild’s story with the beasts around her/him, some verses translating more successfully than others, some more surreal, some more pedestrian, but it did the job the Matja wanted, took their minds off the danger stewing below them.

The air shook and the brightening day turned suddenly dark as a vast blanket of sleds filled the sky over them, flying low enough to brush the fronds of the lower trees.

Cutter beams slashed through the foliage, churned the mud, boiled the water around them, bracketing them, missing them again and again. She was splattered by mud thrown up by the bombs, metal fragments went whining through the sides of both boats; one ripped across her arm, another clipped a tuft of hair above her ear.

The door to the bedroom opened and Arring Pirs came through it into the sitting room. He stopped beside the couch where Matja Allina was sitting. “He’s settled in,” he said, touched Allina’s head, fingers sliding gently over her smoothed hair. “He called Utilas and told him. Ut won’t be coming.”

Allina caught his hand, held it against her face. “At least there’s that. I don’t think I could bear it, watching Utilas and Rintirry stalking around each other like a pair of randy tomcats.”

“Randy,” he said. He dropped to the couch beside her. “Yes. Rintirry. His blood’s up. You know what that means. You’ve warned our women to stay inside and bar their doors?”

“And if he kicks the door in? What are they supposed to do then?” Matja Allina’s control was slipping. “What could WE do? Slap his wrist and say Bad Boy?” There was rage in her voice. “He doesn’t care whom he uses. You know that. Even our daughters aren’t safe. And the Artwa would support him. You know that. Do something, Pirs. I don’t care what it means, I won’t have ANY of our people…” Her mouth worked. “Used. I won’t.”

“And if the Artwa calls the mortgage?”

“Let him try. He can’t afford an inside Kirtaa to add to his other wars. And if he’s foolish enough to go ahead with it, I’d rather go into the Brush. I swear it, Pirs. I will go into the Brush before I turn my head and sacrifice a baby to Rintirry’s lust.”

He took her hand, kissed her fingers one by one. “Yes, sweet warrior, mi-Matjali, yes.” He set her hand down. “I put P’murr on guard at his door with orders to make sure he stays where he belongs. He’ll enjoy doing it, mi-killi. He’s tired,” the laugh lines deepened about his blue eyes, “he lost the tip to his ear and has a butt-burn from a pellet out of a tumak’s rifle. He’s quite annoyed at Rintirry.” He bent, touched Ingva’s cheek and ruffled Yla’s hair. “You sleep in your Mama’s bed this night, lirrilirris.”

“Mama?”

“She will be in with me, Ingvalli. You and Yla and the Jili will be all alone.” He straightened. “Jili Arluja, take them in now, please.”

He watched them out, then turned to Polyapo. “Ulyinik, you are welcome to a pallet here as long as this situation lasts, but if you prefer to return to your own quarters, I think you will be safe enough.”