Jon Keys © 2018
All Rights Reserved
Dhala’s world overflowed with desperation as he filled a bowl with crystalline water trickling along the edge of the sky portal for Gyam’s aerie. His attempt to spot Gyam in his flyer form was thwarted by the dense early spring fog that limited the visibility of the surroundings. Even the river running along the cliff was hidden from Dhala’s sharp eyes.
Assigned to be the Saat responsible for the last two Athru, Dhala took his worker caste’s responsibility of caring for Gyam and Choro with much weight, especially since Choro was in the final throes of the deadly plague that had devastated the Chinjoka over the last few cycles. As Choro’s health diminished ever more rapidly, Dhala and Gyam had become ever more desperate until, before first light, Gyam had left on the final attempt to gain their friend and mentor more time.
A gust sent a spray onto Dhala’s face and moistened the nest of short curls framing it. With the bowl having long ago been filled, he wiped the water from his skin and sighed.
“You can’t will him to travel faster, Dhala.”
Startled from his dower mood, he grabbed the bowl of fresh water from the trickle and moved to Choro’s side. “I’m so sorry. I was lost in thought.” He dropped a soft piece of trade cloth into the liquid, squeezed it almost dry, and ran it over the man’s face. Choro’s labored breathing echoed through the room, a symptom of how far the disease had progressed. Dhala found some solace knowing they’d had no new cases for a cycle. But sadness overwhelmed him each time he allowed himself to consider Choro losing his battle against the sickness.
With a hand withered to little more than talon and sinew, Choro caught his wrist. “Dhala, I’m neither fevered nor in need of cleaning. We both know my time is limited. Gyam set himself on this task hoping to change my fate, but this sun cycle is likely my last.”
Dhala scrubbed the tears from his face and scowled at the feeble figure lying before him. With a fierce determination, he grabbed the older man’s hand between his. “Choro, you will live. Gyam will find an osa herd, and the fresh meat will give you the strength to last until we discover a healing.” Dhala glanced out the cave opening to the fog-swathed valley that stretched to the forests surrounding Mother Falls high in the mountains to the north. Nothing of Gyam was visible, but he turned to Choro filled with a stubborn glint. “Soon. He must return soon.”
Choro lay back with a rattling breath. “Fledgling, we have not cured what is killing the Chinjoka in all the cycles since it began. Each caste suffered losses. Once I am gone, Gyam is the last Athru. None of the fledglings show signs of the Athru change, and the responsibilities weigh heavily on Gyam.”
Dhala dropped his gaze as Choro reminded him of his greatest shame. But there was a gentle touch on his chin, and he lifted his head. He took the elder’s hand in his, and Choro smiled sadly.
“It’s no fault of yours that you never left the Saat caste. The Father of the Twins decides who takes to the sky, who are the protectors, and who cares for others. We are all born with the abilities of the Saat, and many become able to shift to the protective plates of the Onija. But the few who are gifted with the faculty to shift into one of the Chinjoka flyers guard us from the sky. We all stop where the Father decrees.”
Dhala sighed again but released Choro and moved the bowl aside. The elder was right. Dhala needed to accept his place and the disappointment of never becoming one of the Athru caste as his father always believed he would. He would never develop the stone-hard plate of the Onija, much less the ability to become the taloned and winged protector of the Chinjoka.
Dhala’s father held several unique beliefs, including that the earthbound Saat were as important as the soaring Athru. When he was a child, Dhala spent many hours with his friends, climbing the precipice above the village as the Athru flyers glided across the azure sky. He’d loved the time among the heights, regardless of the season, but warm summer mornings were his favorite. By afternoon, the sun would heat the rocks, making them uncomfortable, but during the early mornings, the breeze coming from the warming grasslands northward to the cutleaf forest made it easy to imagine what flight over the last Chinjoka settlement would be like.
He glanced again to the outside, thrilled at the rays of sun cutting through the dawn haze and bringing the river far below them into sharper relief. The dry-fit stone wall that formed the flight path for this aerie glowed with the golden light of morning.
“He’s fine. Gyam is the strongest Athru I’ve met during my time in the aeries. When the Father takes me, he will need your help.”
Choro’s reference to the afterlife made Dhala cringe. He and Gyam had been determined to heal Choro of the plague since his first symptoms. Anyone who’d shown signs of the disease had left on the Long Flight with no exceptions. Dhala lost far too many of his friends, as had most of the Chinjoka. But when Choro showed the difficulty breathing that was the typical first symptom, Dhala fought with ferocious determination to save his friend and advisor. Choro’s downward spiral caused Dhala and Gyam to drift apart. They’d been among the best of friends since they were fledglings, but Choro’s terminal condition left Gyam bitter and unpredictable.
The result might be different if their only Athru healer hadn’t been one of the first to die. Others tried to find a cure, including his mother who was a well-versed Saat healer. The failure to determine a cure made people doubt their skills and, in some cases, blame the spread of the disease on the Saat healers. Regardless of the truth, no healer had been successful, and most had stopped their efforts, for fear they might be blamed.
Dhala glanced at Choro, who nodded toward the aerie’s sky portal. An instant later, the slow beat of wings came closer. Dhala swept the room with his gaze and found everything to his satisfaction. He moved close as Gyam landed on the rock opening. Dhala couldn’t keep from gasping in awe any time he saw Gyam.
Each smooth wing was as long as Dhala’s height. The muscles across his shoulders and down his torso flexed with each swipe of his webbed appendages. Dhala stepped away when Gyam thrust his elongated muzzle toward him and screamed a high piercing call, demanding attention. Dhala wanted to clasp his hands over his ears but knew instead he would do as Gyam demanded. Gyam tensed and released another scream.
Dhala dashed forward and grabbed the blood-dripping osa heart from Gyam’s taloned hand. The fresh organ from the small grazer still quivered with the final throes of life. He rushed to Choro’s side, ignoring Gyam’s cry.
He knelt beside the older man and offered him the fist-sized heart. Choro preferred the meat of the smaller grazers, and a freshly harvested heart was a special treat. Both Dhala and Gyam hoped it would give him more strength, but Dhala feared it was Choro’s last meal. More of Choro’s presence in this world disappeared with each breath.
But he wouldn’t give up hope. Dhala arranged Choro’s bedding to make him as comfortable as possible while he enjoyed the treat. Choro sank his teeth into the morsel with clear relish as blood coated his fingers. Dhala couldn’t help but smile at the elder attacking the tidbit with the same enjoyment as a fledgling with a sweet treat. A short time later, Choro finished and glanced around him.
Dhala squeezed out the cloth he’d been using earlier and handed it to Choro, who took it with a grin and wiped himself clean. Once he’d finished, he lay back on the bed, closed his eyes, and sighed.
His voice rolled across the room. “Delicious, Gyam. That was the best osa I’ve eaten in many seasons.”
Dhala glanced over his shoulder to find Gyam in the midst of his change from his Athru form. The webbing was absorbing into wings, which were disappearing into Gyam’s muscular body, and interlocking scales were becoming supple skin as Gyam left the form marking him as Athru. Dhala relished the beautiful body being revealed to him. When front paws and talons became work-roughened hands, Gyam made his final shift to leave his Athru form and stood nude behind him. Dhala tried not to stare but lost his struggle. Usually, Gyam covered himself, but today, he held his loincloth in one hand while watching Choro. His stout, muscular body demanded Dhala’s attention until he realized how inappropriate he was being, especially given Gyam’s current state. Dhala was painfully aware of the attraction he’d had for Gyam since they’d both grown beyond fledglings, but he would keep his role as Saat for Gyam and Choro during his time of sorrow for them all.
He wrenched his gaze to the ailing man and got a smile and quick wink. Caught staring at Gyam, Dhala dropped his attention to the floor. A slight rustling served as warning when Gyam walked past him, making the last tie on his loincloth before kneeling at the side of Choro’s pallet.
“Elder, how are you feeling? Did the osa help?” Gyam asked.
Choro smiled and tapped Gyam’s cheek. Gyam grinned, and Dhala caught a glimpse of his friend from cycles past. He leaned in to give Choro a kiss on each cheek, but Choro’s gaze included both of them.
“It was warm and delicious, exactly what I needed. We must be honest. In spite of all your work, there is no cure. I am not long for this flight. My wings are tattered and bones are brittle. I will soon be with my mate. Both of you must accept this.”
Hot tears rolled down Dhala’s cheeks as he listened. He knew the truth of Choro’s assessment. His body was failing. Dhala’s gut twisted with grief, and a sob leaked from his lips.
Gyam turned on Dhala and snarled. His face elongated and his canine teeth grew as his emotions overtook his body. But before anything happened, Choro spoke.
“That’s enough, Gyam. You two stretched my life further than any of the others who have fallen victim to this illness. For that, I thank you. But the time is here.”
Gyam motioned at Dhala as he spoke. “He’s given up. He’s letting you die.”
Choro glared and sat up. Dhala scrambled to change his bedding to make it easier, but Choro waved him away. The movement threw Choro into a coughing spell that left him gasping for air.
“Please, Elder. Don’t strain yourself. I will do as you wish,” Gyam said.
Choro again motioned them off, but not before Dhala saw the flecks of blood on his lips. He lacked none of the weight of his role as elder Athru when he turned to Gyam.
“You will be the last Athru. You need your friends. You have been together with Dhala since you both ran free of clothing during the warm moons. You’ve protected and guarded each other through your time together. Now you have let this come between you, and it must stop. Dhala is your friend even though he is Saat. You have grown up together and must regain your ability to work together. Athru, Saat, or Onija, you are all Chinjoka. This disease has almost destroyed our people. So many have died, and only one village remains. You must rebuild the people. You cannot succeed without all three castes who make up the Chinjoka.”
Choro lapsed into another coughing fit. This one left him flat on his bed, sweating and gasping for air. He covered his eyes with an arm and tried to breathe. A morning breeze curled around them, bringing a mix of scents of the Chinjoka Basin, from the verdant growth of the shortgrass plains in the south to the crisp scent of the great cutleaf trees nourished by the Pilea River. The single wisp of air reminded Dhala of everything at stake for the Chinjoka nation. Dhala moved closer, pushing an immobile Gyam aside. He checked Choro’s pulse and found a weak thread. He ran his hands down the older man’s neck, but halfway along his path, Choro grabbed his wrists with the strength of a failing butterfly. The silent command left no doubt. He met Dhala’s gaze and nodded.
“Soon. But not now.” His gaze moved to encompass both of them. “You look like the gods are testing you. Both of you should rest, but I know neither of you will listen. I plan to sleep and won’t argue with either of you any further.”
With that, Choro sank into his bed and closed his eyes. Dhala waited but worried. He moved when Choro parted his lips.
“If you check my heartbeat, Dhala, I will hurt you in ways to prevent any enjoyment with a mate for the rest of your life.”
Dhala drew away and turned at a snort from Gyam. His dark eyes twinkled as he looked at both Choro and Dhala. “He’s not making idle threats. Even as he is now. Come. We can build up the fire and plan the evening meal. I asked a group of Onija caste hunters to bring the osa carcass. We must be ready for its arrival.”
They had created a bed of glowing coals when a voice came from the passageway carved into the interior of the cliff as a way to reach the upper caves.
“I could use a little help here! Gyam picked the biggest Twins-blessed osa in the entire basin.”
Dhala recognized the voice as another of their friends. Askari was of the Onija caste and one of the most successful hunters among the Chinjoka, but as a warrior, he was unequaled in the village. The plates he formed as Onija were as strong as iron but as mobile as Dhala’s soft skin. Dhala should have known it would be him who retrieved Gyam’s kill. That the three of them had been inseparable since they began to walk made it even more certain that Askari would be the one who would retrieve Gyam’s take. Even though the Father had spread his gifts through the castes as they went through puberty, bodies changing in line with their castes, their friendships had remained. They rushed to the path and found Askari balanced precariously while gripping the carcass he’d thrown across one shoulder. Dhala moved down the first few steps, grabbed the carcass by the stag’s straight-spiraling horns, heaved it upward, and settled it onto his shoulder. Once the body was securely in place, he carried it into the aerie.
Askari followed a few steps behind him, and as they reentered, he spared a glance toward Choro’s sleeping form before turning to the other men. Dhala stripped to his breechcloth and used his long knife to cut openings in the hind legs’ tendons so he could hang the osa from the tripod kept for that purpose. With practiced knife work, he peeled the hide from one side while Gyam worked on the other. With a soft crackle, he pulled the skin loose around the neck and glanced toward Askari. The plates from his Onija shift were still prominently displayed over his torso and brow. While scales proved invaluable in protecting one from the Onija caste during battle or hunting, they limited Askari’s finger mobility. The limitation made tasks requiring fine dexterity more difficult. Askari maintained his distance from the work being done, but Dhala knew his friend too well to allow him to avoid the dirty work of butchering the carcass.
“Askari, wake up and shift back from your Onija form. You can help.” He gestured his knife toward Gyam. “We want osa for dinner. The rest needs to be spread on a drying rack.”
Askari closed his eyes and skewed his face in an expression Dhala recognized as he shifted from his warrior form. Once Askari began, it took little time before his skin was as smooth, flexible—and vulnerable—as Dhala’s. He flexed his fingers a few times before pulling his side knife. Askari’s skill with a blade was evident by the speed the meat was prepared. With the three of them working together, butchering proceeded with well-practiced efficiency. As often as the three of them had hunted together, they should be skilled at sharing the work.
Dhala checked on Choro and saw his chest rising and falling. Signs of life, even if his breathing was shallow, gave Dhala hope. He had the urge to evaluate further but considered Choro’s earlier threat. He found the others cleaning the osa blood from their hands. Askari held out the bowl of water he’d filled earlier.
“Here, use what’s left, and I’ll get more.”
Dhala nodded and let Askari pour the cool liquid over his hands. He rubbed them together to loosen the drying bits from his skin. Once that was done, Askari splashed more water onto Dhala’s hands. After a few repetitions, Dhala was clean, and the pottery bowl was empty. He dried himself on his tunic and nodded to Askari.
“Thank you. We appreciate your help.”
Gyam glanced up and one brow lifted. But a moment later, he returned to the task he was trying to complete. His knife flashed in the light as he sliced the loin free from the backbone, cut the meat into thick slices, and threaded them onto fire-hardened skewers before hanging them over crimson coals. The meat was soon sizzling and filled the aerie with delicious aromas.
They tended the meat, constantly turning it to get a perfect sear on all sides. But while they did, Dhala kept a continual watch on Choro. All three friends worked to carve what remained into thin strips and hang them from the drying rack Dhala put in the small fire’s draft. The sun approached its peak when they finished. The skewered loin had cooked to perfection. Askari had always claimed a talent for cooking. He’d often said if Gyam had no choice but to eat his own cooking, he would learn how to do a decent job with its preparation. The smells of food had Dhala’s stomach growling, but he checked on Choro first to see if he might be interested in eating.
He walked over and squatted beside Choro’s bed. When he leaned forward to shake him awake, Choro’s eyes fluttered open.
“I’m still here, Dhala. The aroma of cooking osa was enough to keep me. It smells delicious. I haven’t eaten a meal from Askari in too many moons.”
“You will enjoy his cooking many more—” Dhala’s throat tightened, and he could not complete what he and Choro both knew was a lie. The older man patted his hand and smiled sadly.
“I relish sharing this meal with you. Bring me a piece of that delicious meat, fledgling. Invite the others to join us. I think we’ll have the best meal we’ve had in seasons.” He studied Dhala and continued. “Be certain to put out an offering of the osa to the gods, especially the Father. Their favor is needed by all of us.”
Dhala rushed away, glad to be focused on anything other than Choro’s rapid decline. The others turned to him as he approached. He glanced at them as he brought his emotions under control.
“Choro says the meat smells delicious and would like for us to share the meal with him,” Dhala said.
Askari leaned closer and whispered, “How is he?”
Dhala motioned toward the sleeping area. “He asked me to assure the offerings from the successful hunt. I will take care of their placement on the fire. Go. Sit with Choro and enjoy sharing our meal with him.”
Dhala drew his blade and carefully sliced thick pieces from the osa’s mineral-rich liver. After adding more wood to the fire, he dropped the raw meat into the searing hot coals. As the scent of the roasting delicacy filled the aerie, Dhala began a simple chant of thanks every Chinjoka was taught before their first blooding. As the last of the flesh turned dark, a breeze blew across the fire, hiding it in the smoke. Once Dhala’s sight returned, no trace of the meat remained. He hesitated but then joined the others with a shake of his head.
The three young men gathered the food they had prepared and sat on the floor surrounding their elder. Dhala brought small drinking bowls, one for each of them, filled with clear water Askari had brought from the river while they cooked. The mood was somber; everyone had seen the disease progress too many times. Choro only nibbled at his meat before setting it to one side. He lowered himself into the bedding and stared toward the open sky as they finished the rest of the meal.
“There are so few of us left. I don’t know how the Chinjoka can survive. Our gods have deserted us and the sickness destroyed the tribe until we are tempting targets to our enemies,” Choro whispered. The others fell silent as they explored their own dark memories. Blood-laced saliva and the gradual failure of the victims’ ability to breathe were the symptoms burned into the memory of any Chinjoka. The number of people Dhala had eased onto their Long Flight left him numb. Even at his young age, he remembered when the plague began. Hysteria made a bad situation worse. Early, when so many were dying, terror ruled people’s actions. Saat healers suggested any possible cure or at least a way to stop its spread. Its progression was slow but always fatal. It didn’t seem to spread through contact. In many cases, some members of a family would not develop symptoms, while their fathers, mothers, brothers, or sisters perished. The Athru healer who might have been able to develop a cure died in the first wave of fatalities. Saat healers could do nothing, but ignorance and malice caused them to be blamed for the disease. The first season was devastating for the Chinjoka, physically and emotionally.
One village had thrown a Saat healer from the burial heights in a confused effort to gain attention from the Father. Choro, and the other Athru caste who lived then, championed the Saat healers. But people still feared the illness that was wiping out entire villages, and the healers’ fear of retribution led them to stop aiding, not only those afflicted with the plague but other diseases normally not considered serious. This caused more deaths, this time from lack of rudimentary healing. The last of the plague victims received the best possible care. But even with the finest healing, like Choro was given, the ending was too predictable. And too tragic.
The small group finished their meal, and Dhala cleared the remains, dropping them into the cooking fire. The other two sat near Choro to fulfill any request. Dhala studied them, trying to think of anything to make Choro more comfortable. But he’d done all he could. To give Dhala something to occupy his thoughts, he began the work of tanning the osa hide. First, he brought a frame from the storage room. He cut a thin strip from the outer edge of the skin and made small slits along the edge. With care, he laced the pelt to the frame, stretching it into place.
“You have a skill to appreciate, Dhala. Don’t forget others take note of your labor,” Choro said.
Dhala faltered at his task. Tears flowed again as he met the gaze of the elder. He broke contact to refocus on his task even though emotions overwhelmed him. One thing he had learned early in life, emotional and fragile Chinjoka suffered short and miserable lives. He nurtured the strength to continue even when overwhelmed with impending loss. This was no different as he focused on scraping the hide clean, fingerwidth by fingerwidth.
But his walls broke and loneliness poured into Dhala. Too overwhelmed to continue, he let his hands drop to his side as he wept. No one chastised him for his lack of control, even though it was certain everyone heard. His strength waned as his sorrow leaked out as salty tears.
A light touch shocked Dhala, and he turned to find Gyam standing beside him. He stiffened, expecting a reprimand. But no rebuke came. Gyam instead knelt beside him and hugged him. Dhala returned his embrace. During that moment, his friend since birth returned, and the formal Athru of recent seasons vanished.
“He will be fine. I think the fresh meat brought him new energy. He will recover. Don’t grieve for him.”
Dhala schooled his expression before meeting Gyam’s gaze. Unable to lie, he spoke a different truth. “I believe Choro is one of the strongest Chinjoka I’ve ever met. If anyone can conquer the disease killing us, it will be him.”
Gyam patted his shoulder and flashed a smile at Dhala.
“Exactly. Now, one of us will sit with him so we are close if he needs anything. Otherwise, we will continue our day.”
“Of course, Gyam.”
Dhala tried to add more, but his knowledge of the Saat healing was too limited to enable him to sense the state of Choro’s rapidly deteriorating health. He nodded and turned to his work.
Wrenched awake in the darkest of night by a sense of dread, Dhala glanced into the inky darkness, trying to find the source of his unease. A thick layer of clouds masked the moon and stars so that little light entered through the portal. It resulted in a black so complete he couldn’t see a handspan from his face.
Then, he heard it again. A rattling breath followed by a tight grip. Choro held tight as a thready whisper twisted around him. He leaned closer to try to understand. With his ear almost against Choro’s lips, he understood the words.
“My time has ended.”
A shuddering sigh came from deep inside Dhala. He held Choro as he sent his silent pleas to the Father of the Twins. Deep inside his being, he sensed these were Choro’s final moments. He didn’t know what else to do than give what comfort he could. Choro’s gasps for air became more desperate with each passing second. Light flared from the fire, and a shadowed figure joined him. He glanced to see Gyam’s square jaw and expression of determination. He looked first at Choro and shifted his gaze to Dhala.
“Do something! He can’t breathe.”
“Gyam, he’s leaving for the Long Flight, and we can do nothing about it.”
“No! You must heal him!”
Dhala started to explain again when a dark noise came from Choro. With strength he hadn’t exhibited in moons, Choro brought Dhala’s hand onto his chest and pulled Gyam’s on top. He glared at both of them as he fought to pull in another breath. But with a final throaty rattle that would be with Dhala forever—Choro died.
Dhala left his hand in place as sorrow flooded his being. The tears flowed again, landing drop by drop on the body of the kindly man. Gyam snatched his hand back, breaking contact with Dhala. The action added to the ache, but it was time to block his emotions again. After waiting a little longer, he lifted his hand from Choro’s chest, sat on his heels, and wrapped his arms tight, trying to console himself.
He wiped his face and looked around to see Askari building their fire into a bright and warm spot in a night with no pleasure. Once the flame illuminated the dwelling, Askari lit a small lamp and slipped into the storage area. The rustle of things being moved stopped a few moments later, and he returned to the room with a white bundle under his arm. He sat the lamp on a niche carved into the rock wall, walked to Dhala, held the bundle out, and inclined his head. A moment later, Askari looked up and gazed at Dhala.
“It’s Choro’s life shroud. He told me where it was so I could give it to you when this day happened. It’s finished. He showed me how to do the last of the embellishments after he was unable.”
Dhala’s throat clenched tight as the supple and heavily decorated shroud slid across his palms. The soft weight identified it as the work of a skilled artisan. It was beyond beautiful, but its purpose kept Dhala on the verge of breaking. His duty was clear, however, and he refused to dishonor Choro.
He opened the bundle of white leather and found what he expected. Gyam stepped away but appear to be ready to help Dhala should he need it. This was one time Dhala wouldn’t suffer the help of anyone else, not even Askari and Gyam.
He laid the shroud to one side, brought a bowl of clean water close, and bathed the cooling form. He performed the duties according to tradition. While not his first burial, it would be one of the most painful.
Dhala walled away the overwhelming sense of loss that kept the knot in his gut and the next tear poised to fall. Dhala’s entire focus remained on his duty to bind Choro in the rich, ceremonial garment Askari had given him. The light of predawn had strengthened when he was finished. Dhala hoped he’d prepared Choro as a highly respected elder should be presented. He stepped back to inspect his work, and someone’s arm wound around his waist. A quick glance confirmed his intuition: Askari was at his side. His tear-stained face told Dhala that he was also grieving.
“Your skill would have made him proud.”
Dhala fought for control before turning. “It will be time soon to do his death keen. Then the mourners give their tribute. The ascent to the burial crags begins at dusk. There is no time, and little reason, to feed my pride.”
Askari drew his lips tight, but Dhala allowed it to pass without comment. Once he finished preparing the body, he cleaned the aerie while Gyam and Askari stared at the central fire pit. Dhala put what he needed to take to the lower levels in a net bag and carried it over one shoulder. The other two seemed determined to spend the rest of the day staring into the flames.
Dhala stepped onto the inner pathway and plunged into the wash of dark gray. The steps of the village were a nondescript color smoothed by the touch of countless sets of hands and feet. Gyam’s aerie was high on the cliff. It would typically be the home of a number of Athru and would have a constant flow of traffic from the lower levels. Now only Gyam remained to utilize Dhala’s skills as his Saat helper. He found the steps with the surety of long practice as he hurried down the steep treads. Soon he completed his descent along the well-worn path to the Saat warrens. The door cover opened with no effort, and he crept inside so as not to disturb the occupant.
He should have known his mother would be awake and working in the first light. She had not quit giving aid to those who needed it and maintained all her healing herbs at the height of their potency, unlike the other Saat healers. But she was not foolish. She was cautious in how she provided her skills. It was her famous relaxing tea that made treatments possible. One dose and the detail of what occurred became very fuzzy. The more perceptive of her patients didn’t ask. His mother filled a small leather pouch with a handful of dried herbs as she smiled at him. She motioned toward the pot nested on one side of her glowing hearth.
“Osa stew is cooking, and I added herbs from the gardens to help fortify us through this day. Eat your fill.”
Dhala’s stomach roiled at the thought of food. “Choro is on the Long Flight. During the darkest hours last night. I need to prepare myself for the day of mourning.”
“Yes, I know. I sensed him leave.”
A deep sob rattled Dhala at the agonizing event put into words. He wrapped his arms tight to hold himself together. His mother sat her work aside, moved to her son, and held him. As the worst of the sadness diminished, she released her hold and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Go. I’ll send food for the three of you. I made flatbread yesterday from the groundnuts we harvested during the season of color.” She stopped and cocked an eyebrow at him. “It’s my hope the discord between you and Gyam is resolved.”
Tension set his nerves on edge at the memory of their exchanges in recent days. “I don’t know if he will ever forgive me. He blames me for Choro’s passing.”
His mother remained silent, but the disapproval directed at both of them did nothing to resolve their issues. As the silence tightened, he stood frozen, uncertain of what to do.
When the tension in the room became too thick, his mother let the discussion drop and motioned him toward the inner chamber. “Hurry. The keening begins soon. Few burials have a singer from each caste. Choro deserves the honor.”
Dhala snapped his lips shut and moved to the back room. He found a bowl filled with clear cold water, his clothing lying beside it. He stripped and washed himself of grime, tears, and sweat from recent days. Once he finished, he felt better. He pulled out the rawhide container holding his ceremonial clothing and began making his selection. The breechcloth he chose fell almost to the ground. The material was dense with dyed quills forming a complex geometric pattern that spanned from his waist. Sewn to the fabric were also the translucent teeth of osa fawns in rows as well as sikari fangs. His footwear was not the open sandals he typically wore; these were heavy, laced to just below his knee, and decorated similar to his breechcloth.
Satisfied with his appearance, Dhala pulled on his richly decorated ceremonial leggings that had seen too much use in recent seasons. After tugging the more subtly embellished overshirt onto his slender body, he rejoined his mother.
She glanced toward him and smiled. “My son looks handsome today. Maybe Gyam will realize what he’s missing.”
“Mother! I’m Saat caste and he flies over the cutleaf forest. Our union will never happen. Even if it were possible, he holds me responsible for too many of his problems.”
She snorted, sounding disgusted. “Foolish fledglings. We need a healing Athru to save us from the sickness. Unless something happened since I saw you last, you have not grown scales and wings to join their ranks.”
Dhala shook his head. “No. I would have told you first. My body isn’t even the right shape to be Athru.”
She motioned again. “No one knows the paths the Twins provide for us. Our people are dying, and we must find a cure or the Chinjoka will be gone from the basin. You must follow the path set before you even if it is not the one you envisioned for yourself.”
He nodded, kissed her cheek, and raced up the stairs. He had no desire to hear his mother’s platitudes today.
When he reached the aerie, Gyam and Askari were both in their formal dress. He found himself at a loss for words, so he maintained his silence. Gyam remained aloof, treating Dhala as if he were invisible. Askari gave him a pat of encouragement as he walked past. The last ray of sunshine pierced the doorway, and Gyam stepped onto the outcropping that fronted his aerie, many spans from the brush and rocks below.
He began the keening with a high piercing whistle that tore through Dhala’s carefully constructed walls. As Gyam shifted into a wordless call to the gods, Askari joined him. Their voices were distinct but intertwined in harmonies signifying a great man had passed. Dhala could almost see the flight of Gyam’s song. It spoke of aching heights and powerful stoops. It was the song of a raptor.
Askari brought a different element to the call with the power of the earth and a sense of responsibility. It spoke of the role of Onija as warriors and hunters. It wasn’t difficult to sense the earth’s tremble as the Onija massed their strength to protect the Chinjoka.
Dhala’s time to join the call came, and he instinctively sensed his role. His light trill began a call for peace and harmony, for healing and growth. He sang of the Saat as the support to the other castes. He knew his place, but his chorus told of the worker caste. There were bits that surprised Dhala as they left his lips. This new harmony talked of calm strength and the value of the Saat.
Their timing was perfect as light flooded the space, touching the shroud surrounding Choro. The tune created by the three told the story of the freedom of gliding on the summer thermals, skill with spear and bow, and satisfaction of a successful harvest.
Other notes joined them as Chinjoka added their own trills to the base provided by the trio. Soon the entire valley filled with the sounds of Choro’s mourning song. Rising notes bound themselves together before drifting apart. The refrain faded as Dhala whistled his final notes.
The other two trailed their songs until only silence wrapped around them. They stood unmoving until Gyam nodded with a note of finality.
“The other Chinjoka will join us soon, and we will carry him to the highest crags for a proper Athru burial.”
Dhala and Askari locked gazes, and Askari looked at Gyam. “Are you certain? The high recesses need at least two Athru. Do you think you can carry Choro alone?”
Gyam shot a venomous glare at Askari before replying. “I will do this. I will carry Choro to his final resting place.” He leveled an emotion-filled stare at Dhala. “Some of us fulfill all of our duties.”
Distress pooled inside Dhala, and his heart ached at the accusation, but he refused to respond. He retrieved an awl and osa sinew and knelt to close the burial shroud. The bundle of dried tendon fibers lay beside him. He pulled a strand free and ran all but the tip through his mouth to moisten it. After pulling them from between his lips, he studied the damp fibers, requiring nothing less than perfection of his craftsmanship. This work normally fell to the deceased’s helper Saat. As the closest Choro had to such, the task fell on him.
He gathered the edges of the hide and pressed the awl through the soft layers, and then for the next step, pressed through the moistened end and pulled it tight. He’d finished only a handful of stitches when Askari squatted beside him.
“I can help. You aren’t alone in this.”
Dhala paused from his work to study his friend. Askari’s expression told him the offer was serious.
“No. This is my duty.” He refused to let it overwhelm him. “Not only was he an Athru elder, he was my friend and mentor. He deserves the best of my efforts.”
“I would stay with you, if you would bear it.”
A warm sensation flowed over him. “Yes. I would welcome that.”
As the sun fell lower on the horizon, something rustled in the dimming light opposite the fire. He started to call out, but Askari’s light touch stopped him.
He leaned in and whispered, “It’s Gyam. He struggles with the loss.”
Dhala focused on his task and, after a few more stitches, spoke softly. “He is not the only one who has suffered.”
“Your mother told me when I first led war parties against the Misiq, I should never judge the depth of someone’s grief by their outward display.”
“That sounds like something she would say. Misiq fighters leave an overwhelming swath of death and sorrow whenever we encounter them. I do not see the similarity.”
Askari smirked as Dhala returned to his work. Gyam blamed Dhala for the elder’s death, but there was little Askari could do about that. Dhala had done everything imaginable, but they’d still lost Choro.
The sun eased its way down the western skies, disappearing beyond the rim of the White Cliffs of the Chinjokas’ lands while Dhala focused on the task before him. Time slipped away as he gave his best effort to the work he was doing, only dimly aware of the times Askari tried to feed him. In some part of his being, he knew Gyam and Askari were preparing in their own ways, but his only focus was completing his task. His hands cramped and the sun slipped beyond the horizon when he threaded in the final stitch.
He rocked onto his heels and checked the work he had done. Disappointed to see a few flaws, but knowing he’d done his best. Askari stood, brushed himself off, and looked at Dhala’s work.
“It’s amazing,” he said a moment later.
Gyam stirred from the position he’d held since Dhala began his task. He looked over the effort. Without meeting Dhala’s gaze, he said, “It will suffice. Prepare the Chinjoka for a high burial.”
Dhala nodded and walked from the cave.
The cool of early spring filled the evening, but Gyam wasn’t chilled. The ends of his breechcloth drifted away from him with each breath of air. Cradled in his arms was the body of his mentor he had carried from the aerie Choro and Gyam had shared. His grief washed over him again and again. But he would not appear weak. Dhala displayed his emotions at every turn, but Gyam would not allow the grief to overwhelm him.
The last of the people climbed to the base of the burial crags. He would take Choro’s remains to the heights. He had sworn so to his mentor. Gyam blocked any other thoughts as he surveyed the crowd again before turning on the narrow trail. The light of the fading sun made the treacherous climb even more hazardous. He tested each step before trusting it with the weight of his burden. The almost breathless whispers from the village followed him as they did. The soft oaths from missteps were proof to the treacherous nature of the climb, even to a people who resided in the cliffs.
His breath became labored, and the steep climb had his legs burning as if buried in fiery coals. The weight of his burden was no less taxing on his arms and chest. Deep inside, he understood he was being stubborn about many things. But reasonable wasn’t something he could manage. His focus was only on the ritual that remained.
Only the final sliver of the sun persisted when they came to the first of the niches holding Chinjoka. No one asked him to go higher, but Gyam refused to do anything less for Choro.
The trail narrowed until it was wide enough for only a single person. Gyam climbed higher while others dropped by the wayside, deciding the heights were great enough. But Gyam had his goal. Choro would rest with the greatest of the Athru.
Gasping for air, heart pounding, he reached the point where the path ended in a sheer drop. He glanced back to find Askari and, to his surprise, Dhala. But his focus remained on his task, and he would not accept any physical weakness.
He eased the body on the flat stone beneath their feet and stared at the other two. With an impassioned glance, he turned into the strong breeze. The valley floor was far down the mountainside, yet the winds brought him scents of spring. He called on the Goddess of Life and Fire, and began his change.
Gyam’s skin thickened and became scales the deep-red of a coal buried in the flames. His hands and feet elongated and grew claws capable of killing an osa with a single swipe. His thick muscular body stretched and lengthened until he towered over even Askari. His chest grew larger to provide the air Gyam needed in flight.
The breechcloth fell in a pool around his feet as his hips became narrow, similar to those of the sikari packs, needed to hunt down the fleet osa. His genitals sheathed themselves between his legs as the final scales formed a brow ridge above each eye. The creature Gyam became stretched an arm over its shoulder and sliced through one of the twin mounds forming over his shoulder blades. He twisted and lanced the opposite one open with his other hand.
The wet flaps of skin grew larger with each beat of Gyam’s heart. A moment passed before he tested them with a few strong strokes that lifted him from the ground. He gave the others a single command.
Speech vanished in an animalistic scream that filled him with power. He became as much raptor as Chinjoka.
He tucked his legs against his torso as he flew a few lengths higher while Dhala and Askari prepared the shroud for its purpose—a place for Gyam to sink his talons into as he carried Choro’s remains to their final resting place.
Once everything was prepared, Gyam swooped down and straddled the body. He found this shape’s emotions much more primal. But this form had no problem expressing his displeasure at what he had gone through over the past sun cycle. He roared at Askari and Dhala. Neither of them flinched or moved away. Gyam approved.
With infinite care, he grasped the shroud in his talons, their needle-sharp tips piercing the layers of hide with no difficulty, but it did not tear. He noted the distance to his destination. His wings unfurled, and he flexed them several times. Once certain the transition had been successful, he cut great swaths through the thin air. Each downstroke built in power until he rose several lengths above the stone precipice with his burden held tight.
Wind pummeled him from all directions. Sheer rock walls in a variety of configurations contributed to the always-shifting conditions. Through time, wind and rain had sculpted the crags into magnificent forms from the gods. Their solid gray masses contrasted against the azure spring sky. Buffeted by the turbulence, he struggled toward his goal, straining. His wing muscles burned with fatigue long before he reached the cluster of niches hidden among the columns of stone.
But the lower Athru burial caches didn’t fit Gyam’s needs. His determination to place Choro in the uppermost of the resting places was overwhelming. He passed by several other pillars of rock presenting themselves as possibilities, but his pledge sent him to higher and more dangerous funeral caches. The winds buffeted him as each downward stroke of his wings drove muscles already screaming from exertion.
He reached his goal as the fire in his wing muscles threatened to destroy him. He strained to reach the rock shelf when the wind shifted directions and swept him away from his destination. His outstretched wings caught the brunt of the blast and twisted him to one side.
The flight would have been challenging enough, but the extra weight left him struggling. Constant buffeting by the winds exhausted him to the point of failure. Gale-force gusts rolled him again. With wings tucked, Gyam allowed himself to drop for a moment. A glance downward brought the sight of length after rocky length of cliffs only too glad to crush him should he fail.
He fell enough to stabilize his flight, but as he did, he caught the concern on Askari’s and Dhala’s faces. He lashed his head about, focused more than ever on his destination. With wings pumping, he crept toward his goal, a fingerwidth at a time. The burning muscles screamed as he clawed his way through the turbulent skies.
His fatigue built with each snap of his wings. The world shrank to insignificance but for the pinpoint of rock that was his goal. He groaned at a slight loss in altitude and knew his time for success was dwindling. He curled inward and, with a final effort, drove higher. The effort cost him as he scrambled for purchase on a treacherous landing. He pulled himself forward until he and his burden rested on the unstable layered stone.
Gyam lay gasping on the cold rock, refusing to think how close to disaster he had just been. His overexerted muscles needed time to recover. But his task demanded more from him, and he would fulfill his quest.
Studying the surrounding landform, he found what he’d been searching for: an Athru burial cache. With great care, he lifted the remains he had carried and took the first unsteady step toward his destination.
The last part of the ritual was the most difficult. He must commit Choro to the high reaches, and the finality of his loss tore at his heart. The burden in his arms didn’t compare to the weight of losing his mentor. Alone on Choro’s windswept final resting place, Gyam released the emotions he had kept in careful containment. Tears ran across the fine scales covering his face, blinding him as he moved closer. Wave after wave of loss washed over him. He reared his head and bellowed his anger with all the force of the animal side of his Athru form. Resenting a life with no other Athru, he found the responsibilities a heavy burden. The fears and uncertainty became more than he could deal with. A sob choked him as he found a resting place for Choro.
Folding his wings against his back, he crouched lower until he could ease his burden into the opening. Gyam finished his task and paused in silent prayer to Pilea. He needed the fire from the Twin to survive his trial. Having placed the shroud-covered body into its cairn, he used his blade-sharp foreclaws to stack fist-sized rocks until the grave was covered.
The light faded before he finished, but his heat vision was enough to allow flight once the final stone settled into place. He waited, his wings furled tightly as he gathered his thoughts. Done with his reflection in pity, he stood and walked to the edge. After looking down at the seemingly endless drop before him, he bugled his cry of rage and threw himself from the cliffs.
Wind rushed past as Gyam relished the freefall. He enjoyed the rush of adrenaline for another heartbeat before snapping his wings open. His powerful backstrokes broke his fall, and he shot over the river that ran along the base of the cliffs. Once he’d regained control, he back-winged and flew over the people making their way down the cliff by dim yellowed torchlight.
He raced up the sheer stone cliffs, screaming his agony at the loss of another Athru, of this Athru. Most of the villagers drew back from his cry. But at the top, he found both Dhala and Askari waiting where he’d seen them last. Neither withdrew as he voiced his rage again and again. With a growling scream, he recognized the two who meant most in his life had refused to desert him in spite of his attempts to drive them away. Gyam refused to acknowledge their support, having just completed last rites for his mentor. Instead, he released the tethers on the animal side of his being and allowed it to voice his emotions. He would begin his healing process only after he gave himself to the blackening sky, which perfectly echoed his mood. Without another moment of reflection, he flipped over one shoulder and winged away toward the open grasslands.