ThunderWing´s
sense of exaltation was short-lived.
A few days later, a strong young warrior
appeared in the entrance of the cave without giving the customary cry of entry.
He
was a little larger than ThunderWing, his plumage a rich combination of olive
and metallic bronze, with black markings. Perfectly proportioned, he was
considered the handsomest of all the warriors of his tribe. He was also the
proudest and most arrogant, with the tongue, so it was said, of the serpent.
He
stood there for a moment, beak held high, his very stance an insult.
ThunderWing
glanced at him from his recumbent position and looked away again, not even
bothering to greet his unwanted visitor. The Mawh’eyri
code of civility was seldom practiced
between bitter rivals, although the warrior´s code of honour was normally
strictly adhered to.
‘Hail,
Winglost ThunderWing, the broken, the fallen, the presumptuous fool!’ the
visitor cried, mockingly. ‘Did you trip and fall upon your beak?’
Stony
silence was all the answer he received.
‘What
is this?’ continued the sarcastic voice as he hovered over the wounded eagle.
‘Did
the dark wind take your tongue also? Very well. If you would attempt the peak
before your time, little eaglet, and awaken the evil wind in your blundering,
it is little wonder that you lie naked and broken before me. You are a fool to
even think of challenging me: NightFlyer, son of SwiftSlayer, lord of hunters,
fairest and strongest of the warriors of the mountains!’
There
was still no answer or even movement from his rival, so Night-Flyer prepared to
leave.
‘So!
It is fitting to keep respectful silence before me, featherlost little egg-chick,
for I am destined to be both Mawharhipi
and Windlord when the season of the
hunt comes again. There shall be none to rival and cheat me of victory in the
wing-trials then.’
He
spread his wings wide and his voice filled the caves and thevalley.
‘I
shall then conquer Mawharikhan, and claim SilverSong the Fair as my own! I shall be the lord
of the mountains of Mawha!’
This
was too much for ThunderWing to take. He roused himself to some semblance of
dignity, spreading his ragged wings in challenge.
‘Will
the fair SilverSong take you for nest-mate? I think not, O NightFlyer
Wind-Beak, boaster of great boasts! Your very arrogance shall be as rotting
meat in her nostrils.’
‘Oh,
will you challenge me still, robeless one?’ sneered the other, turning back to
face him. ‘Your loss upon the peak has not given you wisdom? She cannot resist
NightFlyer the strong, fairest of warriors, greatest of hunters, Swiftest in
the Mountains and Reigning Windlord-to-be. Do not forget that a Windlord who
conquers the peak has the right to choose—nor you, nor even she can gainsay it.
If she is unwilling, I shall take her by force, and not even StrongFeather, her
father, can gainsay our laws, nor the will of Windlord NightFlyer Mawharhipi.’
Something
exploded inside ThunderWing’s breast.
‘No!’
He
hopped and hobbled over and stood beak to beak with his rival, his remaining
feathers fully extended in fury.
‘You
will have neither title, proud and cruel wind-beak boaster! Am I not
ThunderWing Mawharhipi by right of victory? Have I not escaped the clutches of the Black Storm? And
caused him to be banished from our mountains? And if you take the fair SilverSong
by force, I shall call Mawharagh upon you!’
Such
was NightFlyer’s astonishment at this challenge, he sat back upon his tail feathers.
He threw his head back and laughed aloud.
‘Mawharagh?? Mawharagh between
us? There are no bounds to your boasting, your folly, little quail! Look upon
your image when you drink from the pools, little featherlost fool. Even had you
the armor and the strength to do battle, by our laws you cannot challenge a
champion warrior.’
It
was seldom among the Mawh’eyri that such warrior rivalries ever ended in these terrible
mountain duels to the death, the Mawharagh.
The Windlords that presided over these
disputes generally did their utmost to settle them peacefully. Occasionally,
some warriors would contend by non-combative contest over the choicest eyrie or the
fairest lady among the eagles.
No
one, especially the eldest among them, ever wanted to return to the barbaric
days when they first settled in the mountains. Eyrie had fought eyrie over
territorial rights. Many fine eagles fell in battle until wisdom prevailed.
Laws were agreed upon and then scratched on the Stones of Judgment upon
Windlords’ Crag. Spontaneous squabbles
that
turned to blood-letting were dealt with ruthlessly, both parties summarily
expelled from the mountains for a season. If one was determined to be at fault
(confirmed by the testimony of witnesses), he or she was sometimes banished
forever. If the crime was considered by the Council to be worthy of death, the
offender was set upon by designated warriors.
ThunderWing
had to acknowledge the truth of NightFlyer’s response, and sank down in a
despairing heap again.
A
champion named Swiftest in the Mountains was held in such high honour—a
Windlord even more so—that he was immune from any challenge of that kind by an
inferior. It was law.
If
NightFlyer won the racing trials that season, he would be considered a
champion. If ThunderWing had his feathers and strength intact, and he still
attacked NightFlyer for fair SilverSong’s sake, he would be cast out of the
mountains forever, if not executed. What use would he be to the Fair One then?
‘Farewell,
pathetic little raven-chick,’ jeered the serpent’s tongue.
He
swung one of his wings, knocking ThunderWing to the floor, then laughed out
loud again.
‘Grovel
for worms if you must. I go to my destiny as Windlord and to claim SilverSong
as my own.’
He
filled the cave with his eyrie’s war-cry, and swept away into the distance.
The
moons passed.
ThunderWing
wearily and sadly watched from the cave’s entrance as the mountainsides slowly
shed their white down of winter and clothed themselves with the green feathers
of spring, tinged with the colours of the blossoms. He watched the lesser birds
come and go in their endless hunting and gathering. He even befriended a pair
of doves, sharing scraps of his meat with them.
The
Mawh’eyri normally ignored lesser birds, though they protected them.
That is, unless they became a nuisance.
He
was healing rapidly, being exceptionally strong amongst the young
warrior-eagles. He was gradually shedding or pulling out his older, damaged
plumage, and beginning to grow new, stronger feathers. His shoulder was still
tender, but it had been well treated by a skilled healer, and he could fly
short distances. He had even begun to hunt and gather for himself again, to a
limited extent.
He
meditated much on the wise counsel his mother gave him on her frequent visits,
and felt comforted by the honour in which he was held by the Mawh’eyri Windlords
and his own eyrie.
Yet all this honour was nothing to the loss of any chance of winning the eyreira who had
become an obsession to him ever since she had returned from the Northern
Mountains.
Without
her, he had lost all motivation to strive for greatness. He felt he could do
little else than serve the eyries as hunter and gatherer like his brother did, removing his
warrior’s mark. At least that had some true honour in itself, little though it
was regarded by tradition.
However,
to his surprise, his mother still spoke of a future conquering of the great peak.
He
just shook his head.
‘I
am no longer as high of heart as my father, O my mother. I will join my brother
in the hunts to serve the eyries, if he will. That is honour enough for one such as I.’
‘It
is true that before greatness comes lowliness, even as a bird must swoop
downward to soar the highest. Remember that the caves of the Great Summit Mawharikhan are
clear of the great enemy because of your attempt. But also mark this: To soar
the highest is indeed your destiny, my son. I have heard it on the voice of the
Great Wind.’
He
could only shake his head in sad disbelief.
His
mother did not press him, but paid a visit to Windlord’s Crag and spoke
privately to StrongFeather.
This
resulted in a surprise visitor to Healing Cave.
No comments:
Post a Comment