David Policar 1998
They are not a handsome race, these birds. Among my father's people, they are a cause for celebration and feasting, but here, in such numbers, they are nothing but noisy feathers dirtying the sky and ground.
Admittedly, there are few of any race who would prefer being my father's feast, given the choice. Nor, to offer the spoils to the victor, are there many beings anywhere in the world whose aesthetic appeal is not improved by the skill of Aarlik, or any of the Hakhoww cooks. As Aarlik himself says, everything depends on which side of the spear one is touching. Or, as the Twirrl put it, "In a fair purchase, all are cheated."
Ach! So this is the use I make of all my lessons, to set wise sayings one beside the other like eggs in a nest? Though I sit on them night and day, they do not hatch anything I need, and for good or for ill, I will hear the spirit voices no longer. It is best to be moving, and planning. The beginning is obvious; the half-finished pier I see through the swinging ropes of the marketplace must be the site of Willerik's death -- no doubt the spoor is long gone, but it is a starting place. The Chinook traders have long since left; there is nothing to keep me here.
Khor, what a stench! The ground is littered with rotten vegetables, spoiled meats, and bird droppings. My hackles stay down, but I am not calm; Sillain would be disappointed. Remembering him, I strive for objectivity. It is true that the Twirrl have no sense of smell to speak of, and that they spend their market-time in flight; it is no great thing, then, that their marketplace grounds should fill with garbage. It is not half so bad as the shambles back in Horraf. No doubt the rest of the island is less objectionable. I hope. I avoid the worst areas while seeking the pier, and try not to think about the smell.
The market is three or four tenspans high and crowded with Twirrl, but I am left alone on the ground. These folk are frightened of me, but is it the Khow or the Peacemaker they fear? Both, no doubt. It is not an auspicious thing for them, that the first Peacemaker to come among them should be investigating death. That I am Khow is perhaps a greater concern to them -- they did not fare well under my people before the Peacemakers came. Only the most outlaw Hakhow hunt them now, but perhaps to them it is all the same.
On a trading platform above me, a light grey female squawks at two darker males, whose fringes flare identical shades of angry green (no doubt died for the occassion) in response. I cannot distinguish their speech, but it is no different from the negotiations at any of a hundred other platforms. Which of the three is selling what to whom, I do not know, as there are no goods and no money in sight. This, too, is not unusual. To my eye and ear, this seems more a battlefield than a marketplace; indeed, what I know of the Twirrl suggests little difference. Sillain himself admits to confusion regarding the workings of Twirrl merchants; I hope only that the cause of Willerik's death will be simpler to divine.
Three youths perch by the pier, listening to a fourth who is whistling in high, quiet tones and hopping excitedly by the ruined platform's edge. Two others hide nearby, listening... perhaps eavesdropping. An advisable passtime for a newly arrived hunter with a killer to find and no spoor to follow. The whistling trills become words as I concentrate.
"...right here, it fell, and Willerik dragged with it. Whhhhhhhssssst! SPLUSH, plop! The cables' ends tore loose from the scaffolding and slithered into the water, like so many salt-eels chasing a bleeding fish -- hssswssswss-splup! -- and were gone."
The youth's voice is remarkable, reproducing the sounds of water and wind and rope so closely that I can imagine the scene myself -- a tangle of ropes and anchors and clamps, a dozen birds flying in a dozen different directions, and in the middle of it all a single blackfeathered Twirrl pinned, helpless, dragged into the muck and brine.
"Kaw, the noise! The Song collapsed, but every beak was full of commands and accusations, hurled against one another 'till windsense was near-baffled in the confusion. 'Drag up the ropes!,' called this one; 'Dredge the river!', called that one; 'Fool!' and 'Senseless!' each called the other. I began the Netweaver's Song, hoping we could lift Willerik from the water as we do the fish he visited, but no other voice took it up.
"Then over it all, a new sound... Krakarrakarrakarak! Not loud, yet we all fell silent and looked to the scaffold. We saw that the cables had torn planks and struts from it, and now it was crumbling. Mere seconds it took to fall, but to we who had built it they seemed like minutes; we watched aghast as cracks spread through the structure, like the bursting shell of a hatching chick."
At this, the other birds flash yellow feathers, and one lets out an amused twitter; the speaker flashes embarassed blue-green for a moment, then an angry green while his audience subsides to a deferential blue. I do not fathom the joke, but it is clear that the speaker is dominant here.
And yet, Sillain teaches that cannot be with Twirrl; that they do not have dominance in groups as other races do. Two Twirrl alone, yes, but with a third they have no structure, but rather a pattern of alliance whose outcome is unpredictable and unstable. Sillain is not wrong about such things, yet here there are four, or six (for the two in hiding are still present), and the one clearly leads, and the others defer. Why?
I begin to understand what Sillain means about the limitations of Cultural Assimilation. The technique has great power to reveal the subtleties of the birds' exchange, but only the sentiment, not the meaning. The Chinook I know well, but the Twirrl are new to me, and there is much I do not know.
"Slowly, the scaffold shook itself apart," the boy continues after a pause, "each piece striking the water, each adding its note to its song of destruction. When it was done, Willerik was gone, the scaffold was gone, and only that song was left behind. Now my story, too, is done, and I leave the song with you."
His voice, remarkable throughout, becomes now a miracle of rhythm, a cascading dissonant wave with a subtle, complex harmony woven through it, picked up and echoed by his talons against the wooden platform and his wings against the wind. It is the death-song of a building, heard as only its builder could hear it, and even an outsider like myself can feel the anger and grief of its passing.
At last it is over. The others stand, and all seem to talk at once, mostly market-phrases I do not understand except for several of the Twirrl words for value. (There are fifty-seven of them, Sillain says. Many have correspondances in other tongues I know, meaning "my asking price" or "average market price" or "cost of manufacture" or "value to me here and now"; others I simply do not understand, and relate to mysteries of Twirrl economics. To my ear they mostly mean "price," and that is a complicated enough idea in a culture that uses no currency.)
"The price is correct?" asks the speaker, and the others reply "It is correct."
"Then this transaction is complete." The words have the tone of ritual, and immediately all traces of submission disappear.
Suddenly, I understand, and curse my shadow for its foolishness. The boy is a Storyteller, a Twirrl bard; the story itself is payment for something -- no, the contrary; it is a service for which the others pay, hence their submission. Like so much with the Twirrl, this is a variation of their mating pattern: the seller is dominant and the buyer submissive. Simple to say, harder to perceive when the roles of seller and buyer are so transitory, but unlike the groups in the marketplace, this group agrees on who is buyer and who is seller. It is the simplicity of the situation that has confused me!
Some final negotiations or ritual pleasantries are completed, and with an abruptness that would be rude among any other people, the three listeners depart. Now the hunt begins.
"A fine story," I call out to the boy in my best approximation of the Twirrl speech. "You are a talented Storyteller."
"You have heard the story," he replies. "What is its value?" He means, of course, what am I willing to pay for it? I realize I have made an error... if I refuse to pay a fair price I am violating Twirrl ethics, yet I have no notion of what such a tale is worth, or what I have to trade for it.
"What is its price?" I reply, hoping my meaning comes across. The boy flashes an angry green and fluffs his wings; I have offended him -- how?
Patiently, as if speaking to an infant: "I may accept what you offer. What is the value?"
Khor! I am sinking deeper in this mire with every word. The boy insists that I name the price... which marks me buyer, and thus submissive. This much I understand. One spirit will accept this -- that is, I would accept this if I had something to offer. Instead I take another tack.
"The story is incomplete. It has holes through which the information I seek has leaked. It is worth little, unless it can be patched."
"And yet you have called it a fine story, and the work of a talented Storyteller. Such a thing is not worth little."
"I am new to your language, and to your ways. I spoke hastily."
"So you are either a liar, or a thief, and the stories of the Khow are true."
"I am neither, though some Hakhow are both."
This gives him pause for a moment, and his pupils come together in surprise. "The stories call the invaders of the last Cycle 'Khow.'"
"I am Khow, yes." I do not understand this digression, or why it is important, but I let him lead the chase.
"Yet you call your people 'Hakhow'." Curiously, it is not a question, but a statement.
I follow his confusion, but am not sure how to explain to a Twirrl the relations between Khow and Hakhow, when they have no word for tribe or pack, nor any concept of the family loyalty which binds my people so strongly.
"Among my people," I begin tentatively, "mothers and daughters stay together. Matrilines and patrilines form groups... permanent family groups that work together and defend one another against other such groups. Daughters of one's own group are 'Khow'; others are 'Hakhow.'"
His beak clicks thrice in excitement. "Then, another of your race would say he is Khow, and you are Hakhow."
"That she is Khow," I correct him. "Males are Khoww, and their arrangements are different, but the principle is correct." Even as I speak I see his eyes widening in contempt, though I am not certain of the cause. Perhaps I have offended some sexual more, though nothing from my lessons occurs to me. We remain silent as alien emotions play across his alien features, and I attempt to ignore the reek of sweat and fouler oils that wafts from his feathers.
"There must be many stories of value sung by your people," he says at long length, breaking a silence that has grown awkward. His tone, again, is that of one dealing with infants, as if I have missed something obvious; evidently, he is offering a trade of his story for mine.
"My people have many songs and stories, yes. Sadly, I am no Storyteller, else I would offer them to you."
His pupils strain to meet above the bridge of his beak, and his wings draw back in confusion. "You do not know the songs?!?" he cries, then his fringe flashes an embarassed blue and he steps back.
This is the first time he asks a question, I realize, and this brings my lessons back to me from the shadows of past-time. To ask a question of a Twirrl except in negotiation is asking for a gift of information, a highly offensive act. Which means the reverse must also be true -- to volunteer information unasked, as I have done, is to give a gift, which is either an act of submission or one of arrogance. No wonder my overtures meet with contempt!
And yet, now he asks a question, and it reveals more than he intends. For Twirrl, who can repeat every song ever heard, note for note, to not know your family's songs is unheard of; clearly, he believes the Khow share his species' talents. Further, the very fact of the question, blurted out in confusion, indicates either that my outlandish behavior confuses him, or that he thinks me powerless. Either way, it means his stance is not balanced and it is time to strike.
"You ask, but offer nothing." Among my people, such a challenge is made amidst outraged snarls; but among the Twirrl, the proper tone is matter-of-fact, giving away nothing.
He responds with anger: "You have heard my song and offered no payment!"
"I offer you information your songs do not. I tell you of my people, our names and our ways; I teach you of our weaknesses. This is a fair trade."
"You have not taught me your weaknesses." Even angry, he bargains. Assuming he is angry at all.
"You have it from my own lips, that which made you forget courtesy -- my people cannot repeat all we hear, as yours do. I must practice and study a long time to master a single song such as that which you sing here, and even then will make errors in the telling. You are surprised; therefore your songs do not tell you this. A Cycle old are your songs of the Invasion, yet you know a thing no other knows about the children of your invaders. This is not a thing without value."
He thinks about this for a moment, then clicks his beak in tentative agreement. "You cannot sing the song of the Death of Willerik."
I am not sure if he is acknowledging my inability or imposing a stricture, but I agree regardless.
"Then the song is not of such value to you as to those it was intended for, and you have taken little. For what you did take, you have offered payment. There is no debt between us." As he speaks, he makes a complicated gesture with his left talon which I recognize as a contract-sealing sign, equivalent to the handshake among the Chinook. Somehow, he has taken the upper hand in our exchange, and yet he makes no attempt to take advantage. This supports the claims of the Chinook traders, that the Twirrl are fanatical about dealing to mutual advantage.
"There is no debt between us," I repeat, copying the gesture as best I can with a hind paw.
I expect him to depart. Instead he takes a great hop forward and adopts a stock seller's posture. "There is still the matter of the 'holes' through which the information you seek has been lost. It is possible that this precious liquid stays in my possession, awaiting the proper offer."
Mother of All! Do these birds never tire of such negotiations? A shadow voice reminds me that no, in fact, they do not. Another Khow, at another time, might be overcome by frustration; my training is stronger than this, but I feel a twinge of fury come and go. I do not think Twirrl and Khow will ever be packmates, with such different manners, but it is not my task to weave a pack of them, merely to find a killer if there is one to be found.
However, there is a blessing from the Mother here as well. They are direct in their negotiations, with none of the elaborate indirection of my people. This boy has information I desire, and thus he offers it to me; if the price is fair we will exchange. This transaction, in the markets of Horraf, would take half the day and might leave me with lies. There is a great value in the Twirrl way of doing things for those who prize fair dealing, and our exchange gives me an idea for a trade to offer. This time I make no attempt at indirection.
"I seek the names of the individuals who released the cables that killed Willerik."
"I have that information."
"The price I offer gives you twice the value of the Song of the Death of Willerik."
He is puzzled. "Twice the value, or twice the value?"
Khor! Even in simplicity, nothing is simple with these birds!
"I do not understand your words. What I offer you is information with which you can obtain twice what you could normally obtain for the telling of the Song of the Death of Willerik, if the Twirrl are honest in their dealings."
"Ah. You put it strangely. " He pauses again.
"Let me recommend a form," he continues. "Since you cannot present your price in the singleton's way, then show me what you offer and I will decide. Is this acceptable?"
I do not need his tone and posture to know I am insulted, and I curse the shadow who involves me in negotiations with this... lunchmeat! -- before I drain the fury away. I have lost the trail of this exchange yet again, and the bird is correct -- if I cannot negotiate with him properly, I must rely on his integrity.
"Very well. Beneath this pier are two of your kind, who have listened to the Song of the Death of Willerik but not yet paid its... who have not yet paid. You are entitled to payment from them; now that I point them out to you, you are able to --" I got no further, as the bird turns green in indignation and launches himself below the pier. Although I understand little of the subsequent exchange, their scents tell a story of their own... I have no doubt they receive the worst of the deal.
"The price is correct," he whistles, perhaps mournfully.