Chapter 8 - Carabas and the Trials of the Macqul Taxat
As we rested up with the People of the Air (who, I discovered, called themselves the Macqul Taxat, which means, in their tongue, “People of the Air” – now, now, they are birds, after all), I pondered on the battles I had fought thus far, and considered how I could refine my tactics to be even more effective.
To be a Catling in the lands of the Bigs requires more than just fearlessness and well-honed combat prowess. It means to be fast, to be quick, to be agile, to be tricksy.
Now, some might say that to play tricks is hardly what one thinks of when one considers mighty-thewed warriors of the legends. But that consideration falls for the prejudices and strengths of the Bigs, valuing those who are even bigger and stronger. And, with no disparagement to my dear friend Virens, that is a very narrow view of combat.
Combat is not just of the body, but of the mind. To control the battlefield, to dart back and forth, in and around, forcing the foe to waste his strength whilst one stings like a bee, manipulates, directs, and manages the foe, gathering information (and, sometimes, valuables) before finishing them off …
Well, not to be impolite in the context of the People of the Air, it is still not unlike what a Catling does with their prey for amusement before tucking in to feed.
But this consideration did call another to mind. Our people, as I have said, are somewhat insular. We prize our privacy but, in so doing, avoid any fame for the bravery and achievement that our race rightfully should be known for, particular individuals especially, and the lessons such can teach to the smaller and discounted of every people.
It occured to me that the Macqul Taxat were in a similar situation – a secretive and isolated, elusive race, not well known to other races. How, then, do they sing of their heroes in a way that rightfully spreads their fame?
I spoke to the birds, to ask these questions. The younger ones were reticent around me, cautiously perceiving, perhaps, an apex predator in their presence. The older Macqul Taxat seemed sad in their response, which I inferred to mean they either had few such tales or, perhaps, similarly did not have a way of proclaiming them.
Those of middle years (as best as one can tell with birds) were much more willing to speak.
At length.
I confess to some dismay, as the “tales” they told seemed to be long, and overly detailed, family and tribal histories. Lots of “begats” (and those were the exciting parts). Lots of facts (“Three hundred and seventy two trees of twelve feet or more were in that forest, and here were the names of those who counted them …”). Lots of dry, lifeless …
Imagine being droned on and on to by the oldest and most out-of-touch of you elders, and the tremendous boredom that would seize your spirits, leading to uncontrollable yawning – like that tired kitling over there, yes, I see you – and a desire to be swallowed up by the ground.
It was like that.
At length, one of the elders told them – perhaps all the more bored for having heard these tales so many times over their long lives – that what I was looking for were “Fire Stories,” and told me I should come back that evening.
Aha! Evening drinking songs! That would surely be what I was seeking!
And indeed, that was the case. These were tales, then, of adventure – heroic figures fighting villains, saving victims, defeating beasts, all that. To be sure, there was nothing all that unusual about their tales, nothing so different from the tales I had heard from the other races, basic forms, rising actions and cliffhangers and climaxes and resolutions and the like. Until …
The elder who had intervened earlier told a fascinating creating myth, the first bird (or perhaps the first Macqul Taxat) who mastered flight, rather than mere gliding (as most of the bird people do). That bird’s presumption in doing so drew the attention of the “Accursed,” the Corruptor’s people, who were jealous and sought the bird’s secret, and did many nasty things to other birds who were not as strong in flying.
At length that greatest of birds made them a wager – they could hunt that bird for a year and a day, and would get the power of flight if the bird were captured and killed, but if they failed then they would be forever enfeebled against the bird’s race.
The wager was (as in all such tales) taken up, and a year passed where the bird never touched ground, but drank from the clouds and fed from seeds brought by other birds, and, when pressed on the final day of the hunt, flew up into the stars …
(The Macqul Taxat do not group their stars in the sky as we Catlings do. The constellation they associate with this first bird is part of, by coincidence, the Taunting Prey, though both are birds and figures of heroism, but they include part of the Fierce Jaw and do not includes the orange star we call the Graveyard Eye. A strange people, but I digress.)
As the first bird vanished from the world before the end of the bet, neither side of the wager paid off, so if that bird should ever reappear, the Corruptor’s people can still seek to win their prize.
A strangely unsatisfying, if well-told, tale, but it was a fine night, with camaraderie, and fine drinking of fine draughts that you are all too young to know about.
And interrupted at that point by orcs.
Yes, more long diplomatic chitchat, as some orcish scouts were spotted, women and children and human refugees are sent to shelter, and a war council was quickly put together wherein Virens and the Shaman of the tribe seemed to get into a pissing match over who can best take care of the refugees and how best to get their story out to the world, and how the birds felt they needed to take care of the humans to prove to the orcs that they were honorable and deserved their vengeance. I felt irritated for some reason I couldn’t articulate, mostly because, perhaps, it seemed like everyone was focused on orcs and birds and humans as the most important elements of the saga, and none were thinking of our people.
But, then, what else is new?
Plus, it seemed to be boiling down to Virens telling the Macqul Taxat that they should challenge him to a fight and beat him, so that they could deal with the orc scouts out of strength. Which sounds just like the tales of chest-thumping orcs we all know.
(I care for Virens like a litter mate, but he shows his true blood at the most annoying times.)
In the end, we trudged to the camp of the orcs – a whole troupe of three of them, mind you. And, somehow, it all managed to resolve itself without gouts of blood and far-flung severed limbs, so perhaps there is hope.
On the other hand, Virens mentioned how “among Orcs, blood shed is blood shared,” so that assessment might be premature.
At any rate, we ended the night feeling we’d learned a bit more, and, for my interest in their tales, they gave me a small purse of various coins, “shining tokens from afar, given to the rare Macqul Taxat who told the tale of the First Flyer,” in hope that I would share the story as well.
And so I have. And I hope you enjoyed it, and remember it to tell again. Even if it has insufficient Catlings to make it truly memorable.