Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

The weehar rejoiced in their own way, heads down, legs trembling. Each thing rejoiced in its own way. Even trees, doubtless. With warmth came the end of hibernation, the season of rejoicing, the season of Potipur’s Promise to the Thraish.

Shishus whispered the name of her people. “Thraish.” The word was a rejoicing in itself. After the lonely time of cold, she longed for Thraish, for huntmates. First the rejoicing. Then the obligatory trip to the Talons for the dancing as the moons gathered. Then mating. Then nesting, the joy of nestlings. “Thraish,” she whispered, turning on her strong wings above the prairie.

Though perhaps the Talkers would suggest again that the dancing not take place. As they had at the last Conjunction. Last warm season there had been rebellious muttering against the Talkers, and Shishus had been a leader in that rebellion. In old times Talkers had been wise, settling disputes over nesting sites or huntmates. Last season-no, the season before that and before that as well-they had not been helpful. Not orthodox. Of late the Talkers seemed to doubt Potipur’s Promise, the promise of ten thousand years. “Do my will and ye shall have plenty.”

Thinking of it made Shishus angry. Among the free fliers there was talk of overthrowing the Talkers. Shishus had told them it was foolish talk. It was not necessary to overthrow the Talkers. They could simply be ignored!

Potipur’s Promise was holy. Long, long ago the Thraish had been hungry. All the hoovar had been eaten and were gone. Then came the Talker Shinnisush, bringing Potipur’s Promise to the people. “Follow me and ye shall have plenty!” And after the promise there had been great explosions in the northlands, mountains jutting fire, and endless herds of thrassil came, driven out of the north by the fire, driven from behind the great mountains. The Thraish had rejoiced in plenty once more.

But in time the thrassil also were gone, eaten. Then the world had shaken again, and the weehar had come, down in great herds to the silver-blue plains that lay between the Riverlands and the northern mountains.

Great herds.

Shishus planed in a wide gyre, peering down. One herd only. Small. Perhaps she should wait to find a larger herd. No. Cold season had been long, and soon huntmates would arrive. She threw back her head and cried loud into the sky, “Invitation! Join! Rejoice! Summer beasts are here.”

Below, Shishus’s shadow fell across beasts, and they began to gallop, a frenzied flight, knowing time to rejoice was near. Far on the western horizon two winged specks moved toward Shishus, crying as they came, “Rejoice, rejoice.” Her huntmates: Slililan, Shusisanda.

They met in midair, wingtips caressing, beaks touching the tender sweet places behind ears, glorying in touch, in flight. Then they cried together, fell together, talons extended, crying the great invitation to the weehar. “Rejoice! Rejoice!”

The weehar rejoiced, galloping, snorting, leaping in a wild dance upon the grass, evading, skipping, falling at last beneath the clutching talons, beneath the spearing beaks. Blood ran hot into Shishus’s beak.

In Sliffisunda’s aerie the young shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, beaks agape. They tasted the hot blood of the weehar, heard the cries of the huntmates. Sliffisunda chanted to them, telling them what to feel, what to experience. In the trance they heard Sliffisunda’s voice:

“Rejoice! Rejoice!”

Away upon the prairie the few remaining weehar stopped running, stood trembling, the few young in the center of the group. This was how weehar prayed to Potipur. This is how the herd beasts rejoiced. Shishus stood upon one of the beasts she had killed, gorged now, beak dripping, and called to her huntmates to see the beasts rejoicing.

“Not rejoicing,” snapped Slililan. Slililan did not always sound like free flier. Sometimes she sounded almost like Talker. “No rejoicing, Shishus, silly flier. Weehar scared. Only scared. Herd too small.”

“Rejoice in own way,” Shishus screamed. Slililan was spoiling their first feast. “Slililan makes unorthodox talk. Doubts Potipur.”

Slililan flew at Shishus then, battle ready. Only Shusi-sanda’s bulk thrust between had stopped them as they stood with wings cocked high in threat, spear-beaked and blood-eyed. “Huntmates,” Shusisanda whispered. “Time to rejoice.”