Mother of Demons by Eric Flint

She squatted down on her peds and began cleaning the fork and the flail with a sponge. Around her she could hear the crowd whistling loudly. It was not the death of the slaver which shocked them, she knew. They were as callous a group of gukuy as you could find anywhere on the Meat of the Clam. It was the manner of it—the incredible display of ferocity, speed and strength. Many warriors boasted of being able to deal the kutaku, the single death-blow, but it was rarely accomplished in actual fact.

“And her gray never wavered,” Nukurren heard one mercenary whisper with awe. She found some consolation in that comment, to counteract the great wave of revulsion which flowed through her. Not a trace of her feelings showed in her mantle, but she had to fight not to vomit. She concentrated on cleaning her weapons, slowly and meticulously.

I’m not even sickened by the killing, she thought wearily. The stinking slaver deserved it. No, it’s the sickness of my whole life. I think Dhowifa’s right. But I just can’t find any comfort in his dukuna.

By the time she finished cleaning her weapons, the crowd had disappeared. The body of the slaver was still lying to one side. The pool of blood surrounding it had soaked into the soil. Scavengers were already approaching the corpse. Within a day, the body would be a festering mass of corruption, filled with slugs, snails, worms and larvae.

Typical slavers, thought Nukurren with disgust. Well, if they’re not going to bother giving her the rites, I’m certainly not.

She rose and began walking toward her yurt. A soft hoot from the cage stopped her. Turning back, Nukurren saw that the hunnakaku was now standing at the front of the cage, staring at her through the bars. The hunnakaku hooted again.

Long ago, after their escape from Shakutulubac, Nukurren and Dhowifa had spent many eightweeks living with the Kiktu. Nukurren had gotten along well with the tribespeople, but Dhowifa’s pampered existence in the Palace had not prepared him for the hardships of barbarian life. So when the old Paramount Mother died, and the fury of the hunt for her escaped consort died with her, Dhowifa had insisted on returning to civilization. Nukurren had not been unwilling, for though she liked the Kiktu, she found their religious beliefs bizarre. And their dietary fetishes and restrictions had been annoying.

But while she was among them, Nukurren had been careful to observe the proprieties. She had even learned some of the strange language spoken by the hunnakaku. For the Kiktu believed that the sub-gukuy were sacred. They called the hunnakaku the Old Ones, and believed that they were the first people created by their goddess Uk when she rained life upon the Meat. They were favored still in her eyes, the Kiktu believed, and their language was difficult to understand because it was holy. All Kiktu learned to speak it—at least, as well as was possible for gukuy.

So Nukurren listened. The hunnakaku hooted again.

MUST NOT DO

FEED

REEDS SNAILS BEAUTY

With difficulty, Nukurren translated. The speaking siphon of the hunnakaku, she knew, was fairly similar to that possessed by gukuy. But there were important differences. The hunnakaku lacked the flexible lips and the hard ridges which enabled gukuy to speak their complex languages. Instead, the hunnakaku produced a hoot which contained a single thought couched in various permutations. Dhowifa had once told her it reminded him of a verbal version of the ideograms which the prevalates in the far south used for writing.

The central concept was “feed.” She understood that immediately. There was both the positive and the negative imperative which was usually present in hunnakaku hoots. The negative was at the center—a reflection, she thought, of the timid nature of the sub-gukuy. “Not feed snails,” then. The positive would surround the center, as an alternative course of action. “Must feed beauty. Do feed reeds.”

With sudden understanding, she stared at the body of the slaver.

“But why?” she demanded. “She was your tormentor.”

Another hoot.

DEATH NOT END

GIVE

LIFE NOT LIFE

Strangely, it made sense. The hunnakaku were plant-eaters. They viewed carnivores, including scavengers, with horror. The horror was not the product of personal fear. Because of their size, the hunnakaku had few natural enemies. (Except us, thought Nukurren.) It was due to their belief that all meat-eaters were parasites, who stole life without returning it back to what they called the “Coil of Beauty.” To be eaten as meat was to be denied re-entry into the Coil, to be doomed to eternal non-existence.