Of Birds and Branches
Frances Pauli
OF BIRDS AND BRANCHES
FRANCES PAULI
OF BIRDS AND BRANCHES
Production copyright © 2021 Goal Publications
Cover artwork copyright © 2021 John Ramsey
Story copyright © 2021 Frances Pauli
Distributed by Goal Publications
Norwich, Connecticut
http://www.goalpublications.com/
Print ISBN 978-1-949768-42-8
Printed in the United States of America.
First Edition trade paperback July 2021.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part in any form without written consent of the copyright holders. People, places, events, or organizations contained within these works are products of the author(s) imaginations or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real, nor does the fiction within represent the author’s viewpoints or opinions.
FOR THE MIDWRITE SOCIETY
WITH THANKS FOR THEIR SUPPORT
Mima draped her scarves loosely over her plumage. She puffed her cheek feathers and tilted her head to one side, observing the process in her bedroom mirror. One wrap for each year of her adult life, an overlap of precisely one quarter of the scarves’ width on each pass, and three tucks in front to honor the heavenly bodies.
Today the fabric was the flame-orange of sun-set, a shade that marked the halfway day between her announcement and her coronation. She’d begun her month-long preparations in a rich crimson, newly appointed and as eager to begin as a first-day hatchling. On the day she was given her mother’s circlet and stepped into her full power, she would wear the blazing yellow of the mid-summer sun.
Her claws scratched absentmindedly at the tile floor. She stood on one foot and then the other, examining her work. Making sure the ritual garment aligned perfectly.
The orange clashed with her breast feathers, though it looked lovely over her shoulders where her plumage waxed blue. Her chest darkened into a shade of royal purple she’d always been proud of.
Today, it looked muddy and discordant.
Someone knocked on the outer door, and Mima clacked her beak together in irritation. Her nerves, unlike the scarves, grew shorter each day.
Hopping across the bedroom, she spread her tail feathers into a wide fan and flicked the discomfort out in a series of sharp twitches.
She crossed the outer rooms, stalking between the meeting table and the haphazard jumble of chests which contained the wraps and other regalia she required for her impending coronation.
Everything exactly in its place. Each step what it should be: an honor, a weight that Mima felt against her feathers as if the wraps were woven of solid gold.
She paused before opening the door, breathing deeply. Her feathers smoothed. Her beak settled. Mima closed her eyes and let the tide of ritual wash over and soothe her.
“The portal is guarded,” she spoke with the hushed force of a prayer.
“Only a friend may pass.” From the other side of the wooden panel, Ist’av answered. They sang the words of the meeting rite, and Mima took immediate comfort in the familiar voice.
“Then enter, friend,” she said, stepping to the side and coaxing her tail back into a dignified line.
The door opened and Ist’av hobbled inside. Their wings folded in front of them, feathered fingers juggling a stack of bound volumes—reading material, and a welcome distraction from her other obligations.
“Good day-start, Highness,” they warbled, instantly searching out a clear surface on which to deposit the books.
“To you as well, Ist’av.” Mima watched them ricochet between the chests with amusement, causing her facial down to puff.
Her friend was as thrown off by the new furniture as she was. Ist’av’s olive feathers ruffled around their shoulders, and she could see the sharp white patches between their tail feathers as they fought for balance.
In the end, they set the books down on the meeting table. Mima bobbed her head in approval and joined them beside the low perch encircling it.
“What did you bring me today?” she chirped, eyeing the volumes with more enthusiasm than she’d applied to her dressing.
“Coronation history,” Ist’av said. “The rituals surrounding past queens’ appointments, and a list of minor rites instituted by each successive regent.”
“Juicy,” Mima clacked merrily. “I almost wish I could stay in and read.”
“You have Sun Service this morning?”
“With Father.” She sighed and puffed her cheeks. “I’d rather read. There’s so much more I have to know before the month’s end.”
Ist’av bobbed a gentle nod of understanding. They balanced on one long leg, and their slender neck folded into a curve that allowed them the most restful of postures. It was a meditative stance, and one that soothed Mima by association.
“Sometimes I envy you your life among the books,” she said.
“And sometimes I envy your private bathroom,” they teased. “You‘re to rule, Highness. Leave the dusty corners of the Receptacle to me, and I shall rain volumes upon you at your every request.”
“Then I shall be a very lucky queen indeed.”
Mima felt the warmth of their shared obsession sink through her. Ist’av lived to decipher and decode the rituals that governed their people. Ist'av's days were full of rich cultural study, and Mima had not been joking when she claimed to envy that. Had she not been born with her mother’s blood, she most certainly would have found her way into the Receptacle.
“I have volumes for you as well,” she said. “Finished the last four before bed.”
“With notes?” Ist’av cocked their head and twisted to face her directly.
“Of course.” She waved one wing through the air, as if to fend off the idea that she would not make notes.
Ist’av waited while she retreated to the bedroom and fetched the books they’d brought her on their previous visit. When she lay them out on the meeting table, Ist’av immediately flipped one open and began to read her comments. On a normal day, they’d have spent a good hour or two discussing the contents, the rituals, and practical applications.
Today she had to meet her father for Sun Service.
Ever since her appointment, the rituals she adored had competed for her time with the librarian. Their meetings felt truncated now, too brief to fully enjoy the discourse. Perhaps it was that which left her feeling agitated.
“Ist’av…” she began, not certain how to finish the thought aloud.
“You have to go.” Her friend closed the book and gathered the rest into their wings. “Of course.”
“Will you walk with me?” Mima blurted it without thinking. The Way of the Winds lay askew from the direct route back to the Receptacle. It would take time from Ist’av’s busy day, more time than they’d sacrificed already just to bring her more reading material.
They surprised her by agreeing, by puffing their chest feathers so that they seemed to swell. “Of course.”
The Way of the Winds stretched between the Sun Sanctuary and the Temple of the Twin Moons. Slender columns lined the wide walk, and it was broken in four places, equidistant from one another, by tall altars.
Mima walked with her right wing raised in honor of the West Wind, and her left foot leading by half a step. At her side, Ist’av echoed her, embodying the ultimate pose of respect and devotion. When they reached the next altar, they stopped, shifted their weight forward, and bobbed nine times to the north.
“My father is not a fan of the Way of Winds,” Mima said as they moved on again. This time they held both wings straight over their heads and walked with an even stride. “He says it’s a large excess to little gain.”
“Did you
explain to him that our rituals contain many layers of meaning?”
“Of course I did.” She winced and missed a step, feeling a sharp regret as she did so and whispering a silent apology to the North Wind.
“And?” Ist’av’s posture remained unfazed, though Mima knew her revelation disturbed them. Perhaps she’d said it specifically to that intent, though she couldn’t quite pin down why she felt the sudden need to shock the librarian into a more emotional response.
“He made me do postures,” she said. “Until my back ached. Don’t laugh.”
But Ist’av’s body trembled with mirth. Even so, their steps fell with complete accuracy. The sun’s light made the colonnade a gleaming stretch of baked tile, and the columns already radiated a gentle warmth.
“It’s not that funny.” Mima clacked her beak. “You mock your future queen, you know?”
“I do.” Ist’av’s long neck unfolded enough for a sage nod. “I certainly do. And what does your future mate think of the Way?”
“Kov’an?” Mima clucked sharply. “He cares even less for ritual, I think, and is most happy behind a sword or a hunting lance.”
“I believe you are correct.” Ist’av punctuated the observation with a low grinding of their beak halves. It was their customary response to any mention of Kov’an, and Mima resisted the urge to remind them that, this time, they’d been the one to bring up the warrior.
The two approached the next altar in silence, and after their bobbing, parted ways. Ist’av exited the Way to return to their duties, and Mima was left to observe the eastern posture on her own.
The Sun Sanctuary had been built to house the entire palace population. It stretched so wide, from one clay wall to the next, that even from her perch in the Sun Shrine, Mima had to squint to see who entered the far gate.
So it was her father, Regent Tal’pi, who identified the petitioners as they entered.
“Here comes the master of grains,” he muttered. “And his entire entourage.”
“Blessed are they who grind,” Mima said, ignoring her father’s grunt. “May they never falter.”
“How are your preparations coming?” He changed the subject, as he did any time she leaned too hard on the ritual speech. “You’ll be ready by the moon to take your mother’s perch?”
“Yes, Father.” Was he so eager to give back his interim command? To see a hen in place again at the apex of their kingdom?
“Good. Here they come.” He stood, shaking out his wings and raising the tall crest on the top of his yellow head.
Mima crouched on her perch, watching her father administer the blessing of the crops. She could recite the words in her sleep, and felt she might deliver them with a twitch more sincerity than the regent managed. But then, her father, like Kov’an, would have rather been flying afield.
By the time he finished with the agricultural dignitaries, Mima’s attention began to wander. The processions were metered through the gates, only allowed to march across the wide space one group at a time. It gave the ritual a rhythm that she could admire, but it stretched the moments in between encounters dangerously close to boredom.
When her father spoke again, she jerked back to attention with a soft squawk.
“Now that you’ll take your throne,” he began, “you’ll be wanting to make things official with Kov’an.”
“Why?” Mima yawned and used her beak to scratch beneath the feathers on her right shoulder. “There’s no prescribed schedule for the queen to mate.”
“Prescribed.” Her father spat the word, fluffing until he looked like one of the prickly plants that grew in the western desert. “So many schedules. Well, mating takes its own direction, child, and it’s high time the two of you got down to business.”
“I’ve my wings full just preparing for the coronation,” Mima grumbled.
Tal’pi ignored her. He bobbed his head and fluttered his crest, attention fixed on the next group of petitioners. “Who’s this coming now?”
“Why not wait?” Mima only half-listened to him. She’d done no more than give mating a passing thought, some distant note in her very busy future. In truth, she had no interest in it, no desire for that sort of thing at all. Eventually, yes, she’d assumed that she and Kov’an would talk about the sharing of a branch, but there was no reason to rush. She clacked her beak and flattened her feathers tight to her body. “I don’t even have a nest.”
“Perhaps you should consider starting one,” her father said.
Something in his tone drew her fully back to the moment. He still stared out at the sanctuary arena, still kept his crest at full height, but now there was a tension about him, an expectation to his posture that had not been there for the master of grains.
Mima gazed out at the approaching party and nearly swallowed her own gizzard.
Halfway across the arena marched four birds. Leading them was the Mistress of Ritual, Arli, an ancient hen charged with keeping the traditions of the palace fully in force. She’d stood as tall as Ist’av once, though time had curled her spine as much as her long neck. Her ebony plumage still gleamed in the sunlight, but one of her legs twisted, and she walked with a telltale jogging to the right.
Behind the mistress came Kov’an, who would be the master of the hunt one day. Her father’s favorite, and if he was to be believed, the finest warrior their kind had seen since his own days on the field.
Kov’an’s massive body was covered in lapping bronze feathers. He looked like a golden pine cone, like an armored siege engine, and he had the skills to back up that image. Atop his head a single feather curved, and his stout tail spread a wide fan.
Instead of his customary wrappings, he wore ceremonial attire today: a cap of thin, hammered metal, wing barbs, and a series of spikes affixed to his tail. From beak to claw he looked like a hero out of legend, undeniably the most impressive male living anywhere near the palace.
Mima lowered on her perch, hissing under her breath. Something not on her schedule today was about to happen. The master of weavers was due next, but here was Kov’an, Arli, and behind them, Kov’an’s two best soldiers.
“Relax,” her father crooned.
But Mima’s feathers prickled. Her skin burned below. She’d managed to put off any serious thought of mating, and now here it was marching in her direction. She’d had no time to study it, carried no real understanding of the ritual or its implications. She needed to prepare, to sit with Ist’av and dissect the nature of the words.
It couldn’t just happen like this. Yet the shield mates, Man’an and Duf’ar, clearly carried an object between them.
Something that looked suspiciously branch-like.
“I don’t know how this works,” she whispered.
“It’s simple,” her father said. “He offers you the branch and you take it.”
That wasn’t exactly how the books described it. Mima warbled deep in her throat and tried to remember what she’d read about the branching rite.
Her thoughts scattered, however, and the more she struggled to remember, the more she realized how little attention she’d paid to the idea of taking a mate. In fact, she’d been deliberately avoiding it.
In hindsight, a crucial deficiency.
The party arrived far too soon at the foot of the Sun Shrine. Arli stopped just a span from the base of the regent’s high perch. Kov’an and his men held another two paces behind the mistress of ritual. Silence fell, fully and suddenly, and Mima heard the racing of her heart inside her breast.
“Mima,” Arli began. “First daughter of our late queen, child of the Sun and the Moon, sister to the four Winds, and soon-to-be ruler of all.”
Mima shivered as the old hen took a ragged breath. She glanced quickly in Kov’an’s direction and found him fully puffed, as if frozen in mid-strut. When he winked at her, her belly tightened as it always did. The greatness of such an honored cock impressed itself upon her. This one, this was the best they had.
And the best they had wanted her.
Mima heard her father warble in reply. His approval echoed over the arena, and Kov’an stood even taller.
“Come you down,” Arli sang. “Come down and inspect your offering.”
Mima lifted her head in response to the ritual speech. She felt the weight of Arli, tugging at her, the depth of knowledge contained in a single bird, so concentrated that she became a star, pulling others to her, keeping everything in its place simply by existing at the center of them all.
If Mima would be queen, Arli was goddess. The keeper of culture and of order. She could no more refuse the old hen than she could chew her own beak.
With as much grace as she could muster, Mima spread her wings and leapt.
She glided to the hot tiles and stood on one foot, saving the other for when the heat became unbearable. Arli nodded approval and scooted up beside her, guiding Mima with a wingtip to face the soldiers.
“I don’t know the ritual,” Mima whispered to the mistress. “Please, you must tell me what happens now.”
“Kov’an will present you with a branch.” Arli’s voice was crinkling parchment, the sweep of pages and the rattle of spines. “The cock presents the branch, and if the hen approves of it, they are mated.”
“If she…what?”
There was the piece she’d been trying to recall, the wording of the text where she’d found mention of branching. If the hen approves of it. What did that mean? How would she know a good branch from a bad, and what was she meant to look for?
Panic tightened her gullet. She bobbed against it, struggled to control the sudden urge to fly. She might have little interest in mating, but the rituals meant something to her, and she felt a looming danger, a sense that she might botch the whole thing with her indifference.
