"Sa'nok," asked Tulnìwin. "Why do you not hunt, like the other men and women of the clan? I have seen you shoot the bow, and you are better at target than all of them."
Zharr'n smiled at her teenage daughter. She was at that precious but brief moment when adolescent awkwardness was transforming into coltish beauty. "There are many reasons why I do not hunt, my child."
Tulnìwin stamped her foot in annoyance. "I hate it when you talk as Tsahik. You never give me a straight answer."
The Tsahik of the Ikranaru laughed, and then saw the expression of concealed rage on her daughter's face. Tulnìwin reminded her so much of herself as a child, but Zharr'n prayed nightly that she would not fail Tulnìwin as her own mother had failed her. "I am sorry, Tulnìwin. I did not mean to anger you. Sit with me, and I will try to give the answers you desire."
Mollified for the moment, Tulnìwin knelt next to her mother, under the shelter where Zharr'n shaped her surfboards.
Zharr'n cleared her throat, and began. "Firstly, I was not born to the hunt as are Na'vi, for I am uniltìranyu."
"But you are Tsahik of the Ikranaru, not of the clan of the Uniltìranyu," objected Tulnìwin. Her mother had never spoken of her childhood, or of her clan – although she did have blood-kin in the Uniltìranyu.
In answer, Zharr'n held up one hand, showing the five fingers of her vat-grown body, very unlike the slim four-fingered hand of her daughter. "I was born on 'Rrta, and lived for thirty-five years as tawtute. I chose to come to our world in the body of a uniltìranyu, a body that was brought forth not by Eywa in the womb of a woman, but by the artifice of the tawtute."
Fuck, thought Zharr'n in her native 'Ìnglìsì. This was proving to be bloody difficult, and she hoped to hell that she wasn't going to screw up.
"You do not even look thirty-two years old now," said Tulnìwin, her brow wrinkling, obviously trying to conceive how someone can be much older than they look.
"Your father agrees with you," smiled Zharr'n. It constantly amused her how the Na'vi thought of everything in multiples of four or eight, including age, rather than five or ten. In fact, she had trouble judging the age of Na'vi adults. They did not show the external signs of aging at anything like the rate of humans. No-one really knew how long Avatar bodies would live, but it was common for Na'vi to live to at least 120. "I am not as skilled at the hunt as your father, so that is one reason why I do not hunt – unless it is to feed Boof." A warm glow spread within Zharr'n's spirit as she thought of her ikran.
"You said there were other reasons," accused Tulnìwin.
"Yes, of course," she replied. "Caring for your brother..."
"Li," snorted Tulnìwin derisively, showing the contempt due to any little brother from an older sister.
"As I said, caring for you and your brother takes time, as does my duty to the clan as Tsahik," continued Zharr'n patiently. She could see her daughter was dying to bring up the time she spent shaping surfboards, or surfing. "As for the time I spend surfing or shaping, this relates to my final reason for not hunting."
She took her daughter's hands between her own. "My spirit is stained with the blood of those I have slain." Zharr'n tried to smile but failed. She rarely had spoken to anyone about her time as a tawtute soldier, and never to her children. "I do not wish to add to my burden. That is why I surf – it sooths my spirit."
Tulnìwin snatched her hands away and said, "I do not believe you. If you had slain Na'vi warriors, there would be songs of your prowess and skill."
"I was a soldier," said Zharr'n, using the 'Ìnglìsì word. "A tsamsiyu of the tawtute. I slew many in wars between the tawtute, and when the uniltìranyu rebelled against the tawtute. There are no songs of my skill, not do I wish for them. War is not a thing of honour and glory, but a dirty, ugly thing."
"How many?" demanded Tulnìwin eagerly. "Four? Eight?" She thought if her mother had killed eight tawtute warriors, she would be a mighty warrior indeed.
Her daughter was a bloodthirsty little bitch – just like Zharr'n had been. "I do not know how many tawtute I killed," said Zharr'n. "Perhaps hundreds, or even more." She sighed. Indirectly, Zharr'n was responsible for the death of billions.
"I do not believe you," snapped Tulnìwin. "No warrior could kill that many." She moved as though she was getting up.
Zharr'n's hand made a brief movement. Her knife was quivering in the wood of a tree, pinning a hapless insect to the timber. Tulnìwin's jaw dropped. She had never seen anyone...she hadn't seen her mother take aim, or even reach for her knife.
As Zharr'n stood and retrieved her knife, she spoke. "Perhaps it is better to say that I was not a warrior, but rather one who kills. When the tawtute fought a war, the objective was to crush the enemy and survive them, not to win honour or fame. I spent all my adult life as a tawtute learning how to kill other tawtute, or killing them." She slid her knife into its scabbard with a single, well-practiced action. "That is why I do not hunt."
"Does sempu know?" asked her daughter. The expression on her face could not be described as other than a strange mixture of fear, doubt, tension and pride.
After Zharr'n apologised to the spirit of the insect for taking its life, and laid it to rest, she replied, "Yes."
Her mate Alímtaw knew, knew all too well.
That night, after Zharr'n joined in tsahaylu with Alímtaw, she said, "Today, our daughter asked me why I do not hunt."
"Did you tell her?" he asked, his arms tightening around her body.
"Yes."
Alímtaw listened to her breathing for a while before he spoke. "Tulnìwin will ask you to teach her to be a warrior. You know this."
"There is only one way I know how to teach warrior skills," replied Zharr'n. "I do not wish to do this to her."
"I do not think she will give you any choice."
"Olo'eyktan," said Zharr'n respectfully.
Txonya, the mother of her mate and olo'eyktan of the Ikranaru, looked up from the arrow-shaft she was fletching. She smiled disconcertingly at Zharr'n – her teeth had been filed down to points, like those of a shark, or rather a kxitx'payoang – and greeted, "I See you." Then Txonya observed the serious expression on Zharr'n's face, and the tension in her tail. She asked quietly, "What troubles you, mate of my son?"
"Tulnìwin will ask me to teach her the skills of a warrior," said Zharr'n. "There is only one way I know how to do this, and it will take time. Time that I should spend as mother of Li, and Tsahik to the clan."
"How long?" asked Txonya.
"About three months," she answered. "Perhaps four. I will need..."
The olo'eyktan interrupted, "I love my grand-daughter, and am happy to give you this time to teach her. Li will spend his days under my care, until you are free."
Txonya frowned. The expression on Zharr'n's face was filled with...regret? She said, "There is something else."
"Yes," agreed Zharr'n. "When the time comes, tell Tulnìwin I love her. She will not believe me when I do so."
Three days later, Tulnìwin approached her mother. "Sa'nu, I wish you to teach me," she announced.
Zharr'n stopped stretching fish leather over the skeleton of her next surfboard. "Shaping takes time to learn."
Tulnìwin scowled, "No, I mean the skills of a warrior." Her mother was being deliberately evasive – again.
"Are you sure?" asked Zharr'n. "It will be difficult, and once I start teaching, I will not stop."
The girl nodded.
Zharr'n said, "Very well. Do you remember the 'Ìnglìsì that you have been taught?" When her daughter nodded again, she continued, "When I speak 'Ìnglìsì to you, you will do exactly as I say. Is that clear?"
"Srane, sa'nok," replied Tulnìwin.
Zharr'n took a deep breath, stood up straight and fixed her daughter with a steely glare. It was time. "What is my fucking name?" she shouted in English. When she did not answer, Zharr'n stepped forward right into her daughter's face. Eywa, she thought – Tulnìwin was the same height as her. Zharr'n had not realised she was so tall. "Are you fucking deaf?" she screamed.
"Y-you are Zharr'n," stammered Tulnìwin in Na'vi. "You are Tsahik of the ikranaru."
"Wrong, scum!" she shouted. "I am Trooper Sharon King of the Special Air Service Regiment. I am your drill instructor. Although you are not fit to lick my feet, you will call me sir. When I tell you to jump, you will not ask me how high. You ask for permission to come down. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," whispered Tulnìwin. She did not recognise this monster in her mother's body.
"I can't hear you, you fucking excuse of a four-fingered smurf!" If anything, she shouted even louder.
"Yes, sir," shouted the young woman.
"Better," said Sharon. "Now give me twenty-four pushups."
"What?"
Before Tulnìwin could blink, the world spun and her face was pressed into the dirt, her mother's foot planted firmly in the middle of her back. "Since you are so fucking stupid, I will tell you how to do pushups. Now, push yourself off the ground with your arms. Start – I want to see twenty-four good pushups." Sharon smiled a terrible smile. "No. Forty-eight. You forgot to call me sir."
Sharon listened to her daughter weeping herself to sleep, and wanted to cry herself.
"Is this really necessary?" whispered Alímtaw, when it grew quiet.
"I know of no other way," she whispered back. Sharon had kept Tulnìwin running up and down sand dunes all day. Every time she paused to rest, Sharon screamed at her to do pushups, until her daughter was staggering with exhaustion. They did not return to the place of the Ikranaru until Polyphemus rose in the night sky.
When Alímtaw drew breath, Sharon placed her hand over her mate's mouth. "No. You know that I can best any Na'vi warrior in combat. If our daughter is to be a warrior, I must teach her everything I know her – my way – so that none can ever defeat her. I will not have her hurt by another."
Alímtaw stood up and snarled, "So you will hurt her instead."
"Yes."
Before he walked out of their sleeping place, Alímtaw said coldly, "I do not See you."
A group of syaksyuk chattered in the trees behind the village of the Ikranaru, starting their foraging in the pre-dawn light. Sharon stood over her sleeping daughter, and hated herself for what she was about to do.
Sharon lifted the heavy crock, pouring cold water over Tulnìwin. She spluttered and struggled up to her feet. "It is time to start," she said calmly. "You will be awake at this time every morning."
Tulnìwin rubbed the sleep from her eyes and managed to say, "Yes, sir."
"Good," she said. "Run."
For four weeks, Sharon did nothing other than run her daughter into the ground, both literally and physically. In all that time, not once did she speak Na'vi to her, or give her one solitary kind word.
She had to admire Tulnìwin's spine - not once did she complain, although the hurt in her eyes never went away.
On this day, however, the lesson was about to change.
The morning run finished early, in a clearing not far from the village of the Ikranaru. There was a large metal box there – a metal box that Sharon had hidden before her daughter was born, under the shelter where she worked.
"Kneel," said Sharon.
"Yes, sir!" shouted Tulnìwin, and promptly did as she was ordered. She had learnt well.
"The objective of war," began Sharon, "Is not to die gloriously in battle. It is to ensure that your enemy dies gloriously. The objective of war is to survive."
She opened the box and withdrew a data tablet. "Watch."
The tablet showed the footage from Sharon's helmet cam during her last combat action as a human. It showed everything – the chopper flight, the crash, the mortar shelling, but above all it showed humans being slaughtered at her hands.
Sharon did not look at the tablet, but her daughter's face – the face that was sickened by the slaughter on the screen. The face that recognised the voice of her mother on the recording.
At the end, she stopped the recording and asked, "Tell me what you saw."
"You ...you did not hesitate, or offer mercy, sir," said Tulnìwin haltingly, trying not to express her revulsion at what she had just seen – even though it had only been tawtute that were killed. "You killed even when they ran away."
"Very good, Tulnìwin," said Sharon, using her name for the first time in a month. "In combat, there is no place for doubt. There is only intent, action, and response. Right and wrong are concepts that do not exist on the battlefield. Instead, it is whether our actions and responses are effective in achieving our intent that is of concern."
Tulnìwin frowned. "Sir, in the battle you showed me, did you achieve your intent?"
Sharon's voice thickened. "No. My intent was to ensure the survival of the wounded from the chopper crash. Only four of the eight lived." Her voice cracked, "I fucking failed." Yes, accused her conscience. Sharon failed, and got her best oppo killed – the big brother she never had. Her voice steadied as she continued, "In battle, sometimes every option leads to failure. When this happens, all a soldier can do is to attempt to survive to the next battle, or die to save her comrades."
There was something in her mother's expression that Tulnìwin had never seen before. Regret. Regret that she did not die in that battle, and guilt. She knew that her mother had not intended to survive, once she saw her comrade die. Tulnìwin swallowed once and nodded. She did not need to say anything.
"It is time for you to learn how to fight," said Sharon.
The weeks flew passed. Tulnìwin learnt a thousand ways to kill – with her hands, feet, knives, guns and nuclear warheads. She learnt firearms safety, small unit tactics, how to emplace mortars, call in fire support and fool the bastards in logistics. The flood of information from her mother was relentless.
Physical training did not end either, although Tulnìwin was starting to enjoy it. She did not notice her broadening shoulders, or her continual restless energy.
Some of the young men of the clan had taken to watching her lessons in unarmed combat, and jeering from the sidelines everytime Tulnìwin ended up facedown in the dirt. Given that Sharon was the Tsahik of the Ikranaru, this was showing extreme disrespect. However, Sharon knew full well that these young men were known by the rest of the clan to be especially stupid. She hoped that Tulnìwin would never show interest in these particular young men. They were not good mating material.
Sharon put up with their snide comments for seeral days, until she turned to her daughter. "Tulnìwin. Get rid of these idiots."
"Sorry, sir?" replied Tulnìwin. "I don't understand."
Sharon said, "I am tired of stupid comments when I teach. Now, remove them from the area."
"But there are five, sir," objected Tulnìwin. She had not had the courage to question an order before.
Her mother stared steadily back at her, before she ordered, "Don't kill them."
Tulnìwin swallowed nervously, and walked across the clearing to the group of young men. "Excuse me," she asked politely. "Would you mind leaving the clearing? You are disturbing the Tsahik."
The largest young man – a bully called Txurpxun who had bullied Tulnìwin since childhood – smiled, "We don't feel like leaving." His expression was not pleasant.
"I insist," said Tulnìwin nervously.
"Are you going to make us?" said another of the youths, leaning insolently against a tree. He glanced across to Txurpxun, as though for approval.
Tulnìwin took up a guard position, and tried to say firmly, "Y-yes."
"Deal with her," ordered Txurpxun.
The youth ambled over, and made a grab at Tulnìwin's arm. She swayed to avoid him, breaking his hold. She pivoted on one foot, using his motion to swing him over her shoulder. He ended up flat on his back with the breath knocked out of his lungs. One kick to the side of his head rendered him unconscious, and she resumed her guard position. "I said, please leave," she said, a little more firmly.
There were several seconds silence as the youths took in what had just happened.
"Get her!" snarled Txurpxun.
The world blurred into a kaleidoscope of swinging arms and knives, of action and counteraction, until Tulnìwin was left standing amidst a jumble of groaning bodies. She was breathing hard, and blood trickled from a deep cut along her ribs. "You never listen, Txurpxun," snarled Tulnìwin. "Now go!"
Txurpxun staggered to his feet. He dragged one of the others to his feet, and the pair stumbled out of the clearing, holding themselves up.
From behind, a voice said, "Not bad. Not bad at all. I'm glad to see you've been paying attention."
Tulnìwin turned to see her mother smiling at her. "I was afraid," she said, still shaking.
"Good," replied Sharon. "Fear is a wonderful motivator, as long as one rides the wave and is not swept under the surface."
"You knew I could do it," accused Tulnìwin. She added a belated, "Sir."
"Of course," replied Sharon. "Nga'ite. Ätxäle si palulukanar tsní smarit livonu."
These were the first Na'vi words that Tulnìwin had heard her mother say in months. "Why are you so cruel?" she asked.
Sharon ignored the question. Instead, she knelt before her daughter to examine the cut on her ribs. "Go to my sister Tsa'peen. The cut is deep, and needs to be dressed before you resume training. She will take care of your wound. Return here immediately."
The coolness in her mother's voice chilled Tulnìwin's soul. "I hate you," she said coldly, turning on her heel.
She did not see the stricken expression on Sharon's face as she walked away.
The clan healer smoothed a lotion on to the wound, numbing the searing pain. "Thank you," said Tulnìwin. She had never really noticed that the healer had the five fingered hands of the Uniltìranyu before. It had just been one of those things, like the height of her father, or the kindness in her mother's eyes... Tulnìwin did not wish to think about her mother.
Tsa'peen smiled. "It's still going to hurt a little," she said, picking up a needle and thread. "Lift your arm a little higher, so I can work."
Tulnìwin flinched as the needle penetrated her skin. She gritted her teeth, feeling each loop of thread pull the cut closed. "Why is she so pitiless?" she asked her mother's sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng. Tulnìwin did not need to tell Tsa'peen who 'she' was.
"Zharr'n loves you," replied Tsa'peen. "She is teaching you to be a weapon, the best way she knows – the same way she was taught. The cost to her spirit is high. She has not made tsahaylu with your father since you began – all because you asked to be taught the skills of a warrior. Alímtaw thinks Zharr'n has been too hard on you, so has denied her the solace of his love until she stops these lessons."
"But..." objected Tulnìwin. She had no idea, being too involved in her own misery to notice the unhappiness of those around her.
"If you asked her to stop your training, Zharr'n would cease immediately – despite the cost to her spirit," said Tsa'peen calmly. "You would not give up, because you are too proud to admit defeat – just like your mother." She smiled as she tied off the last thread. "You are very like her, Tulnìwin."
"But I asked her to train me," said Tulnìwin slowly. "My father has no right to punish my mother for this."
The healer mixed orange resin in a small pottery bowl, and smoothed it over the wound. "Why are you telling me this, Tulnìwin?" said Tsa'peen. "I already know the score. It is Alímtaw who needs to hear your voice, and your mother is too stubborn to beg for forgiveness."
Tulnìwin bit her lip. "Where is my father now?"
"Tulnìwin!" smiled Alímtaw. He stood up to greet her, leaving the spearhead he was working from a piece of volcanic glass. Then he saw the wound on her side, and frowned. "You are hurt. Did your mother do this to you?" There was an accusing growl underlying his words.
Tulnìwin made a small gesture of negation with her right hand. "It is nothing, ma'sempu," she replied. "There is something I wish to ask of you."
"You know I would do anything in my power to make you happy," he said. His tail moved restlessly, showing his anxiety.
"Then make peace with your mate," said Tulnìwin. "It pains me to see the distance between my parents."
The colour of her father's face darkened, and his neck swelled with rage. "You do not know what you ask."
"Yes, I do," snapped Tulnìwin. "I am asking you to respect my decision, and let go of your pride. I do not need you to protect me from mother." She glared at her father.
Her father glared back, until his face slowly softened. Alímtaw said slowly, "It seems my daughter is no longer a child, but a young woman. I will miss that child."
"So are you going to ask for forgiveness from mother?" demanded Tulnìwin.
"Yes," he agreed. "Tomorrow."
Tulnìwin shook her head. "No. That is not good enough. Today. Now." She reachd for his hand, gripping it firmly. Instantly, a number of holds flashed into her head – ranging from holds to force compliance, or to break his arm. However, she did not use any of them, relying on something far more potent.
Her choice appeared to work. Her father did not resist her leading him at all.
When Tulnìwin returned to the clearing, Sharon said, "You were too long returning from the healer. Give me sixty-four pushups."
She dropped to the ground without complaint, and pumped out the required number. It didn't bother her now – besides, Tulnìwin figured that she deserved the punishment. She did, after all, disobey an order.
Once the pushups were complete, she stood, assumed parade rest, and said, "Request permission to speak, sir."
Sharon nodded once. "Granted."
"There is a visitor who wishes to speak to you," said Tulnìwin. She made a small gesture, and her father stepped into the clearing.
Sharon's heart leapt in to her mouth. Unwittingly, she took a step forward towards her mate before she could stop herself. "Alímtaw," she said, and then her mouth clamped shut.
"Zharr'n," he said. "Oel ngati kameie." He held out both hands to her, and smiled tentatively, as though he was unsure of what he was doing.
She was never quite sure how she crossed the intervening space between them to end up in his arms.
"I am sorry," he said after their kiss ended. "I was wrong to be angry."
"Yes, you were," she agreed.
"But you were wrong to accept my anger," he said. When she opened her mouth to object, he placed a finger across her lips. "If one of the clan had come to the Tsahik of the Ikranaru, telling of a similar problem with her mate, what would you have done?"
Shit, she thought. Alímtaw was a smart bugger – he knew exactly which buttons to press. "I would counsel her to talk to her mate, to open up and deal with the issue causing the anger."
"And what did you do?" he asked.
Sharon chuckled. "Exactly the opposite."
"Even the Tsahik needs a Tsahik," said Alímtaw. "It seems our daughter..."
"Where is our daughter?" interrupted Sharon – or rather Zharr'n. Sharon was only her name when she was being a door-kicking bitch.
They both looked about, but the clearing was empty.
Alímtaw started again. "It seems our daughter is growing up, and growing wise. Perhaps she, too, will be Tsahik in time."
"I think she has one or two things to learn before that happens," replied Zharr'n. "But I don't think I will be teaching her anything else today. There is something else that is far more important."
"Oh?" asked Alímtaw.
Zharr'n whispered briefly into his ear, making him laugh.
From her place of concealment, Tulnìwin watched her parents disappear hand-in-hand into the forest, and smiled.
Tomorrow, she would talk to her mother, and ask her to change the way she was being taught. She thought she understood the reason why the lessons had been so harsh, but it made it difficult to understand the whys and wherefores behind the lessons. Tulnìwin wanted to understand those underlying truths – if she could, she thought she would be a better warrior for understanding those truths.
And she expected, a better person as well.
As she stood up from her hiding place, Tulnìwin reflected that there was something else she had to do tomorrow – tell her mother that she did not hate her.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
THE END