The Sheikah have children in waves. I asked Impa about this phenomenon when I was young. Why were all the other children five years younger or ten years older than I was? She assured me it was by design. Our traveling groups are small, the conditions that make it the right time to have children are shared by the whole troupe, and so a generation of children is born within a year or two. When I followed up with the logical question – why was I the exception? – she took a long sip of tea, examined me through the steam, and told me what I already knew. My parents are from a different group.
Being an orphan is a life-long journey of discovery of the myriad ways you are different.
To the Sheikah's extreme credit, all of my solitude is self inflicted. Right now, for example, I opt to explore rather than wrestle fifteen-year-old boys. Such a radical.
The hardwood houses of the village are built right up to the edge of the island. Bare meters – or less – separate walls from the reedy depths of swamp water around us. A sweet-smelling breeze does nothing to lift the fog; in the valleys of Calatia, there is nowhere for the fog to blow away to.
It takes just half an hour, rooftop to rooftop, to circumnavigate town. It fits the pattern of all the mire counties, tucked in the belly of the southern Foglands: a roughly circular blob of thick vegetation and sod, half floating and half sliding over the slick of water and infinite depth of mud that counts as terrain around here. By the time I get back to the nascent circus the island has slid away from the firmer territory that rings the eastern edge of the Calatian Foglands. We're on our own in an ocean of sucking sludge.
Alfon has set up a bar, and waves me over as I return. "Want to find some cats?" There is a small cheer from the inebriated crowd. It's another Sheikah tradition; do favours for locals by scouring their rooftops. It's also a great excuse to get the lay of the land, and you sometimes get tipped a few rupees. I accept, and collect a mental list of objectives from the townsfolk; a cat on the roof of town hall, a roof on the northern edge of town that needs a minute's mending, a missing wallet, etc.
I grin, bow, scamper onto the nearest roof, and do a flip on my way to the next building. The cat on town hall is the first item I check off my list. It's clear to me he's not really stuck. He's just avoiding the crowds, and wouldn't have any more trouble than I do jumping down from roof to roof. This village has narrow paths instead of streets. There are no carts, and not so much as a horse in the whole town. I join him for a while; the fat white tomcat purrs up against me, and I stroke his head, gazing out over the town and thinking.
Foglands commerce is a haphazard affair; if you bump into another island, you trade with them for as long as you're stuck together, and say your farewells as you drift apart. There are some fogships, though barges would be a more accurate term. They're another type of nomad, and one that we Sheikah rarely encounter. Islands themselves can be "rowed", though most villages rarely bother. I look out to the edges and confirm the presence of giant oarlocks. I suppose the island worked hard to be at a rendezvous point with us. Grandma arranged it through some mysterious means.
My new friend bolts, and a second later I feel something as well. I stand up on the roof of town hall, hairs at the back of my neck pricking. The air pressure rises palpably. There's a flush of panic, a sense that the sky is falling, and looking up I can see the sky suddenly darken. I hear cries from the circus, and a handful of villagers run back in to town. It seems they're rushing to a few sheds at the periphery. Shelters, maybe?
Still ignorant of what's coming, I look around for shelter. There's a large, low building directly in front of town hall. The space it sits in probably used to be a square, or plaza. It looks brand new and unfinished. The A-frame roof doesn't yet meet the square tops of the walls.
Another glance upward shows a colossal shape descending through the fog, directly towards the town. The villagers have emerged from the sheds, pushing small cannons. One goes off with a "THOOM". Some small object shoots out and explodes against the descending wall.
I look down. It's a long shot. The avenue in front of town hall is the only one in town wide enough to deserve the name, but in a rush of panic I take it. I fly from the peak of one roof across and down to the gap beneath the other. My hands slap into the roof's support beams, find no purchase, and send me tumbling into the dimness beneath.
I land hard on my left side, wind forced out of my lungs. The roof rattles and I can feel a gust of air from one end of the building to the other. The sense of pressure and imminent doom fades instantly. Whatever leviathan passed by has only buzzed us. Several more cannons "THOOM" into the distance.
My eyes adjust to the shadows, and I look around. There are row after row of small plants in a hastily dug field. They are in flower, despite the shade, small bursts of yellow and green atop a large, dark blue stalk. The stalks might be fruits, actually; they are rounder than my head, and a little too big to hold in one hand.
I stand cautiously. The panic that came with seeing the sky fall has faded quickly. If only I had stayed outdoors, I could have caught a glimpse of the thing casting that shadow. Fortunately, the world presents me with a new mystery in these plants. I reach down to pick one, but they are very firmly rooted.
I pace up and down the rows. These plants have been planted deliberately in rows. The rows have been dug recently, but the plants look fully grown. A building was quickly erected over them, so they must not need sunlight to grow. The walls don't quite reach the roof… so maybe they need partial light?
A villager's footsteps thud up the road from the circus. I slip out in the opposite direction. Maybe this building is only abandoned because of the festivities, but it feels like I shouldn't be here.
Besides, sudden existential threat and mystery plants aside, I still have a list of menial chores to perform. These tasks are aimed at the younger sheikah, who still have to learn the controls learn to control themselves, but the tips are nice.
I run two steps up the side of a house to reach the gutters, and swing myself to the roof. The revels from our encampment had stilled when I was in the plant house, but they are picking back up already. Encouraged, I follow the directions I was given and mend the damaged roof.
The wallet is a little trickier, but I've always had a knack for finding key items. They tend to be in the most difficult places to get to, yet be easy to spot once you're there. I spy it leaning against the chimney of the tallest building in town. From the nearest building, I figure I can leap the alley and just barely grab the gutters. I push my earlier panicked fumble from my mind: I jump, grab, climb up.
This wallet is a beautiful thing, embroidered with black and white and bronze diamonds in a silky fabric. I can feel the weight of rupees in it, but once it's in my pocket I can hardly even feel it there. I head back along the rooftops.
As soon as I land in camp, I am ambushed by a villager holding my tomcat friend. "You found my cat!" the woman gushes. "She must have been soooo scaaaared up on the rooftop alone! How can I ever thank you? Please, take this, and be happy!" I ignore her blatant ignorance of her cat's gender identity and the cat's mute look of appeal to be freed from his squealing captor, and pocket the ten rupees.
I find the villager with the mended roof, and get another ten for my word that it's a job well done. She is much less shrill, so I steel myself for the strain of social interaction and ask her: "What was that thing in the sky a few minutes ago? You all seem… pretty unfazed by it."
"Oh, yes, that. You wouldn't have seen them before, would you?" She clasps her hands tightly, bites her lower lip. "It was a sky whale. The first spotting in Calatian skies was about a year ago. Some say they came from the skies over distant oceans, but no one knows why they're here now."
The man with no wallet is drinking at Alfon's bar; I sneak up behind him and drop it on his lap. He jumps in surprise. "Alfon!" he shouts. Alfon raises his eyebrows from behind the bar, a meter away. "I can pay for my drinks after all!" The wallet gushes rupees onto the bar, which Alfon sweeps away with a fresh tankard for his patron.
"Here," the walleted man says, turning to face me for the first time. "Take this as your reward," he offers, thrusting the wallet at me. I take it without hesitation. "My tab just turned into credit, so I won't be needing that any more." He grins a red-nosed grin and turns back to the bar.
A bell chimes, as neatly timed as if it had been waiting for the completion of my last chore. The crowd of villagers ooooohh in expectation and flow toward the main tent. "Time for the main event, my dear," Alfon comments, indicating with his agile eyebrows that I am to perform tonight. I tip my imaginary hat to Alfon as I climb onto his bar, onto his shoulders, on to the roof of the cart the bar is built into, and make my way along the tops of things ahead of the crowd.
Though haphazardly set up, the poles are laid out as acrobat's steps. I carefully vault from one to another. To the bystanders, it seems as if I bounce along the canvas itself. Once at the peak of the cloth monolith, I fall gracefully through a gap in the fabric and land, bouncing, on a layer beneath.
Other performers collect here with me; acrobats descend from other roof entrances, while some labor their way up ladders from the floors below. I peek off the edge of this platform, our back stage, to see row upon row of chairs filling with milling guests. Grandmother, among others, circulates with tea and buns, cider and roast cucco legs.
Back stage is full of the chat and cluck of Sheikah. Some of the younger ones have nerves, but most are just excited. Huge netted bundles of props hang around our preparation area, lifted with pulleys. We are always ready for any type of performance, whether it be a play, a musical, or acrobatics.
A hush falls below. My peering eyes see grandmother climb the hastily erected stairs to our circular wooden stage. She beams out into the crowd until all chatter ceases, and announces in a practiced voice, weathered but not broken with age: "Friends, new and old! Esteemed guests, who are also our honoured hosts! I have determined the nature of tonight's entertainment by the most noble and ancient art of the Sheikah: Eavesdropping on the crowd." There is a round of chuckles. "I declare tonight to be a battle!" A huge huzzah rises into the evening air, fair more than I expect. Our stage fighting is fantastic, it's true, and we sometimes appease an encore request with a staged duel, but most audiences prefer a bit of plot, dialogue, and character building. I shrug to myself.
"The theme," grandmother continues, "is the one against the many, the small against the mighty!" The crowd roars. "Who better to be your champion and protagonist than the slenderest slip of a thing, the greatest of granddaughters – " I start and turn to see my fellow performers grinning at me. "- the zesty Zelda!"
Grandmother raises her hands and reaches out to grab a dangling rope with one of them. Recognizing the cue, the pulley is loosed and grandma rushes upwards with a mad grin on her face. The netting bundle holding stage weapons plunges down, and many arms practically throw me off our platform after it. I ride the rope down.
With a great clatter of wood on wood, the bundle bursts and strews stage weaponry across the stage and off of it, to lie in piles on the ground. The band starts with an ominous strumming, building tension. I land in a catlike crouch and grab a small one-handed sword as I rise. The lights focus on me, and I strike my best heroic pose.
A pre-emptive smattering of applause is cut short by grandmother's voice from above. "How will our heroine fare, beset on all sides? Her foes will be numerous, and fierce, and large!" A huge man of our troupe slides down a rope and grabs a great war axe made of some soft, light wood. The crowd laughs at his comic villain's scowl. He contorts his face all the more, and sweeps the remaining weapons off the stage. "Armed only with her wits, her will, and what she can scavenge from defeated foes, she walks the edge of failure. One ring-out, and the forces of light are forever darkened. Can she last?"
I crick my neck, stretch left and right, and generally make a show of warming up. My opponent roars and stalks closer. This is not what I expected of the evening. This isn't even choreographed! Yet, I'm sure that my grandmother has a plan, and it wouldn't do to put a wrench in it. Besides, this is a lead role! The drums kick in, and the musicians play a hearty tune.
The crowd gasps as I turn my back on my opposition to stretch. I wink as I hear him wind up, and leap over the cruel-looking axe with a tight backflip. I land almost against his chest, and tumble through his legs. Before he can think to turn, I tap him on the back of the head with my weapon and push him out of the ring with my foot to his bum. He carefully lets his axe fall as he somersaults away.
I ram the small sword through my sash and heft the axe as a trio of younger acrobats descend from above. There's no way I could handle a real axe this size, but the light wood makes it easy while the metallic paint on the head makes me look impressive.
The young acrobats spread out around me, hefting shields and small swords of their own. With mock serious expressions on their faces, they rush me all at once. They throw themselves dramatically backward and away the moment my axe touches their shields. They tumble gracefully off stage and I toss the axe after them.
A middle-aged woman lands across from me as I wipe sweat from my brow and flex my slender arms for the crowd. She flicks a long, straight stage sword at me and advances with careful grace. I attack, and she parries; her counter-thrust catches me in the stomach and pushes me back. She flicks the sword from my stunned hand, and the crowd gasps. I backpedal, backflipping and sidestepping out of the way of a series of stabs and slashes, which puts me with my back to the edge, only the balls of my feet on the stage.
She lunges; I roll forward and to my left, putting myself behind her sword arm. In the middle of my roll, eyes open, I see her sword slash down in a low strike and end my roll with a leap in the air over the blade. Her surprised eyes are inches from mine as I reach out, my left arm over hers. As she tries to step back and bring her blade to bear, I step forward with her and turn my whole body to the right, cinching her forearm to my side and bringing her elbow high in the air. Her spine contorts and she stands on her tip-toes to accommodate the grip; the sword falls listless from her grip. I march her a few steps forward and hip-check her off the stage to a wild round of applause.
With her sword collected into my sash, I rile the audience a bit more. Real sweat is on my brow now, and I'm warming to this game. Two more large men thump to the stage, each with a pair of handaxes, but I never learn what ploy they plan.