Unusual Weather on the Copper Coast
Pausing, Yala Sard lowered the carved wooden flute from her lips for but a moment, her eyes narrowing as she scanned horizon, laden with clouds suspended above the water. The chill air stung her skin, a promise that the wind would soon deliver the bounty that at present hung grey in the skies over the Meirm Sea. Her hairs prickled at the embrace of the cold, and she resumed her song, which hardened from the softness of her previous improvisation to a crystalline precision of deft syncopation, at once playful and grave. The vibration of her breath through the vehicle of the flute dances through the bluster, serpentine, and she could hear without ears the laughter of something old delighting at fresh novelty. The sound reverberated back into her, and she paused again, longer this time, less deliberately, and smiled.
Her reverie was broken by the approach of a speeder. It pulled up not far from her, and from its inside emerged a Weequay, bundled in an anorak, the bantha-furlined hood drawn tightly around his leatherly brown face, which was itself somehow more knotted and wrinkled than usual; and though the scowl upon his lipless mouth was no more significant than a mark of his biology, the pheromonal signature that escaped the shelter of his parka all but cursed the cold, sparing no harsh words either. He took but a moment to nod at Yala Sard, then set about gathering the contents of the trunk. Staggering up the path, the ends of his beaded braids dangling out of the narrow opening in his green and black striped cocoon of a parka, the sum of his disgruntled presence amused Yala, and she smiled. With a soft, muttered prayer, spoken to the lingering presence of her song and adorned with highest reverence to the moon-god Quay, she wrapped up her flute in the crook of her arm, and rose to greet her old companion.
"How were the lines in the city, Weequay", she queried. "Crazy, I bet".
"There was much chaos. Quay's holy city has not known snow since before the time of my grandfather. Nonetheless, I have acquired the necessary provisions for the storm".
"You really do hate the cold", Yala Sard chuckled as she helped him with the last remaining bag. "I haven't seen you this miserable since Hoth". Her eyes, already vibrant in the verdancy, sparkled, as they were wont to when delighted by the absurdity of life. They were eyes whose greenness was inherited from her Zelosian mother, but the light that lit them as all her own – her own, and indebted to the pale splendor of the moon also.
"The Harshness of life and its Sweetness are married, for Quay's followers bath in his glow at both waxing and waning. So it is written", said the Weequay.
"Yeah", said Yala Sard. "It's Quay's law, and clan law too. I mean, look at us".
They were, to be fair, not a common sight on the Weequay world of Sriluur. Yala Sard, with her unique mixture of Zelosian and Human heritage, appeared (impossibly green eyes notwithstanding), at least at first glance to be human – not a true native of this world, fair, but not an uncommon site here, on the outskirts of Hutt Space, either. But further scrutiny drew pause. Her poise, for instance – catlike, or even reptile – a demeanor that flowed from her quick tongue to the very structure of her face, with its sharp, high cheekbones; its nose, prominently hooked, but slender; its pale skin, which bore the anticipation of middle age gracefully, each wrinkle placed as though deliberately, as though etched intentionally beneath those large, botanically green eyes. She hardly looked at once far younger than her 38 galactic standard years, and far older, a child at play, yet also one who had earned her wisdom.
Such a jagged figure might be expected at the galaxies margins. Yet, when one glanced up to the hair, further peculiarities were presented – threaded into the dark hair of her braided chignon were beads – no mere adornments, but weequay identification beads. Such beads told a story. To a weequay, the choice of beads, their placement, and their arrangement amounted not only to the equivalent of the weaving of identity into a verbal personal name, but conveyed a myriad of additional information – age, familial and clan affiliations, occupation, religious vows – and this particular permutation, and its mirror on the braids of Yala Sard's companion, spoke of the crooked path, of unorthodoxies nonetheless tethered to religious devotion, of a calling to Quay's work that transcended conventionality and expectation and that had overcome ineffable turbulences to find a quiet life of piety, one nourished by its abnormalities, made holy by the audaciousness of the fate they had been granted.
As they trundled with their packages up the path Yala looked again at the seashore, its metallic sand free of its usual luster, now a dull brown underneath the solemn clouds rolling towards her. She could feel the electricity of change in the air, and her heart raced. The pair soon approached their home – a tower of a lighthouse, dressed in a dull coat of pea green, bearing a sign in Sriluurian heiroglyphs that read Copper Coast Sanctuary. Beside it stood a poll, upon which a message lilted through the air as a series of knotted ropes of varied length caught a bluster of the increasingly active wind. This second sign, in the older Weequay braided language, communicated more nuance: Here was a lighthouse for wayward ships caught in the thick fog of the Meirm's coastline. Here was a temple to Quay, with an active priest. Here was a place where travelers to Meirm City, pilgrims perhaps, could buy fresh seafood. Here was an apothecary, and here a healer took patients. Here was a haven for strangers traveling through the moonlight. It was a single sentiment composed of an odd mix of meanings woven into a composite, like the clan to whom it was home.
As they reached the doorway, it began at last to snow, as though the sky could no longer bear the weight of its richness. Yala grinned, and said, "It's snowing!"
"It is", said the Weequay, as they entered. "We should pray to Quay for protection during this storm. Where is your son?"
Yala Sard again smiled knowingly as she set down the bag of groceries, the familiar feeling of endearing peculiarity having long since metamorphosed from something seemingly alien into a kinship thicker than blood. She responded gently, "It's just snow, Crunchy. Don't you think, Weequay, that a prayer of thanksgiving for our continued safety would be more appropriate?"
The Weequay's mouth betrayed no change in emotion, but the scent of his pheromones smiled invisibly with warmth and awe. "You ground me, Weequay. Summon your son, and we shall pray a prayer of thanksgiving".
"My son is studying the holy books", said Yala Sard, and added, with an affectionate smirk, "Guess it's just us".
"It is right and proper, then, that we do not disturb him", the Weequay said. "Let us indeed begin the prayers, you and I, Weequay".
He called her Weequay, and so she was. The term generally referred to the weequay species, indigenous to this world, but spread out also amongst the stars to find occupation amongst the Hutts, with the Black Sun, or elsewhere. That people addressed each other by that autonym, their braidwork serving sufficient for individual naming. But the term, in Sriluurian, meant Follower of Quay, and so had Yala Sard, having no biological relation to her companion's race, come to worship at the moon-god who was the highest divinity of the Weequay pantheon, the ultimate force of destiny embodied by the pale white satellite that graced Sriluur's skies. One a clear night, the faithful could look up and see the moonlight and know that this was the adhesive with which all life was bound, and be filled with wonder at his mystery. Yala Sard and her companion had long since discarded any notion that her species contradicted this truth; they had grown thick Weequay skin towards the scornful, and soft, moonlit patience for those merely bemused.
"It is written", said the Weequay, "I have brought you sandstorms and I have brought you harvest, for all the days of your life. Great God Quay, we offer gratitude for this next challenge, that it may harden our resolve to devote ourselves to your sweetness".
"And your sweetness is all around us", interjected Yala Sard. "May the delight of this small adventure not elude us; help us to recognize your silver glow in each snowflake".
"Verily", said the Weequay, "Hail Quay!"
"Hail Quay", Yala Sard echoed.
They stood a moment in reverent silence, broken at last by a howl that rattled like the clatter of metal wastebins being strewn about by some scavenger. The being that uttered the cry arose on four legs from his place by the fire, and then stretched out his forelegs and opened its massive maw of jagged fangs in a yawn, again accompanied by a metallic rasp. The creature was a shook his narrow head of bonelike white, his shaggy black mane bristling as it flopped from side to side, and the hairs that covered his torso likewise flared out. In a final act of rousing himself, he flexed the long, scorpion-like tail that curled up behind him, its point quivering, and his ear twitched. The raquor'daan then looked over to the Weequay, whose dark black eyes met the pale yellow eyes of the beast his people had long ago domesticated, and the dark-wolf cocked his head to one side, and barked, a sound like a bronchial cough mixed with the scraping of a fork on a plate.
"I think he needs to go out", said Yala Sard to her companion. "Don't worry", she added playfully, "You don't need to go out. I'd actually like to stand out in the snow. Go sit by the fire".
Voicelessly, the Weequay conveyed his gratitude. He moved from the entryway through the front counter of the main room, past jars of rare herbs and other curiosities, over to the sign indicating specials of the day near the front desk, and from a hidden nook behind the board retrieved a dusty bottle of Savareen brandy. Grabbing a glass from the counter, he walked out of the main public area to the corner of the room filled with seating for patrons, clients, and indeed residents of the hodge-podge dwelling, and settled into a nerf-leather chair by the crackling flames and began to warm himself with the liquor.
Stepping back into the frosty air, Yala Sard watched as the snow began to fall now in earnest. The raquor'daan lumbered through the, wary of the frozen precipitation at first, and then, adjusting to his peculiar new surroundings, set about his business. Yala Sard sat again on the porch, and watched her breath escape into the scene around her. The mixture of the icy crystals with the copper-laced mist that clung perpetually to the seaside air stung her skin, but her faculties embraced the wintry mélange and the cold filled her lungs with silent song. Without looking away from the flurry that now engulfed her, she ran her fingers along the wooden flute, and a melody filled her mind, the whisper of spirits from different worlds than this, and they sang a ballad of a distant moon, of mammoth trees and sprites that dwelt in them, of beings with heads of ice who served an ancient sorcerer of the frost, and the genii locorum from that place she had only briefly glimpsed danced invisibly amongst the dry Sriluurian spirits whom with whom she had formed pacts sealed by this planet's own moon, that mighty god who moved the tides of spirit within her and to whom her fealty never wavered. The symphony swelled to a crescendo with an audible burst, a pop, a loud blast like a tree snapping or a wave crashing or the roar of a Sriluurian bandigo beast, and with this her trance receded, and she looked down the highway to observe in the distance a sputtering groundcar approaching from the direction of Meirm City.
The vehicle drifted slowly across the dirt highway, cautious of the icy road. As it neared the Sanctuary, Yala Sard could make out precautionary chains lashed to the tires that propelled it along. Groundcars were once a common sight on Sriluur, as Weequay culture was slow to embrace repulsorlift technology, and though speeders had now increasingly become the norm, it was not unusual to still encounter the older technology, which continued to be an affordable alternative to the transportation that was standard elsewhere in the galaxy. At last the black, covered groundcar pulled into the driveway, heat emanating in ripples through the cold air up from its front end, where the combustion engine that powered it was housed. Yelling at the dark-wolf to stop barking at the car, Yala rose to her feet to greet the figure that emerged.
A weequay woman wrapped in a dark shawl and clutching tightly to a brown purse exited the car and bowed deeply to Yala Sard. Snowflakes met her head, devoid of hair, and dissolved on her leathery skin. Female weequays, lacking the braids of their male counterparts, stood in silent contrast to the tapestry of information that the other gender carried, but her posture indicated one in desperation. Around her neck hung a small pendant of clear crystal, a symbol of devoutness to Quay that mirrored the lunar disk that hid behind the storm clouds.
"Welcome", said Yala Sard. "You have come a long way. What brings you to our Sanctuary, Weequay?"
"I was told there was a healer here", the woman said, averting her eyes from Yala Sard's gaze. "One who is… different".
"You've come to the right place", Yala said warmly. "Come inside, warm yourself, and tell me what your trouble is, and I will help you".
Glancing up, the weequay woman looked into Yala Sard's eyes, and their green flame made her take pause. "You – you are the healer?"
"I am a Weequay and a practitioner of the healing arts of G'al Quay", she replied, gently but firmly. "I assure you, I can help you with your burden. Please, come inside".
The weequay woman remained speechless for a moment, and then, with a sigh, said, "I see now why they said you are different. I do trust you, offworlder, and in my heart I do believe that Quay is with you. But I dare not go in there", she said, gesturing towards the lighthouse. "It is a place holy to Quay, and I am like you, a believer but a transgressor of Weequay law".
"I learned long ago", Yala said, "that there is clan law and there is Quay's law. Come, Weequay, at least sit beside me on the porch, and we'll see what we can do".
Taking the woman by the crook of her arm, Yala led her up the icy path to the place where she had sat before, and the two sat down. As though releasing a burst of hot air that had remained bottled up too long in the icy atmosphere, the woman began at last to talk.
"It is my daughter, G'al-a", she said. She addressed Yala Sard by the title of her craft, that old order of weequay witches that supplemented the high ritualism of the priesthood with the magic leftover, shamanic arts that spoke to the spirits of the land and entreated in the name of their supreme moon-god to come to heal the afflicted who could not find solace elsewhere.
"My eldest", the woman said. "She has a bad fever – it will not go away. I tried the clinic, but they do not know what is wrong with her".
"I can help her", said Yala Sard.
"There's more – " the woman interjected, " – their father, he…" The weequay looked away in shame, and then continued, "He is houk. They are mixed children".
Understanding, Yala Sard gently touched the woman's hand. "You need not explain", she said to the woman.
Looking up at the Yala Sard, the weequay saw in those green eyes the gaze of a medicine woman, and moreover the look of one who understood. She brushed a tear from her eye, and then, ignoring her freedom from explanation, continued.
"He's not like the other Houk Colonists, truly", she said. "He is an artist – he makes things with his hands, with clay".
"You love him", said Yala Sard.
"Truly I do", said the woman.
"And you care for your children. That's fulfillment of Quay's laws – it is – and the laws of your clan are written in the fate Quay gives you. Look at me", and the woman did look at her, and nodded.
"Do you have a name, one that you use amongst offworlders?"
"Yes", said the woman. "They call me Hollde".
"And does your husband call you this?"
"He – he does", she said, and her voice betrayed embarrassment. Unwaveringly, Yala Sard continued.
"And your children also? You can tell me, I am G'al-a".
"Yes", said Hollde.
"And your husband's name?"
"Jor."
"And your daughter, what do you call her?"
"I call her Quah'ool", she said, conveying the Sriluurian word for moonbeam.
"A good name", said Yala Sard. She grasped Hollde's hand more tightly, and their fingers warming each other in the cold air. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Yala. That's the name I was given before I became a Weequay".
The smile faded from her face. "Let us pray, then, Hollde".
The two closed their eyes, and Yala Sard bowed her head.
"Great God Quay – show me what forces afflict this Weequay, who is called Hollde. She is pious, O Quay, and so demonstrate with your healing light the way to melt the illness of her daughter, who is called Quah'ool, a name suited to a follower of your way. Bind their family with your will. There is no force greater than Quay. Illuminate the path for us, we who have walked a winding road and come to drink of your clear water".
Silence fell over them, and Yala Sard, through still-closed eyes, peered out into silver moonlight. She reached upwards with her feelings, up above the beach, above the clouds, above the starry sky beyond, and apprehended the moon Quay, in orbit above them. Her sense of self dissolved into oneness with her god, and then this too gave way to visions of myriad forms, scenes that started as a hypnagogic blur, but at length coagulated into a flow of information. Around her whirled spirits, ancient beings fretted with a silvery glow, at finally she had her answer. She turned her attention again to the moon, and as she opened her eyes, words spilled out of her.
"Hail Quay, who is the source of all life! Hail Quay, for whom every Weequay owes his fortune! Hail Quay, above whom none stands!"
Hollde opened her eyes, rising from the chrysalis of her own visions, and trembling, she said, "Hail Quay!"
Their eyes adjusted to the snowy landscape again, and presently they noticed that the raquor'daan had curled up beside them. Yala Sard reached down and plucked several hairs from the hound's mane, who flicked his ear, but seemed generally unconcerned. Clutching the hairs in one hand, in her other she reached down and scooped up a handful of snow. Rising to her feet, Yala Sard went in through the doorway, beckoning to Hollde to follower her, who did so without objection. They entered the Sanctuary and the Weequay by the fire looked up from to see his companion grab a cup for the snow, and then begin to rummage through jars on the apothecary wall. With a skilled hand tinctures were combined, powders were mixed in; and at last the raquor'daan hairs, along with the coppery slush of the melted snow were dissolved into the mix. The potion was poured into a bottle with a dropper, and Yala Sard turned to her patient.
As if in the same motion, she began to speak.
"This last lunar eclipse was hard on your daughter. On Quah'ool". She said. "An eclipse brings the folk of the penumbra, shadow spirits who pass through the bodies of Quay's followers. To a native Weequay, this usually doesn't cause trouble, but since your children are half hauk, Quays light resides in them with more fragility. A penumbral spirit has attached itself to your daughter. Give her this – " and she pressed the bottle into Hollde's hand.
"There is more – take this", and she handed her a small bag tied off at the top. "This is sand from the Copper Coast. Divide it up, and tell all of your children and your husband to sleep with it from the next new moon until the next full moon. When it is done, your husband should prick his finger and let a drop of blood fall onto his sand. Then mix them all up again, and on the full moon make offerings as best you can at Quay's thal shrine and include the sand with it. This will attune your family to this planet and our most holy moon".
Yala Sard exhaled deeply, and then jolted alert again. "Oh!" she said, "Take some rust-slug chowder, too. It's nourishing. You all need it". She turned around to look for it, but her companion, now on his feet, indicated pheromonally that he would take care of it.
"Thanks, Crunchy", she said, and then wandering over towards the fire, she mumbled, as though not fully consciously, "Your husband is a sculptor – he should sculpt Quay's orb", and then, reaching a chair, fell down heavily into it.
Glancing at the beads in his braid that identified him as a priest of Quay, Hollde bowed deeply as he handed her a cup of chowder. "Thank you, Your Honor", she said, and turning to Yala Sard, she said, "and thank you so much G'al-a – thank you Yala" she said.
"Oh yes", Yala Sard said, looking up from her chair, "Now hurry back to your home, and to your children – and go with Quay".
"How much…" said Hollde, "What sort of compensation – "
"Your lot is difficult", said the Priest, "and your love for Quay is clear. You owe us nothing. Teach your children of Quay's laws, that they may hold them always".
The woman bowed, speechless, and at length she left. When she was gone, Yala Sard's companion joined her by the fire, a cup in each hand. Handing one to her, he said, "Drink this".
"You know I don't drink brandy…" Yala said in her stupor, but then, looking down, she smiled. "Hot leena!" she said, looking down at the warm mug of sweet orange syrup and cinnamon mixed with bandigo milk. "I haven't been sugar drunk in a long time", she said. Her zelosian biology prevented her from feeling the effects of alcohol, but would give the sugar in the drink a similar inebriating effect. She started to raise the drink to her lips, but then turned to the Weequay and said,
"You know, Crunchy, that was good of you to give them that session on the house".
"I have seen the Houk Colonists commit many atrocities when I was young".
"I know", she said.
"But our clan's braids are woven of unorthodoxy. You taught me that".
"I know", she said.
"And we are sworn to spread Quay's word, and… you know, they are a family, and… You know, your son has no father at all…" He trailed off.
"I know", she said, grinning, and tapping her cup against her friend's, she said, "To health".
When the night's meal was over, the child in his bed, and the animals sheltered safely from the cold outside, Yala Sard walked out into the snow. She played a melody on the old pipe she had acquired on Endor's moon, and the snowflakes spiraled around her. The tune she played was an old Weequay tune, older than memory. The clouds parted for a moment, and moonlight bounced off the snow triumphantly. Standing beside her, knee deep in a snow that defied expectation, stood her companion, and though he shivered, expressionless, she could almost sense him smiling.