Ki-yu, the wild child.

Date [standardised human time]: March 10th, 2118

(18 years, 5 months, 24 days before the invasion of the radji Cradle).

Ki-yu sat wrapped in blankets by the bed and watched her brother sleep. The moonlight glittered in her eyes through the narrow window above, lighting the room in a cool glow.

When he was born, Ki-yu had to remain on her own for two whole days as the rest of the family left for the hospital. She had found the experience an utterly terrifying eternity. During the day she read, and fed the other predators, and sat by the monitors, waiting for her parents. She dare not leave the house, lest she miss their return, or even come back to find strangers at the door. She had nightmares of exterminators chasing her through the woods and woken to find herself alone in the dark of Braq and Turin’s bedding-room.

Ki-yu looked up as Imdi stirred slightly, then fell back to sleep.

When Mama and Baba had at last returned, she had been beside herself with fright when the alarm sounded, and the door swung open. To see the three of them there had been a relief like no other. The doctors had informed them that their new addition was on the lighter side, but otherwise healthy. Mama they were less pleased with. Her injuries had been severe, and she had barely kept enough blood. It would take months for the damage to heal, and she had been warned that she may never give birth again. One doctor had called her profoundly lucky, another profoundly stupid, but Turin said she did not care and would do it all again.

At first the boy had slept in their bedding room, but lately they were trying to get him to sleep in his own bed. The little furry ball of spikes always needed attention, crying at this, wailing at that. It seemed like there was always something wrong. It wore Ki-yu down to no end, not least because he would often cry at her. The little thing used to treat Ki-yu with the same endearingly innocent stupidity to which he treated all else. But recently Imdi had apparently started to notice her and did not like what he saw. His tiny lips would wobble at her, and the scar on his cheek would stretch as he cried. So, Ki-yu would retreat, lest she cause him more tears.

When it got unbearable, she sought out the solace of the woods, even if they were dangerous now. They had found no further sign of either iterlopers or roht in the Brackwood since their excursion to the cave, which only seemed to worry Baba even more since winter had set in.

“Perhaps a roht won’t survive hibernating in that cold,” Baba had said, “but then again, if it does, it’ll wake up hungry.”

Ki-yu had learned that winter was cold, especially at night. A gust would whip over the lodge and set the walls rattling. It was sometime after midnight, a new day loomed, and Ki-yu lay awake to the sound of the wind. Something had gripped her, some desire, and she wrapped her blankets around herself. Her claws clicked against the floorboards as she walked through their frigid home. Cracking the door open quietly she crept into his room, sat herself down, and watched over him buried beneath his mound of blankets and sheets. Sometimes, he would stir just enough that she could send him back to sleep with some calming sounds. She liked that, soothing his sleeplessness.

Do pyq have siblings? Ki-yu wondered. She had been left alone she was told. Is that how I’m meant to be anyway, all alone? It was a curious thought, what the life of a ‘normal’ pyq would be. Ki-yu rested her head down and tried to sleep.

She was woken when Imdi burst into wild tears. She tried to coo her brother, but he only wailed harder. Not the crying, I hate the crying. Distressed and defeated, Ki-yu retreated to her room, her blankets dragging behind her as she went. She passed Mama waddling stiffly through the hall.

“Did you wake him?” she mumbled at her.

“He woke himself,” Ki-yu grumbled back, and without another word slunk into her room. She hid beneath her blankets, her brother’s crying echoing through the lodge. Sometime later, once Imdi had settled, Mama peered into her room.

“Are you alright?” she asked. “Why were you in his room?” Ki-yu sniffed beneath her blankets. Why was I in his room? She did not know. When she did not answer Mama squatted down beside her with a grunt of effort; a month later she still suffered from her labour. Her paws patted her daughters head softly, warm in the cold air. “He’s just a baby, Ki-yu. He’s not crying at you.” But he does… I don’t want to hurt him again. She looked up at Mama but did not have the strength to speak. The radji smiled sadly and kissed her on the forehead. “Try and get some rest sweetheart, it’s a big day tomorrow.” That broke Ki-yu’s stupor.

“What’s happening tomorrow?” she whispered. Mama stopped at the door.

“You’ll see. Good night my dear.”

~*~

Ki-yu woke to find she had slept in, and it was now mid-morning. She padded through to the kitchen and found herself some kibble. The regularity of the foodstuff bored her, and each morning she wondered if her self-control was at an end. No, she reminded herself, not unless I have to.

She returned to the living room to eat and sat by the window, her eyes scanning the barren and leafless trees on the hills beyond. Mama was sitting on the couch feeding Imdi; a set of swollen teats now present beneath her overalls on her navel. They had explained to Ki-yu that Imdi was not eating Mama, instead drinking something called milk from her. The sound of her brother feeding was… strange. Children are gross, Ki-yu decided as she crunched through her breakfast. Mama spied her watching and raised a brow.

“Does… it hurt?” Ki-yu asked her. Mama shrugged and considered the little one drawing strength from her.

“Not really, although… I suppose there is a kind of discomfort. Why, do you find it uncomfortable to watch?”

“I… isn’t it sort of… predatory?” she said, gesturing to him. “He is feeding on you.” Turin laughed, pulling a face as she looked down again.

“Hm,” she said. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

The back door swung open, and Baba returned from checking on the predators. He seemed energised, excited by something he strode over to Mama and smiled down at the babe.

“How are they?” Mama asked him. He shrugged.

“The monitors are still kicking, which is the main thing. The vexise spats have stopped for now, they still seem to prefer sticking together over freezing.” He turned to Ki-yu. “How’s my favourite reptile this morning?” Ki-yu flicked her tail playfully.

“Okay. How many reptiles do you know anyway?” she chirruped.

“Enough to know you’re my favourite!”

Satisfied, Imdi pulled his head away from the teat. Mama lifted him up and settled him on her lap, facing Ki-yu. Don’t do it… Spotting her, he began to grumble. Ki-yu made to stand, to fall back to her room, but Baba stopped her with a gentle grip on the tip of her tail. He glanced over to Mama who stood with Imdi to her chest. The grumbling infant watched Ki-yu from Mama’s shoulder as she went down the hall.

“Are you alright?” Baba asked. No.

“Uh-huh,” she lied. He raised a brow, clearly not believing her. “Mama said today was a big day. So… what’s happening?” Baba took her hand.

“We’re going to do something important today. Whatever happens you need to know we love and respect you, okay?”

“Okay…” she said cautiously. “What’re we doing?”

“I’ll explain. But first I need you to bring me something you cherish, and something you regret.”

“As in… an object?” Baba nodded.

“Whatever you want, so long as it’s important to you.”

Ki-yu went to her room and looked through her meagre collection of things. Something I cherish, and something I regret… She cherished her feathers, her rocks, and her leaves but she did not really regret them. There was only one thing she regretted and cherished. She returned to the living room.

Baba sat on the carpet, before him was a large carved wooden box latched with a brass hook. It was clearly quite old, the varnish slipping, and some remnant olive pastel hinted of a green livery that had long since chipped away. Letters Ki-yu did not know were etched and burned into the lid, carvings of leaves and vines adorning it’s worn surface.

“What does it say Baba?” she asked. He ran his paw over the branded words.

“With the first link, the chain is forged,” he said, his voice full of reverence. “What did you pick?” Ki-yu held out her paws and presented her father with the small piece of bone. He looked down at it and pursed his lips.

“Was… it meant to be two things?” she asked worriedly. “I-I can go find–”

“No, Ki-yu.” Baba said, wrapping his paws around hers. “That’s perfect.”

They settled down on the carpet, and Baba opened the box. Within was a tray holding a small leather-bound book, a reel of worn metal chain about as wide as her finger, and an old candle nearing the last of its wax sat in a simple wooden cup. It smells musty, it must not have been opened in a long time. He took out the cup and candle and placed them down on the carpet between them. Then, he pulled the tray out from box revealing the compartment beneath. Within was a collection of strange and simple items. Toys and tools, some polished coins and jewellery, some scraps of paper written in more different letters. There was even a small knife made of an odd, banded metal, a word etched into its polished handle.

"What’s the first thing you remember Ki-yu?” Braq asked, picking up a lighter and putting it to the candle. Ki-yu had to think hard about that, the smell of the burning wick was like that of the sappy sentinel trees in the cold outside. She had impressions of Mama and Baba as far back as she could recall. The scent of the kitchen was also a potent memory, as was a day of tears and solitude and guilt punctuated with a smell of death. But there was one thing she recalled quite clearly.

“A light at night, as bright as day. You sat beside me, talking.” Braq stopped for a moment and smiled to her as he nodded.

“A promise…” he whispered. He unwound the reel and took her paw in his. The metal had a cool polished bronze look to it. “Quite right. I think I’ll tell you my oldest memory, but watch what I do carefully, understand?” Ki-yu nodded.

“When I was a young boy,“ he began, wrapping the chain about her wrist, “on the day of my fifth year, my father took me to the high priest. We sat by the altar of The Protector, and we ate of the bushels, and I was declared a son of the clergy. The bushels were starchy, and the preacher was, well, preachy.” He chuckled to himself. Braq’s paws were gentle and practiced as he wound the metal around Ki-yu’s wrist. “But what I remember most of that day was that we returned home to find his mother waiting for us. I had never met my grandmother before. It was said that in her younger days she was a strong woman, with a ferocity to match. She was a crooked old thing by then, well past her prime. Her fur was mangy, and her eyes were dim, but that strength was still in her voice as she fought with her son.” The cord was wrapped across her palm, then over and under each finger. “My father was furious. Any other day he would have made her leave, but on that day he couldn’t. It was her right as Matriarch to commence the Binding for her kin, even if he no longer believed.”

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Mama returned having settled Imdi. The infant grumbled softly in his sleep as she sat him down on a cushion in her lap. She sat and watched her partner warmly, her eyes conveying her love more than words ever could. Having bound Ki-yu’s fingers, he ran the links under the chain of her wrist before taking the free end and beginning to wrap about his own paw.

“The Binding is an old tradition,” he continued “one from before the modern texts were introduced. Each family would have a box, and each person could choose to forge a link. It is no longer observed nowadays, I may have even been the last.”

“Why?” Ki-yu asked to which Baba shrugged.

“I was always told that the new clergy disliked the old rituals, but who is to say? This is all ancient history. My grandmother was a hanger-on, a relic of a relic of a bygone era.” He paused for a moment as he adjusted his grip, running the metal around his claws. His eyes reflected the candlelight. “My father left, but my mother stayed, and the Matriarch pulled out this very box. And then she asked me the same thing I asked you, for something I cherished and regretted.” Turin blew a slight breath from her nose beside him, and Ki-yu looked at the piece of bone between them. “I dug under my bed and found where I had hidden away a small packet of wooden marbles I had apparently stolen from another boy in the clergy. My mother had scorned me when I told them where I got them, but Grandmother accepted my offering, and she began wrapping the chain.

“Her words were soft, but her paws firm. Desperate. She explained that what she was doing, whilst harmless, was frowned upon. That my father had seen fit to ‘break the chain’ when he joined the new clergy. Grandmother had accepted that, respected it even. But she also wanted to give me that choice. To understand our family’s history, and that one day, should I ever have children I could choose to forge the next link, or break the chain as well.” Having finished his paw, he tied off the chord. They were both now bound.

“Some believed there is a long chain of being in the world,” Mama said holding her partners free paw in her own. “It wraps outwards, tying all that lives together in a kind of communion. It connects parent to offspring, one generation to the next. It binds predator to prey, lovers and enemies. The interactions of life itself. We cannot see it or touch it, except when we remind ourselves of our bonds.” Ki-yu tilted her head, puzzled.

“How can something be real if you cannot see it? How can we be bound by something we cannot touch?” she asked.

“The imaginary can be as real and solid as granite little one,” Mama said, “but only for those who believe it so.”

“We undertook the ritual,” Baba continued, “and I made my peace… and this strange, strong old woman cried.” Braq’s eyes were distant, his fingers fidgeting with the chain betwixt them. “Grandmother wiped her tears, said I did well, and kissed my forehead as she left.” He leaned back, his features melancholy. “She died shortly after that… and when she did, she left me this box. The night of the burial, my father came to me. For once he was… kind and gentle. He told me that the ritual was a thing of the past. How it was all about telling you who you were, rather than you finding out for yourself. He wished me goodnight and told me he loved me. But… my father never really understood the Binding. He thought it was limiting, saying all you were was your history. But really, the point of this Binding is not to tie you to your family, nor to the past of a people you never knew. But to tie you to the next.” Imdi babbled in his sleep on the couch.

“Okay,” Ki-yu murmured, “when do we start.”

“We started when I lit the candle,” Baba whispered. “Try to break out.” Huh? He nodded at her, and Ki-yu tried to pull on the chain. Every effort pulled it tighter, and she found she could not free herself. “One cannot be freed without the other. Why did you pick this object?”

“I… it was silly,” she mumbled, the chain chafing against her wrist.

“Actually darling, I think it was terribly important to you,” Mama said gently. “You needed it for some reason.” Ki-yu swallowed and looked down.

“I… when we buried Boubou, I was worried that I’d forget him. That all that time we spent playing would vanish, and all I’d remember was how he died.” She gestured to the bone. “I cherished Boubou, but I regret that he died.”

“It’s… a piece of him?” Mama whispered, not angry but sad. “It’s not your fault Ki-yu.” Her eye’s watered as the phantom smell of ozone seemed to seep into the room. She looked up at her mother.

“But I regret it anyway,” she said.

Letting go of Turin’s paw, Baba reached into the box and handed Ki-yu the leather-bound book. Opening it one-handed, she flicked through its weathered pages. The book was filled with names, each listing a cherished object, and a regret. There’s… so many, hundreds at least. Far more than what’s in the box. The oldest entries were written in the same strange letters as those carved into the case, the ink faded with time. Turning to the back of the book she found the last two entries, the second written in a much cruder pen than the first. She read them aloud.

“Merilla, age 37. A belar blade made for me by my son. I told him he could do better.

Braq, age 5. Wooden marbles, stolen from another boy. I made him cry.” She looked to the box, and the weight of all those remorseful confessions hit her. All that regret… all those years… She realised they were both watching her intently.

“You give up an object, and you take an object,” Baba said. “Or you can break the chain and keep the bone. It is your choice.”

“I don’t understand…” Ki-yu said, her voice full of doubt. “Why do this? What’s this all about?” Baba sat back and chewed his lip, thinking about what to say.

“You know… I’ve wondered for years about just the same thing,” he said. “I’ve read all those entries, held every object in this box. The knife, as you said, was made by my father for my grandmother. She was a harsh mother, and as a result, drove him away. There’s a necklace, made by a woman called Thera, that was to be given to her partner Erall. But Erall died before she could give it to her, and she only gave it up towards the end of her life. There’s an arrowhead in there that killed a man, a letter that ended a marriage, and, yes, some wooden marbles stolen by a little boy. But I don’t think it’s about the objects or their grief at all–” he tugged on the chain, “–I think it’s about this.” The metal was old and corrupted, but still shone and glittered in the candlelight. “All of those names held this chain. And… there is hope in that. Hope that many others will hold it too, and that your loss may inspire them to shed their grief as well. Just think of it; a great chain of hope, stretching across eternity.”

“I must give up my regret,” she realised. “Give up my fear…” Turin nodded gently.

“And make a gift of it to remind someone else. All the others did. And it doesn’t mean forgetting Boubou. Maybe someone else will remember him as well.”

“And in doing so,” Braq said, “you join in solidarity with all those before you, to comfort those who come after. I offered the marbles, and I took a leather talisman.”

“Your mother said her father gave that to you…” Turin said, perplexed. Braq tilted his head.

“My mother lied to try and hide it from my father. The only time I’d known her to side with me. Father still tried to burn the thing anyway.” He shook his head at the memory.

“Why would he burn it?” Ki-yu asked.

“For the same reason I picked it: it was a confronting reminder of the past.”

Ki-yu picked up the book, and Mama passed her a pen.

“How old am I?” she asked.

“Do you know what day it is?” Baba asked.

“Um… no?”

“Today, Ki-yu, it is your birthday. You are one year old.”

“Really?! A whole year?”

“And we’ve cherished every day," Mama said. Feeling bashful, Ki-yu focused on her writing. She spoke the words as she wrote them in crude spiky letters.

“Ki-yu, age 1. A bone from my friend, Boubou the shadow monitor. I could not save him.” Mama placed a paw on her back as she picked up Boubou’s bone. She ran her thumb over the smooth white surface that had once held flesh and life and joy.

“I’ll never see him again…” She whispered. “…never know his smell. Or his voice. Never play the games we used to.”

“Such is death,” Baba said softly, but he leaned forward and placed his unbound paw on the side of her head. “But he’ll be in here, and never leave you.”

Ki-yu let him go, and the bone fell into the box.

“It’ll still be there,” Turin said, “should you ever want to see it. But now it must stay in the box, with everything else save one. What do you want?” Ki-yu nodded and looked through the box.

“The knife,” she decided. “Your grandmothers knife.” Braq nodded, a slight smile on his lips.

“She’d like that,” he said holding it out for her handle first. He pulled it away a moment before she reached for it.

“This is no toy,” he said. “It is a tool, a weapon, and a tribute. Respect it, look after it.”

“Yes,” Ki-yu said. “I will remember.”

“Good,” he said with a smile and handed her the knife. The metal had a beautiful, rippled pattern to it, the handle was a varnished wood. Where the blade folded into the grip a foreign word was branded to the handle.

“What does it say Baba?” His eyes were distant as he looked at it.

“Grandmother told me it said, Talon.” Ki-yu felt the weight of the blade, before folding it and placing it to one side.

Baba put his palm to hers and ran his digits between the joints of her fingers. She did the same, and by sliding their fingers between each other they found purchase, and the chain looped over their hands. Ki-yu rubbed her paw where they had chafed.

“Did your family do this Mama?” she asked her.

“My family were agriculturalists, farmers really. It used to be that many families had boxes like this one, but our chain must have broken a long time ago. They didn’t partake in the faiths, and neither do we really. But… I think I like this one. Maybe your brother would like to do it one day.” Ki-yu looked over to the restful infant sitting on the couch. He’s so peaceful when he sleeps…

“Ki-yu…” Mama said. “… do you want to talk about him?”

“I…” She sighed out a half-laugh. “If today is about shedding regrets… I don’t understand him.” Baba coiled the chain up and placed it back in the tray.

“What don’t you understand?” he asked, opening the book, and reading her entry.

“How… I’m supposed to spend time with him. He hates me.” Baba stopped reading and looked at her with a furrowed brow. Mama reached over and placed an arm around her.

“No, he doesn’t,” she said.

“Yes, he does. He cries whenever he looks at me.” The couple shared a look.

“Go get the book, Braq,” Mama said. He replaced the remaining items in the tray and stood with the box.

“Ki-yu…” Mama said. “…he’s a baby. He cries at everything, it’s the only way he can communicate.” It still feels like he hates me. Reading her silence, Mama rubbed her back, and turned to Baba as he returned with a large full red notebook. He sat again and handed it to her.

“What’s this?” she asked, opening the book. It was filled with long meticulous paragraphs written by both Mama’s and Baba’s hands, sketches and figures, notes and appendices. Much of it was loose pieces of paper, as though they had been scribbling down notes in a hurry, but all of it was detailed.

“This is all we know about you. A note on every day, and every night. All you’ve ever eaten, everywhere we know you’ve been.” The book was filled with thoughts and comments on everything she could imagine. It was a bare and open discussion between the parents on their child, a scientific document, and a scrapbook all in one.

“There’s… so much!” Ki-yu exclaimed abashedly. I never knew they thought so much of me.

“That memory you mentioned–” Braq flicked through the pages in front of her, “–that would have been the perigee… here.”

“I… kept you up at night?” she said, reading through some of the earliest entries. Mama chuckled and shook her head.

“More so than him,” she gestured to Imdi. “There’s much we don’t know about pyq, and we’d always assumed that they were unsocial creatures, but maybe they do raise their young like we do.” Should I be alone? Ki-yu looked back down at the book, lest they look in her eyes.

“You think… I was lonely?”

“I think you were a baby, and that you were picking up on our fears,” Mama said evenly. Their fears? She looked up at them again.

“When a child is so young, it is easy to put your own worries onto them,” Baba said. “It’s not helped by the fact that they can become upset when you’re upset.” He’s feeling my loneliness? Mama leaned forward at her expression, reading right through her.

“Ki-yu… it’s okay that you feel lonely, by all rights you should be out there making friends. He will love you but give him time. Don’t worry if he grumbles at you.” She chucked to herself. “Really it’s all he knows how to do right now.”

“So, I should… try and be happy, and he’ll be happy?”

“Maybe try to be happy, and you’ll be happy. If you want to try and play with him, try that. If you want some time alone do that. We’re all along for the ride here. Just relax with it a little, sweetheart.”

“Okay, Mama,” Ki-yu said. I’ve got a lot to think about.

“Oh!” Turin slapped herself on the forehead. “Could it be that simple?!”

“What?” Baba asked her, a confused look on his face.

“The vexise, they’re only ever sold in small numbers. Maybe they only breed in small groups!”

“So… where the monitors needed each other…” Baba said slowly.

“The vexise might just want some privacy!” Mama barked out a laugh.

“You had them the wrong way round!” Ki-yu giggled and enjoyed the sound of her parent’s laughter. For the first time since her brother had arrived, she did not feel alone. She glanced to the couch and saw Imdi was awake, watching them with bewildered eyes. He did not flinch from her gaze.

~*~

Ki-yu sat beneath her blankets in the rocking chair, her brother sleeping in his bed. She fiddled with Talon idly in her paws, looking through the drawings and notes of her life. How had I ever been so small? I guess I must have to fit in the egg.

The moonlight lit the pages as she turned to an entry written in Baba’s chunky letters.

We woke to find that she had escaped from her pen. Somehow found a way to unlatch it from inside, clever thing. But she didn’t try to escape, instead she just wanted to look at the moon. I told her the story of Ki-yu, and I think I actually understand it now. Understand her now. The newer texts have stripped the meaning away from much of the old stories, focusing on the otherness of the predators rather than the sense of family that used to be central.

She was pulled from her reading when Imdi began to whine. Ki-yu set the book aside and padded over, shushing him.

“Shush… Imdi, shush.” The boy continued his grumbling, kicking at his blankets. Pulling down one side of the cot, she carefully leapt up onto the bed, and peered down at him. Imdi looked up at her with wide eyes, his lips starting to wobble. I’m not leaving you. She gently licked him on the snout, and he let out a surprised snuffle. He blinked at her, and she set her head on her paws beside him.

“Go back to sleep.” He started to make another grumbling noise, but it filled her with calm determination instead of a desire to flee. She settled herself beneath the blankets beside him. “It’s okay little brother, I’m here. Cry if you want, but I always will be here.”

---

“From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity.”

– Edvard Much.