The Little Woodtail by D.H. Bridgegate (online e book reader .TXT) 📕

Preface

During the te1510s, Zarrakadarian nationalism was at its peak. In the eyes of Royal Zarrakadari, they were the Great Sakaadin's noble subjects. In their eyes, they were His purest and worthiest race. In their eyes, they were His greatest creation. And in their nationalistic eyes, no other country deserved to even share the same air with such greatness as Zarrakadari. A small and troubled country by the name of Muunzaka was such a victim of the strong nationalism of the Monarch of Zarrakadari.

Throughout history, the enclave that is Muunzaka had faced harsh persecution from their sole neighbor Zarrakadari; they were nothing but second-class citizens to the royal crown. However, at the dawn of te1500s, Muunzakans weren't even citizens at all. They were impure demons, a filthy violent race that sought pleasure in terrorizing Zarrakadarians. Such views of Muunzakans, systematically implanted by governmental propaganda, caused widespread xenophobic paranoia in Zarrakadari. To ease such fear, the Asaaisah (the olden Zarrakadarian word for 'grand knight' or 'lord') Pakaaskai the III instated a law in 1508te proclaiming the killing of the 'traitorous demons' legal. Such a law would cause thousands of Muunzakans to parish, thousands of Muunzakans to suffer, and even more thousands of Muunzakans to weep for their lost loved ones. All in the short period of seven years, the Kingdom of Sakaadin persecuted, tortured a race like Apagea had never seen before. To Zarrakadarians, however, it was self-defense. They were defending themselves, their families, from the terror that was the Muunzakan race. These pious nationalists believed that Muunzakans existed only to hurt the great nation of Zarrakadari, their great nation. They existed only to anger their spiritual king, Sakaadin.

Fearful of any or no reason to be killed, Muunzakans lived carefully in their own houses, or as servants under the 'pure ones'. They made sure not to walk on the same sidewalk as Zarrakadarians (as enacted by the Asaaisah), always ended their sentences with “Sir” or “Ma'am” when addressing Zarrakadarians, and most importantly, always left the house with red scarfs upon their neck so that they would not be confused for a Zarrakadarian. To act like a Zarrakadarian was to commit suicide...no one dared to do such a thing. No one but one little boy. One little boy, who walked the same sidewalks as Zarrakadarians, who didn't always end his sentences with “Sir” or “Ma'am”, and who most certainly never wore a red scarf in his young life. Only one boy dared to do this, and he truly believed he was Zarrakadarian.

And so the tale begins...


The smell of Zbaka was sour. The ringing of the bells upon the tall, stone tower in the center of the city was obnoxious. And the all the cries, yells, chatters and shouts among the townsfolk were annoying. I awoke to all of this one sunny morning, and it made me disagreeable. I suppose one could say I am not all that agreeable to begin with, but I certainly wasn't so that humid morning in Zbaka. Humidity! That's another thing that nearly drove me to insanity that morning. Zbaka wasn't all that large a city and thousands, no, millions of people lived there; one could not walk a single inch without bumping into someone on those crowed streets, then apologizing seconds later. The last thing it needed was humidity, so one could feel the burning heat of another's body. I just knew that if were to step outside I would literally melt into a gray, hairy liquid. So I stayed in bed, put the covers over my head, no matter how hot my temperature would become, and pretended that I was in dreamland. It didn't matter to me that I had to go the newspaper office, sell at least four papers and then go to school. All that mattered at the moment was not getting up.

It would only be a matter of time, however, before Sa'sakatuia, my elder sister, would awaken me or rather make sure I am awake. She always did. Every morning, she would knock on the door so loudly that if I was in a coma I could quickly recover from it. Then she would open the door, no doubt knowing I am now awake, and nudge me forcefully enough to push me off the bed. Then, if all else failed, she would lean over and do the unthinkable: she would kiss me gently on the cheek. That always woke me from my slumber, if not in a furious fit of “yucks” and other similar interjections. If she did this every morning, I was certain that this one, already beginning unpleasantly with all the sounds and awful smell, would be the same. So I waited: one minute, then two. Then a half-an-hour. Until finally I smiled. Maybe she wasn't going to check on me. Maybe, for once, she would leave me be in my slumber that was so often disturbed. Soon my little smile had transformed into a large grin for finally my annoying sister would let me sleep an extra hour or so before intruding my room. Without hesitation, I decided to close my eyes and this time, actually attempt to fall asleep.

The sour smell became more potent, the humidity worsened, the cries and yells became louder. I tried to fight it all; turning on my side and then the another, covering my ears with my pillow, and then burying myself under the blankets. But no matter what I did, I could not fall asleep, hardly could I close my eyes. The grim realization soon came to me that it was meant for me to awaken early that day, that something forced me out of bed. “I suppose Sakaadin wants me to get up.” I thought aloud, uncovering my blankets, slowly crawling out of my warm bed. My mother had always said that if something happened or if something didn't happen or something was going to happen, then it is the wish of the Great Sakaadin.

I contemplated attempting sleep again, that maybe if I close my eyes hard enough and cover my ears firm enough that I would be able to rest. No sooner than I thought these hopeless thoughts came a startling string of knocks upon the door.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

It was Sa'sakatuia. Even if I had fallen asleep, even if I had successfully fought the smell, sounds, and humidity, she would awaken me.

“I'm awake! So stop knocking.” I grumbled rudely, and she entered, almost timidly, into the room.

The one thing I never could understand about Sa'sakatuia is why she was a kruunsai. My mother, my father and I myself were all proud woodtails; short, round-nosed, big-boned (I refuse to call us woodtails “fat”), short-haired fellows. She was tall (taller than any of us woodtails) and fluffy-furred, with a boring brown tail much unlike ours, which were beautiful and colorfully-feathered. I could only assume she was adopted, and perhaps that was why her eyes were always glossy and sad. Much like that humid morning when she smiled solemnly, “Good morning, Mr. Pa'saarrith.” Referring to me as “Mr” was yet another thing I could not understand about my strange sister. It made me feel bad when I spoke to her without any titles or honorifics.

“Good morning.” I said, rather plainly.
“You are up early today, Mr. Pa'saarrith. Why is that?” She always asked such questions, and this morning I was not in the mood to answer them. But I was polite.
“What do you think? It's hot, the stupid people outside are really loud, and there's this awful smell that smells like your cookies.” Well, as polite as the rudest eleven-year-old in Zbaka could be.
“I understand, Mr. Pa'saarrith. But please don't be angry. I prepared breakfast for you in the kitchen.”
“I'm not hungry, Sa'sakatuia. I'll eat at school.”
She forced me to anyway, and after I ate her salty wheat bread (leave it to her to make bread unpleasantly salty), I dressed myself in my favorite plaid suit for work and school. People used to always annoy me because they said I dressed like a Vavanikan boy, a western boy. I didn't want to wear the traditional long suits of gray or black or blue that children were supposed to wear in Muunzaka and Zarrakadari. I wore a short plaid suit and a newsboy hat that I adored. If I looked like a Hassastoki(or an Imperial as they used to say back then) boy then so be it. Besides, I was a newsboy; I had to wear a newsboy hat.

My hat. My hat. I looked for it in my little trunk, under my messy bed, in my toy bin. Good spirits, I had lost my hat! My dearest hat that made me unique amongst my schoolmates. I sprinted downstairs and shouted Sa'sakatuia's name as loud as the townsfolk had been outside. Mother wasn't home, but my sister was good at finding items that I often misplaced, so she'd do.

“Sa'sakatuia! My hat's gone missin--” before I could finish my cry of despair, she handed to me my dear old black hat, but not without a motherly lecture.
“Mr. Pa'saarrith, you must learn to keep this hat in a safe place. It was on the dining table and had food crumbs upon it. Keep it safe, Mr. Pa'saarrith.”

All of this I had heard before and like before, I had paid no attention to it. Every time I had lost my hat I had found it, or rather she had found it. Didn't really matter who found it or where it was found as long as it was so why should I take her advice now?

“Oh, shut up.” I snapped but quickly felt Sa'sakatuia grip my arm and pull me to her with the most unpleasant look I had seen from her all year. I never knew she could glare so threateningly.
“Listen, next time you leave your silly little hat on that table, it will remain there. Understood?” She looked around us before she told this to me, and spoke in whispers as if she were afraid of something or someone. But I was too upset to notice. I would give her no reply, no chance. Instead, I gave her a look. It must have been a pretty mean look, too, for her eyes quickly widened and she reverted back to her quiet and timid manner, gently letting go of her grip on my arm.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized though I wasn't exactly sure why. “Here, please take this bread to school, so that you won't go hungry.” She reached into the gray, patched pouch that she seem to always have on her, and brought out of it a large piece of the same salty bread I ate just a half-an-hour before. I took it as another apology so I reluctantly accepted it.

“T-thanks.” I never could say “thank you” without cringing, especially to someone who angered me just seconds before.
“Don't thank me, Mr. Pa'saarrith. It is my job.” Job? I hoped that didn't mean that when I was to get a little sibling, I had to serve them every second, every minute, and every hour of the long day. “Now hurry along. You've wasted all of your extra time, so you better get to the newspaper office or Ra'zakanare will have a temper tantrum.” She kissed my forehead then squeezed my large nose as if it was a baby's toy that squeaked when pressed. I left the house with groans of disgust, disbelieving the day could be any more annoying.