Jessica landed her air car, got out, and shrugged into her pack. Anders—he was doing the same thing—thought he’d need to be both blind and neuter not to admire how her torso moved when she did this.
He forced himself to look away and saw Valiant flowing up into the branches of one of the closer picketwood trees. Anders himself moved over by the river so he could splash some cold water over his suddenly hot face.
“I see some little fish,” he said, “so the river at least is ‘live.’”
Jessica hunkered down next to him. “Over there,” she pointed. “See that matted plant with little heart-shaped leaves floating in the shallows?”
“Anders nodded.
“I’ve seen Valiant sample it. Usually, the mats are larger, so I’m wondering if this one’s been foraged lately. There’s a lot of evidence that treecats—like human hunter-gatherers—have the sense not to take all of the plant. They cut it back but leave enough so the plant will regrow.”
“We saw some evidence of that when we were trapped by the swamp,” Anders agreed. “Valiant’s people—you know, I never thought about it until now, but it was probably Valiant himself—had left some near-lettuce that we harvested ourselves.”
He turned to grin up at the ’cat. “Thanks, fellow!”
Valiant replied with a polite “bleek,” but his attention was firmly fixed upstream, in the general direction of the mountains.
“I have a feeling we should go that way,” Jessica said. “And we shouldn’t rush.”
“Did Valiant tell you that?”
“Not so much told, but, yeah. Ready?”
They fell into step side by side. The picketwood canopy was shading toward the deep red foliage of autumn. It contrasted nicely with the dark gray and black of the trees’ rough bark.
Really a nice place to go for a stroll with a pretty girl, Anders thought. I just wish I didn’t feel so—
His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp, commanding bleek from Valiant. The treecat had been guiding them, scampering from branch to branch or leaping gracefully when he needed to alter direction. Now he’d halted and was holding up one true hand to indicate “stop.”
The humans did. Anders tried not to move even his head, but his gaze scanned both the branches and the surrounding area. He let his hand drift to the butt of his holstered handgun.
“He’s spotted someone,” Jessica said very softly. “A treecat someone, I mean. More than one treecat someones.”
Anders felt the thrill of discovery. He knew his dad would give anything to be where he was at that moment.
Valiant bleeked and motioned for them to follow him. Jessica stepped forth without hesitation, Anders a pace behind. He caught up with her quickly, and—shoulders almost touching—they walked to where the treecats waited.
* * *
When he sensed the People ahead of them in the netwood trees, Valiant made no effort to dim his mind-glow or slow his advance.
he said, sharing images of his home clan.
But these People did not seem to know about him and Windswept—evidence that they were of Keen Eyes’ clan.
said the larger of the two males who confronted him.
This came to Dirt Grubber as a rush of shared images from Long Voice. Scent, color, shape, the beauty of the forests high in the mountains. Memories of climbing high into the trees to feel the caress of the wind fingers and admire the sharp whiteness of distant mountain peaks. Truly, Long Voice had a scout’s heart, for he delighted in the smallest detail and yet had room for beauty, as well.
Firm Biter was made of sterner stuff. He was the one who explained how these mountain People had come to live in the relative lowlands.
Dirt Grubber knew shared pain made bridges as firm as any netwood branch, and so he opened his own memories in return.
He shared the incredible wash of emotion that was still as fresh to him now as on that day. Then he waited patiently, for though memories could be shared in a moment, the thoughtful tasting that led to deeper understanding took time. It was Firm Biter who shook himself from nose tip to tail tip and made a gusty sound that combined astonishment and distinct pleasure.
Dirt Grubber sighed.
He shared images of when the Damp Ground Clan had joined in rescuing the stranded two-legs from a whistling sucker. Bleached Fur stood defiantly between the monster and the weaker members of his group—this though he was a youngling still only on the threshold of being adult and many of those he protected were adults themselves.
Long Voice said.
Dirt Grubber said.
He shared with them the finding of Keen Eyes and how he had been tended by Darkness Foe and his mate. In doing this, he also showed images of Swift Striker.
Long Voice said.
Dirt Grubber replied.
Firm Biter’s mind-voice was gruff with relief, flickering memories of his association with Keen Eyes—whom he had obviously liked—shading all he said.
Dirt Grubber said.
Firm Biter’s mind-glow flickered with hesitation, as if he might protest, but Long Voice rebuked him.
The hesitation vanished from Firm Biter’s mind-glow, replaced with shame.
* * *
Although both Firm Biter and Long Voice had been friendly enough, they had not chosen to share histories with Dirt Grubber when they met. For this reason, many surprises awaited him when they came to where the Landless
Clan had set up a central nesting place of sorts.
One was the size and composition of the clan. While it still had members enough to manage, this was a tree with many limbs lopped off. Worse, many of the remaining limbs were very old, very young, or suffering from injuries—old and new. Dirt Grubber sensed that the most severely injured had already died. These were the ones hanging on because of their clan mates’ careful nursing.
Based on his contact with Keen Eyes, Dirt Grubber had been prepared to find a clan both underfed and emotionally overwhelmed, but the sheer poverty of their situation touched him at once. They lacked all but the most basic necessities…and he saw no evidence of stored food.
Do they realize that if something does not change they cannot survive the winter? he thought, hoping this horrible revelation would blend into the other shocks swirling through his mind-glow. No wonder the Landless Clan had reached the point of fighting another clan! They must find a better place than this.
Horrible as that discovery was, the second shock was worse. Keen Eyes had told him that his clan had no memory singers. Still, when the elders came forth to meet him, he found himself looking for the clear brilliance of the memory singers among them. Not finding it was like not finding his own teeth within his mouth. In a very real sense, a clan was its memory singers, for they held all its shared history. The loss of Wide Ears and her assistants had robbed the Landless Clan not only of an important part of its leadership, but of its sense of self.
In the second rank, Dirt Grubber tasted a bright spark of a mind that watched him very carefully. This youngling had potential, great potential, but who would teach her what she needed to know? Some of her clan’s history would have been shared with neighboring clans, but still….
The understanding of just how much the fires had taken from this Landless Clan struck Dirt Grubber like a blow.
He was still reeling when a wizened elder called Sour Belly offered his version of events since the fires had made Swaying Fronds into the Landless Clan. Whatever flaws Sour Belly had—and Dirt Grubber tasted both pettishness and ill-temper among them—his account caused none in his clan to protest as to its fullness of detail. It all came forth: flight, struggle, constant moves, death after death, eventual settlement, hope changing to despair as scout after scout (Keen Eyes prominent among them) reported that all ways from this place seemed blocked.
Then came the disappearance and murder of Red Cliff. In the image, Dirt Grubber knew the body he and his two-leg friends had buried. He sought for and found Beautiful Mind among the invalids, still holding to life because she would not make her mate’s sacrifices mean nothing.
Finally, the events that had led to battle…Keen Eyes’ plan. The plan working. Nimble Fingers. Hope rising, chased by despair and loss as a kitten chases its own tail. The horror of the battle. Bringing home the dead and wounded. Waiting…waiting….
For Sour Belly, that wait was one for death, for now all knew Trees Enfolding blocked the only way out and Trees Enfolding had no mercy in its heart.
Dirt Grubber asked in desperation.
Sour Belly’s reply hit as hard as the claws of a death wing in the night.
* * *
Anders contacted Scott MacDallan as soon as they were aloft.
“It’s a bad situation. Neither of us are treecat experts—”
“Who is?” Scott asked dryly. “Even Stephanie would be the first to say we’ve barely touched on their complexities. Go on.”
“Okay, then. It’s a small clan. They didn’t stand still for us to count or anything, but we’re guessing there were no more than seventy-five individuals—and that includes a lot of kittens and some adults who were obviously invalids. Not only from the fighting, either. There were what I guess you’d call chronic cases, too.”
“Probably smoke damage to lungs,” Jessica cut in. “We saw a lot of healing burns, too. Scars by now, but ugly.”
“And a lot of the healthier adults were seniors.”
“How could you tell that?”
“Valiant just gave me that impression,” Jessica replied for Anders. “Then there’s that theory that males get more rings on their tails the older they get. If that guess is right, well, we saw a lot of tails with a lot of rings.”
“Oh!” Anders added. “Again, we’re guessing because we didn’t trying get too close, but under all that fur they seemed pretty skinny.”
“So you think this is Survivor’s clan.”
“Well, I hope it is,” Jessica snapped, “because the thought of another group of treecats that miserable makes me want to cry!” She paused. “Sorry. It’s just that I think Valiant’s as upset as I am. We’re not doing each other any good at all right now.”
Scott’s tone was soothing. “I understand. What else?”
“They’re poor,” Anders said. “My dad’s been studying treecat garbage, remember? I know what they should have, and they don’t. I didn’t see any gourds, and they don’t have many baskets, either. And the handful of those I did see were clumsily woven, like just getting them done was enough. I saw some nets, but…I’ve visited Lionheart’s clan with Stephanie, and how they live is different. They have nice baskets. They have perches in the trees with pads on them—some are practically pillowed! They weave weatherproof nests thick and insulated enough to stand off even a Sphinxian weather. They keep furs. They store food. This clan had none of that.”
Jessica agreed. “I’ve gone home with Valiant. His clan’s on the small side, too, but the difference is obvious. It’s not just stuff this clan doesn’t have. It’s how they move around. These guys were sluggish, like they were tired right down to their bones.”
“Are you sure they weren’t just on guard because there was a strange treecat and two humans in their settlement?” Scott asked.
“Absolutely,” Jessica said. “Even the kittens looked beat. You can’t tell me that even the best-behaved kids in the universe would just sit and watch. They’re not only starving physically; I think they’re emotionally beaten. I think they know they’re not going to make it through the winter with what they have and they’re giving up.”
“That’s a lot to say based on one visit,” Scott said, “but I’m not saying I don’t believe you. You say Valiant is down?”
“Very. Utterly despondent. When we first got in with the clan, he was really pleased, especially when he and this other male treecat were nose to nose. I’m guessing they were talking up a storm, but somewhere in there he got sad. He’s in my lap now, and he’s never there when I’m flying.”
“I took a bunch of images on my uni-link,” Anders said. “None of them are going to be art pieces, but I’ll copy them over to you, if you want. Take a look. You’re not going to get the emotions, I know, but you’ll have more than our word for it.”
“Do it,” Scott said. “I’m going to have to go back to my patients for a few hours, but I’ll view the images as soon as I can. Are you two heading back to Twin Peaks?”
“Yeah. Jessica promised her mother she’d be back to make dinner. Ms. Pheriss is doing her best to get everything at the Harringtons’ spiffy before they get home next week.”
“Closer to four days now,” Scott reminded him. “Richard emailed me their ship schedule. We’re all going to meet at the Harrington steading for a conference as soon as they’re home.”
“Good!” Anders said. “I’m glad.”
But somewhere deep inside, he wondered why he didn’t feel gladder.
* * *
Dirt Grubber was haunted by memories of the Landless Clan. He was all too well aware that without the intervention of Death Fang’s Bane, Win
dswept, and their friends, his clan could be in much the same position—if not worse. Like the Landless Clan, they would have found it difficult to move to a new location without trespassing on territories already claimed by other clans or, worse, settled by the two-legs.
There but for the kindness of some impulsive younglings go we, he thought. Surely I can do something. But what?
He brooded during the flight to Windswept’s home. Even after the evening routine was over and she had fallen into troubled sleep, he tried idea after idea, much as he would have tested plants in various types of soil and light. Somewhere in the darkest hours, he came up with the plan.
The Landless Clan needed to be transplanted. That was certain. However, their route to new lands was blocked by the Trees Enfolding Clan. Nimble Fingers was willing to act as ambassador, sharing his experiences with the Landless Clan with his own, but he was too wounded to travel.
If Windswept could treat Nimble Fingers, perhaps even help bring him close to where Trees Enfolding nested…Surely the Landless Clan would have had enough time by now to realize that the outsiders could help them. He was sure he could convince them of what must be done.
The only problem was, how could he explain to Windswept what he wanted?
Chapter Eighteen
“What is bothering you, Stephanie?” Marjorie Harrington inquired. “You’re squirming inside your skin like a demented stutter bug!”
Despite herself, Stephanie giggled at the image. Stutter bugs were one of Meyerdahl’s more colorful insect analogues. They were also about the size of her hand, and they communicated by drawing air over vibrating spicules that covered their garishly decorated sides. A stutter bug in full mating chorus looked like a bright orange, hairy beanbag someone had stuffed with a vibrator.
“Sorry, Mom!” She shook her head contritely. “I guess I’m just more nervous tonight.”
“Well, sure,” Karl put in, supporting her excuse loyally. “It’s the first time they’ve let you take Lionheart anywhere off-campus, Steph!”