“Are we going to the Court itself, Howlsong?” queried Pouncequick breathlessly.
The gray-and-yellow tabby looked back over his shoulder as he hurried along. “No, actually the Celebration is being held in the Meeting Glade. It’s the only place where all the Folk will fit at the same time. Cats come from all over Rootwood and beyond, even, just as you two did—think of that!—to be here for the Celebration. Hello, Smackbush! Your pelt looks extremely glossy tonight!” he called out to someone he recognized.
“What exactly is this Celebration?” Tailchaser asked. “I mean, is it like Meeting Night?”
“No, no, quite different. Well, fairly different, anyway.... Glideswallow! Ho there!” he hailed another acquaintance. “How’s Pawgentle? Good, wonderful!” he cried cheerily, then turned back to his two wards. “Glideswallow is doing the Dance of Acceptance with the most unfortunate little black-and-white fela ... where was I? Oh, of course, the Celebration. I suppose you don’t have anything like it back home, do you? Well, the full name is the Celebration of the Song of Whitewind. We always have it at the first opening of Meerclar’s Eye of the wintertime.”
“What’s it all about?” questioned Fritti. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’ve never heard of it.”
“Well, you do know who Whitewind is, don’t you?” Fritti nodded. Howlsong continued: “I’m not too sure that I understand all the deeper parts myself, but Prince Dewtreader—Fencewalker’s father, you know—takes the whole thing dreadfully seriously. He tells a story, sort of, and we sing songs. It has something to do with Death, and the Fields Beyond, but I don’t pay too much attention, myself. It’s just about nearly boring. Most of us come for the chance to see everybody in the Court, especially the Queen’s family. And the catmint, of course. Everyone likes catmint.”
“Will the Queen be there?” gasped Pouncequick, fighting to stay abreast of the two bigger cats.
“No, she never attends, for some reason that’s slipped my mind. Poor me, so awfully much to think of. Being a Master Old-singer’s not falling down a gopher hole, you know. It takes work! Ah hah! There you are, Dandlegrass! It’s me, Howlsong!”
The Meeting Glade was in the center of a large forest clearing. Overhead, so high as to be almost beyond sight, the titanic branches of the old trees crossed and tangled into a vaulting roof.
The Glade itself was a wide, shallow bowl, covered in short grass and tree leaves. It sloped up on the end farthest from the approaching trio, ending in a sort of jutting promontory with a broad, flat top. Fritti could see two or three cats already crouching on this hilly point.
The bowl below was rapidly filling with purring, buzzing, nose-rubbing cats, streaming into the Glade from all points of the forest. They roamed about in small groups, knots of Folk forming and breaking apart, calls sent out across the Glade to friends and relations.
Pouncequick, stunned by the profusion of cats, sat taking in the spectacle, his eyes shining with wonder. Fritti, though, felt faintly uneasy; his fur was tingling and tickling as though trying to stand out from his body—trying to give him more room. It felt unnatural, inexplicably wrong, for the Folk to gather together in such numbers. Gathering occasionally at Meeting was one thing: almost everybody liked company from time to time. But to live together like this, day in, day out—put down your paw and step on someone’s tail... well, kind as the cats of Firsthome had been to him, he wouldn’t stay much longer than he had to.
As the threesome found themselves a spot near the middle of the bowl, a fat, round-headed cat made his way up to the front of the promontory that overlooked the Glade. He was black-and-white, and the shagginess of his fur made him appear even stouter than he was—which was very stout. He looked out over the gathered Folk, and the level of noise dropped.
“That’s Rumblepurr, the Court Chamberain,” said Howlsong in a low, excited whisper. “He’s ever so important. Likes his Squeakers a bit much, and his naps, but don’t be fooled. He’s old, but he’s quick as a tumblebug.”
Rumblepurr made a low coughing noise, then spoke, in a voice as sonorous as the wind blowing down a mountain pass.
“Good dancing, good Folk. On behalf of Her Be-whiskered Majesty, Queen Mirmirsor Sunback—direct descendant of Fela Skydancer, and true ruler of the Folk—and on behalf of the Prince Consort, Sresla Dewtreader, I bid you welcome to the Celebration of the Song of Whitewind. The Prince Consort and Prince Fencewalker will be here very soon.”
Rumblepurr bowed, making himself look—if possible—rounder than before, and returned to the back of the promontory. The noise of the gathered cats swelled again. Howlsong looked at Pouncequick, who was still staring openmouthed from side to side. The apprentice singer grinned and nudged Fritti. “Nothing like this back at the nest, eh?” he said. As he spoke, another cat approached, calling Howlsong’s name in greeting. Howlsong turned away, as if his attention had been drawn to something behind him, and waved his tail in the limpest kind of greeting. The newcomer paused for a moment, uncertain, then padded away.
“I absolutely loathe that Bandyleg,” Howlsong confided to Tailchaser. “There’s something about him that just doesn’t set well with me. Hmmmph,” he continued, looking around the Glade, “I suppose no one interesting will show up until the Celebration starts. At least we didn’t have to listen to one of Rumblepurr’s long, rambling stories. He’s an old dear, and quite clever—as I mentioned, I think—but he can spin the most excruciating tales.”
A hush had fallen over the assembly, and all eyes now turned to the promontory. Fencewalker—with the ever-present twins—was mounting the hill. A group of rowdy young hunters in the first row began shouting up to him: “There he is! Fence! Who groomed you, old boy? Hah! Good old Fencer!”
For a moment the Prince tried to pretend that he couldn’t hear them, but was given away by the expression of embarrassed pleasure that crept onto his face as he moved out onto the promontory. He found his place and sat back on his haunches, his huge companions looming up on either side. A few other cats, whom Howlsong described as Court functionaries, were trailing up onto the overlook. Then, finally, Prince Dewtreader appeared with Rumblepurr waddling along behind him.
Dewtreader took his position at the front of the promontory. The young hunters at the front made a few last jibes at the grinning Fencewalker. Silence descended on the assembled Folk. Those who were still looking for a spot to lie down stopped to watch as the Prince Consort spoke.
Dewtreader’s coat was a sandy beige, darkened at paws, ears, and tail to a deep brown. A sort of mask of brown also extended up from his nose, just past the upper ends of his slanting, sky-blue eyes. He had the look of a cat who had seen many strange places and things, and regarded them no,differently than he did the sun and the leaves. His narrow head turned from side to side as he surveyed the Folk with almond-shaped eyes.
Something about him is very strange, thought Fritti. He looks like he’s seen much that he doesn’t enjoy looking at things anymore.
“Greetings from the ancient Court of Harar.” Dewtreader’s voice was soft and musical, but there was a hard edge hidden underneath. “I have something to share with you, before the dancing and all begins. I know you would rather dance than listen to me, so I will be short-winded.” There was a quiet hum of amusement from the gathered Folk.
“I would like to tell you something I have been thinking about, and the Song of Whitewind is part of it. Before I begin, could we sing the Song of Thanks? I would feel happier if we did. Come, sing with me.”
Dewtreader began in a careful, melodic voice. Af ter a moment, others joined in, until a whole chorus of voices swelled, rising up to the dome of trees and the starry sky beyond.
“Who passes by
so softly gleaming?
Is it just the falling snow?
Watches us
in quiet dreaming—
winter quiet, sweetly slow?
Whitewind with his
coat a-beaming,
where the stars
>
are dancing, gleaming,
where the winter winds
are streaming—
gentle Whitewind
there will go....
Since he did not know the words, Tailchaser looked around at the singing multitude. Even Howlsong had his head thrown back in close-eyed rapture. Pouncequick sat beside him in respectful, awed silence, listening. All around the sibilant melodies of the Higher Singing rose and hung in the night air.
“If the darkness
calls us sweetly,
if the day is gone
completely,
we will give it all
up meetly,
only, Whitewind, tell us so....”
Something about the song bothered Fritti. Whitewind had been very brave and beautiful, but he had been gone since the earliest days of all. The -song they sang spoke of the Firstborn as if they could smell him, see him. He looked about at all the solemn, uptilted faces and shivered. The song ended. Staring over the sea of ears and whiskers and bright eyes before him, Dewtreader began to speak.
“On this mysterious night, when we remember the sacrifice of Viror Whitewind, I would like to speak of another cat who suffered long, long ago.” The Prince Consort’s voice was slow and measured, and even the bravos near the front were listening.
“Prince Ninebirds, long ago, was punished by Whitewind’s brother Lord Tangaloor Firefoot. Changed and deformed into the creature we call M‘an, he was cast forth into the world to serve the Folk as punishment for his pride. And he suffered. For good reason? Perhaps.
“For generation upon generation his descendants served our ancestors, venerating them and caring for them. Through eons, the Folk and the M‘an became closer. Many of the Folk became dependent on the M’an to provide the things that we Folk have always provided for ourselves.”
This talk interested Fritti. Quiverclaw said that the influence of M‘an was on the seat of Harar—Dewtreader seemed to be discussing it before all these Folk gathered for the Celebration.
“Many who live today say that the Folk have become weak,” Dewtreader continued, “that many of us have come to rely on these strange, hairless, upright cats as if they were our own parents. Some say this shows a decline, a weakness in our lives. I am not so sure of that.” Dewtreader fixed his inscrutable stare on the Folk below.
“What was the sin of Ninebirds? Pride. Now, all the Folk are proud, of course—are we not the summit, the very tail-tip of creation? Do we not know the complicated dance of the earth best of all? Are these not reasons enough for pride?
“Perhaps. But was it not the pride of Hearteater, his passion to be Lord of All, that led to the death of Viror Whitewind? Does the world’s music not forever lack that pure, white tone?
“Perhaps this M‘an, this pathetic, oversized beast who clusters with his fellows in papery wasp nests, who goes unclawed and unfurred through the world, perhaps this object of scorn can teach us something?”
The audience was growing restless, although respect for Dewtreader’s eminence discouraged noise. There was a great deal of squirming and whispering.
Tailchaser was thinking about what Dewtreader had said. It struck a subtly sour chord in him, like the faintest smell of decay. Pouncequick, though, seemed enraptured. Howlsong was craning his neck from side to side—not listening, but looking for friends.
“... For if we, in our pride,” continued Dewtreader, his slanted eyes glowing with reflected light, “if we find ourselves kept and fed by these most humble of creatures, well, who is to say that it is not for the best? Perhaps the Allmother intends that we should learn humility, we prideful hunters...”
Howlsong suddenly leaped up. “Harar!” he whispered excitedly. “I had completely forgotten! My teacher, Volenibble, must sing one of the old stories tonight, and I must help him prepare! Ay! Forgive me, you two, but I must run. Oh Skydancer, he’ll bite my nose off!” Without waiting for a reply, Howlsong was leaping away, bounding over the surrounding forms.
When Fritti turned his attention back to the front of the glade, he saw that Dewtreader had finished speaking. The audience had instantly begun talking among themselves. Fritti turned to his companion.
“What do you think of all this, Pounce?”
Pouncequick, jerked out of a reverie, stared blankly for a moment, then said: “Oh, I don’t know, really. It’s all so grand. I was just thinking about the things Dewtreader was saying, and I felt as if there were some kind of light I needed to reach just ahead. It wasn’t exactly what he was saying, but something he said sort of brought it on ... it was an extraordinary feeling, but I’m afraid I can’t explain it very well.”
“It rather bothered me,” said Fritti, “but I can’t get my claws into the reason, either. Well, I suppose it’s beyond outlanders like us, but Dewtreader’s folk didn’t seem to be taking it all that seriously; ”
The pause in the proceedings continued, the little groups chatting and conversing animatedly. Fencewalker had come to the leading edge of the promontory and was talking to his friends in front.
“It doesn’t look as though anything will happen for a while. I’m going to go and make me‘inre. Do you want to stay here and wait for me?”
“I think I’ll just lie here for a while and watch, Tailchaser.”
Fritti threaded his way through the crowd and out to the forest beyond the rim of the Glade. When he had finished, and covered his hole, he strolled around the edge of the bowl, enjoying the smell of the rain-washed air.
As he was padding along with head high, an exotic odor crept into his nostrils. He stopped for a moment, nose whiffling. The scent was heady and exciting. He followed it forward.
Just behind the promontory where the Queen’s family sat he found a small stand of plants with tiny white flowers. This was the source of the tantalizing smell, and for a moment Tailchaser merely stood and drank it in.
It made him feel warm all over, and weak in his knees. It inflamed and then soothed him; made him itch and tingle. He stepped forward and pulled off a leaf with his teeth. He rolled it around in his mouth for a bit, then swallowed it. The taste was slightly bitter, but there was something about it that made him want more. As if in a dream he pulled off another green leaf and gulped it down, ... then another...
“Here now! What are you after, there?” The voice was loud and startling. Fritti leaped back from the flowering plants. A large cat was standing behind him.
“You’re not to be into those yet,” said the stranger disapprovingly. “And what are you doing eating so many?”
. Fritti felt light-headed and stupid. He could feel himself swaying from side to side.
“I’m sorry... I didn’t know... what are they?”
The stranger stared suspiciously. “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve never seen catmint before? Come now, kit-my-lad, I wasn’t whelped just sun-last, you know! Get along with you, now. Go on! Point your paws away from here.” The big cat made threatening gestures, and Tailchaser ran. He felt very strange.
Catmint, he thought. So this is catmint.
The trees above him seemed to bend as he passed, and the ground felt uneven beneath his pads, although it was level to the eye.
Perhaps my legs have gone all different lengths? he wondered.
As he made his way back into the bowl—reeling past strangers, whiskery faces looming up before him and then receding—he began to feel panicky. Where was Pouncequick? He must find Pouncequick.
Finally he spotted the kitten. Although it seemed to take a terribly long time for him to cross the distance between them, eventually he reached the small cat’s side. He tried to speak, but a wave of nausea moved through him. He could dimly see an expression of alarm on Pouncequick’s face. The youngling’s voice sounded leagues distant.
“Tailchaser! What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”
Fritti tried to nod an answer, but his face felt so hot and his head so heavy that he slumped to the ground. Rolling onto his back, he heard the fai
nt sounds of singing as the surrounding Folk lifted their voices together.
Pouncequick was standing over him, nudging him with his nose ... then the kitten’s face was dropping away as if falling down a hole, a black tunnel caving in around Tailchaser’s vision.
Pouncequick stood over his friend. Hard as he nosed, loud as he called over the singing crowd, still Tailchaser lay like one dead. Pouncequick was all alone. His friend was sick—maybe dying—and he was all alone in a vast sea of strangers.
13 CHAPTER
Oh, breathe not his name! let it
Sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid.
—Thomas Moore
Pouncequick ran through the deserted grottoes and paths of Firsthome in a panic, stumbling over roots and veering from looming tree-shapes. The fish-cold gleam of Meerclar’s Eye bled through the chinks in the leaves and branches above.
In the Meeting Glade, with Tailchaser unconscious at his feet, he had called wildly and vainly for help. All around cats were singing and dancing, and moving in chattering groups out of the Glade to hunt up the catmint. Fencewalker was gone from the grass-covered butte, Howlsong was nowhere in sight, and no one noticed the frightened kitten mewing beside his friend. In terror for Tailchaser’s life, he had fled the din of the Glade to search for someone or something to help him, to advise him.
But the byways of Rootwood were empty, and as he drew farther away from the Celebration-away from the noise and light—the age-old forest began to look very, very grim. At last he stopped, his breath coming in harsh little gasps. He could do his friend no good if he became lost in the woods, he realized. What a fool he was! he chided himself, what a foolish, contemptible kitten. He must go back and find aid for Tailchaser. If the celebrating cats would not help him, well, he would go and drag the Queen herself out by the tail, if he had to!