Tailchaser's Song

  “I will not grieve you with a long tale. I returned well after Deepest Quiet—and found a horror such as I could scarcely believe. Most of my clan were dead: torn as if attacked by a fik‘az pack. Snufflenose was one of them. No dog pack could ever have caught the entire Forest-Light Clan by surprise. Those whose bodies were not scattered about the forest were gone with no trace. Slipwhisker was one of those who had disappeared.

  “For many days I was as mad as a fla-fa‘az who has eaten poison berries. When my dreams were in the sunlight again I came through the forest to Firsthonie. I waited long for an audience, and when I was seen they told me it was the brawling Garrin, the honey-lovers, who had destroyed my folk. I know better.

  “When I saw you and Pouncequick I knew that our paths had come together for a reason. Pouncequick is much like my brother Snufflenose, and now he is my friend. And you, Tailchaser—I am not sure why, but I feel drawn to you, also.” Roofshadow averted her eyes as she said this last. “Anyway, these are my sorrows, and now I think you understand my desires. We will go together.”

  After long moments of silence, Fritti turned to Pouncequick. “Did you know all this?” he asked weakly.

  “Some,” the kitten replied. “But not all. Why are such terrible things happening, Tailchaser?”

  “I can’t say, Pounce.”

  Roofshadow looked up. The fires that had been kindled in her eyes during her story had abated. She looked cold and tired.

  “We had best leave soon, or we shall not leave at all,” she said flatly. “The winter is killing fierce in this part of our fields.”

  As if in answer, the wind sounded a whistling call through the branches above.

  16 CHAPTER

  The long light shakes across the lakes

  And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

  Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying

  Blow, bugle; answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  The snow fluttered and swirled through the col umned byways of Rootwood. A near-silent group of cats, Fritti and his companions among them, wandered in straying disorder through the trees. Scattered pawprints slowly filled with powdered snow behind them.

  Fencewalker and his group of conscripts were moving out to the northern border of Firsthome; Squeakerbane was accompanying them to forest’s edge, where he would turn Vez‘an for Sourweed’s thanage.

  When Tailchaser and his companions had asked to come along, Fencewalker had been surprised and Squeakerbane a little suspicious, but neither had offered objections.

  “Why in the name of Blueback’s Hindbristles you want to go padding around in the U‘ea territories at this season—and with a fela and a youngling besides—I don’t var. But it’s your pelt, my catling,” the Prince had grumped.

  Fencewalker’s conscripts were mostly a mixed lot of young hunters and battered old toms who were not finding favor with the felas. One or two, like young Snaremouse—and, of course, Dayhunter and Nightcatcher—looked as though they would prove reliable in troublesome situations, but Tailchaser had doubts that the rest would be much use around Pouncequick’s “red-clawed monsters.” The ragged band showed none of the discipline that had been evident among the First-walkers—they meandered far afield as the group passed through the forest, each reluctant to perform the uncatlike role of staying with his fellows. As a result, when the group stopped to sleep or discuss directions it took ages for the stragglers to come trooping in; quite often the missing would have to be searched for.

  In the coldest parts of Final Dancing the band would huddle together for warmth, bodies piled and sprawled piecemeal like fallen leaves. A sudden movement usually meant a paw in someone’s eye or nose, and there was endless scuffling.

  Of the three companions, only Pouncequick seemed to find any pleasure in the journey. Tailchaser and Roofshadow were often quiet, deep in thought—the fela, especially, remaining aloof from Fencewalker’s fractious crew.

  So the strange group traveled on through the tree-beamed halls of outer Rootwood ...over the thin blanket of new snow....

  Fifth Eye-rise out from the Court of Harar the travelers noticed the Rootwood beginning to thin. Soon Squeakerbane, Tailchaser and his companions would separate from Fencewalker’s caravan to go their own ways.

  In honor of their last night together the Folk halted early that evening. They found a sheltered copse—out of the wind, and with only the faintest wisp of white on the earthen floor. They split up to hunt; one by one they returned, after varying degrees of success.

  Roofshadow and Tailchaser did not hunt, but instead took a silent walk through the woods. Side by side they paced, unspeaking, their noses filled with the crisp bite of winter, the delicate crunching of their pads on the snow the only sound.

  Watching the gray fela move gracefully beside him, Fritti more than once felt the urge to speak, to elicit some reaction from the calm, silent Roofshadow ... but he could not bring himself to break the stillness.

  After they had paused to watch the bright points that speckled the night sky, they walked back to the copse as quietly as they had come.

  Pouncequick, puffed with chill and excitement, had also just returned. He had gone hunting with the Prince, and had apparently kept his squeaking to a minimum: they had been successful.

  “Isn’t it cold?” he piped. “Fencewalker’s an awfully good hunter. You should have seen us! Here he comes now!”

  The Prince approached, passing through a gaggle of other Folk who were wandering back—some licking their muzzles. Fencewalker approached the trio and dumped a plump Rikchikchik on the ground before them.

  “I hope you will do me the honor of sharing my kill,” he said, with more than a touch of pride. Fritti’s stomach rumbled as he watched his companions fall to, but he remembered his oath to Lord Snap.

  This promise-keeping seems a me mre of a way to go about things, he thought ruefully.

  Fencewalker looked up, his muzzle steaming with squirrel blood. “Here now, Tailchaser old fellow, what are you waiting on?” he asked.

  “It’s too difficult to explain, O Prince. I am honored by your kind offer, but I just can’t eat right now.” Fritti’s resolve seemed stronger than his hunger, but he did not feel comfortable it would last long. He moved away from his companions.

  “Well, let everyone groom himself, I always say,” muttered Fencewalker philosophically, and returned to the fast-disappearing Rikchikchik.

  Later, after all the hunters had returned, the group gathered itself into a close-pressed circle, backs against the breeze that swept through even this well-protected stand of trees. They took turns boasting and telling stories. Many of the Folk that Fencewalker had brought from Firsthome proved quite adept at relating funny songs and tales.

  “Chances are they’re better storytellers than they’ll ever be fighters,” muttered Thane Squeakerbane to Furscuff, the only First-walker who had accompanied him from his thanage to the Court.

  After a while young Snaremouse got up—after much urging from his fellows—and did a dance. He bobbed and crouched, now sliding on his stomach, now leaping in the air as if he were being pulled into the sky by his black nose. At times only his tail would move, forming strange and hilarious curves as Snaremouse stood stock-still with a look of intense concentration on his face.

  The party whooped with glee when he was done. Overheated, he ran off to roll in a small snowdrift.

  Squeakerbane—who, despite himself, had enjoyed Snaremouse’s dance—rose and stretched. One of the Firsthome cats called out for him to tell a story. The rest of the assembly agreed, and pressed him for a tale.

  “Very well,” the Thane said, closing his eyes in thought for a moment, “a story I shall give you. Do not take offense if I tell you that we prefer stories with a little less fluff and a little more bone, we First-walkers.” Opening his eyes, Squeakerbane shook his scarred, bristly body and sat back on his haunches.

  “What your esteemed Prince Consor
t, Dewtreader, said about Ninebirds and his deformed progeny has put me in mind of something. Do you all know how M‘an, the servant, and Aziri’le, the Folk, first fell out? It is an old story—but not much told around the Court, I’ll warrant.”

  None but Fencewalker and one or two of the older toms had ever heard of this tale. The Prince said he could not remember how it went.

  “Ah, but we First-walkers make a practice of remembering things like this,” said Squeakerbane with a brief smile.

  “In the wildness

  Always walking

  Passed Lord Firefoot

  Lone and homeless ...”

  he chanted in a singsong voice.

  “Many seasons

  Forth from Firsthome

  Had he traveled

  Seeking, searching

  In the wastelands

  Under strange skies

  Where the Folk

  Had never wandered.“

  After a pause, the Thane began his narrative.

  “In the time of Prince Strongclaw, in the long and felicitous reign of Queen Windruffle, our Lord Firefoot hunted deep into the farthest reaches of Southern Rootwood. He had been many winters in the wild, and had seen no Folk for many a season-turn. He had run with the Visl, wrestled with the ponderous Garrin and raced the fleet Praere. He missed the company of his own kind, but he had vowed never to return to the. Court of his father until Whitewind was avenged.

  “One afternoon he met another cat walking on the edge of Rootwood—the most beautiful of the Folk he had ever seen:

  “Tail like summer

  Warmly waving

  Finest fur

  In the breezes blowing

  Clear of eye

  And lithe of paw-step

  Like a spirit

  For Lord Firefoot.

  “The beautiful one was the color of grain swaying in the broad fields beyond the Qu‘cef; as soft and downy as the cloudcats over Sunsnest.

  “ ‘What is your name, lovely one?’ asked Lord Firefoot.

  “ ‘My name is Windflower,’ replied the newcomer in a voice as sweet as a tiny stream. ‘Who are you?’

  “ ‘Do you not know me?’ asked the Firstborn. ‘I am Tangaloor Firefoot, child of Goldeneye and Skydancer, hunter and wanderer of the First Blood!’

  “ ‘That sounds nice,’ said Windflower, raising a wonderfully tapered paw. ‘Would you like to walk with me awhile?’

  “Lord Firefoot was overcome with admiration for the beauteous Windflower, and they walked together.

  “Long they wandered

  Leaping, laughing

  Firefoot and

  The soft Windflower.

  Most enraptured

  Was the Firstborn

  Till he learned

  The dreadful story.

  “ ‘Windflower, do you have many brothers in your home?’ asked Firefoot after a while.

  “ ‘No, I live in a dwelling of M’an. No other Folk share my nest.‘

  “ ‘That is odd, then, because I scent a strange torn—although very faintly. Could we be followed?’ Firefoot looked inquiringly about as he padded along on his fiery red paws.

  “ ‘I do not think so,’ spoke Windflower sweetly. ‘You are the only tom—besides myself—that I have seen all day.’

  “Lord Tangaloor whirled about, stunned. ‘Are you not a fela?’ he yowled. ‘But how can that be? You seem in all respects unlike a male!’ The Firstborn was terribly upset.

  “ ‘Oh,’ said Windflower, embarrassed. ‘I suppose it is because of what the M’an-folk did to me.‘

  “Startled Firefoot

  Hard did gaze, then

  Saw the truth of

  Windflower’s speaking

  All his tomhood

  Had been taken,

  Changed he had been

  To half-fela.

  “ ‘M’an!!!‘ howled Lord Firefoot. ’Treacherous brood of Ninebirds! They have defiled the Folk! I shall be revenged upon them all, someday!‘ So saying, he ran into the forest, departing forever the crippled Windflower.

  “So spoke Firefoot,

  Cursed the Big Ones,

  Out-of-sun

  They are forever.

  Now the servants

  Make them masters

  But the True-Folk

  Ne‘er are vanquished.

  “And so the First-walkers, by the word of our Lord Firefoot, never will walk in the shadow of M‘an.”

  Squeakerbane, having finished his story, lay down again between Furscuff and Fencewalker. There was a moment’s strained silence, and then the Prince spoke.

  “Well, now, I’ve never held much with those stretched, hairless folk myself. Quite a story, quite a story.”

  Everyone relaxed, and many of the group congratulated Squeakerbane on his tale. More riddles and songs followed, and eventually even the overexcited Pouncequick was tired enough to fall asleep.

  Fritti, too, his head full of Hushpad and Firefoot and red claws, finally crossed the borders of the dream-fields. The furry tangle of Folk drowsed and grumbled away the waning Hour of Final Dancing.

  The Hour of Smaller Shadows found the travelers descending to the Rootwood fence, the final stand of conifers and aspens that separated the ancient forest from the bluffs overlooking the Hararscrape canyon. Here the Prince’s party would establish their border watch, and the others would go their own ways. The sun shone brightly, although the weather was chill.

  Stopping at the fence, they could see the sparsely foliaged flatlands—shrouded in the merest sprinkling of snow—stretching away before them to the edge of the mighty canyon.

  Turning to the First-walkers Squeakerbane and Furscuff, Prince Fencewalker bobbed his head in farewell. “Well met and good dancing, Thane,” he said. “Be sure to see me first when the Thane-meet is finished—before wasting your news on those old sit-on-tails back at the Court. Know that I, for one, will value your words.”

  “Many thanks to you, O Prince,” said Squeakerbane gravely. ‘It is good to know that true hearts still beat in the ancient home of our Folk.“ The First-walker looked over to Tailchaser and his two companions. ”These three Furscuff and I will accompany for a short while—until our paths separate. Go in the watchfulness of our Lord Firefoot, Fencewalker.“ He and Furscuff then moved a respectful distance apart as Fritti, Pouncequick and Roofshadow came forward to say their farewells.

  On the verge of departure into the unknown but seemingly ill-starred territories, Tailchaser found himself reluctant to part company with Fencewalker. He knew he would miss the bluff, warmhearted Prince very much. When he tried to speak, no words came forth, and he had to pretend to dislodge a burr from his tail while Roofshadow stepped forward and thanked Fencewalker for his aid.

  “Good dancing, Prince,” added Pouncequick. “I saw ever so many fascinating things at Firsthome that I will always remember. You’ve been wonderful to us.”

  “Pounce speaks for me, also,” said Fritti quietly. “We owe you much.”

  Fencewalker laughed. “Marsh mud! I’m in your debt, also—for information about the E‘a-ward territories, if nothing else. Stay, out of trouble, and that will be my reward.”

  The others in Fencewalker’s party crowded forward how, and said their raucous farewells. As Tailchaser and the others walked away, Fritti found his words and called back to the Prince.

  “Prince Fencewalker! You, also—keep yourself safe and happy!”

  “Not to worry, little friend!” boomed the hunter. “I walked these borders before I was old enough to be Named. You need have no fear for us!”

  The Prince and his band disappeared back into the outskirts of the forest.

  The sun was low in the sky as the five cats picked their way down the sloping plains.

  Squeakerbane, with help from Furscuff, was describing the terrain that they could expect to find ahead. “Actually,” he was saying, “you need to proceed north, rather than in the direction we’re going now, if you want to get across the Hararsc
rape. That way lies the ford. But I think you should come with us a bit farther, just to see Grumbleroar. It is worth the extra half-day, and not really very far out of your path.”

  As they walked, ever-curious Pouncequick questioned the Thane about the story he had told the previous night, and the First-walkers’ attitude toward the Court of Harar.

  “After all,” he asked, “don’t lots of the Folk live with M‘an, in M’an-dwellings? Why is that wrong?”

  The crusty old Thane took the querying in good grace. It seemed that no one ever felt offended by Pouncequick, Fritti noted wryly, except badgers and Visl.

  “The wrong, youngest hunter,” explained Squeakerbane, “is that we are the Folk, not Growlers who need to be led to live; who hunt in packs and fawn on any that give them food. The Folk have always survived on their wits and skill, performing the earth dance without help. Now half our number live in bloated indolence, emasculated and imprisoned—but uncaring—rising only to eat the food provided them by the children of Ninebirds.”

  Though he strove to maintain calm, the scarred visage of the Thane revealed the depth of his feeling. “And now,” he continued, “even in the Court where our Lord Firefoot once lived, this poison has crept in. Dewtreader and his wearying mysticism and fatalism! It is wrong! Anyone can see that a cat must run, must hunt. And the Queen! Tangaloor forgive me, she eats from a bowl—as if she belonged to one of those hulking, unintelligible brutes that we cast out untold generations ago. The Queen of the Folk does not even hunt!” Squeakerbane was trembling with suppressed rage, and after a moment shook his head. “I should not allow myself to become angry,” he said, chagrined, “but in our time of great danger, to see those mewing sycophants lolling about while our kin are being destroyed... forgive me.” The Thane lapsed into silence, and for a long time the others imitated him.