by Gayle Greeno
The smell of burning reeked strong in Doyce’s nostrils, something charring, ready to ignite. She opened her eyes in terror and the first thing that blurred her line of vision was a foot. A foot waggling slowly in front of her eyes. Pink paw pad, pink toe pads, white toes extended, flexed apart. The claws unsheathed, near translucent in the early sun, so that she could trace the rosy line within each where the blood circulated. A foot? Whose foot? A muffled slurp and the sounds of licking.
Rolling back, she gained enough distance to focus. “Khar?” she asked, sleepy, still uncertain. “What are you doing?”
“Leg o’mutton.” Another slurp. The ghatta rested partially on her lower back, one foreleg planted beside her to lever her upper body perpendicular, her hind leg extended beyond her ear as the ghatta curved inward and explored a difficult-to-reach patch of fur near the base of her tail. She licked enthusiastically, snuffled, a juicy blowing sound.
“Khar, that’s rude!”
“But necessary. Nice to be dean. You could use a wash, too.” She crinkled her nose in Doyce’s direction, snorted. “You were dreaming last night.”
Unwinding herself from the blanket, she sat up, head throbbing. “Yes. How much did you catch?” The question casual, to mask her interest and trepidation. Sometimes a ghatt could catch more of a Seeker’s dream than the Seeker could or would remember. The question was: did she wish her memory prompted?
“About the same as usual. You know.” The ghatta considered a patch of fur on her white belly and attacked with vigor, front teeth snipping away, pinching close to the skin. “Got it!”
“You, the compassionate ghatta who wants to rescue midges, have destroyed a flea? And remove your flea-some body from my tabard this instant!”
The ghatta unwound herself and padded away, pausing by the embers of the campfire to nose a scrap of paper closer to the glowing coals. The leftover wrapper from the liver, that was the charred smell she had noticed on waking. Nothing more.
Heading down to the stream to wash, she felt absurdly comforted to know that it was only the same old dreams, her standbys. That she could live with, would have to live with, as she had for years.
Another night, another tale. Mem’now settled himself beside Saam with a murmurous greeting and thrust his nose forward, inspecting Saam’s hip wound, lips curling back as he scented for infection, felt that the throbbing heat had abated. Good, Twylla would be pleased, he knew. She was an excellent judge of ghatti health, but he, of course, was far superior, being one himself.
He toyed with which ghatten tale to tell tonight, picking and choosing through his repertoire. Despite himself, he had to admit how much he enjoyed the tale-telling, and wondered if he had become too pedantic, boring the whiskers off Saam on a nightly basis. Still, when he lost himself in ghatten tales, nothing could stop him. They offered such marvels, and he envied Saam the pleasure of hearing them fresh and new for the “first” time: Saam had voiced no complaints, but every so often Mem‘now suspected his thoughts ranged elsewhere, somewhere Mem’now could not go, and then he spun and embroidered the tale even more, trying to regain Saam’s attention. If he could keep this up, he judged that they’d be ready to start on a Minor Tale very soon.
He eyed the two blue china saucers of milk nearby, already thirsty for his own. Even thinking about tale-telling could work up a powerful thirst in him. But thirst or no thirst, he had to make sure that Saam drank his down because Twylla had inserted a sleeping draught in it, had for a number of nights. Without it Saam prowled ghost-gray through the darkened infirmary, restless, unable to sleep, appearing in the oddest, most unexpected places at the. most unlikely times. Mem‘now had had to agree that Saam needed deep sleep to heal, both in mind and in body, and had helped with the deception, though he suspected that Saam knew about the drugging. The fact that he hadn’t complained or fought it gave Mem’now pause.
“Another tale, my friend,” he told Saam, and the gray ghatt stretched, just a tantalizing hint of the restless power that his now-thin body had once concealed.
A little moaning sound leaked from Saam, his ears folded back like overblown flower petals. Uneasy, Mem‘now crossed and recrossed his front paws, refolded them until they tucked inward toward his chest. He glanced sideways just in time to catch Saam’s slow wink. “Now I know how children feel about their Edifiers,” he commented. “Is there a ’test’ at the end of this, old friend?”
“No, you are the test, I think.” Mem’now considered his statement, decided it fit. “But if you feel too tired, too pained, we can skip the tale for tonight, just drink our milk and try to sleep.”
“Ah, not yet. You enjoy the tale-telling, and what pleases you gives me pleasure to give you. I will try to listen hard, my promise on that, though I may fail you.”
Mem’now rocked back and forth, resettling his paws. “Yes, I enjoy the sound of my own voice, if that’s what you’re so politely trying to say. Still, I shall begin ...
“It came to pass one very wet, rainy spring that a young ghatten grew bored with life in her crowded den, huddled together to avoid the showers and drizzle, the constant accompaniment to her boredom. Her sibs squabbled, someone’s tail always slapping her face, paw-pokes in her ribs, constant roll-over crowding that left her precariously poised at the den’s mouth, ready to be deposited into the damp outdoors in the midst of a sound and dreamless sleep. She knew her sibs’ actions and reactions inside and out and knew her own as well, and they bored her mightily.
“And so our little ghatten decided to brave the downpours and dankness, to venture out into the world. for being wet, having one’s fur clumped and sticky-damp could be rectified with brisk tongue application and good grooming techniques. Each day the ghatten ventured farther and farther from the nest, seeking not so much adventure as something—anything—interesting and different and new. She found it near a settlement of Newcomers, those strange beings who had journeyed from faraway skies and who presented such tantalizing potentialities, who resembled and yet did not resemble the Erakwa, and who, in their newness, offered fascinating viewing as did everything they had brought with them. She searched out a sheltered place beneath a grape arbor, umbrellaed by the broad leaves, sniffed the heady smells of quenched earth, growing green, plashing brook water, and most of all—the strange feather-fluffed, dusty aroma of the scratch-feet.
“Day in and day out she took up her position under the grape leaves, curled on the bark chips beneath them, and watched the scratch-feet. The grape arbor sprawled on one side of the creek, and the scratch-feet’s abode sat on the other side, spanned by a plank upon which they paraded back and forth to reach the planted area of the Newcomers. The elder scratch-feet marched across the plank with grave dignity, high above the heads of the quacking web-feet who paddled below, but the younglings dashed back and forth, raced each other, necks low to the ground, yellow-scaled legs flashing, feathers soggy and bedraggled in the rain. She had viewed water dabblers, web-feet, in abundance in her world, shivered to the long-necked web-feet’s lonesome cries earlier in the season when they migrated overhead, back to their ponds and lakes and streams, caroling the way to each other. She knew talon-feet, too. a silent, swooping menace to unwary younglings, and she recognized other varieties of scratch-feet as well, distant cousins who scratched busily at the earth for a living, but nothing quite like these. Against the rules of woodland silence they squawked and clucked incessantly, squabbled loudly amongst themselves, and at the first dawn or even earlier, the single male heralded the sun with an ear-splitting racket that threatened to make her forget her dignity and scoot to safety to escape the noise.
“Yet, singular creatures though they might be, these scratch-feet certainly didn’t seem terribly practical to her ghatten mind. Big and heavy-bodied, with strong scaly legs with wicked spurs, and nearly useless wings. How she had chortled the first time she had watched them settle at dusk, flapping and flouncing awkwardly into the low branches of an apple tree, fluffing and settling for the night.
Some wore pure white with fleshy red extrusions on their heads and dangling lappets beneath their beaks, others boasted an iridescent golden-red feathering, while the male paraded his finery back and forth, sashaying his green-black and red tail, rustling his gorgeous neck-feathers and fixing the world with a beady, burningly suspicious yellow eye.
“ ‘Here, chick, chick, chick,’ the Newcomers cried and the scratch-feet came racing, crowding and shoving, pecking at each other to gain space to scoop at the scattered grain, plunging their beaks into discarded melon rinds or whatever was thrown their way. Unseemly behavior to say the least, no manners at all, she judged with ghatten superiority. She enjoyed the rumpus when a Newcomer chased a scratch-foot round and round the yard trying to capture it. As far as she could determine, the scratch-feet did not enjoy the game, for the scratch-foot always lost—if not that particular scratch-foot, another was captured in its place and trussed, taken to a chopping block and beheaded, wings beating more strongly in death than they did in life. Yet the strangest thing was that all the other scratch-feet showed only momentary agitation, quickly settling down to scratching and pecking for bugs and seeds as if murder had not been committed in their midst.
“And so, day after day, the ghatten continued her observations, for she obeyed the ghatti dictum of ‘Watch, observe, and learn the truth,’ and she intended to be the very best, despite the dampness, despite the inconvenience of the rain dappling her fur, trickling down and spattering her, even within the sheltering grape leaves. She watched the younglings grow from tiny yellow or black fluffed balls into rangy, half-feathered younglings, most at the stage that she was herself, and saw them become fully feathered, but still as stupid as the adults. And each day the creek crept higher with the runoff from the rain, encroaching farther up its banks, rising closer and closer to the plank bridge that connected the scratch-feet to their food place. The young scratch-feet ventured into the shallows, splashed and scraped at the mud beneath, sent fountains of spray into the air as they chased each other along the water’s edge, battled the web-feet for tossed corn kernels.
“Still the rains came until she swore the earth could hold no more, and the ghatten continued her vigil—watching, observing—until one day the rising water inundated the plank connecting the two banks, leaving no dry path from one side to another. And as the ghatten watched, the Newcomer ventured forth from its dwelling and cried ‘Here, chick, chick, chick!’ and the scratch-feet came running, gabbling with excitement. The older, full-grown ones stopped in consternation at the flooded plank, milled around, clucking and squawking in agitation, flapping their wings but unable to launch themselves to the other side and their food. But the younglings ... ! The ghatten held her breath in shock. They dashed straight into the water, swimming and paddling, cavorting in the wetness, pushing the web-feet out of the way as they scrambled up the bank and toward their dinner, necks outstretched, feathers streaming.
“With that, the ghatten sprang up and away, back toward her den, running as if all the dangers of the world chased and nipped at her tail. She dashed through the soaking, fat raindrops, splashed through puddles, dislodged wet branches that slapped and grabbed at her, so eager was she to spread the news of her discovery. Sodden, she arrived back at the den and mewled for her ghatta mother, rowled long and loud to gather the others of her clan.
“ ‘Oh, what I’ve seen, what I’ve seen!’ she shouted to one and all, then embarrassed at her appearance, groomed and sleeked herself to presentability. Soon the others gathered round, twitchy in the wetness but aching with interest. Green eyes politely downcast to the proper degree, she looked around her, amazed to be the center of attention of so very many.
“‘Well, youngling, what have you seen?’ asked one of the elder of the males, her great-granther, worn and weary after many seasons of hunting and fighting, scar stripes on his face, half an ear chewed off in a desperate battle with a fox.
“The ghatten fought to control her breath, then blurted out the news. ”The scratch-feet have turned into web-feet, they’re swimming! Paddling in the creek. It’s clear at last! Just as a caterpillar transforms itself into a butterfly, so do the Newcomers’ scratch-feet turn into web-feet! They’ve been transformed! Come see, come watch with me!’ She made as if to run back the way she had come, eager to share her discovery with the others. What a percipient little ghatten she had been, how clever, how wise to wait and watch and learn! She swelled with pride. Let the others stay warm and dry in their dens, learning nothing new, content as they were, while she, she alone had braved the elements, made a new discovery!
“A sudden cough and warning bark made the ghatten squeak with terror, become airborne while she searched for a safe landing place and somewhere to run. ‘Fox!’ she yelped. ‘Run! Fox!’ And then she looked around her at the other unmoving ghatti, one or two trying to hide a tiny smile behind a face-polishing paw. The elder ghatt looked at her, barked again deep in his throat. ‘Oh,’ she sighed with relief, ‘it’s only you, granther.’
“‘Why, yes, so it is,’ he inspected himself with care, craned his head over his shoulder, observed his tail, extended and retracted his claws. ‘Only me, very definitely. I do not believe I’ve turned into a fox even though I just barked like one.’
“‘Well, of course you can’t turn into a fox, you’re a ghatt,’ she replied with indignation. What did he take her for, a little silly?
“He rose stiffly, gave her a little nose-sniff and licked her face, sleeking her eye whiskers back, removing the rain-beads. ‘Learning a thing beyond your natural ways does not turn you into something else.’ His breath whizzled hot but kindly in her ear, stirring the delicate hairs. ‘Just as I have not turned into a fox, neither have your scratch-feet turned into web-feet, have they? They have learned something different, but they are still the same creatures. What have you learned?’
“She sighed. ‘That truth is truth despite outward appearances, I guess.’
“‘Ah, good. Now, I would like to see these curious swimming scratch-feet. Are you coming?’ And the elderly ghatt and the impetuous ghatten padded down the path together, ignoring the drizzle.”
Still lost in the conclusion of his tale, Mem’now contemplated the middle distance, all but missed Saam’s sudden rising and trotting to the doorway, ears cocked and listening. “What... ?” he asked, shaking himself out of his memories.
“Don’t know,” Saam answered over his shoulder, curiosity written over his face. “Some sort of flurry of activity, heading this way to the infirmary. Maybe you should go check, alert Twylla if it’s necessary.”
“Wonder what it could be?” Mem’now stretched as he rose, not as thoroughly as he would have liked, but enough to limber the kinks, and bustled out of the room.
With a tiny ghatti smile, Saam slipped back, nosed his milk saucer to the right of Mem‘now’s, reversing the position of drugged and undrugged milk. He hunkered down in front of “his” dish, then thought, and dipped his chin and a whisker in it, as if too eager to wait.
Mem’now returned. “You boast exceptionally sharp hearing. Child with a bee sting. They live closer to us than to the Hospice, so they brought the child here, wailing and crying. Twylla’s pulling the stinger now, nothing to worry about.” He came and sat in front of his milk saucer. “Thirsty, are we?”
Hanging his head, Saam contemplated his dish, not quite daring to look at Mem’now. Unfair, unjust to do this to an old friend. Still, he had to leave tonight, somehow he knew that with every fiber of his being. Nothing he could explain or justify, just that somehow he knew. And if he told them, they would stop him. Nothing would stop him now. Nothing! He hadn’t a clue as to where he must go or why, but he was going. The pull strained at all his senses, faint but growing stronger and stronger so that he could not refuse it or deny it.
He took a lap of milk, screwed up his face. “I don’t know what Twylla does to this milk sometimes ... it has the oddest taste, not bad, you know, but....” He left the rest of the sentence
hanging, tasted the milk again, then dipped away steadily with his tongue, hoping his guilt wouldn’t show.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mem’now dipped his head to his saucer and began to lick, less than dainty in his thirst. “I really can’t see anything different in the taste. Sometimes you perceive variations in taste because of where the cows have been grazing, of course.”
“Of course,” Saam agreed as he drank, matching his licks to Mem’now’s as if engaged in a race to the bottom of the saucer. They finished together.
Mem’now gave a tiny burp and yawn. “Drank too fast,” he reproved himself, yawned again. “A little nap here with you before I go with Twylla on her rounds, I think.” He padded somewhat unsteadily toward Saam’s blanket, staggered when he formed a tripod balance and tried to scratch behind his ear with his hind leg. “Share blanket for a bit?” He yawned again.
“Please do.” Saam sat, worked at removing the milk droplets from chin, lips and whiskers. Mem’now flopped down, drifted into a profound sleep, a ghatti snore whistling through his nose. “Farewell, old friend, sleep well.” And Saam jumped onto the windowsill, edged the shutter back as he slipped out into the night, every sense alert to avoid discovery. “I’m coming.” He said it to himself as much as to someone unseen, unheard, reassurance for them both.
PART THREE
The next seven days on the circuit proved routine, Doyce and Khar both agreed. Four towns: Barlesville, Ingelsby, Tarleton, and Taunton. Standard cases: neighbors disagreeing over a boundary line; a drunk and disorderly; a young, pregnant wife fearful that more than her husband’s eye was roving. Nothing unusual, nothing inexplicable or threatening. The gossip in each town predictable standard issue, no enigmatic happenings or cryptic mysteries, nothing of the sort that might explain Oriel’s death or give substance to Swan Maclough’s fears. Nothing remotely related since the Seeking in Wexler, and her uncertainty chaffed her. A training ghatt had tarried long enough in Taunton to pass word that Saam had gained physical strength but with no return of his mindspeech. Then he had bounded off, full of himself, rushing back to Gaernett and his Bondmate, relieved and excited that he’d completed his messenger duties.
