by Clare Bell
“Wait,” Thistle commanded suddenly. She listened to Quiet Hunter and then gave a brief moan of dismay. “Oh, no. Now True-of-voice asks if the black one’s stalk with the fawn was not enough. He asks, should it be done again, with another animal?”
“No!” The word was out of Ratha’s mouth before she could bite it back. “Absolutely not. One wastefully slaughtered deer is enough. Tell True that this . . . gathering . . . is ended. We must think about what has happened.”
Evidently Thistle and Quiet Hunter were able to get this across to True-of-voice. His people gathered around him and prepared to leave. Ratha asked Bira to escort them politely off clan ground.
“Sorry to ask again,” Thistle said as the party began to depart. “Leader wants to know, may black one take kill?”
“Yes,” Ratha snapped. “I don’t want to look at it, but don’t tell True that.”
True-of-voice and his people moved off into the lengthening shadows. Ratha glanced at the setting sun. Like it, she was exhausted, ready to drop into darkness.
The Named would meet tomorrow, around the sunning rock. We may have to drive True-of-voice and the others away with the Red Tongue as we should have done in the beginning. Yes, I have been blind.
Ratha forced herself to watch as the black went to his prey, picked it up by the neck, and dragged it away.
Chapter Seven
When Ratha woke, she was eager to scramble out of her den. Then she remembered what had happened at the herding show. Her ears sagged and her whiskers drooped. She wanted to curl up in the den and bury her nose in her tail, hoping nobody would need her.
I can’t just retreat, Ratha scolded herself. She bore most of the responsibility for the act that let a young three-horn be slaughtered without need. Her daughter also bore a little. If Thistle hadn’t taunted me like that . . .
Ratha turned a regretful grimace into a yawn, shook dead leaves out of her fur, and left the den. Dawn was pawing new shadows across the dew-dampened grass. She sat down in the weak morning sunlight a few paces away from her den. A lungful of crisp morning air made her feel slightly better. A wash would help.
She had done her face and was craning around to do her back when two scents and two shadows joined hers. Thistle and Quiet Hunter looked a bit rumpled, as if they had worried more than slept.
“Please, finish your grooming,” said Quiet Hunter, earning him, Ratha noticed, an impatient look from Thistle. Patiently he started to lick Thistle’s nape.
“I appreciate your courtesy,” Ratha answered, knowing that they both urgently needed to speak to her. The young pair groomed one another, while Ratha completed her task as quickly as possible.
“I know, you need to talk about what happened yesterday,” she said as Thistle opened her mouth. Quiet Hunter waved his whiskers in a silent ‘yes.’
“Will let him go first,” Thistle said, nudging him. Quiet Hunter began to speak.
“Clan leader, this one . . . is sorry that the herd animal was needlessly killed. There is another feeling . . . more than sadness. The other feeling makes this one wish he was not from those led by True-of-voice. This one . . . I . . . I do not know what to call this feeling. It makes me choke, though I have eaten nothing. It makes me hang my head and drag my tail, though I am not weary.”
Ratha realized that he was appealing to her as one who was more experienced with the Named ways of thinking and feeling. She remembered what a vast gulf he had crossed, not so very long ago. That he had managed to adapt to the Named and adopt ways that at first were impossibly alien to him spoke of his determination.
“Have tried to help him with this,” Thistle said softly. “Can’t. Still not good at word-thinking.”
Ratha looked at the downcast young male, wanting to put her paws around him, as if he were a cub. “Quiet Hunter, we do have a word for the feeling, but you should not have to use it. Nothing you have done has harmed or angered us. It doesn’t matter that you came from the other tribe. You are as truly Named as if you had been born among us. And you have given my Thistle-chaser great happiness.”
Some of the strain left Quiet Hunter’s face as he looked at Ratha, then at Thistle, who rubbed her forehead against his.
“The feeling eases,” he said, “but a little still remains.”
“The word you seek is ‘shame,’” Ratha answered. “You are ashamed at what True-of-voice and the black one did.”
Quiet Hunter seemed to taste the word, trying it on his tongue and in his mind. “Yes,” he said at last. “The word has the right sound. Of rain falling, heavy on fur, pulling down so that the head falls and the feet slow. Yes, I am ashamed . . . of them.”
Ratha did not know what to say next. She could point out that he had left the hunter tribe and its old ways, that he had no need to be ashamed on their behalf. That, however, was not strictly true. Quiet Hunter still needed to return, to bathe in the mysterious power of True-of-voice’s song. Thistle went with him, not so much out of need, but out of longing.
“They are still part of you.” Ratha found her voice. “Quiet Hunter, we have all known shame. We have all been ashamed of a part of us, whether it lies inside or with others. When we don’t understand that part, we are afraid and ashamed of it. Many times when we know it better, when we understand why, the bad feeling starts to go away. It may never all go away, but it gets better.”
“Is that a part of being Named?” asked Quiet Hunter. “Living alone behind the eyes . . . with such feelings?”
“Not alone,” interrupted Thistle fiercely. “Never alone!”
Quiet Hunter seemed to brighten as Thistle slid alongside him, dropping her tail over his back and drawing it over him in a long caress.
“Know these things are new to you,” she purred. “If you struggle, I will help.”
From the way that Quiet Hunter laid his tail across Thistle’s, Ratha knew that he would welcome her offer.
“Your mother has a lot of you in her,” Quiet Hunter said to Thistle. “Both of you give words that comfort. I feel . . .”
“Better,” mother and daughter finished for him.
Ratha relaxed, thinking about grooming that one place on her flank that she hadn’t gotten to her satisfaction. Quiet Hunter, however, had one more question.
“So it is the same with anger,” he said. “Instead of being angry at my people, you will try to know them better. So that you understand. You will not feel anger. I will not feel ashamed.”
Ratha found herself with her mouth open. “Well, those are the ideals. We can’t always reach them. It is like jumping up to a branch in the wind. Sometimes the wind helps you, other times it doesn’t. I promise, though, Quiet Hunter, we will do our best.”
She paused. “Do you have any other questions?”
“No, but can Quiet Hunter say one thing more?”
Ratha lifted her tail in a yes.
“This one . . . no . . . I . . . I lost my mother when young. I was too old for any female to take in. Many nights was I alone and huddled shivering while the wind blew. Now this one’s fur is heavier. I no longer shiver in the wind off the plain. Other little ones do, even those who have mothers. Some die. The clan’s creature, Red Tongue, makes great warmth. Please let the little ones share it.”
“So you are asking me to do as I originally intended,” Ratha said. “Let my Firekeepers bring the Red Tongue to your people’s litterlings.”
“Yes, if it can be done so that the wrong that happened yesterday can be kept from happening again.”
“You mean so that True-of-voice can be prevented from misusing our gift, if I decide to give it.”
“Yes. This one knows that finding such a way will be hard. This one also knows that you and your clan have done hard things.”
“We are your clan as well,” Ratha couldn’t help saying. Quiet Hunter had his own simple eloquence, even in his mistakes with Named language. Those mistakes were similar to, but not the same as, Thistle’s, giving each a unique voice.
“If it could be,” said Quiet Hunter, looking deeply into Ratha’s eyes, “both would be my clan.”
Ratha felt her own eyes widen. Somehow this young male was asking even more of her than any of the Named, even Thistle. I wonder if he knows what he asks? She felt at once awed and shaken by the trust he was placing in her.
“I am grateful for your honesty, Quiet Hunter,” she answered finally.
“This one . . . I . . . will go to the meeting place so that you and Thistle can speak alone,”
Thistle came to her side and sat while both watched Quiet Hunter leaving.
Something in me whispers that he could grow into a leader of great wisdom, Ratha thought.
Thistle glanced up at her, sea-green eyes glowing. “Can’t say it the same way you can, Mother, but he is . . . just . . . good.”
“If you are happy with him, that is good.” Ratha took a deep breath. “Now, you wanted to speak to me before the gathering.”
“Also would like to see Quiet Hunter have both clans,” Thistle began. “Know it will be difficult. Dangerous, too. Afraid of what could happen if we share Red Tongue. More afraid, maybe, than Quiet Hunter.” She stopped, looked down at her paws, then up, a stubborn glint coming into her eyes. “Feel that Red Tongue is way too dangerous to share at start. When True-of-voice and others see Firekeepers, they will do same, only better, like Thakur and three-horn fawn. Like killing—they won’t just grab and pull down, they won’t be able to stop. Something bad will happen, like killing fawn when not needed. Understand?”
“I think so,” Ratha said.
“Love Quiet Hunter, but can’t agree with him on this. Must use something else to draw two tribes together. Song is too powerful and . . . blind . . . for using Red Tongue.”
“Thistle, to be honest, I feel the same. I hate the way that True-of-voice claws into his people’s minds and twists them, like breaking a herdbeast’s neck.”
“Then you won’t—”
“I can’t say that yet, Thistle. If my choice just affected me, or just me and you, I could, but it affects so many. There are other things as well.”
“What other things?” Thistle asked, her whiskers starting to bristle.
“Well, you said that True-of-voice’s song is very good at doing the things it knows about. The Red Tongue isn’t one of those.”
“Didn’t know about herdbeast takedowns either,” Thistle retorted.
“Yes, but True knows hunting very well. Even though that black belly-biter repeated nearly everything Thakur did, he was still hunting, not herding.”
Thistle cocked her head. “Are words fighting feelings inside you? Hear scratching and yowling.”
For a moment Ratha did not know what to say. She also wished Thistle wasn’t so perceptive. “Yes,” she finally answered. “But they have to fight.”
“Because of you being clan leader.”
Because of me being what I am, Thistle.
She noticed that the sun was growing warmer and the shadows shorter. “The gathering will start soon.”
“I can speak at it?” Thistle asked as Ratha started to turn. She felt Thistle’s tail brush tentatively across her back.
“Yes, both you and Quiet Hunter. Everybody will have a turn, but since I have talked to both of you before the gathering, let others go first.”
Thistle’s tail lifted in agreement, and then flopped across Ratha’s. They slid alongside one another, exchanging affection and scents.
“You are like Quiet Hunter,” Thistle whispered in her ear.
In that you can disagree with both of us but still love us, Ratha thought, feeling the fur of her daughter’s forehead against her own. The hairs met and mingled, finding their way through and past one another to sensitive skin.
Side-by-side, they set off for the gathering. Part of the way there, Thistle stopped, flipping her tail back and forth. Ratha recognized indecision. “Something else troubles you?”
“Think you would be mad at me. For saying that True-of-voice should show you what his hunters could do. Teased you. Shouldn’t have. Made fawn die. Sorry.”
“I was angry at you,” Ratha said as the two paced together. “Maybe I still am, a little.”
“Can understand that. I should think more before pouncing. Not make so many Thistle-messes.”
“We caught something out of that incident, as much as I don’t want to admit it.”
Thistle crooked her tail, looking up in puzzlement.
“We would have found out about the song’s ‘blindness’ later, perhaps after we’d given True’s people the use of fire. I prefer to know it now.”
Chapter Eight
Instead of sitting on the sunning rock, Ratha decided to take her seat on the lower outcrop nearby. This morning she wanted to be with, not above, her people. The clan, who had arrived, settled around the outcrop. Thistle fell behind Ratha as mother and daughter approached the gathering.
“No, stay at my side,” Ratha commanded.
As the rising sun chased off the dew, the Named made way for Ratha and Thistle. Ratha caught looks of mild surprise mingled with approval. She was pleased that Thistle had earned the right to walk in honor beside her mother. The clan surged around the pair, rubbing foreheads and licking faces. All the Named were there except for Mishanti who was looking after the rumblers, and Fessran’s older daughter Chikka, who was minding the small cubs in the nursery.
Ratha draped herself across the outcrop with Thistle beside her. She began slowly, almost softly. “What happened at the gathering yesterday is troubling. It will affect our decision whether or not to share the Red Tongue with True-of-voice’s people.”
She looked across at Fessran, who sat with Bira by her side and the Firekeepers around her. Then Ratha’s gaze went to Thakur, with Ashon and the other herding students, and then to Cherfan and the working herders. Bringing her gaze back to the Firekeepers, Ratha said, “Fessran, I’d like to hear from you first. When the black hunter killed the fawn, you were furious. Has this changed your feeling about sharing the Red Tongue?”
“No it has not, clan leader. Even though Thakur had to sit on me to keep me from shredding that belly-biting killer, I still believe that my Firekeepers can safely share the Red Tongue with them.”
“How can we prevent what happened yesterday?” Cherfan asked gruffly. “Yes, this time it was a fawn, but next time it might be a grown three-horn, a striper, or—”
“The mistake yesterday,” the sandy-furred Firekeeper leader interrupted, “was not in showing our herding skills. It was in letting a hunter actually get his claws on our herdbeast. This will not happen with the Red Tongue if only Firekeepers tend the flame.”
Ratha saw heads turning to exchange looks. Fessran had obviously made a strong point. “Bira,” she said, pointing with her nose at the ruddy-gold young female whose plumed tail curled around her feet. “You did well yesterday when you prevented a fight. What do you think?”
“If we place several Firekeepers at each campfire to prevent anyone from meddling with it, I will agree with Fessran. Quiet Hunter has spoken about the litterlings shivering in the wind. I feel it would be wrong not to help them,” Bira replied.
“Can the Firekeepers keep the campfire safe?” The question came from Mondir. Beside him, Khushi, Fessran’s son and also a herder, lifted his whiskers in support.
Hazel-eyed Drani had a suggestion. “If we keep the Red Tongue on clan land and bring the other tribe’s small cubs here . . .”
Before Ratha could stop Fessran, the Firekeeper leader snorted. “Haven’t you had enough of carrying our own litterlings around, Drani? The fur between my teeth makes everything I eat taste like cub hair.”
“Besides,” added Bira, “would the hunter cubs’ mothers allow us anywhere near them?”
“Then their mothers can bring them,” said Drani, refusing to back down.
Bira gazed at Fessran, “That’s not a bad idea.”
“Not all mothers will,” said Quiet Hunter softly. “I
f you make it harder, fewer will use it. Cubs will still shiver.”
Ratha swiveled her ears as they spoke, taking in all the opinions. She agreed with Bira. Letting the face-tail hunting tribe come to the Red Tongue on clan ground would be safer. Should they even allow that? Her eyes sought Thakur, who, so far, had said little.
“Herding teacher?” she asked.
Thakur sat up a little straighter. “I often take a longer view on things. Basically, we have only two choices. We either share your creature with the face-tail hunters, or we deny it. If we decide to share, we must know the risks and prepare for them. There is no halfway point.”
Again Ratha saw heads turning, eyes meeting. She showed her teeth slightly to quell any interruptions.
“If we don’t share, we must accept what the decision means,” Thakur continued. “This hunter tribe has a strong will. If they want the Red Tongue enough, they will take it. The only way to prevent this is to separate completely from them.”
Ratha felt her jaw drop a little. Thakur usually wasn’t one to claw such sharp lines. He also, however, wasn’t one to avoid facing the uncomfortable or unpleasant.
“This is not a taste I savor,” she heard Thakur say. “We would either seek a new home for ourselves and our herds or use the Red Tongue to keep the hunters away.” He turned his gaze to Thistle-chaser and Quiet Hunter. “Such a choice would be hard, especially for the two who just came to us.”
“You would chase the hunters away with the Red Tongue?” Fessran asked. “That is not like you, Thakur.”
“I didn’t say that,” the herding teacher answered patiently. “Only if we choose that branch of the trail, we must follow it.”
Ratha waited while Thakur gathered his thoughts to continue. Her glance fell on Bira, who looked as if she needed to speak. “Thakur, can you wait to finish? Bira has something.”
Thakur agreed and the young Firekeeper stood up, tail down in a gentle curve, whiskers, fanning out. Sometimes Ratha envied Bira’s even temper. “Why do you think that the answer only lies on one side of a clawed line?” Bira asked Thakur. “Keeping the Red Tongue here while letting the hunters warm their cubs is being careful.”
