by Clare Bell
“But we aren’t eating this dappleback,” Quiet Hunter pointed out.
“Then maybe it should have a name,” Thistle answered. “You think of one.”
The lively discussion continued along the trail, over and through forested hills, into more open woodland. They were nearing the hunters’ plain, and Thistle was asking her partner why exactly did Quiet Hunter need to know if every new creature he encountered could either sing or hear some sort of True-of-voice song, when someone appeared on the trail in front of them.
Dusk shaded the new arrival’s color to a dark gray and Thistle didn’t recognize any smell except the hunter group-scent. For a tail-flick, she thought it was the renegade Night-who-eats-stars, but beside her, Quiet Hunter said, “This one . . . I . . . I . . . know him. It is not the black fawn-killer. Let me nose-touch.”
Thistle clamped the dappleback’s lead tighter in her mouth, bracing her feet to hold the restive horse. She hoped this hunter hadn’t decided that her dappleback and its seafood cargo might be easy prey.
She growled, but her partner looked back over his shoulder, grimacing to quiet her. Then, with tail lifted in greeting, he approached the other, who stood still, dark-green eyes narrowed to slits.
“This one can smell that he won’t attack,” Quiet Hunter said to Thistle.
“Don’t like the look in his eyes. You sure?” Thistle hissed back, teeth still clenched on the lead rope.
“Yes.”
She squashed her own instinct to attack. The best thing she could do was to hang on to the horse and keep it from bolting. She wished she was close enough to smell the newcomer’s mood, but she couldn’t approach.
She watched Quiet Hunter and the other hunter meet in the half-light. Both tails were lifted, waving with inquiry as their nose leathers touched. Thistle could hear her partner breathe in, inhaling the other’s scent.
Quiet Hunter’s tail stiffened. His head went back in a series of jerks, collapsing him back on his rump and haunches. His fur bristled all over, and he panted in panic. The other hunter ducked aside, eyed the stricken male over his shoulder briefly, and then slunk away.
Thistle’s first impulse was to chase the intruder and shred his ears. Even though she hadn’t seen him lift a paw, he had obviously done something bad to Quiet Hunter. She pulled the laden dappleback forward so that she could reach her partner. Now he was sitting, his head down, eyes squeezed shut, one paw over his nose, fur still on end. She dropped the lead, put a rear paw on it, and gave him a worried lick. “What is it? Did he hit you? What did he do?” The sudden bitterness in his scent alarmed her and sent her treeling scampering from her shoulders to the root of her tail.
Quiet Hunter lifted his head, but instead of meeting her gaze, he sat rigidly, the expression in his eyes telling her that he was once again turned inward, as he had been when she first met him. She suddenly hated that dreamlike veil that clouded the beauty of his honey-colored eyes.
“Wake up!” she yowled. “Tell me what happened.”
“The song . . . This one is hearing True-of-voice again.”
Baffled, she laid a paw on his back. “But you wanted to hear him.”
Quiet Hunter jerked away, frightening Thistle. “Not as he sings now. How it has changed in color. Harsh. Black. Thorns. Claws. Fangs behind the eyes . . .” He reared, lashing both his head and his tail in a maddened frenzy. “No, this one can’t go, must go, why does he sing this way, why has it all turned so bleak, so wild . . . ?”
He started running back and forth, stopping abruptly, then turning again, fleeing the other direction, then halting so sharply he stumbled as if tripped. Now ignoring the horse, Thistle grabbed his scruff, trying to stop him, but he struggled away, howling.
“If True-of-voice has done something bad to you, will shred his face,” Thistle growled, “Quiet Hunter, talk to me!”
He panted, breaking his words up. “This one . . . must find others who . . . hear the blackness, the bleakness . . . Forcing this one to go away, no, not away from Thistle . . .”
Fear struck deep into her, lancing like pain. He leaped back and forth, head rolling, as if in agony, then with a lash of his tail, he fled before Thistle could catch him.
He was gone. Gone so completely that not even a leaf still rustled. So that there was a stillness inside Thistle before grief and anger rushed in. She tried to track him, but there was no trace, not even the bitterness of fear-scent. She had no idea what direction he’d taken.
She called his name until rawness made her voice harsh, and then cried out that harshness until she lost breath. Then she fell silent, hoping desperately that he would return and rub against her, and things would be as they were before.
She nosed around, wondering what had happened. She caught some of the other hunter’s scent, just a whiff, but enough to tell her that the strange “song,” transmitted in part by scent, was the same as it had ever been, at least for her. No change in tone or color, no bleakness or darkness. Knowing that ruled out one thought, namely that Quiet Hunter had gone berserk because True-of-voice had suddenly died and the song had fallen silent. That had happened before, when True-of-voice fell from the cliff and lay near death on a ledge below. All the hunters, including her mate, had been affected so severely that the clan thought they would die.
No, the other tribe’s leader was still alive and healthy, and acting as he always did. So what had driven Quiet Hunter away? Thistle was more baffled than ever, and her nosing became frantic.
A neigh behind her made Thistle aware once again of the horse and its load. As much as she wanted to tear around through the brush in search of her mate, she had to get this horse back safely. Her whiskers still quivering, she picked up a few spilled fish from the trail and put them back into the net baskets. Biaree, no longer frightened, clambered from her loins onto her shoulders where he settled with a sigh. With dying hope, Thistle called once again, but when the dusk remained still and silent, she picked up the lead rope with her teeth and started down the trail with the dappleback.
When she reached clan ground, she would tell Ratha what happened. Maybe her mother would know. She could ask her to send a search party to seek Quiet Hunter and bring him back.
She jogged along, trying to ignore a sad ache in her chest that seemed to spear down into her once-lame front leg. Fighting away an old fog that hovered about her eyes and mind, Thistle quickened her pace. She was determined to discover what had happened to her partner and mate. She wouldn’t rest, nor would she let the Named rest, until she found out.
Chapter Fourteen
Evening came slowly during the summer on clan ground. The brisk wind of late afternoon faded to a light breeze, and the sunning rock held enough of the day’s heat to be uncomfortable. Ratha was sitting in the cooling grass at its base when she saw Bira and Fessran approaching. Their forms were shaded, and Ratha knew them only by the shine of their eyes and their scents.
By Ratha’s order, the Firekeepers made only one fire-nest each night for the hunter tribe, on the border of clan land and hunter territory. The fire was small and well guarded, although Ratha felt that even doing that was a risk. Ratha did it because Bira pleaded passionately that the clan should not stop helping the hunter mothers and cubs. The renegade Night-who-eats-stars had apparently vanished, which helped Ratha’s decision.
Bira looked worried; Fessran, puzzled. When Ratha asked why, Bira answered that something odd seemed to be happening in the hunter tribe.
“Often we get others besides mothers and nurslings at the campfire. I’m used to seeing some of the young hunter males. But the last few nights only one came. He seemed upset, even a bit . . . crazy, talking about how the song had somehow changed and ‘gone dark’ for him. I didn’t see him last night. It may be silly, but I thought I should tell you before we went ahead and built the fire.”
“It isn’t silly, Bira,” Fessran answered. “I sent out some Firekeeper scouts to make sure the fawn-killer wasn’t still around and to see what was
going on. All the younger males in True-of-voice’s tribe are affected. They ramble on about how that rat-scratching song-thing has changed for them. It seems to be driving them away.” She swished her tail as Ratha got up and paced. “These hunters seem to get more weird things happening to them. I’d rather be squabbling with the Un-Named again,” she grumbled.
“I’ve watched the mothers and other females who have come to my fire,” Bira said. “They don’t seem to feel any such change. I’d still like to make the fire-nest for them, if you feel that it is safe.”
“I . . .” Ratha started, then turned her head abruptly, staring into the deepening dusk. “Thistle-chaser’s back,” she said, and bounded away from the Firekeepers. They followed.
Ratha could tell by the bitter tang in Thistle’s scent that something had happened along the return trail. Her night-sight told her that Thistle’s fur was rumpled, and the nose-touch revealed her daughter’s whiskers were vibrating with anger and grief.
“Oh, Thistle,” Ratha breathed, wishing she could curl protectively around her cub, protecting her daughter from more of the blows the world gave her.
“Brought back the horse,” Thistle said shortly. “Lost Quiet Hunter.”
Ratha looked up as Fessran and Bira caught up with them. “I can guess,” said Fessran drily. “Did he start yowling some nonsense about the song going black and then high-tail it into the bushes?”
“How do you know?” Thistle glowered suspiciously at the Firekeepers and spat,“Were you hiding, spying?”
“Don’t raise your fur at me, youngster,” Fessran retorted. “No, I wasn’t. We’ve been seeing this happen to the other young toms in their tribe.”
“Others?” Thistle said, and then broke off, turning to Ratha. “Please help me find him. Know what he means. Send out Named ones in search, ask True-of-voice. Just bring him back.”
“I’ll help you, Thistle,” Ratha said hastily. “First I need to know exactly what happened.”
Thistle breathed deeply to steady herself. “Was walking back from sea with horse and fish. Passing face-tail valley. One from hunter tribe jumped out in front. Wasn’t Night-who-eats-stars. Was one Quiet Hunter knew. Said so. Then, touched noses with other. Went stiff, fuzzed fur. Thought Quiet Hunter had been hit. He talked about change in song. Fangs behind the eyes . . .”
“Did he say anything else?” Ratha asked, while Fessran and Bira looked on.
Thistle’s facial markings emphasized the crinkle over her eyes as she squeezed them shut. “Remember now. Said, why must he go, didn’t want to, didn’t want to leave me, but had to. Said he had to find others that hear blackness, bleakness. Then, gone.”
“Fangs behind the eyes . . . ?” Ratha heard Fessran muse, while Bira drew in her breath sharply, hissing between her teeth at the image.
“You couldn’t track him?”
“No scent. Must have flattened fur to keep smell in. Miss him lots already.”
Ratha ached at the mournful tone in Thistle’s voice.
“Look, there is no point in blundering around in the dark,” said Fessran. “If we are going to talk about this, we might as well be comfortable around a fire.”
Thistle flashed again at Fessran. “Don’t want to be comfortable around a fire. Want to find Quiet Hunter!”
“Fessran, go find Thakur. Bira, please have the Firekeepers make a small campfire in the same place as before. Enough of us will be there so that nothing will happen and we can figure out what to do.”
Both Firekeepers left. Ratha calmed her daughter, saying that she would do all she could to find Quiet Hunter, but the Named had to act intelligently, not just send scouts out to thrash around the woods. “Quiet Hunter is important to you, but I feel something more is happening.”
They rejoined the two Firekeepers at the small fire. Fessran had fetched Thakur as well, and he lay in a half-sphinx attitude, his face toward the dancing flame, his copper fur metallic-tipped by its glow.
Thistle nose-touched with him, and then sat down by his side. “Seeking Quiet Hunter. Seen him, herding teacher?”
“Why no, Thistle. I thought he was with you at the seacoast.”
Ratha stepped into the conversation. “She’s back, but he isn’t. She told me that something strange happened to him on the way. Thistle, tell Thakur just what you told me.”
When Thistle had finished, Thakur rested his muzzle on the back of his forepaw. After some silence, he said, “Hmrrrr. Just a nose-touch?”
“Was all I smelled, or saw, or heard,” Thistle replied. “No claw, no swat, no lunge, no growl. Then, Quiet Hunter vanished.”
“You say that he felt the song change, turn color to black,” Thakur mused. “You can also hear the song. Did you feel a change in it?”
“Couldn’t sense it very well. Got something, though. Not changed for me.”
“Or for any of the older males, or the hunter females, if I understand Bira and Fessran.”
Fessran stirred. “This gives me an itch between my shoulders. I don’t know why, but it’s not a nice itch.”
Thakur looked at the Firekeeper steadily. Ratha also felt something low on the nape of her neck, a cold that seeped down along her back. She got up and shook, saying, “I’d be more worried, except that scouts report everything on the hunters’ ground is calm.”
“They are only watching from one edge of the hunters’ land. If those who hear the blackened song are leaving, our scouts might not pick that up,” Fessran observed.
“Then we aren’t sure the affected ones are all young males.” Ratha suppressed her urge to wriggle on the ground in order to get rid of the crawly feeling on her back. She was sure it wasn’t fleas.
“I’ve been with the hunters the most, since I’ve been building their fire,” put in Bira. “I’m sure that the only ones who hear the song as black are the younger males.”
“Why would True-of-voice be doing that?” Ratha asked. “He needs strong young toms to hunt face-tails—”
“Even though the females are the better hunters,” Fessran interrupted. “Well, they are,” she insisted, to Ratha’s annoyed look. “At least they bring in most of the meat.”
“Could we have angered True-of-voice somehow?” asked Bira, tilting her head.
“If he was feeling hissy, why would he take it out on his own people, Bira?” Fessran asked. “We’re the ones he would attack. Thakur, can you follow this impossibly twisted trail? I can’t.”
“Assuming there is indeed a trail to follow,” said the herding teacher. “I’ve said this before—we don’t know how True-of-voice or his people think. There may be no sense to what he does, at least that we can understand.”
Ratha spoke carefully. “They may not think like us, but they must share some feelings with us. Why else would they ask us to join their farewell gathering for the dead?”
“To make us feel bad,” Fessran grumbled.
“No, it wasn’t that,” Ratha retorted. “You were there, Firekeeper.”
Fessran admitted that she was, and the impression she got was not that True-of-voice was trying to induce guilt.
Ratha, glancing at Thistle, saw that her daughter was once again getting impatient with all the talk. To head off another interruption, she pointed out that the clan really didn’t know what was happening. The next step was to recall the scouts, get their reports and then send them out again. Some could go with Thistle on her search for Quiet Hunter.
“What about the fire for the hunter cubs?” Bira asked. “May I build it?”
Ratha was reluctant to answer. “Yes, Firekeeper. Depending on what the scouts report, this might be the last night. You can tell them, if you wish. I’m sorry.”
Bira brushed her whiskers along Ratha’s cheek. “You are still trying to be kind, clan leader. I respect that.”
“Too much kindness may hurt us. You have to understand that.”
“I know,” said Bira. “I’m glad you are clan leader, not me.” With a wave of her tail, Bira went to he
lp Fessran and Thakur recall the scouts to discover what they had learned.
Ratha didn’t realize that she had fallen into a doze until she felt a lick on the back of the neck, combined with a claw-poke. She knew even before she had tried to focus her eyes that the former had been from Thakur, the latter from Fessran. Both helped make the summary that Ratha had requested.
Quiet Hunter was still missing. Thistle was still out with several scouts, searching. The young males were still leaving True-of-voice’s tribe. The only new thing was unsettling, although it confirmed Quiet Hunter’s last frantic words. The renegades were joining together in small groups. They were finding one another, made brothers by being outcasts of the song. Quiet Hunter had also spoken of finding a similar brotherhood, but he had not yet joined them, although Thakur felt that he soon would. Thakur also thought that the smaller groups would coalesce into a single one. Scouts reporting later in the day proved him right.
“Herding teacher,” Ratha said when she met with him again the next day, “could True-of-voice have somehow changed, maybe gone . . . rotten? I know that leadership can do such things. I’ve had to fight hard against it.”
Pausing in his quick grooming, Thakur spat out some loose fur. Ratha jumped in again before he could reply. “We thought he was bad for a while, then we found he was good. Could he have turned again?”
Thakur stopped his grooming. “You think he has
become . . . evil?”
“Well, you said yourself that he was unpredictable.”
The herding teacher looked at her, and she felt a strange kind of sadness in his gaze. “Yearling, True-of-voice may have changed, but the ideas of good or evil belong to us, not them. They are things that neither True-of-voice nor his people understand.”
