by Clare Bell
“Do not be afraid,” said Quiet Hunter. “All know of the help and the healing. All wish to touch noses and share the song. Bent Whiskers wishes to be first.”
Hesitantly Thistle turned to the old female whose kinked whiskers had earned her the name. She brought her muzzle up to the other’s, breathed her scent. And as she did, she thought the song that was singing deep inside grew stronger.
Next was Tooth-broke-on-a-bone. As Thistle touched his nose and breathed his scent, the song increased again, not only in power, but in clarity and beauty.
With each greeting, each recognition, the strength of the internal melody grew, but never became unbearable. Thistle’s spirit leaped in wild joy. Quiet Hunter and his people were her brothers and sisters. These ones knew her in a way that the Named never could. And they had a gift that all of the cleverness and eloquence of the Named could not equal—a wordless acceptance that wrapped her in warmth and lifted her spirit to dizzying heights.
The song soared within her, joining her with those who also heard and were seized by its power. Fright, doubt, uncertainty were all swept away by the golden voice.
Nearly breathless with awe and joy, she turned to the last of those in the circle. Quiet Hunter did not have to say the words that belonged to this one. Thistle already knew who he was.
True-of-voice.
Trembling, she touched her nose to the leader’s and felt the song surge within her. No longer was it one voice, but many. The image of True-of-voice became overlapped by others—an even grayer male, a pure-white female, and more, who faded into the distance.
See those who came before, said the song. Those who were once True-of-voice—the grandsire, the granddam, the ones in whom the song flowed. They still sing in the one who is now True-of-voice, carrying their wisdom beyond death.
She listened to the song and learned the nature of Quiet Hunter’s people.
True-of-voice did not rule the hunters. He did not need to. There was no requirement for obedience. Every act was obedience, because nothing else was possible. The song guided, shaped, and healed. There was nothing else but the song. It filled, it soothed, it brought peace, it brought rapture. One didn’t have to want; one didn’t even have to have a self to want, for everything needed was given in abundance.
She offered herself gladly in return and rejoiced.
Chapter Seventeen
Thistle had eventually fallen asleep by Quiet Hunter, and the others had wandered off to nap or groom. But Quiet Hunter lay awake, full of questions that would not go away, even when the song was well heard.
What was behind Thistle’s eyes? Sometimes it seemed the same as what lay behind the eyes of his own people. Sometimes it seemed so different.
What makes her give healing and comfort? Quiet Hunter wondered. True-of-voice and the song had no answers for this.
He wanted to give Thistle something in return. So much that it hurt like a bone chip in the belly.
Behind Thistle’s eyes lay something that cared for Quiet Hunter. Something more than her voice, the color of her fur, the way she moved, the depth of her gaze.
If she were killed and torn apart to find this thing, he thought, it would not be found.
Sweat came to his paw pads, and prickles woke beneath his fur at the thought that what was behind Thistle’s eyes might cease to be if she were killed.
These thoughts were all new, all disturbing. There were no words in the song for them. There never had been.
Thistle stirred and woke up. “Quiet Hunter?” she asked after a while. “Feel I have done something ... bad to you.”
A surge of impatience kept Quiet Hunter silent.
I, I ... What is this I? I’s and ifs and me’s. Meaningless!
It was all tangled up. Words, thoughts, everything. No sense was left. The only sense lay in the song.
Go back to it, Quiet Hunter scolded himself. Forget everything else.
“You ... looking at me in ... funny way. Why?” Thistle asked, but Quiet Hunter couldn’t answer.
Me. Looking... at... me, he thought. You looking at me. You is Quiet Hunter. Looking at is done with the eyes. Me—the mystery at the center.
And then, with a quiet shattering, the mystery fell away. It was Thistle. But not just Thistle. Me was what was looking out through her eyes. That was what Quiet Hunter wanted in her.
First, he sensed, he had to find it in himself.
He said the word softly. It was dry in his mouth. “Me.”
Thistle wanted to stop. This was not the right way for Quiet Hunter. The way of the song was the right way.
But once a hunt like this is begun, it cannot be abandoned, thought Quiet Hunter. He was looking out through his own eyes and speaking new words.
She said, “Your eyes are changing, Quiet Hunter.” Thistle sounded regretful, almost fearful. He knew what she was thinking.
I don’t want your eyes to change. Go back to where you were meant to be. With True-of-voice. With the song.
But even if you did not want Quiet Hunter’s eyes to change, Thistle, you caused it anyway. Just by being what you are, saying the words you say.
Quiet Hunter knew that his eyes had been opened. Even he could not close them again.
Chapter Eighteen
In the Named camp, Ratha watched Bira kindle a morning fire. We don’t really need it, Ratha thought, but Bira likes to keep to her routine. Besides, it was good to renew the Red Tongue’s embers each day so that they stayed hot.
She turned her thoughts to the face-tails. If the Named wanted one, they would have to capture it before the herd departed, as Thistle said it would. The hunters still would not allow the Named to approach the beasts. Thistle had tried her best, Ratha had to admit, but the differences in understanding between those who followed True-of-voice and those who followed her were too great even for Thistle to cross.
What was the next step? Should the Named take what they needed by means of fire?
Ratha stared at the flames, remembering how she had found the Red Tongue and used it against threats to her people. The choice to use fire had never been easy. This time it was much more difficult.
She wanted to delay, yet she couldn’t. All too soon, Thistle had told her, the face-tail herd would start its migration. The hunters would go with it.
If Thistle chose to stay with them, she might go as well. Ratha could not bear to think about that.
As she sat watching the fire, Khushi trotted up with a grouse in his jaws. She stared at him and lifted her tail in a wordless question. When had Khushi learned to hunt?
“Thakur caught it,” the scout confessed. “But he’s teaching me how. He thought you might like a meal, clan leader.”
The growling in Ratha’s stomach came more from uneasiness and worry about her daughter than from hunger, but to show her appreciation, she took the grouse and shared it with Bira.
While she was eating, Khushi relayed a report from Thakur. “He thinks that True-of-voice’s people will hunt once more before the herd starts to migrate,” the scout said. “In fact, he thinks the hunt will happen today.”
Ratha sneezed out a mouthful of feathers before she could reply. She left the rest of the grouse to Bira, who was better at dealing with feathered prey.
“We’ll join Thakur,” she said. “This is a good opportunity.”
“To do what, clan leader? We can’t catch a face-tail.”
“No. I promised Thistle that we wouldn’t and I will keep that promise. But the other clan hasn’t forbidden us to watch.”
Khushi groaned. “That’s all I have been doing.”
“Well, I want to see how True-of-voice’s people hunt. Thakur says they might have picked up some ideas from Thistle.”
“Unless they are hunting seamares, I don’t know what good her ideas would do them,” grumbled Khushi.
Bira raised her muzzle from her feathery meal and spoke quietly. “Thistle knows about more than seamares. She survived by herself for a long time.”
&
nbsp; “All right, so I’m wrong again,” said Khushi. “If we are going to watch, clan leader, let’s hurry.”
“Sorry to rain on your fur, scout,” Ratha said, “but you and Bira are staying here. I only want two of us watching the hunters. They are already wary of us, and I don’t want to endanger Thistle. If they get irritated with us, they could turn on her. I may not agree with everything Thistle does, but I realize that she has risked a lot to be accepted by the hunters. Any mistake on our part could ruin everything she’s done.”
“Then I’ll help Bira with the fire,” said Khushi, who was never in a bad mood for long.
“If you need help, send for us,” said Bira quietly.
Ratha noticed that the Firekeeper and her treeling had laid out resin-filled branches so that firebrands would be quickly available if needed. Bira was probably the most reliable one among the Named, Ratha thought. She rarely made a fuss and she had developed an effective partnership with her treeling, Biaree. They worked so efficiently together that they seemed to be done with tasks before they even started.
I hope I won’t need you, Bira, but thank you anyway, Ratha thought as she left.
She met Thakur on the knoll near their camp. At a ground-eating pace he led her up one of the little valleys that opened onto the plain, down a rugged gully, then up and over the top of a ridge of wooded hills. From a viewpoint just below the crest, where the trees thinned out, Ratha saw some face-tails bunched together in a tight group. Behind the great beasts, in a bow-shaped line, were the hunters.
“I’ve never seen True-of-voice’s people do that before,” Ratha said, puzzled.
“I haven’t either.”
They both moved closer, paralleling the hunters and the driven band of prey. Soon Ratha could see that the land was a tilted plateau. The beasts were being driven up-slope.
“There are cliffs ahead,” said Thakur. “If the hunters do what I think they are planning, they will drive the herd over the edge.”
“The whole herd? That sounds wasteful.” The idea of seeing so many of the great beasts crashing down from the drop-off disturbed Ratha. “Are you sure they picked this up from Thistle?”
“The hunters saw what happened when she was being chased by a face-tail. I did, too. She jumped off a bluff and the face-tail followed. The fall wasn’t far. Thistle wasn’t hurt, but the face-tail was so big and heavy that the fall crippled it. Then it was easy for them to make the kill.”
Ratha cantered alongside Thakur, increasing her speed to compensate for his long legs and greater stride. “Thistle said that they didn’t learn from outsiders. The only thing they follow is this ‘song,’ and only True-of-voice can make it.”
“Although the song itself comes from True-of-voice, it can include things from any of the others,” Thakur said. “Thistle has become part of their group. True-of-voice may walk around in a trance most of his life, but he is not stupid. If he senses something of value in one of his people, he will use it.”
“Or misuse it,” Ratha added. “I don’t like the idea of killing more than you can eat. I wish we’d thought about that before we let Thistle in among them.”
Even if we had, would it have made any difference? she wondered. Once I made the decision not to let these hunters alone, I had to find some way of dealing with them. The Red Tongue was one possible way, and Thistle was another. The trouble is, these ways have effects that I can’t control.
Ratha and Thakur angled in toward the driven face-tails, staying downwind in the high grass to keep themselves hidden from the hunters. The musty, rank odor of the face-tails was sharp in Ratha’s nose. The beasts could not gallop, but their lumbering trot made a rumble that filled the air and shook the ground beneath her paw pads.
The noise grew and swelled, rising like the cloud of rolling dust sent up by the herd. Shrill, brassy trumpeting broke through the thudding rumble, giving voice to the beasts’ terror. They were being hunted in a way they had never been hunted before and they knew it.
“Faster,” Thakur yowled beside her. “The hunters have got the herd in a stampede.” He seemed to sail over the grass as if he were a swift, low-flying bird.
The bawling, the stamping, the thunderous commotion seemed to surround Ratha. For an instant she panicked, thinking that she and Thakur had somehow blundered into the midst of the rampaging animals.
And then Thakur yowled at her again, and she bounded to one side and saw that they were out of the herd’s path.
“Ahead ... the cliff,” he panted. “Back there ... the hunters.”
Ratha reared up on her hind legs for a quick look. The bow of hunters around the mass of face-tails was deepening, closing, forcing the animals toward the drop-off. True-of-voice’s people might not think and learn in the same way as the Named, but in some ways they were even more effective. Ratha had no doubt that they would kill every face-tail in the group. The thought chilled her spine as she dropped down again beside Thakur.
And it was my Thistle who showed them how.
The dusty haze turned the hunters into a grim line of shadows. She did not want to think that one of them might be her own daughter.
No, Thistle would not be a part of such wasteful killing ... unless she has been so completely overwhelmed by True-of-voice that she has forgotten herself.
She heard the angry trumpeting of a face-tail turn into an anguished scream. With a rattle of rocks the first animal to reach the cliff plunged over. Another followed, unable to stop. And another and another in a cataract of shaggy fur and flesh, tumbling down with terrible cries and the sounds of heavy flesh meeting stone.
Though the first animals ran over blindly, the ones behind realized their danger and fought to stop. But others collided with them, pushing them over the cliff.
Only the face-tails at the rear of the herd had any chance to veer away or halt their maddened rush.
But the hunters would not allow any to escape. With cold ferocity, they lunged and slashed at the face-tails’ legs. Blood mixed with the roiling dust. Some animals tried to use their tusks, but they were too tightly crowded against the bodies of their fellows to do more than toss their heads and flail their trunks.
“Ratha, watch the edge!” Thakur cried. She bounded away with sweaty paw pads, realizing how close she had come to the brink. She crouched with him behind a pile of boulders to one side of the drop-off. Pressed close against him, she felt his sides rise and fall while the smell of carnage drifted up from below the cliff.
Now only three face-tails fought for their lives against the closing ring of hunters: an old bull, a female, and her calf. Relentlessly the hunters pressed them closer to the edge.
Ratha felt herself shiver. True-of-voice’s people were already frighteningly effective under his guidance. With the new knowledge gained from Thistle, they were now deadly. She felt a crazy impulse to run between the hunters and their doomed prey. The contest had become too unbalanced, too cruel....
The face-tail bull, his hide gashed by many claws and teeth, backed too close to the cliff edge. The rock and soil crumbled beneath his weight. With a brassy scream he, too, was gone, leaving only the female and her calf to face the hunters.
Her jaws opening in dismay, Ratha stared at True-of-voice, who was at the center of the hunters’ line.
Do you have to kill all of them?
But what had been set in motion could not be stopped, even by the one who had created it. The song possessed them all and it was filled with the need to attack and slaughter, even after there was enough meat to fill their bellies many times over.
Thistle had said it. The hunters repeated what they had already done, unable to stop or change. Perhaps that had served them well in the past, but if they continued to hunt like this, they would destroy the prey that sustained them.
But the song would not allow any questions, any doubts.
The face-tail calf screeched in terror as the hunters flanking True-of-voice engulfed it and dragged it away from the enraged mother. The femal
e’s roar of anger turned to a roar of grief as the calf’s shrilling was abruptly cut off. The shaggy animal charged the hunters twice and was repelled easily, for they were prepared for her desperate attempt to rescue her calf.
What they were not prepared for was the face-tail’s attack on True-of-voice. As if the great beast sensed that he was the source of the will that drove the hunters, she turned on him.
Ratha, hidden, saw instantly that True-of-voice had been left dangerously unprotected by the others in their eagerness to bring down the face-tail calf. Now, with yowls of dismay, they sprang to his defense, but too late. The face-tail shook off their attacks. True-of-voice sought to escape, but the flailing, beating trunk found him and wound about his leg.
It flipped the gray leader on his back and dragged him to the edge of the abyss. Raking the face-tail’s forehead with his back claws and twisting around to drive his foreclaws into the rocks and dirt, True-of-voice mounted a frenzied battle.
From behind the hunters’ line, Ratha saw two figures charge through—the male called Quiet Hunter and her own Thistle. With a roar, she leaped from cover to her daughter’s side. She heard Thakur follow. Flattening her ears, she snaked her head around, ready to launch an attack on anyone who threatened Thistle. No one did. All gazes were locked on the cliff edge, the female face-tail, and True-of-voice.
Slowly, relentlessly, the leader of the hunters was being dragged backward, his claws leaving trails in the dirt. Quiet Hunter and others grabbed him by the scruff and the paws, but the vengeful face-tail was stronger. Her eyes reddened by rage, her black, shaggy pelt stained with blood, the beast wrenched True-of-voice from his rescuers. With a jerk she pulled him to the brink and flung him over.
The face-tail unleashed the rest of her wrath against the ones who had tried to save their leader. Ratha heard Thistle screech in dismay as a vicious downswing of the face-tail’s trunk clubbed Quiet Hunter in the ribs and sent him tumbling to one side.
And then, as if she had made her choice, the red-eyed, shaggy-pelted animal pivoted on the brink and let herself topple to join her slaughtered companions below. With a hail of rocks, she was gone, and the dust was already settling on the bloodied and torn ground where True-of-voice had fought for his life.
