His tormentors appeared predictably. “I think you have something for me,” said Kelsy when Storm did not respond at once. “Drop it, rat.”
Storm did drop it, but he didn’t back away. “My name is Storm, and if you want it, come and get it.” He snatched up the rabbit and ran.
“Haven’t you grown suddenly bold!” exclaimed Kelsy behind him. “Or should I say stupid?”
As Storm listened to the voice growing fainter, he felt a prickle of fear, as well as a surge of pleasure. Whatever happens, the expression on his face was worth it. The rabbit waggled in Storm’s mouth as he ran over the snow-dusted rocks. He could hear his pursuers, their hoofbeats clattering. They were not far behind him, but they were behind and out of sight. Storm assumed he was getting away.
Not until he raced around a rock and came face to face with Kelsy, did Storm realize his mistake. He made a dodge that would have certainly been unsuccessful. Fortunately for him, the rest of Kelsy’s clique galloped around the rock at that precise moment, and collided with their leader. The group took only an instant to disentangle themselves, but Storm was running again, now just a few lengths ahead of them.
Kelsy ran to the unbroken ground on the edge of the boulders, Storm realized, where he could move faster and more quietly. I ran in a straight line. He guessed which way I’d go and got in front of me. I can’t be so predictable.
Storm heard a crunch and realized that he was gripping the rabbit tightly enough to break bones. His legs felt wobbly. If this doesn’t end soon, I’m done.
* * * *
Meanwhile, Kelsy was berating himself for not being quicker. He thought of how foolish he would feel if stories went round that he’d been outrun by a lone runt with no fighting experience.
Then Storm disappeared behind a boulder that Kelsy recognized. “Len, you and those others go around, and I’ll take these five straight through.” Storm had entered a short slot canyon. Kelsy planned to send one group of foals to the opposite end of the passage and another through the front, trapping their prey in the middle.
Kelsy’s eyes widened in surprise when he charged the length of the slot and slid to a stop. His friends swore that Storm had not left from their end, and no ferryshaft foal could have jumped over the high walls.
Arguments erupted, and everyone accused everyone else so fiercely that Kelsy thought they might fight. “Listen to me!” he barked. “No one made a mistake! If that foal did not leave by either end of the canyon, then he must still be inside. How many places can he hide?”
So the clique stopped fighting and spread out to search. Before long, they were scouring the thorn bushes that grew thick along one wall of the passage. “He must be in there, Kelsy. Like you said, how many places could he go?”
“But I went through that whole section already,” argued another. “It’s not deep.”
“Here’s the answer to your riddle,” called Kelsy, who had left them and begun poking among the thorns. The foals gathered around him. Kelsy stood in front of a hole in the rock, hardly bigger than a fox’s den. The thorns had overgrown it, but a faint trail of beaten branches revealed that some animal had been coming and going recently, prying back the thorns to get inside. Kelsy stared into the darkness.
“Well,” he said, after a moment’s dismal silence, “I suppose we weren’t so far off when we called him a rat. He certainly goes to ground like one.”
His clique gave a few half-hearted chuckles.
“Don’t worry, friends. We’ll have other days. I don’t know how far back that tunnel goes but...Storm! If you can hear me, I hope you realize that this isn’t over! We’re not playing games anymore!” He turned, tail still high, and the group trotted away.
* * * *
“It was never a game to me,” muttered Storm. He crouched only two lengths away and breathed a sigh of relief when they had gone. For a moment, he remained perfectly still, savoring the silence and safety. Then, as the tension left his body, he began to laugh, softly at first, then louder. “I am going to survive this winter, Pathar.” And he settled down to enjoy his meal.
Kelsy did not catch Storm the next time he chased him, nor the next. Soon the clique chased Storm every time they saw him, whether he had food in his possession or not, and still they could not catch him. Storm had a new hiding place every other day. He was so small that he could fit almost anywhere. Other foals laughed at Kelsy because of Storm, but not too loudly. They were not so clever at hiding.
Chapter 11. A Race and a Corpse
Kelsy, as it turned out, had the sense to know when to quit. His efforts to catch Storm were only calling attention to his failure. Within a month, the chases ceased. No one tried to steal Storm’s food, and he received no more ripped ears or torn shoulders. But in solving one problem, Storm had created another. At least while the foals chased him, they acknowledged his existence. Now they completely ignored him.
Storm discovered, even as he enjoyed his meals, that he missed the chases. He still explored the rocks and caves, but no crisis arose to give meaning to his actions. As the days passed, he grew bored and lonely.
One bleak day in midwinter, Storm followed a group of foals to the Igby to skate. The sky was a dismal gray, and it fit his mood as he drifted back and forth some distance from the others. He practiced by running as fast as he could and then stopping as quickly as possible.
He became so preoccupied with his efforts that he did not notice a light brown male of about his own age, who glided by with increasing frequency and finally stopped to watch him. The newcomer laughed.
Storm looked around.
“What are you doing?” asked the stranger.
“Practicing stopping.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“So that I can turn faster.”
“I don’t see how stopping can help you turn,” observed the newcomer, “or what good turning is for that matter.” There was an uncomfortable pause, during which Storm fervently hoped that the foal would leave. “Do you want to race?”
That question caught Storm by surprise. He did not care to inform this person that he had never raced another foal before. “Alright.”
“We’ll race to that big tree across the river. Do you see the bird sitting on the closest branch? We start when it flies.” The two foals crouched in tense silence. At last the bird ruffled its feathers, flapped into the air...and they were off!
It didn’t take Storm long to relax and enjoy the race. Although he wanted to be annoyed by the stranger’s remarks, something inside him glowed under the unexpected attention. The pair was evenly matched, and they flew side by side over the frozen surface, laughing at times when they hit a rough place and skidded.
However, when they finally reached the tree, the stranger was ahead by a body length. Storm found that he didn’t mind. The two stood together for a moment, catching their breaths. “You’re not a bad runner,” said the newcomer. “I didn’t win by much, and my legs are longer.”
Storm smiled. “Yes. But I’ve played your game, and now it’s only fair that you play mine.”
“Oh?” The foal looked surprised. “And what is that?”
Storm shoved off, putting several lengths between them. “Catch me if you can.”
* * * *
Some time later, the stranger stood panting on the ice. Storm watched from several lengths away, winded, but laughing. “Do you give up?”
The other foal smiled. “Yes. I’ve never seen anyone run like that. You double like a squirrel under a hawk! What do they call you?”
“Storm.”
“My name is Tracer, and I know some friends who might like to meet you. If you come with me, I’ll introduce them.”
Storm knew what he was being offered. He knew he should pounce on it, yet he hesitated. “Why would they want me?”
“Because I say you can run.” Tracer was smiling, but there was something desperate and brittle behind his eyes. “We’re orphans,” he added, after a moment. “Our best run
ner died yesterday. Are you coming or not?”
Storm followed Tracer back across the river, but he almost turned back when he saw the group, tearing at a sheep they’d managed to bring down in the deep snow beneath the trees. No clique would allow a stranger to approach a fresh kill, and these foals looked rough—scruffy and half starved, with a few open sores.
The two largest bared their teeth at Storm. He was instantly aware of Tracer at his back. He was aware of something else, too. The sheep was not a sheep.
Storm swallowed. Suddenly, the air felt too thick to breathe.
“She was already dead,” said Tracer behind him. “She slipped and broke her leg a few days ago.”
Storm hardly heard him through the hammering of blood in his ears. There were five other foals, counting Tracer, and they’d already surrounded him. Did he do all that running to tire me out?
“What is this?!” snarled the largest foal. Storm judged him to be at least two years old—dirty brown with a ripped ear and a broken front tooth.
“He can run,” said Tracer calmly. “We need a new runner.”
“You could have brought him later! If he goes to the elders, they’ll kill us.”
“He won’t do that,” said Tracer. “He’s alone, Mylo.”
“He looks awfully well-fed to be alone.” Mylo came forward, bristling, and sniffed.
Storm cowered to the ground. It was too late to run. They were all around him. His fear that they’d brought him here to eat him gave way to fear that they would kill him to keep their secret. Elders did kill ferryshaft who were discovered feeding on the bodies of their own dead. Behind the others, a single foal continued to methodically devour the corpse.
Another foal, almost as big as Mylo, gave Storm a shove with his scarred muzzle. “He’s a runt. He probably lives on roots. He won’t starve until next winter when he’s bigger. In the meantime, he’s useless.”
Tracer seemed unperturbed. “He—can—run. He can get into small spaces, Callaris. We will starve without someone like him to flush the prey.”
“Ally can get into small spaces,” countered Callaris with a jerk of his head and a sneer in his voice that told Storm exactly what he thought of Ally.
A tiny foal, even smaller than Storm, limped out from behind a tree. Something was wrong with one of his back legs. It was small and twisted—a birth defect that should have been a death sentence. His large eyes met Storm’s and then jerked away. So, six of them, he thought. But this one won’t kill me. He’ll just eat my liver after I’m dead.
“Ally can’t run,” persisted Tracer.
“Who are your parents, runt?” asked Mylo.
Storm swallowed. “My father died before I was born. My mother is So-fet.”
“Only half orphan,” spat a medium-sized foal who’d not yet spoken. “I’ve seen him with that high-nose, Pathar, back at Chelby Lake. He gets special favors.”
Storm scowled. I’m dead anyway. Might as well be honest. “No, I don’t. I have to hunt for my food just like you do.”
One of the foals who’d circled round behind him drew in a sharp breath. “I thought he looked familiar!” He trotted back into Storm’s line of sight—a leggy yearling with fur even blacker than Storm’s. He turned to Tracer. “He’s the one they call The Rat! The one that Kelsy nearly bit his own balls trying to catch! He can run.”
Mylo’s scowl slipped a little. Several of the others started talking behind him. Tracer gave Storm a shove. “Stand up,” he hissed.
Storm obeyed.
Tracer glanced at him sidelong and grinned. “I didn’t realize I’d found someone famous.”
Storm looked at the ground. “I’m not famous. But I did keep my kills from Kelsy and his clique. I ran from them until they stopped chasing me.”
Silence greeted this remark, interrupted only by the crunch of a bone from the foal who was still eating.
Storm raised his head. Mylo was staring at him. “You ran until…they stopped chasing you?”
The black foal piped up again. “Yes, it was the height of gossip for a few days. Kelsy couldn’t catch him. When he got tired of looking silly, he stopped trying.”
The foal with the scarred muzzle—Callaris—harrumphed. Storm realized a moment later that he was laughing. Several of the others joined in. Mylo’s face relaxed a fraction. He didn’t laugh, but he did smile. “Do you have a name, or do you go by Rat?”
Storm returned the smile hesitantly. “My mother calls me Storm.”
“And what do your friends call you?”
“I guess I’ll find out.”
Mylo did laugh, then. “Well, friend, have a share of our meal here, and you can stay.”
Storm swallowed. “You want me to…”
“You’re either part of our clique or you’re not,” said Mylo coldly.
They’ll kill me if I don’t, thought Storm. They’ll think I plan to tattle to the elders. He took a deep breath and sidled up to the carcass. It really didn’t look much like a ferryshaft anymore. It could have been a fawn for all that remained of it. Except for the face. Don’t look. Don’t look.
Storm avoided eye contact with the foal who was still munching on a femur. He bent his head, shut his eyes, and pulled lose a rib. He took it with him, back to the center of the group, where he sat down and began cracking it open to get at the marrow. Storm was ashamed at the way his mouth watered. I’m not really that hungry. I’ve never been that hungry. But it tasted like any other marrow—rich and warm.
He sensed, more than saw, that the biggest foals were drifting away—satisfied that he had passed the test. Storm finished extracting the pitiful amount of marrow from the rib. He dared an upward glance and saw the black foal. He felt like he should thank him for something.
Tracer was all smiles beside him. “Storm, this is Leep—expert on herd gossip and, apparently, on your exploits.”
Storm laughed. “I don’t think I have many exploits.”
“Oh, but you do!” said Leep. “Did you know that Kelsy nearly lost his clique over you? Three foals challenged him. He was probably too busy fighting them to keep chasing you.”
Tracer was talking quietly. “Mylo is our leader. He’s not as mean as he seems. Not mean at all, actually; he let Ally stay.”
“Ally is Ishy’s twin brother,” said Leep. “Ish tries to take care of him, but... Well, it’s hard for them.”
“Callaris is our muscle,” said Tracer. “He’s pretty affable as long as you let him have first turn at the food. It’s hard to get enough to eat when you’re that big. He’s only a yearling; he just looks older.”
“Speaking of food,” began Leep, “do you want any more…?”
“No,” said Storm quickly.
He followed grudgingly as the two walked over to the corpse. For the first time, he actually looked at the foal who was stripping meat from a hind limb. It was a female. She was painfully thin, worse than the rest. Her movements had a feral quality. “And this,” said Leep, “is Tollee. She came to us about five days ago. She was pretty hungry.”
Tollee looked up, the blood hardly noticeable on her brindled muzzle.
Storm thought he could understand her preoccupation with food. Still… “How can you do that?” he blurted. “Didn’t you know her?” At least I didn’t know her!
Tollee stood up and licked her jaws. “Not very well. But it wouldn’t matter if I had. She’s just meat now. Like you, like me, like all of us.” She rose and stalked away, a little wobbly.
“I think she’s improving,” said Tracer with mad cheer.
“Absolutely!” said Leep. “We should start sending her to greet new arrivals.”
Storm looked between them. “You’re both insane.”
“But extremely good-looking,” said Leep, whom Storm suspected would be popular with the females if he ever reached breeding age.
“And intelligent,” said Tracer.
“And even edible!” quipped Leep.
Storm laughed. “Thank you.” He sw
allowed. “I’ve never— No one has ever— Thank you.”
Chapter 12. At the Top of the Cliffs
Storm could tell that his new clique was still watching him for signs of treachery. After six days had passed without any sign of an elder, after the bones of the unfortunate foal had been covered in a fresh layer of snow, after Storm had helped to catch several doves and rabbits—the clique began to relax.
Then one day, they took him up the cliffs. It was a dangerous thing to do, though perhaps not so dangerous as eating fallen ferryshaft. Hunting and foraging was said to be better in the woods at the top, and Tracer and Leep assured Storm that the view of the ocean was spectacular. Storm had never seen the ocean and was skeptical. He imagined something like Chelby Lake from a great height.
“Stay on the paths we show you,” warned Tracer. “If you stay on the good paths, you’ll be fine.”
Mylo led the way as they started up the trail, picking the best places to walk. Storm felt a growing sense of excitement as the ground fell away beneath them. He could see the boulder mazes much better, and tiny ferryshaft dotting the landscape. The path narrowed, so that they sometimes went single file. The wind became fierce and whipped sand and red dust into their faces as they climbed.
At one point, the foals encountered a boulder blocking their way. There was a little room on the outer side, but no one wanted to inch across that narrow ledge with the dizzy drop only a hoof’s slip away. In the end, they all jumped onto the rock and down the other side, staying as close to the cliff wall as possible.
Storm went first since he was small and less likely to start the boulder rolling. As he scrambled over the rock, he startled some sheep on the far side. For an instant, the animals just looked at Storm. Then Leep clambered over the boulder, and the wooly creatures fled with their tails in the air. They left the path almost immediately and bounded away over a slender thread of rock that sometimes vanished altogether on the sheer cliff face. Storm stared after them. If only I could have done that when Kelsy chased me.
“That is a sheep trail,” said Leep behind him, “Callaris’s parents died trying to catch game on a trail like that.”
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