Tailchaser's Song (18 page)

“Tailchaser!” cried Pouncequick when he spotted them. “I’m so happy to see you! I thought you were going to sleep all day and miss the fun. Aren’t there ever so many cats here?”

Fritti walked over to him and sniffed the soft kitten-fur. The smell of sickness seemed to be gone.

“I’m very glad to see you, Pounce. I was worried about you.”

“I’m feeling fine!” chortled the youngling. “Everyone’s been grand to me. I’ve already made friends! Oh, that reminds me, I haven’t offered face names. Tailchaser, this is Roofshadow.” He indicated the gray cat, who bobbed demurely. “She’s a visitor, too, as we are,” Pouncequick expanded.

“Nre‘fa-o,” said Fritti. “Good dancing.”

“And to you,” she responded. After a polite head-dip, Fritti turned back to look at his small friend again. Pounce certainly did
look
better, although still a little on the scrawny side. He had eaten very little while he had been ill.

The thought of food made Fritti’s mouth begin to water. He suddenly realized that he had had nothing to eat since the day before. He was hungry! Imagine going all afternoon without thinking of food. He really had changed since leaving home.

“Pounce, Howlsong said that they brought you some mouse ...” he began.

“Oh, yes, a whole pile of them. They’re over there. They were just killed this morning. Help yourself.” Tailchaser began to move toward the heap of Squeakers, then hesitated, looking at Howlsong and Roofshadow.

Howlsong laughed. “Eat up, cu‘nre. Don’t even notice me.”

“I’ll be going now, I think,” said Roofshadow. “Perhaps you could escort me, Howlsong? I don’t really know my way around yet.

“I’d be overwhelmed with pleasure. I’ll see you two soon,” he said to Fritti and Pouncequick. “I’ll be back to take you to the celebration toward the end of the Unfolding Dark.”

“And I’ll return to visit you later, Pouncequick,” added Roofshadow. The two cats walked away with tails curving into the air, Howlsong excitedly describing some phenomenon of Court intrigue to the young gray fela.

Tailchaser had not even waited to watch them leave, but was already up to his chin in mice, with Pouncequick squeaking merrily at the mess he was making.

Afternoon became evening as the two friends sat and talked. Pouncequick had not yet had a chance to see more of Firsthome than was visible from his healing-spot, and was anxious for details. As Tailchaser was describing the many things that Howlsong had showed him or told him of, the rains came again. They could hear the soft patting noise in the leaves above their heads; and occasionally a drop would slip through to plink on the grass or their fur. Most of the rain was stopped by the intermingling branches and hanging lichen, though, and they sat quite comfortably. Eventually they lay down together and napped, the tipping and tapping of raindrops a backdrop for their dreams.

12
.
CHAPTER

The good die first
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket.

—William Wordsworth

 

 

 

 

 

Near the end of the Unfolding Dark, as he had promised, Howlsong returned to the bower.

“Up now, up now, you silly snoring cats!” he cried. “There’s far too much to do and see! We must get to the celebration!”

Full of mice and drowsiness, Fritti slowly bestirred himself. “Is Pouncequick well enough to come with us?” he asked the apprentice Oel-cir‘va.

“Of course! Don’t you want to come see the terribly exciting things, Pouncequick?” Howlsong asked the sleepy kitten.

“Yes, I think I would—I mean I would,” said Pouncequick, rousing his diminutive form into a stretch. “I feel just fine, Tailchaser.”

“Absolutely splendid,” laughed Howlsong. “It’s all settled then. Let’s be off. I shall have my tail most brutally pulled if we’re late.”

 

As they wound through the tree galleries of Firsthome they found themselves caught up in a stream of Folk, most apparently headed in the same direction.

“Are we going to the Court itself, Howlsong?” queried Pouncequick breathlessly.

The gray-and-yellow tabby looked back over his shoulder as he hurried along. “No, actually the Celebration is being held in the Meeting Glade. It’s the only place where all the Folk will fit at the same time. Cats come from all over Rootwood and beyond, even, just as you two did—think of that!—to be here for the Celebration. Hello, Smackbush! Your pelt looks extremely glossy tonight!” he called out to someone he recognized.

“What exactly
is
this Celebration?” Tailchaser asked. “I mean, is it like Meeting Night?”

“No, no, quite different. Well, fairly different, anyway.... Glideswallow! Ho there!” he hailed another acquaintance. “How’s Pawgentle? Good, wonderful!” he cried cheerily, then turned back to his two wards. “Glideswallow is doing the Dance of Acceptance with the most
unfortunate
little black-and-white fela ... where was I? Oh, of course, the Celebration. I suppose you don’t have anything like it back home, do you? Well, the full name is the Celebration of the Song of Whitewind. We always have it at the first opening of Meerclar’s Eye of the wintertime.”

“What’s it all about?” questioned Fritti. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, you
do
know who Whitewind is, don’t you?” Fritti nodded. Howlsong continued: “I’m not too sure that I understand all the deeper parts myself, but Prince Dewtreader—Fencewalker’s father, you know—takes the whole thing dreadfully seriously. He tells a story, sort of, and we sing songs. It has something to do with Death, and the Fields Beyond, but I don’t pay too much attention, myself. It’s just about nearly boring. Most of us come for the chance to see everybody in the Court, especially the Queen’s family. And the catmint, of course. Everyone likes catmint.”

“Will the Queen be there?” gasped Pouncequick, fighting to stay abreast of the two bigger cats.

“No, she never attends, for some reason that’s slipped my mind. Poor me, so awfully much to think of. Being a Master Old-singer’s not falling down a gopher hole, you know. It takes work! Ah hah! There you are, Dandlegrass! It’s me, Howlsong!”

 

The Meeting Glade was in the center of a large forest clearing. Overhead, so high as to be almost beyond sight, the titanic branches of the old trees crossed and tangled into a vaulting roof.

The Glade itself was a wide, shallow bowl, covered in short grass and tree leaves. It sloped up on the end farthest from the approaching trio, ending in a sort of jutting promontory with a broad, flat top. Fritti could see two or three cats already crouching on this hilly point.

The bowl below was rapidly filling with purring, buzzing, nose-rubbing cats, streaming into the Glade from all points of the forest. They roamed about in small groups, knots of Folk forming and breaking apart, calls sent out across the Glade to friends and relations.

Pouncequick, stunned by the profusion of cats, sat taking in the spectacle, his eyes shining with wonder. Fritti, though, felt faintly uneasy; his fur was tingling and tickling as though trying to stand out from his body—trying to give him more room. It felt unnatural, inexplicably wrong, for the Folk to gather together in such numbers. Gathering occasionally at Meeting was one thing: almost everybody liked company from time to time. But to live together like this, day in, day out—put down your paw and step on someone’s tail... well, kind as the cats of Firsthome had been to him, he wouldn’t stay much longer than he had to.

As the threesome found themselves a spot near the middle of the bowl, a fat, round-headed cat made his way up to the front of the promontory that overlooked the Glade. He was black-and-white, and the shagginess of his fur made him appear even stouter than he was—which was very stout. He looked out over the gathered Folk, and the level of noise dropped.

“That’s Rumblepurr, the Court Chamberain,” said Howlsong in a low, excited whisper. “He’s ever so important. Likes his Squeakers a bit much, and his naps, but don’t be fooled. He’s old, but he’s quick as a tumblebug.”

Rumblepurr made a low coughing noise, then spoke, in a voice as sonorous as the wind blowing down a mountain pass.

“Good dancing, good Folk. On behalf of Her Be-whiskered Majesty, Queen Mirmirsor Sunback—direct descendant of Fela Skydancer, and true ruler of the Folk—and on behalf of the Prince Consort, Sresla Dewtreader, I bid you welcome to the Celebration of the Song of Whitewind. The Prince Consort and Prince Fencewalker will be here very soon.”

Rumblepurr bowed, making himself look—if possible—rounder than before, and returned to the back of the promontory. The noise of the gathered cats swelled again. Howlsong looked at Pouncequick, who was still staring openmouthed from side to side. The apprentice singer grinned and nudged Fritti. “Nothing like this back at the nest, eh?” he said. As he spoke, another cat approached, calling Howlsong’s name in greeting. Howlsong turned away, as if his attention had been drawn to something behind him, and waved his tail in the limpest kind of greeting. The newcomer paused for a moment, uncertain, then padded away.

“I absolutely loathe that Bandyleg,” Howlsong confided to Tailchaser. “There’s something about him that just doesn’t set well with me. Hmmmph,” he continued, looking around the Glade, “I suppose no one interesting will show up until the Celebration starts. At least we didn’t have to listen to one of Rumblepurr’s long, rambling stories. He’s an old dear, and quite clever—as I mentioned, I think—but he can spin the most excruciating tales.”

A hush had fallen over the assembly, and all eyes now turned to the promontory. Fencewalker—with the ever-present twins—was mounting the hill. A group of rowdy young hunters in the first row began shouting up to him: “There he is! Fence! Who groomed
you,
old boy? Hah! Good old Fencer!”

For a moment the Prince tried to pretend that he couldn’t hear them, but was given away by the expression of embarrassed pleasure that crept onto his face as he moved out onto the promontory. He found his place and sat back on his haunches, his huge companions looming up on either side. A few other cats, whom Howlsong described as Court functionaries, were trailing up onto the overlook. Then, finally, Prince Dewtreader appeared with Rumblepurr waddling along behind him.

Dewtreader took his position at the front of the promontory. The young hunters at the front made a few last jibes at the grinning Fencewalker. Silence descended on the assembled Folk. Those who were still looking for a spot to lie down stopped to watch as the Prince Consort spoke.

Dewtreader’s coat was a sandy beige, darkened at paws, ears, and tail to a deep brown. A sort of mask of brown also extended up from his nose, just past the upper ends of his slanting, sky-blue eyes. He had the look of a cat who had seen many strange places and things, and regarded them no,differently than he did the sun and the leaves. His narrow head turned from side to side as he surveyed the Folk with almond-shaped eyes.

“Greetings from the ancient Court of Harar.” Dewtreader’s voice was soft and musical, but there was a hard edge hidden underneath. “I have something to share with you, before the dancing and all begins. I know you would rather dance than listen to me, so I will be short-winded.” There was a quiet hum of amusement from the gathered Folk.

“I would like to tell you something I have been thinking about, and the Song of Whitewind is part of it. Before I begin, could we sing the Song of Thanks? I would feel happier if we did. Come, sing with me.”

Dewtreader began in a careful, melodic voice. Af ter a moment, others joined in, until a whole chorus of voices swelled, rising up to the dome of trees and the starry sky beyond.

Since he did not know the words, Tailchaser looked around at the singing multitude. Even Howlsong had his head thrown back in close-eyed rapture. Pouncequick sat beside him in respectful, awed silence, listening. All around the sibilant melodies of the Higher Singing rose and hung in the night air.

Something about the song bothered Fritti. Whitewind had been very brave and beautiful, but he had been gone since the earliest days of all. The -song they sang spoke of the Firstborn as if they could smell him, see him. He looked about at all the solemn, uptilted faces and shivered. The song ended. Staring over the sea of ears and whiskers and bright eyes before him, Dewtreader began to speak.

“On this mysterious night, when we remember the sacrifice of Viror Whitewind, I would like to speak of another cat who suffered long, long ago.” The Prince Consort’s voice was slow and measured, and even the bravos near the front were listening.

“Prince Ninebirds, long ago, was punished by Whitewind’s brother Lord Tangaloor Firefoot. Changed and deformed into the creature we call M‘an, he was cast forth into the world to serve the Folk as punishment for his pride. And he suffered. For good reason? Perhaps.

“For generation upon generation his descendants served our ancestors, venerating them and caring for them. Through eons, the Folk and the M‘an became closer. Many of the Folk became dependent on the M’an to provide the things that we Folk have always provided for ourselves.”