Tailchaser's Song (19 page)

This talk interested Fritti. Quiverclaw said that the influence of M‘an was on the seat of Harar—Dewtreader seemed to be discussing it before all these Folk gathered for the Celebration.

“Many who live today say that the Folk have become weak,” Dewtreader continued, “that many of us have come to rely on these strange, hairless, upright cats as if they were our own parents. Some say this shows a decline, a weakness in our lives. I am not so sure of that.” Dewtreader fixed his inscrutable stare on the Folk below.

“What was the sin of Ninebirds? Pride. Now, all the Folk are proud, of course—are we not the summit, the very tail-tip of creation? Do we not know the complicated dance of the earth best of all? Are these not reasons enough for pride?

“Perhaps. But was it not the pride of Hearteater, his passion to be Lord of All, that led to the death of Viror Whitewind? Does the world’s music not forever lack that pure, white tone?

“Perhaps this M‘an, this pathetic, oversized beast who clusters with his fellows in papery wasp nests, who goes unclawed and unfurred through the world, perhaps this object of scorn can teach us something?”

The audience was growing restless, although respect for Dewtreader’s eminence discouraged noise. There was a great deal of squirming and whispering.

Tailchaser was thinking about what Dewtreader had said. It struck a subtly sour chord in him, like the faintest smell of decay. Pouncequick, though, seemed enraptured. Howlsong was craning his neck from side to side—not listening, but looking for friends.

“... For if we, in our pride,” continued Dewtreader, his slanted eyes glowing with reflected light, “if we find ourselves kept and fed by these most humble of creatures, well, who is to say that it is not for the best? Perhaps the Allmother intends that we should learn humility, we prideful hunters...”

Howlsong suddenly leaped up.
“Harar!”
he whispered excitedly. “I had completely forgotten! My teacher, Volenibble, must sing one of the old stories tonight, and I must help him prepare! Ay! Forgive me, you two, but I
must
run. Oh Skydancer, he’ll bite my nose off!” Without waiting for a reply, Howlsong was leaping away, bounding over the surrounding forms.

When Fritti turned his attention back to the front of the glade, he saw that Dewtreader had finished speaking. The audience had instantly begun talking among themselves. Fritti turned to his companion.

“What do you think of all this, Pounce?”

Pouncequick, jerked out of a reverie, stared blankly for a moment, then said: “Oh, I don’t know, really. It’s all so grand. I was just thinking about the things Dewtreader was saying, and I felt as if there were some kind of light I needed to reach just ahead. It wasn’t exactly what he was saying, but something he said sort of brought it on ... it was an extraordinary feeling, but I’m afraid I can’t explain it very well.”

“It rather bothered me,” said Fritti, “but I can’t get my claws into the reason, either. Well, I suppose it’s beyond outlanders like us, but Dewtreader’s folk didn’t seem to be taking it all that seriously; ”

The pause in the proceedings continued, the little groups chatting and conversing animatedly. Fencewalker had come to the leading edge of the promontory and was talking to his friends in front.

“It doesn’t look as though anything will happen for a while. I’m going to go and make me‘inre. Do you want to stay here and wait for me?”

“I think I’ll just lie here for a while and watch, Tailchaser.”

Fritti threaded his way through the crowd and out to the forest beyond the rim of the Glade. When he had finished, and covered his hole, he strolled around the edge of the bowl, enjoying the smell of the rain-washed air.

As he was padding along with head high, an exotic odor crept into his nostrils. He stopped for a moment, nose whiffling. The scent was heady and exciting. He followed it forward.

Just behind the promontory where the Queen’s family sat he found a small stand of plants with tiny white flowers. This was the source of the tantalizing smell, and for a moment Tailchaser merely stood and drank it in.

It made him feel warm all over, and weak in his knees. It inflamed and then soothed him; made him itch and tingle. He stepped forward and pulled off a leaf with his teeth. He rolled it around in his mouth for a bit, then swallowed it. The taste was slightly bitter, but there was something about it that made him want more. As if in a dream he pulled off another green leaf and gulped it down, ... then another...

“Here now! What are you after, there?” The voice was loud and startling. Fritti leaped back from the flowering plants. A large cat was standing behind him.

“You’re not to be into those yet,” said the stranger disapprovingly. “And what are you doing eating so many?”

. Fritti felt light-headed and stupid. He could feel himself swaying from side to side.

“I’m sorry... I didn’t know... what are they?”

The stranger stared suspiciously. “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve never seen catmint before? Come now, kit-my-lad, I wasn’t whelped just sun-last, you know! Get along with you, now. Go on! Point your paws away from here.” The big cat made threatening gestures, and Tailchaser ran. He felt very strange.

Catmint,
he thought.
So this is catmint.

The trees above him seemed to bend as he passed, and the ground felt uneven beneath his pads, although it was level to the eye.

Perhaps my legs have gone all different lengths?
he wondered.

As he made his way back into the bowl—reeling past strangers, whiskery faces looming up before him and then receding—he began to feel panicky. Where was Pouncequick? He must find Pouncequick.

Finally he spotted the kitten. Although it seemed to take a terribly long time for him to cross the distance between them, eventually he reached the small cat’s side. He tried to speak, but a wave of nausea moved through him. He could dimly see an expression of alarm on Pouncequick’s face. The youngling’s voice sounded leagues distant.

“Tailchaser! What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”

Fritti tried to nod an answer, but his face felt so hot and his head so heavy that he slumped to the ground. Rolling onto his back, he heard the faint sounds of singing as the surrounding Folk lifted their voices together.

Pouncequick was standing over him, nudging him with his nose ... then the kitten’s face was dropping away as if falling down a hole, a black tunnel caving in around Tailchaser’s vision.

Pouncequick stood over his friend. Hard as he nosed, loud as he called over the singing crowd, still Tailchaser lay like one dead. Pouncequick was all alone. His friend was sick—maybe dying—and he was all alone in a vast sea of strangers.

Oh, breathe not his name! let it
Sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid.

—Thomas Moore

 

 

 

 

 

Pouncequick ran through the deserted grottoes and paths of Firsthome in a panic, stumbling over roots and veering from looming tree-shapes. The fish-cold gleam of Meerclar’s Eye bled through the chinks in the leaves and branches above.

In the Meeting Glade, with Tailchaser unconscious at his feet, he had called wildly and vainly for help. All around cats were singing and dancing, and moving in chattering groups out of the Glade to hunt up the catmint. Fencewalker was gone from the grass-covered butte, Howlsong was nowhere in sight, and no one noticed the frightened kitten mewing beside his friend. In terror for Tailchaser’s life, he had fled the din of the Glade to search for someone or something to help him, to advise him.

But the byways of Rootwood were empty, and as he drew farther away from the Celebration-away from the noise and light—the age-old forest began to look very, very grim. At last he stopped, his breath coming in harsh little gasps. He could do his friend no good if he became lost in the woods, he realized. What a fool he was! he chided himself, what a foolish, contemptible kitten. He must go back and find aid for Tailchaser. If the celebrating cats would not help him, well, he would go and drag the Queen herself out by the tail, if he had to!

Turning, he scampered back toward the faint sounds of the Glade.

 

 

In the last line of trees crowning the rim of the Celebration place, he ran smack into Roofshadow, the gray fela who had befriended him that morning. She had apparently been stealing away from the festivities, but she gave him a pleasant greeting.

Pounce yelped. “Oh, oh, Roofshadow, oh, I’m so glad... quick! Come and help!” he stuttered with excitement, “Come and help... oh, Tailchaser‘s, he’s... oh!”

Roofshadow waited patiently. When Pounce finally calmed down enough to tell her of Tailchaser’s mysterious ailment, she nodded worriedly and followed him down into the bowl-shaped Meeting Glade..

The Celebration had begun in earnest now; the assembled cats were leaping and singing beneath the soaring tree-roof. Circles of dancers spun about hypnotically, tails and paws swooping and pointing in the diffused light of the Eye. Many had eaten of the valerian, and the sound of strange singing and unrestrained humors was in the air.

They found Fritti where Pouncequick had left him, curled into a ball like a newborn kitten. His breathing was shallow, and he did not respond when Pouncequick called his name. Roofshadow looked at him for a moment, then delicately trailed her whiskers over his chest and face. Crouching on the grass beside him, she smelled his breath. She stood up, shaking her silvery head grimly.

“Your friend is either a glutton or a fool—or both. He stinks of catmint. Only a mad one would eat enough to make him reek like that,” she told Pouncequick.

“What will it do to him?” the little one cried. Roofshadow looked down at him and her face softened.

“I do not know with surety, youngest hunter. It is known that too much of the catmint leaf and root will frighten and speed the heart, but he is young and strong. What it does to the spirit, though, that is a difficult question. A little lightens the ka, and brings out song and happiness. Much more and the taker grows strong and fell, full of odd dreams. As much as your friend has had... Harar, I do not know. We must have patience.”

“Oh, poor Tailchaser!” sniffed Pouncequick. “What will I do, what will I do?”

“I will wait with you,” said Roofshadow quietly. “That is all we can do.”

 

 

Fritti Tailchaser was falling, floating down into infinite blackness. The forest that had throbbed and bent and billowed around him was gone ... everything was gone... and he fell through emptiness.

Time lost all meaning as he fell; there was no sensation of wind or air passing to indicate how fast he was moving. But for a sickening feeling of motion deep within, he might well have been standing still.

After an indeterminate span of time... terror wearing away at his smoldering thoughts... he saw—or felt, at first—a faint glow. The glow became a flicker, then gradually resolved itself into a patch of cold, white light. To his amazement, a form could be seen in the center of the light—and as it drew gradually nearer he discerned the shape of a great white cat... a tailless cat, revolving slowly in a vast black sphere.

It approached, and the glare flamed more brightly. The eyes of the spirit-cat stared in his direction, but these eyes were unfocused; blind.

The white cat spoke, in a cold, whispery voice that seemed to come across a great distance. “Who is there?” it cried. “Who passes?” Its cold tones rang with a grief that passed Tailchaser’s understanding. He tried to speak but could not, despite great effort. Straining for speech, Fritti felt a sudden heat on his forehead, as if the star-shaped patch there had become a real star... as if it had caught fire.

The white apparition spun silently near for a moment, then spoke again.

“Wait. I think I see you now. Ah, little spirit, you are far from your nest. You should be suckling at the bosom of the Allmother—dancing in the skies above the Glad Fields. Bitterly will you regret straying into these warmthless shadows.”

Tailchaser felt terror and loneliness. He could neither move nor speak, but only listen.

“Long have I run in these black spaces, but I can find nowhere to slip through into the other side,” intoned the stranger in a dead, emotionless voice. “Long have I sought to find my way back to the light. Sometimes I can hear singing...” it said, with cold wistfulness. “Always the door is just beyond reach, just around a corner... something prevents me. Why can I not go to that rest, that quiet rest that is promised?”

Despite his fear, Tailchaser felt great pity well up in his being at the terrible desolation of the white cat.

“Little star, I sense something strange about you. What is it?” asked the sorrowful, distant voice. “Do you bring a message, or are you merely lost... as I am? Do you bring tidings from my brother? No, it would only be a cruel trick! The cold is too great, the night is too hollow... leave me alone, the thought of the living burns me ... it burns me! Ah, such pain!”

With a muffled, echoing wail, the apparition began to spin faster and faster, and fell away from Tailchaser’s sight.

He was surrounded by darkness once more.

Suddenly, he felt matter beneath his paws, although the impenetrable dark had not abated. He tried to cling, to bury himself in this tangible, solid thing. It was like the earth, it was something to touch—and it was the only other thing besides himself in this gigantic, black stillness. For a moment. Until he felt a presence.

Somewhere, out in the lightless reaches, something was searching for him. He could not tell how he knew—could not name the sense that told him—but he knew. Something huge and slow and relentless was stalking him... in a questing silence that was far worse than any sound could be in that comfortless waste.