The Prince gave Fritti a friendly swat. “I’ll bet a couple of outland Folk like you will be amazed. Amazed!”
The following days passed in a sort of walking dream for Tailchaser. Pouncequick was feverish now, and hung quietly in the gentle jaws of the twins. Tailchaser himself was as tired as he had ever been in his short life, but Fencewalker and his companions, close now to their home, were setting a rapid pace. It was all Fritti could do to keep up.
They were moving along the northern bank of the Purrwhisper. Fritti decided that someday he would like to come back and explore the country they were passing—someday when he wasn’t exhausted and footsore. All manner of vegetation grew on the shores of the softly splashing river. Sheltered spots and hidden grottoes, protected from the now-constant rain, beckoned invitingly to the weary Tailchaser, and animal and bird noises were calling him to come and investigate. Every whisker of his self-control was necessary to keep him marching on behind his stronger fellows, to shut out the blandishments of the river-world.
At last the small band of cats reached the eaves of Rootwood. Even in his harried condition, Fritti could feel how different this forest was from the Old Woods near his home. There was a feeling of age to this place that made the Old Woods, despite their name, seem kittenlike and fresh. Rootwood looked, felt, smelled and sounded so ancient and established that it seemed inconceivable that any of the great trees about them had actually
grown.
It seemed, rather, as though the world itself had grown up around their roots and trunks.
When Fritti mentioned his feelings to Fencewalker, the Prince nodded. Instead of responding with his usual irreverence, the red-gold hunter merely said: “Aye. This is the first forest.”
In answer to Fritti’s request for an explanation, Fencewalker suggested he wait and ask in the Court.
“There are those who can speak of the forest better than I, and I would not want to give insult by accident.”
Tailchaser had to accept this, for nothing more was offered. But when he asked later about the game of Rootwood, the Prince was again his usual, hearty self and gave Fritti an exacting description of everything that ran, slithered, swam or flew beneath the ancient trees.
The traces and hunt-marks of other Folk became commonplace. Tailchaser was now only interested in ending his journey; he ignored the excited discussions that Fencewalker and his companions had over what the various indicators meant: who had been doing what, and when, and with whom. Pouncequick, now sleeping constantly, was oblivious to it all.
After a day of staggering and limping, Tailchaser himself could walk no more. He and his kitten friend were once more carried side by side in the mouths of the brindled twins.
Sliding in and out of uncomfortable, bouncing sleep, Fritti was dimly aware of voices. The Prince and other cats were calling: back and forth, and when Fritti dazedly opened his eyes he could see cat-shapes everywhere—a sea of Folk. It was too much for him to take in, and he closed his eyes again.
He felt himself put down on something soft. As the voices faded away he bounded into the dream-fields.
2
PART
11
CHAPTER
... The crowd, and buzz and murmurings Of this great hive, the city.
—Abraham Cowley
The roof beneath his feet felt hot; it was painful to keep his paws in one place for more than a moment. Treading gingerly up and down, he peered over the roofs edge into the swirling smoke below. He knew he should jump. He should save himself. Behind him was FIRE. The delicate inner linings of his nose were abraded by the fumes, and he could hear the flames booming and roaring below him. Why couldn’t he jump?
His family! Somewhere behind him, menaced by the FIRE, were his mother and siblings. They were in danger! He remembered now.
A voice called up from the smoke before him. He stared over into the gray clouds, but could see nothing. From inside the M‘an dwelling the terrified voices of his family floated up to him again.
The voice in the smoke was hailing him by name, telling him to jump down to safety. It sounded like Eatbugs, or perhaps Bristlejaw. He tried to tell the voice about his family—about them being trapped and endangered by the FIRE—but the voice kept calling to him:
leap down, forget your family, run, save yourself, run!
He was caught! He was straddling the edge—the panicky wail of his brothers and sisters behind him; Bristlejaw—or was it Eatbugs—urging him to jump, to escape, to run, run, he couldn’t decide, run, oh Harar! run run run ...
Legs jerking convulsively, Tailchaser fell back into the waking world. The light was very bright. His eyes hurt.
A massive palisade of giant tree trunks stood around him, towering up far beyond his sightline. Jumps and jumps above his head they stretched, branches interlaced like the strands of a mighty bark-hided spiderweb. But Tailchaser could feel warmth on his face. A broad swath of sunlight beamed down unhindered from some far-off sky window in the uppermost branches, making the short, tickling grass on which Fritti lay a summery island in the middle of the ancient cool of the forest.
Fritti felt the tenderness of his paws as he climbed shakily to his feet. He flopped back down and examined them, testing their soreness with his sensitive tongue.
The leather of his pads was cracked, and had probably bled. It had been carefully cleaned, though, and he could find no burrs or thorns—he had picked up many of those in the final stage of the approach to Firsthome, and had not had the strength or concentration to remove them. Someone had cleaned him up.
Fencewalker. Fencewalker had left him here, and no doubt had his paws seen to. Where was Fencewalker ?
Still feeling fuzzy and a little stupid—his heart was just now slowing down to normal after his startling dream—Fritti looked around. There were no other Folk in sight. The clearing amid the towering trees was empty ... but Fritti could hear the sound of voices. From just far enough away to lend an air of unreality to the sound, the noises of many cats floated to him on the breeze.
Walking slowly and gently on his wounded paws, Tailchaser followed the voices out of the sunlit glade.
Looking up as he paced along beneath the hoary trees of Rootwood, he saw thick, ropy strands of lichen stretching from branch to branch-in some places so thick as to form a natural ceiling. The paths that wandered around the tree roots seemed vaulted, filigreed hallways; sunlight filtered through this canopy, dappling the ground with bright spots, and turning the daylight into a soft, suffusive glow. He could now see some of the Folk whose voices echoed from the bark of old trees and the packed earth of the forest floor.
The forest was alive with cats ... more than he had seen in all his life since kittenhood, and all in one place. Cats of every size and description: walking, singing, sleeping, arguing—a world of cats at the feet of these powerful, ageless trees.
He stared at the incredible variety, but no one stared back. No one seemed even to notice him as he passed. And so many! Here a fat brindle was chasing a fela with a crook in her tail; there a crowd surrounded a pair of toms wrestling. Some just lay and slept.
Fritti found himself on a wide path: a rut worn into the springy, leafy ground by countless paws. Cats streamed past him coming and going. Those who met his eye gave a brief, strange roll and a twist of their heads. It seemed a neutral-enough gesture, and Tailchaser assumed that it was a greeting of some kind peculiar to Firsthome. Some of the cats that hurried by nudged him impatiently to the side as they passed. Since no one else seemed to take offense—and because he was still so weak and unsure of himself—after it had happened a few times, Fritti paid no more attention than any of the others did.
But, oh! the tremendous amount and diversity of those cats.
However do they manage to get along for any length of time?
he wondered.
It was unnatural. It seemed more like a nest of ants, almost. Or the dwelling place of M‘an.
“Tailchaser! Stop there! Tailchaser!”
Fritti turned to see Thinbone running up the path behind him. At least it looked like Thinbone ... but as the cat approached, he saw that this fellow was bigger and glossier than his friend from Meeting Wall, although their coloring seemed identical. He realized with ironic amusement that for a moment it had seemed perfectly natural to see Thinbone here in Firsthome, more leagues from Edge Copse than Fritti could count.
My journeying has accustomed me to strange surprises,
he thought.
The gray-and-yellow cat bounded up and stood for a moment trying to catch his breath.
“Nre‘fa-o,” said Fritti. “Have we sniffed before?”
“... J-just ... just ... moment ...” panted the newcomer, and made a comical face as he returned to the business of recovering his wind.
“Forgive me,” he said after a few more moments, “but I was up, up, up a
terribly
tall tree when you left the healing-spot, and I had to run like dead Uncle Whitewind to catch you. Oh!” he said, looking about. “I do hope none of Prince Dewtreader’s friends or relations heard me say that. It was terribly disrespectful.” He looked at Tailchaser, and gave him such a sly, funny smile of satisfaction that Fritti—who didn’t understand the newcomer at all—found himself smiling right back.
“Ummm, you said your name was... ? Fritti ventured after a moment. The stranger sneezed once, convulsively, and delicately stroked his nose with the back of his paw.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I quite forget myself sometimes. I’m Howlsong. Prince Fencewalker asked that you be, well, not watched over, exactly, but that you have a ... a ...” Howlsong wrinkled his nose, thinking.
“A guide?” offered Fritti.
“A guide! Excellent! That’s the sound of it exactly! Yes, so ... here I am.”
“That was kind of Prince Fencewalker to remember me.”
“He is a fine fellow, right enough. A little too prone to knocking people down, if you know what I mean, but a solid cat. Claws firmly in the bark, we always say. Now, the Prince
Consort ...”
Here Howlsong trailed off meaningfully. Fritti, unsure of what to say, nodded his head politely.
“Well then,” said Howlsong suddenly, and fell into a deep fluid-spined stretch. “Well then,” he resumed, “let us go and look at Firsthome. The rest of it, I mean. I hear this is your first visit? It’s terribly, terribly big and impressive—especially the Court. You’ll have to wait to see that until Fencewalker arranges it. Did you really come from across the Sunsnest Plains?”
“From far on the other side, beyond the Old Woods,” answered Tailchaser.
“Incredible. Just amazing!” said Howlsong. “Do they have trees where you live? I suppose they must, mustn’t they?”
They had been walking for only a few moments when Fritti suddenly remembered Pouncequick. Full of worry for his little companion, he questioned Howlsong.
“Oh, they put him in the warmest healing-spot, since he was sicker than you were, and brought him sweet grasses and a little bit of mouse. He’s doing much better now,” Howlsong assured him. “I’ll take you to see him later.”
They continued on their way. Howlsong seemed to positively bubble with anecdotes and trivia.. He explained to Tailchaser that he was studying to be a Master Old-singer, but that his teacher was very busy because of some kind of Meeting taking place that night—consequendy leaving him nothing to do, and making him available to accompany Fritti. He mentioned to Fritti that his “set”—which Tailchaser took to mean some kind of grouping of young cats—all found Fencewalker to be “quite an all-right type,” although “a bit hearty.” Howlsong also explained that the Prince Consort, Prince Dewtreader, was thought of as being “awfully serious” and “nearly boring.” Queen Sunback was “the loveliest cat, of course.” Tailchaser was bewildered by the familiarity with which Howlsong discussed and characterized the hereditary leaders of the Folk—as if they were any group of alley-haunters in the dwellings of M‘an!
Customs were just different at Firsthome, it seemed, and it would take him a while to get used to them. Still, much was unfathomable.
“Are there always such an uncountable lot of cats living here?” he asked at one point.
“Blueback’s Whiskers, no!” laughed Howlsong. “Usually less than half this seething throng, I’d guess. They’re here for the celebration I told you about.”
“But even if there were only a quarter of these, that’s so many! How do you find food? The forest must be Squeakerless for miles around.”
“Oh, we do have to forage a bit far sometimes, it’s true,” admitted the apprentice Old-singer, “but Rootwood is the biggest forest there is—if things get thin, we send out hunting parties to stamp around and herd the game closer back to Court. It’s a bit tiring sometimes, certainly—all the extra hunting and such—but it’s worth it to live here. I mean, I’ve never lived anywhere else, and would never want to. Never.”
They walked as they conversed, and now and then Howlsong would interrupt the flow of discourse to point out an important sight: an extra-fine patch of mouse grass, a wonderful old scratching tree, or another cat who Howlsong felt was wretched, or gallant, or clever, or otherwise worthy of special attention. Many of these cats knew Howlsong and called greetings to him, which he cheerfully returned. Tailchaser decided that Firsthome was more like a tree full of birds than the anthill it had resembled at first impression.
After seeing a few more important attractions, and listening to a pair of young felas—“wonderfully close friends” of Howlsong‘s—singing a sweet and mournful little song, the twosome at last reached the bower that housed Pouncequick. They found him in a many-jumps-wide path of slanting sunlight. The kitten was awake and talking to a slender gray fela with dark-green eyes and short fur.