Tailchaser's Song (33 page)

Feeling addled, Fritti reflected on this a moment.

“I was supposed to say something to you, Lord Pop—I mean, Lord Snap, your brother, told me to say ... how did it go ...” Lord Pop made an impatient clicking noise. “I’ll try to say it!” Fritti muttered. “Mrrarreowrr ... no, that’s not it. Mrririk ... Meowrrk ...
Harar!
I can’t remember it!”

Tailchaser noticed that Lord Pop’s retinue seemed to have lost much of their fear of him, and were, in fact, squealing with amusement. Tailchaser was sore and confused and tired, and for a moment his mind wandered. Then, suddenly: “Dewclaws! I’ve got it!” Fritti laughed, a painful sound.
“Mrikkarrikareksnap!
That’s right, isn’t it?” In his moment of exultation, he felt suddenly light-headed, and sagged where he stood. Lord Pop learned forward and fixed him with an agate eye.

“Is right. Sacred Oak pledge of Snap. We honor. Strange-strange times. You can walk, so-strange cat?”

Limping, Tailchaser followed the Rikchikchik party into the deep groves of inner Ratleaf. Trudging behind the chattering, hurrying squirrels, Fritti absently noticed the red glare of the setting sun. Something rustled in the back of his mind, tried to make him pay heed to the gathering darkness ... but his head hurt; it was too hard to think. The rising steam of his breath caught his attention. He crunched on through the snow behind the bustling Rikchikchik.

The group halted. Tailchaser stood dazedly by until Lord Pop and two other Rikchikchik descended from the trees to stand beside him. Looking down on their arched tails and round backs, he smiled benevolently and said: “I’ve been in the mound, you know.” The squirrel-lord’s companions drew back at this, chittering, but Lord Pop stood his ground, bright eyes thoughtful. He soundlessly signaled the others back; together they coaxed Tailchaser into a hollow, lightning-blasted stump. The inside was sheltered, free of snow. After making three stumbling, automatic turns for the Firstborn, Fritti collapsed to the ground. A bevy of Rikchikchik brought pine needles and bark, covering him from nose to tail-tip.

“We talk-talk sun next, so-strange cat,” said Pop. “Now, you make sleep, yes?”

But Tailchaser had already slipped across the border into the dream-fields.

 

 

That night a darkness alive with searching shapes swirled harmlessly past, leaving Fritti’s sleeping place undiscovered and safe.

In the depths of dream, Tailchaser stood on the edge of a vast plain of water, tempest-stirred, but silent. The broad shiny surface stretched as far as he could see, and the shapes of fla-fa‘az wheeled and dove in the gray sky.

When he finally awoke, the short winter day was already half over. By the end of Smaller Shadows he found himself once more facing Lord Pop, who, with his court, had returned to Tailchaser’s hollow tree. In his imperious stutter the squirrel-lord indicated that they had waited a long while for their cat-guest to rise, and had eventually given up and gone out to forage.

Tailchaser, feeling infinitely better for the long sleep, was only now discovering how many different parts of his body ached and throbbed. He was also ravenously hungry. The Rikchikchik may have sensed this, for even Pop showed more restraint than he had the previous day. For his part, Tailchaser fervently wished that he could slip off and do some hunting, but in view of the precarious alliance with the Rikchikchik, his natural prey, he decided it would be better to wait until he could creep off unobtrusively. So, stomach grumbling, he sat and listened patiently to Lord Pop’s long summation of the morning’s activities.

“So ... now-now is the time for true-talk, yes?” chirped the portly squirrel-lord. “Why here, so-sudden cat? Why talk bad place?”

Fritti tried his best to explain the occurrences that had brought him finally to Ratleaf Forest. It was necessarily a long tale, and took a good part of the fading afternoon. When he told of his rescue of Mistress Whir and his subsequent audience with Lord Snap, the listeners responded with shrill noises of approval. The Rikchikchik were then nervously fascinated as he described the swarming cat metropolis of Firsthome. When he finally told of Vastnir, and his awful internment, several of the young females became quite dizzy, and had to be fanned with the bushy tails of their companions.

Lord Pop listened in grim quiet, interrupting only for clarification of certain points about the mound and its denizens.

“... And then I found you ... or you found me, rather,” finished Tailchaser. Lord Pop nodded his head. “What I don’t really understand,” added Fritti, “is why you are all still here. I thought everyone had left Ratleaf.” He looked inquiringly at the squirrel leader.

“Many Rikchikchik leave. Many gone-gone,” replied the lord. “But Pop no leave. Can‘t-can’t. Nest to tribe since Root-in-Ground. Few-small stay, too. Live or die.”

Fritti nodded understandingly, and for a moment the unusual gathering was silent. A brief and surprising foretaste of mortality, borne on the chill breeze, touched Fritti. He remembered his need.

“I have a favor to ask of you, Lord Pop,” he said.

“Ask.”

“I have a message to get to Firsthome—to the lords of my Folk. It must get there soon. I could not travel quickly enough myself. I am still very weak.”

“Rikchikchik will do,” said Lord Pop without hesitation. “We take word-word. Send Master Plink. Plink so-fast, like nut-fall.” A young Rikchikchik sat up on his haunches, visibly swelling with importance.

“He looks very capable,” said Tailchaser approvingly. “But he should not go alone. The message is important, and it is a long, dangerous journey to Rootwood. Also ...” Tailchaser tried to speak as delicately as he could. “Also, the cats of Firsthome are not as acquainted as I am with the bravery and goodness of the Rikchikchik. They are liable to ... have a misunderstanding. To send a large party would be preferable.”

As the import of Tailchaser’s words sank in Master Plink was seen to deflate, and two or three of the younger females threatened to become faint again. Lord Pop, however, took it in stride.

“Marvelous Acorn! No worry, cat-friend. Many Rikchikchik go soon. Plink will be small lord!” He chittered briefly at the young male, who looked somewhat reassured.

Fritti gave them the message to be carried, repeating it several times until Plink and the other young bucks had memorized it.

“... And remember,” he said seriously, “if Prince Fencewalker isn’t there, it must be given to Queen Sunback
herself!”
The assemblage made little whistling noises of awe, and Pop signaled an end to the conclave.

Fritti’s hunting was not tremendously profitable. He caught enough bugs and grubs to take the edge off his hunger, and before bedding down was even persuaded by the now-comradely Master Plink to try a chestnut. Even with the Rikchikchik’s help at removing the nut meat from its confounding shell, he did not find it a very satisfying experience; though he thanked Plink effusively, he secretly decided he would not make a very good squirrel.

 

Winter vented its fury on Ratleaf Forest. Flurrying snowstorms and gale winds drove Lord Pop’s small retinue back into their nests. The messengers had left with a great deal of ceremony, and with their departure Tailchaser sank into lethargy. His one pressing need fulfilled, Firsthome now to be alerted, he found himself succumbing finally to the effects of his harrowing time underground. Contact with the Rikchikchik became less frequent. Fritti spent more and more time hunkered down in his tree-stump nest, sheltering and recuperating. Hunting was sparse so he conserved his energy, spending long stretches of time in slumber, the waking hours brief and barely distinguishable from the sleeping. Curled in his lightning-blasted tree, tail curved protectively over his nose, he let his mind wander over the things he had done and seen. As if they were present with him, he summoned up his friends from Meeting Wall: Thinbone, Fleetpaw, the aloof Stretchslow and kind Bristlejaw. How they would marvel!

Sometimes he thought of Hushpad, the grace of her walk and the soft contours of her neck and head. He would pretend that he had found her and taken her back home; that she listened in awe and respect as he described his adventures.

“For me?” she would say. “All of that to find me?”

Then the wind would whistle down the stump and ruffle his fur, and once more he would be back in Ratleaf. He would think of those he had left behind, left to awful destinies in the mound.

I suppose that is why I was Named Tailchaser,
he thought sourly to himself.
All I have done is follow the closest thing—led on, like a kitten chasing its tail, moving in circles until it exhausts itself.

 

One day, nearly half an Eye since he had been found by the Rikchikchik, Fritti was walking back to his nest after a long afternoon of unsuccessful hunting. Not all the life of Ratleaf had been driven out, but most of the creatures that remained were hidden for the long, cold winter. Tailchaser was feeling empty and purposeless. He stopped to drag his claws down the bark of a standing pine tree, relieving a little frustration and sending a shower of powdery snow down from the branches above. He felt a sudden revelation.

His time in Ratleaf was over. The vast, empty forest, snowbound and silent, was a way station—a neutral area. Like the half-sleep between dreaming and waking, it was a place not to remain, but to gather energy to move one direction or the other.

That moment, as he stood with back arched and whiskers washed by the cold air, he remembered the words of one of the Elders at his Naming: “He desires his tail name before he has even received his face name.” They had laughed, but now he realized there was truth there. He had set out, not just to find Hushpad, but to
gain something.
He had been led, true, but he had chosen to follow. Now, he must turn one way or the other. He could return the way he had come, leaving it to Fencewalker and the others to succeed or fail ... or he could complete his journey. Not that he, with his own small paws, could make any large difference, but he could finish his journey. His friends were trapped, helpless—he could not save them, perhaps, but they had come with him, and they all belonged together.

For a moment, just a moment, he thought he could understand what it was like to finally hear one’s inner voice; to find one’s tail name. The fur on his back bristled, and he had a fit of uncontrollable shivering. He dropped back down to his paws and turned back to his nest.

It was not until he had curled himself up for sleep that he realized he was really going back to the mound.

The lions pass a thombush and melt.
Though the whole day is unbroken
the passage of the sun will represent heaven
the bones will represent time.

—Josephine Jacobsen

 

 

Dawn found Tailchaser moving toward the Va‘an-ward border of Ratleaf. He had not gone to say farewells to the Rikchikchik. Despite Lord Pop’s honor-bound discharge of Snap’s debt, Fritti did not feel he could comfortably involve the squirrels any further. They were already struggling for their own survival. Chance and strange times had made them allies, but Tailchaser knew that the Rikchikchik and the Folk were prey and hunter, and would be those things always. He only hoped that the artificial alliance would hold until the message was safely delivered to the Folk of the Queen’s Seat.

As he paced silently through the tree-crowded snowscape he thought of Firsthome and his time there—a halfhearted attempt to keep his mind occupied. The mound would be before him soon enough; there was no reason to hasten his thoughts ahead.

Among the thinned tree rows and bracken near the outer edge of the great forest, Fritti heard a sound from above: the rustling of wings. He momentarily considered darting for shelter, but before he could spring from the open white space in which he was framed two black shapes dropped from the heights above. Prepared—he hoped—for whatever ill fortune had descended on him, he crouched, hackles raised.

The two dark creatures settled on a branch above with a flurry of ebony pinions. Fritti relaxed ... somewhat. It was only a pair of ravens—Krauka—one large and one small. Not the most harmless of fla-fa‘az, but not strong enough to match talons with the Folk: Still, he regarded them suspiciously as they in turn stared down at him with glittering eyes.

“Th‘art the Tailchaser?” asked the older bird in an unmusical voice.

“‘Course, Dad, there be the star on’s head, now, see?” squeaked the smaller. Tailchaser took a step backward in surprise.

“You can speak!” he breathed. “You know the Common Singing?”

With a harsh cackle of amusement the larger Krauka flapped his wings, lifting slightly off the branch. Settling down, he preened his chest feathers in a self-satisfied manner, keeping an eye on Fritti.

“There be many who bear no fur, yet speak nigh better’n
cats!”
The large bird chuckled again. “Those what be long-lived like we; well, they do learn. Aye, even my eldest here”—he indicated the smaller raven—“though’s got no more sense nor a tumblebug.”