“And now,” Eatbugs finished, “we are crossing the very spot where the Allmother kept it in its kittenhood, hence the name. Simple as mice for dinner, isn’t it?”
Fritti and Pouncequick agreed that it was.
The next day, near the overture of Unfolding Dark, as the sun of which the mad cat had spoken was settling down into the cloudy west, Eatbugs was again seized by one of his fits.
The company was breast-deep in a swaying sea of grassworks when Eatbugs abruptly sat up, whiskers a jut, and began to mutter.
He did not seem frightened or wary this time, but full of enthusiasm as he muttered: “... There you are. Ha! Lying in the rye, are you? Trickle and tickle beneath my nose, will-you-sir? Ha!”
Tailchaser and Pouncequick sat down to wait, confident that the spell would soon subside, and they could return to journeying.
“Wait! Wait!” cried Eatbugs, and sprang to his feet. “The star! Don’t you hear it flickering? We must be on it, before it sniffs our true colors! Oh, do not let me be too late again! I shall leap the wall!” Suddenly, without warning, Eatbugs was off, calling after the star as if he could see it bounding in front of him. He disappeared into the tall weeds—the companions, dismayed, gave chase. Eatbugs’ speed was too great, though, and soon even his voice had faded from hearing.
They waited in the spot all evening, stomachs impatient with hunger, but he did not return. At last they gave up and went hunting.
The morning found them a party of two again, and they traveled on.
10 CHAPTER
What do they hunt by the glimmering pools of water,
By the round silver Moon, the Pool of Heaven—
In the striped grass, amid the barkless trees—
The stars scattered like the eyes of the beasts
above them!
— W.J. Turner
Now the rains set in.
Moving across the broad back of Sunsnest, the cats at first would run for what scant cover they could find. But as shelter became more scarce and rain more frequent, they were forced to resign themselves to wet fur.
Pouncequick caught a cold, and his sniffling began to intrude on Tailchaser’s own private misery. Sometimes the interruption would bring a rush of sympathy for the little cat, and Fritti would strive to say a cheerful word, or give an affectionate nudge. Sometimes, though, he responded to Pouncequick’s illness and smallness with flashes of annoyance that flared, then quickly faded.
One night, when a scared, cold Pouncequick had climbed onto him during a violent thundershower, all the frustration that Tailchaser had been feeling welled up; he pushed the kitten away, swatting him with his paw. As Pouncequick crawled into a thatch of grass, little crying noises shaking his small form, Fritti felt a sudden wave of terror. Pouncequick would die, and leave him alone in this vast, wild land!
Then, realizing what he had done, he went and caught the small cat up by the nape of the neck and brought him back. He licked the kitten all over his wet fur and huddled against him to keep him warm until the rains would cease for a time.
Several days later, still proceeding with flagging determination, Fritti began to feel that something was following them. After the larger part of the day had passed, the feelings had not departed; they had, in fact, grown stronger. He mentioned this as casually as he could to his young comrade.
“But, Tailchaser,” Pouncequick pointed out, “game-has been awfully scarce lately, and we haven’t had much to eat. Really, I expect you’re just not quite yourself. Who but a couple of madcats would be out and about in this weather?”
It was a canny point, but deep inside Fritti felt that something more than simply lack of mice was acting on his senses.
That night, in the most secret part of Final Dancing, Fritti sat bolt upright in their sleeping spot.
‘Pounce!“ he hissed. ”There’s something out there! There is! Can’t you feel it?“
Pouncequick obviously could: he, too, was now awake and trembling. They both strained their eyes into the surrounding darkness, but could find nothing except the void of night. A creeping, tingling cold was in their whiskers, though, and from somewhere close by the moisture-soaked air carried a scent of blood and old bones.
They passed the rest of the night like the Squeakers they hunted—starting at every sound—but at last the sensations diminished, then were gone. Even in the thin light of morning they did not feel like sleeping. They were on their way without stopping to hunt for breakfast.
The rains increased that day, the skies dark and swollen, and from time to time a wind blew up from the North and sent the water sheeting into their faces as they trudged forward. The feeling of being watched had not departed, and had now spread from Fritti to Pouncequick. So it was that when they finally did run down a small, bedraggled Squeaker in the late evening, they ate hurriedly and standing up, despite their great hunger and weariness.
The last mouthfuls of stringy meat were just passing their lips when from the swirling, rainy darkness beyond them there came a horrible wailing cry that turned them into immobile stone where they stood, stopping their hearts for a moment in midbeat. Another cry—no less terrifying, but a little farther away—choked up from the other side at the two cats.
Hemmed in! The sickening idea came to them both simultaneously. An odd, chuffing sound came from the site of the first howl, and then something crashed toward them through the tall grasses.
Breaking suddenly from his frozen stupor, Fritti turned and butted Pouncequick with his head, so hard that the little cat almost tumbled over.
“Run, Pounce, fast as you can!” Fritti squeaked, trying to keep his voice down. Pouncequick recovered his balance, and the two bolted forward like snakes from beneath an overturned rock. From the other side now, they could hear the rustling and snapping of brush. They ran as fast as they were able, ears tight to their heads, tails straight out behind them. There were sounds of pursuit.
“Oh, oh, it’s the same ones, the red claws, oh!” moaned Pouncequick.
“For the love of Whitewind, save your breath and run!” gasped Tailchaser. Behind them a sputtering, echoing cry was raised into the storm winds.
On and on they pelted, rain and darkness surrounding them, wind blowing against them. Fortunately the ground was level, and there were no trees or rocks—they could not have seen their way even if they had found the presence of mind to look. They were tiring rapidly.
Finally, when it seemed as if they had been running forever, the sounds of pursuit began to dwindle, then were gone. Still they staggered forward as long as they could, until finally they felt as though their legs would not carry them across another jump of ground. They slowed to a stumbling walk, listening intently, straining to hear any trace of followers over the pounding of their hearts and their ragged breathing.
At that moment a huge shape stepped from a clump of weeds before them.
“Now we have you!” it said. With squeals of despair the two cats tottered and fell at the feet of the great, dark creature.
Fritti’s spirit struggled back to perception. He was tired, and sick to his stomach. It seemed as though the world was bouncing up and down around him. Confused, he wondered where he was and what had happened.
Then he remembered the chase, and the giant, looming shape. .
Fritti tried to twist himself onto his feet, but found himself held fast. There was a sharp grip on the back of his neck, and he could feel nothing beneath his paws. Dizzily, he opened his eyes and peered about.
At his side Pouncequick was being nape-carried, dangling unconscious from the jaws of the biggest cat Tailchaser had ever seen. The monstrous gray-green-and-black-striped tom turned an impersonal stare at Fritti. Pouncequick’s captor was pacing beside him, but Fritti’s feet were touching nothing but air....
Tailchaser slowly turned his head around. He could not see the face of his warder, but he could see the tree-limb-thick legs of the cat measuring out the ground. Fritti was bobbing and swaying in the grip of
this beast, as helpless as a three-day-old kitten.
With a rush of panic he threw back his head, wriggling, and then the light faded again.
Some time later, Tailchaser reawakened, but he made no more attempts to break free.
Finally the seemingly tireless beasts stopped. Fritti was dumped unceremoniously to the ground, and beside him he heard the sound of Pouncequick being dropped like a dead Squeaker. A voice spoke, using the Common Singing, and Tailchaser screwed his eyes tightly shut.
“Surely this can’t be what we were searching for?” the voice said, displeasure evident in its inflection. Curiosity lost out to fear: Fritti did not open his eyes, but remained crumpled face-down in the grass.
The cat that had carried him was the next speaker.
“They disappeared, like, sir,” it said, slowly and deeply. “One moment they was there, and the next—they wasn’t. Right strange.”
“Strange—I’m with you, there. And more than a mite disturbing,” said the first voice thoughtfully. “Where did these two whelps come from?”
“Ran right into us, they did, sir. Shrieked like snagged squirrels and fell down flat. We thought we should bring them in. Been running, they had.”
There was a moment’s pause. Tailchaser felt recovered enough to lift an eyelid fractionally. Beside the vast, fuzzy shapes standing over Pounce and him, there was a smaller shape. Smaller, but still considerably bigger than Fritti himself. He shuddered.
“Did you spot anything interesting before they disappeared, Nightcatcher?” the smaller shape asked Pouncequick’s guard. Fritti heard no reply, but some kind of response must have been made, for the smaller blur spoke again.
“I know. I was only hoping. Tails and Nails! Too many questions, not enough answers.” The speaker sat quietly for a moment as the two big cats patiently waited, then rose and walked to Pouncequick and sniffed him.
“Just a kitten!” it said. “Odd place for an apprenticeship.” It turned toward Fritti, who immediately squeezed his eyes shut and went limp down to his last tailbone. The voice came next to his face—it took all his courage not to bolt and run.
“And this one hardly seems a hunter himself. P‘raps they’ve lost their mother?” The speaker leaned closer and sniffed Fritti’s ear, then howled so suddenly and loudly that Tailchaser rolled head over heels from the shock: “I am Prince Fencewalker, and I order you to wake up and be questioned!”
- Tailchaser—panting, ears ringing, claws sunk into the earth for something to hang on to—swayed in place and shook his head.
Fencewalker? he thought. Where have I heard that name?
He opened his eyes to find a large, shaggy cat staring at him curiously. The cat’s pelt was as red-golden as autumn leaves. The Prince, for so he was, wore an expression of pleasure, his tongue poking out from between his front teeth.. He appeared very gratified by Tailchaser’s response.
Fencewalker turned to the large brindle that had carried Fritti, and now wore a lopsided grin. “Nothing like authority,” the Prince said. “Right, Dayhunter?”
“No sir,” responded the big cat.
The mad humming of Tailchaser’s nerves began to subside. He remembered now that Hangbelly had mentioned Fencewalker as a good friend to have at Court.
Looking at the chortling Prince and his two monstrous companions, Fritti wondered if he would be able to survive such a friendship.
By the time that the sun had begun to warm the grasslands around them, Pouncequick had joined Tailchaser in consciousness. Still sick, tired and frightened, the little cat did not move or speak much, but lay listening as Fritti finished telling the Prince of their journey. The Prince asked many questions, and was very interested in the chase of the night before—even more so with Pouncequick’s scarlet-clawed thing in the Old Woods. He would have probed the kitten on the subject, but Fritti—worrying about his young companion’s weakened state—managed to intercede. Fencewalker reluctantly agreed to postpone the interrogation until later.
Prince Fencewalker then explained that there had been disturbances of a similar kind all along the outlands of the Court of Harar. He and his massive companions, Dayhunter and Nightcatcher, twin sons of an old Court bloodline, had taken on the assignment of bringing the malefactors to bay. They had found no luck, however.
“It makes a cat wonder,” said Fencewalker grouch ily. “They’re here, they’re there, then they’re gone. We three just can’t keep up with them. I suppose it’s a good thing the First-walkers are taking an interest—we could use some more paws on this.”
“But you’re the Prince!” said Fritti, surprised. “Can’t you find all the help you need at Court?”
Fencewalker glowered. “It doesn’t work out that way,” he said, shaking his red-gold mane. “Nobody will take this sort of thing seriously. Everybody’s got something more important to do. Nothing matters to anyone if it’s not gnawing at his own tail. Even Mother and the Prince Consort more or less said: ‘Go ahead and scout around if you enjoy it.’ Hah! Serve them right if these cat-badgers-or whatever they are—come climbing out of the trees and chew their ears offl”
This set Tailchaser to worrying in silence for a while. What if there was no help at the Court? How would he proceed in his search for Hushpad? The memory of her waving tail and black-trimmed nose came forcefully back to him.
If no one else cares what happens to her, he thought angrily, all the more reason why I must continue the search.
His reverie was interrupted by the sound of little Pouncequick being sick. His young friend’s poor health was another problem: The rains were here to stay, and Pouncequick would be in bad shape if he didn’t get to shelter and food soon.
“Prince Fencewalker, will you be returning to Court now?” he asked.
“I hadn’t really decided yet,” muttered the Prince. “I suppose we might as well try to scare up another cat or two. Why do you ask?”
“My companion is not well, as I’m sure you can see. If you would help us get to the Queen’s Seat, we would be grateful.” Fencewalker looked thoughtful.
“The little scuffler isn’t doing none too good, sir,” offered Dayhunter helpfully. “He probably needs to get warm-like.”
Fencewalker passed over to Pouncequick, who was shivering miserably on the moist grass. “We’ll get you to a place you’ll like, little fellow,” said the Prince in his bluff, friendly manner, “if we’ve got to kitten-carry you all the way: We’ll get you to the Court.”
Pouncequick was carried the last leagues across the Sunsnest Plains by Dayhunter and Nightcatcher, but Fritti was strong enough to walk. He found himself enjoying the company of Fencewalker and his hunt-mates.
The Prince was garrulous, telling hunting stories of great length and interminable detail, and frequently interrupting his narrative to check details with Dayhunter. It was particularly hard on continuity when the Prince’s huge companion was taking his turn transporting Pouncequick.
“ ... Now I believe,” the Prince would say, “I believe, and I really should be able to remember, that that was the day after we had run down a simply magnificent grouse. Or perhaps it was a cock pheasant ? Do you remember, Dayhunter? Was that a cock pheasant?”
“Mmmff!” Dayhunter would reply through a mouthful of Pouncequick.
“Pardon? Grouse, did you say?”
“Mmmf-mmmff.”
“Oh, a pheasant? You’re sure?” And so on.
The Prince was a cheerful soul—full of rough good humor, and an affection for sudden, surprising shoves that sent companions tumbling. The companion would then be helped to rise by a guiltily solicitous Fencewalker, who would promise not to do it again without suitable warning.
The twins were so alike as to be indistinguishable in outside appearance, although they could be told apart by scent. Dayhunter was not a clever cat, but goodhearted and very chatty. His brother, Nightcatcher, was very quiet.
After traveling with the three for a day, Fritti finally realized that Nightcatcher’s stoli
dity was involuntary. He was mute, and communicated only in the soundless ways given to the Common Singing. Fencewalker explained to Fritti that Nightcatcher had sustained a throat wound while protecting the Prince from a maddened fox, and had been unable to make a sound since.
“He did it for me, Harar keep‘im,” said Fencewalker. “These are my true hunt-brothers, don’t you see.” Nightcatcher beamed with permanently quiet pride.
The plains began to slope uphill. Fritti knew from Quiverclaw’s instructions that they were reaching the outer fringes of Sunsnest. The grade was slight but constant, and at the end of a day’s walk Tailchaser’s back legs throbbed.
At last they reached the banks of the Purrwhisper. It was a much quieter stream than the Tailwend, gentle and gurgling. Its bed was covered with many-colored stones, and above these could be seen the flashing dart of shiny fish.
They stopped to drink, and even Pouncequick clambered down to lap up the chill, clear water. It was sweet and refreshing, and when they had finished, Pouncequick and Tailchaser lay side by side on the stream bank arid shared a silent feeling of hope for the first time in a long while.
Pounce is still a very sick kitten, though, thought Fritti. He was moving closer to warm him when Fencewalker approached.
“Well, here we are at the Purrwhisper. Just a hop and a stumble to go now, little chap!” he said to Pouncequick. “See that line of shadow there?” The Prince indicated with his chin a ribbon of darkness running along the horizon, just visible against the gray skies. “That’s the outskirts of Rootwood—the biggest, grandest forest in the world. If we follow the Purrwhisper here in a ways—and none too far a way, either—do you know where we’ll be?” Fencewalker looked down at the two companions. “Firsthome! That’s where—and warm and fat and dry as can be!” He grinned. “I certainly wouldn’t want to spend all my time rubbing fur in the Court, but even I admit it’s a very nice nest to come back to.”