30
DO NOT GET in front of Gar Face and his gun. That was one of the rules.
The kittens were only a few weeks old when they witnessed firsthand what might happen when something got in front of Gar Face and his gun. From the edge of the Underneath, they watched one morning when a rat scurried across the filthy yard, littered with broken bottles and rusted cans, dried skins and old bones from animals who’d trespassed. Just above them, Gar Face leaned against the porch rail, lifted his gun, and bam! The rat disappeared.
Do not get in front of Gar Face and his gun. It’s a good rule.
Another rule: Stay in the Underneath. You’ll be safe in the Underneath.
Rules bear repeating. The beasts of enchantment can don their human forms only once.
Once is all.
Grandmother knew this.
Night Song did not.
31
IT’S A FACT that kittens are hard to manage. And these two, growing sleek and nimble, were no different. There is also that whole thing about curiosity. Anyone who has ever known a cat knows that they are filled up with it.
Bones, fur, milk, curiosity. That is what cats are made of.
One morning, while his mother and Ranger and Sabine were still sleeping, still dreaming their pre-dawn dreams, Puck wandered to the edge of the dark porch, right up to the edge of the Underneath where he had spent his entire short life, curled up with Sabine, tickling Ranger’s tummy, one morning he walked to that edge, that invisible boundary that separated the Underneath from the Open. So many times Ranger and his mother had warned them: “Stay in the Underneath! Do not go into the Open.”
But a cat is built for exploration. All his life, Puck had stayed in the Underneath. Now he gazed into the Open, the sparkling Open, and he wanted to go there. Wanted to walk into the soft air of the morning, wanted that wide space that beckoned him to come out, come out, come out.
He walked back to Sabine and nudged her, but she just rolled over and yawned. His mother and Ranger were snoozing away. Who would ever know if he stepped out for a little bit, just a tiny step, just one toe into the Open? His whiskers tingled. Every kitten hair stood up. His paws itched. His whiskers twitched. His whole body quivered.
Soon the sun began to flicker. Morning. Here it was, a perfect time to leap out from the Underneath and right into the yard, into the dim light where he wasn’t supposed to go, away from the shelter of the porch, from Ranger who watched him, from his mother who nursed him, from Sabine curled up tight, who was his closest friend, Sabine his sister. He bunched himself up, his front paws right up against his back paws, and then, jump, out he went!
Glory, glory, the warm dry sun bounced onto his silver fur. It sank right in. He walked farther into its goldy beams.
For a cat there is only one god, and that god is the Sun. And this cat, little Puck, reveled in its smooth morning rays. His mama and Ranger were wrong. The Open wasn’t scary at all. It was perfect. He rolled onto his back and let the sunshine settle on his tummy. One huge and satisfying Yes curled all around him.
He had to tell Sabine! And in one quick hop onto his tiny paws, he ran back toward the Underneath, ran back to get his sister.
He ran, ran, ran . . .
straight into the terrible hands of Gar Face.
Yeeooowwww!!!
32
IN THE UNDERNEATH the calico cat felt a sudden electric charge zip right through her. She sat up. Wrong was everywhere. She looked around. Found Ranger astir. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Found Sabine, fur electrified. Wrong. Something was wrong. She looked again. Where was Puck?
No no no!
She heard him cry.
No no no!
She bounded to the edge of the Underneath just in time to see her baby lifted into the air by Gar Face.
No no no!
Lifted by the scruff of his neck. She saw his terrified face, saw the bottoms of his tiny pink paws swinging in the air.
“No, no, no,” she cried.
And then she did what any mother would do, she ran toward her baby. But with his other hand, Gar Face swept her up as well. Swept them both up, grabbed them both and began to laugh, his laughter ringing through the morning. Here was laughter hard and cruel. He carried them to his truck and stuffed them into a burlap bag, and tied it with a string. Then he tossed them into the bed of the pickup and started up the engine.
Ranger, awake now, fully awake, howled and howled, tugged at his terrible chain. Howled and howled and howled.
No no no!
Gar Face was cruel, but the chain was worse.
The calico cat clawed, she hissed, she struggled. She had to get out of this bag, this bag that smelled of bones and fish and something ancient. But the bag held, the ratty tie was tight. She stopped her fight and held on to her kitten and cried.
Puck felt dizzy, dizzy from the smell, dizzy from the pent-up air, dizzy from being swung back and forth, from the roar of the engine, the hard bed of the pickup. His mother drew him close, close, close. They could hear Ranger howling. Hear the rumble of the motor. Feel the motion of the truck as they drove away, away from Ranger and Sabine and the safety of the Underneath.
It lasted for a long time, the smell, the bag, the to and fro. Ranger’s howls grew dim.
The kitten cried. His mother licked his ears, his nose, his face, licked his tiny tail, his pinky paws. The bed of the pickup was hard and cold. At last the truck stopped, and there was a new sound.
“Water,” said the mother cat. “We must be near water.”
33
PUCK SHIVERED. HOW could he tell his mother he was sorry? He was so, so sorry for breaking the rule. He should not have left the Underneath and walked into the Open. He should not have rolled onto his back and soaked up that goldy sun. Instead he should have stayed in that holy darkness, curled up next to Sabine. Where were they? How would they ever find their way back? Where was Ranger? Hadn’t he promised to keep them safe? Hadn’t he sung that song every single night?
But the mother cat, she didn’t wait to hear his sorry. She told him, “I should have known better than to have you kittens in such a dangerous place.”
The calico cat looked hard at her beautiful baby, her boy kitten. And right there, tucked beside him in the dark burlap bag, she loved him as hard as she could, loved him so much that her heart nearly burst. “You are the son I dreamed of,” she told him. “I never wanted any other son but you.” She licked him on the top of his head, right on the crescent moon. And even though her girl kitten was not with her, she loved her, too, held her against that big old love that comes from all mamas, so that surely Sabine knew, she’d know, she’d surely know. And her heart broke for Sabine, her girl cat. Then she gasped.
They say that when someone is about to die, they can see their entire lives pass before them, and that may be true, but some, like this mother cat, can also see the future. What she saw terrified her. She looked at her Puck.
“You have to go back for your sister,” the mama cat told him. “If something happens to me, promise you’ll find her.” His mother’s voice was urgent. “Your sister. You have to get her away from Gar Face.”
He promised. He did.
And who else did the mama cat love with all her might? Ranger, of course. Ranger with his lonely song and his silky ears. She loved him, too.
“The chain,” she said. “Ranger’s chain . . . you have to break . . . he’ll die if you don’t break the cha—” But she didn’t have time to finish.
34
A PROMISE. PUCK promised to go back for Sabine and Ranger. Promised to break the chain. To a cat a promise is sacred. His mother tucked him tightly beneath her chin, so that next, when it felt like they were flying, they were flying through the air, spinning, he closed his eyes and held on to his mother, spinning through the air until . . . water all around, water that rose up to meet them, seeped through the burlap and pulled them down, down, down.
“Swim,” said his mother. She was clawing against the cloth, cla
wing at the small almost-opening, clawing against the ratty tie. His mouth, his nose, his ears, filled up with water.
“Swim,” she said. He pushed his little paws as fast as he could, but he was tangled up in the burlap. The water pulled him down, down, down. He was drifting, drifting, down, down. Swirling. Then he felt a push, a strong push from behind. “Swim.” And he did.
Somehow the burlap bag came open. He could see the light above him, see it change, see the wavery air, shimmery through the surface of the water. He could feel his mother right behind him, just behind him, right there, feel her pushing him up, up, up. He just knew she was right behind him. Right there. Knew it. He could feel her. He could hear her.
“Swim.”
Which he did, as hard as he could, in the cold, cold water of the creek. He couldn’t see the loose string of the burlap, the single strand that wrapped itself around her paw, couldn’t see it hold her, caught in the old mussel beds at the bottom of the deep creek. All he could hear was “Swim.”
Puck swam away, his mother’s voice in his ear.
“Swim.”
35
AS THE MOTHER cat’s lungs filled with water, as she slipped into darkness, she heard a small voice. “Sister,” it whispered, “your baby is safe.” Startled, the mama cat opened her eyes and looked back, and caught her breath for just a moment. Saw the radiant sun slipping through the branches of the trees. Ahhh, such warmth.
Then she looked again. A hummingbird!
“He’s safe,” said the tiny bird.
“Yes,” replied the mother cat. She could see that. Her baby was safe. But while she gazed, while she felt the soft glow of the sun, she also caught a glimpse of Ranger and the tiny sister left behind, curled up together in the cold darkness beneath the porch. In the Underneath.
“Come,” said the bird, “follow me.” But as it is for any mother, she longed to go back, go back to these two, so sorry she was to leave them, how could she leave them? How could she bear to leave the simple songs of such a hound, the tiny purrs of such a kitten? Worry washed over her like a wave. She had to warn them. How could she warn them?
“You can’t go back,” whispered the hummingbird.
“I know.” She sighed. She looked once more at Puck.
What had she done, to put such a large promise on such a small cat? Remorse filled her up. “Oh dear,” she cried.
She did not hear the rumbling of the engine as the man drove back to the tilting house, did not hear his hideous laughter slipping through the pickup’s window, did not hear the soft-sighing of the trees, only the whispery wings of the tiny bird.
36
IT’S THE TREES who keep the legends. Ash, beautyberry, chestnut—they know the one about the hummingbird. They know that the hummingbird can fly between the land of the living and the land of the dead, that she has been known to accompany the spirits to the other side, hover there awhile until they are settled, but then she can return to the side of the quick. That’s why she always seems to be in such a hurry, for it’s well known that crossing from one side to the other must be done at speeds beyond our seeing. And aren’t hummingbirds hard to see? Some call her an “intermediary,” and that’s a good name for her. Some call her a messenger, the right term too. Some know her as Rainbow Bird, which has nothing to do with her special powers, and everything to do with the way she glimmers in the sunlight.
But mostly? The hummingbird is looking for someone. She’s been searching for a long, long time.
37
GAR FACE IS not the first human to make his home in these piney woods, nor will he be the last. Long, long ago, there were the people known as Caddo. They made their home along this very creek, this salty creek.
The trees remember them. They do. Many centuries ago, the Caddo crossed the Gulf of Mexico from South America in bark boats and settled here, merged with the Algonquians from the north, the Apache from the west, made their own nation, sang their own songs, learned the ways of the trees and the animals and the wandering streams. Learned how to make jars and bowls and pots from the red clay that lined the creek.
The Caddo can be found in the memories of trees. Not just pines, but hackberries, tupelos, water oaks, winged elms, mulberries, cedars, cypresses, yaupons, bois d’arcs. The trees remember the village by the creek, the creek where the old pine stood. This creek.
It’s called the Little Sorrowful, and it flows from a deep, deep well, far beneath the forest floor. It is older than the bayous to the east, the Bayou Tartine and the Petite Tartine. The creek is older than they are and saltier. The salt, it is said, comes from tears.
Most certainly a few of those tears came from a half-drownt kitten. As he pulled himself out of the salty water, with his mother’s voice still ringing in his ears, he looked over his shoulder to find her. But all he could see was a hummingbird, hovering just above the water.
That’s all.
He looked around.
All his short life, he had never had a moment without someone who cared about him nearby—his mother, his sister, his hound. He had never, ever been alone. Suddenly the enormity of this moment rolled over him and he began to shiver.
Here was one soaking-wet kitten, covered with mud from the streambed. Beside a creek made of tears. And all this kitten could do was cry.
Only a few feet away the old tree stood, helpless, while deep below, still tangled in its roots, the creature stirred. She knew what it was like to lose someone. But unlike the kitten, she did not weep. Instead, she slashed her viper’s tail at the solid wall of the jar. There’s a priiiicccce, she hissed. The jar filled up with steam.
38
RANGER’S NECK WAS sore, rubbed raw, from pulling on his chain, and his throat ached. Finally, he curled into the damp darkness beneath the porch. He was bred for scent. The scent of squirrels, of fox, of deer, of possums, of raccoons, of quail and ducks and geese. But right now all he could smell were the lingering traces of his best friend, his calico cat and her tiny boy kitten, his kitten too. All he could hear was the echo of his own frantic bays, now ceased, his shallow breath. He almost forgot about Sabine until she curled up, small and lonely, curled up between his aching paws.
What do you call someone who throws a mother cat and her kitten into a creek, who steals them from the hound who loves them, a hound twisting at his chain wailing, who never even looks back, what do you call someone like that? The trees have a word: evil.
When Gar Face returned to the tilting house, he tugged on the chain, he dragged Ranger out from the Underneath. Dragged him away from the tiny kitten curled up next to him, left her there, silent, trembling, dragged him into the stinking yard and kicked him hard. “Stupid dog!” he shouted. “What good is a dog who can’t even keep a cat out of the yard?” Ranger felt the steel toe of the boot grind into his side. He coughed. His throat was so raw that he began to choke. No noise came out.
Normally a hound who has been kicked with a steel-toed boot yelps out in pain, cries in agony. But Ranger was done with crying. He had not a single whisper of a cry inside him. His throat was too raw, his voice was too tired, he could not raise his head to bay a single note, not one. He dragged himself back under the house. He could not cry out loud. But tears splashed onto his silky ears. Sabine, smallest of all, tasted the salt as she licked them.
39
LITTLE SABINE. SHE was not as tall or as sleek as her twin. Instead, everything about her was round. Looking into her face, with its silver fur, was like looking at the circular face of the full moon, and when she slept her body was a coil.
Now here was Sabine, alone with Ranger, her faithful guardian. But here also was a sister without her brother, a daughter without a mother. What was left for Sabine?
She looked at Ranger, his chest rising and falling in pain. What could she do? She wanted her mother to come home, to walk into the Underneath with a tasty mouse hanging from her mouth. She wanted her brother to leap out at her from the smelly boot. She even pawed at it, once, twice, thrice,
as if with her strokes she could conjure up her silver twin.
More than anything, she wanted to make Ranger feel better. She looked toward his empty food bowl. Her own stomach growled.
Then all at once, she realized: She would have to become the hunter. All the small critters that her mother had brought back still alive, all the mice and lizards and grasshoppers that Sabine and Puck had treated as playthings, had taught her something. They had taught her to become the predator that she was meant to be. At this, she sat up on her haunches. With her rough tongue, she licked her front paws one at a time, taking care to polish her sharp little claws. Then she walked to the edge of the Underneath and looked out into the awful Open. Soon she would have to go out there, like her mother and her brother, now lost. She took a deep breath and moved closer to Ranger, his rasping pants filled her ears. Yes, she would go into the Open, but not until night.
Sabine, descendant of the great lionesses of the Saharan plains, grandchild of the mother tigers of the Punjab, tiny heiress of the fearsome lynx and cheetah and panther, night hunters all.
Here was Sabine.
40
THE WATER IS not the only element that offers up magical beasts. Look into the upper stories of the trees, look at the tops of the highest cliffs, look into the wispy, whispery clouds. For as long as there have been merfolk, there also have been the great creatures of flight. Grandmother, who had swum the ancient seas, who had been on the murky Nile, home of the scribe Thoth, half ibis, half man, should have known this. She should have known about Hawk Man.