Ratha’s Creature (The First Book of The Named) (17 page)

The path grew steeper, the trail windy and narrow as the hills became mountains. It rained continuously and all the travelers acquired the same color, the dull brown of mud. Each day, Ratha woke chilled and sodden to plod along in the line, staring at the trail or at the curtain of rain in front of her whiskers. Bonechewer was quiet, almost sullen, showing little of his former energy.

Something began to bother Ratha, and at first she could not tell what it was. It was a feeling of familiarity, as though this country was not entirely new to her. The smells, the way the wind blew, the shape of the leaves and the rocks on the path told Ratha that she had passed through these mountains once before. Not on the same trail; she knew that. Perhaps not even across the same spur that the group was crossing now. Her memory could only provide her with vague images, for she had run most of the way, driven by rage and terror and the terrible pain of betrayal.

She found herself trembling as she put each foot in front of the other and she left the trail and stood aside, watching the others pass, blurred shadows behind the rain. She stood there, telling herself that it happened long ago and not to her. The Ratha that slogged along this muddy trail with the ragged Un-Named could scarcely be the Ratha who had brandished the Red Tongue before the clan. That part of her life was gone now and she cursed the things that woke her memory.

“Are you tired, Ratha?” a voice said. Bonechewer had left the line to join her by the side of the trail. She looked up, trying to hide her misery, but she was sure Bonechewer caught it, for there was a flicker in his eyes and for a moment he looked guilty.

“Come,” Bonechewer said gruffly, glancing back toward the trail. “I don’t want to be the last to get there.”

“How far?” Ratha asked.

“Less than a day’s travel. We should be there by sunset.”

Ratha wiped her pads on the grass and shook out the mud between them. There was no sense in doing so, for she knew she would pick up more as soon as she stepped back on the path. She intended it to annoy Bonechewer, and it did, for he drew back his whiskers and plunged into the stream, leaving her alone by the side of the trail.

The rest of the day she walked by herself, despite the others jostling around her. The rain slackened and then stopped. The clouds lightened and a little sunlight filtered through, edging the wet grass with silver. The drops clinging to her whiskers caught the light and startled her with their sparkle. She shook her head and tossed them all away.

The grass became scrubby and then sparse as Ratha climbed the mountain along with the others. The sun fell low, sending shadows among the peaks, and she knew that the Un-Named and she were almost at the end of their journey.

The line now was long and straggling. Some of the travelers Ratha had seen at the beginning were no longer in their places, having fallen out by the side. They reached the top of the ridge and wound along its spine as the clouds turned from gray to rose and gold.

Ratha saw an outcropping of rock rising from the flank of the hill. As she and the others at the end of the line approached, the river of the Un-Named ended, breaking up into streamlets that poured around and over the great mass of stone. This was the gathering place.

The sun flared over the edge of the rock, blinding her for an instant. Dazed and weary, she let the flow carry her to the base, and she washed up against it, caught in her own little eddy, while the others surged by her.

“Sss,
up here,” came Bonechewer’s voice from above her. Ratha stretched her neck back and saw the outline of his head against the dusk. Ratha gathered herself and leaped up to the ledge where he was sitting.

“Look,” he said and Ratha did. Up and down the steep rock face, eyes glowed and damp pelts gleamed faintly in the sun’s last light. Bonechewer rose and walked along the ledge, Ratha followed, placing her feet carefully, for the stone was weathered and broken. Pieces skittered out from under her pads and went clattering down the rock face until their echo died. The ledge led into a cleft and then they were through to the other side. Here the stone had split and fallen apart in several sections, creating a sheltered hollow where many more of the Un-Named were gathered. Out of the stiff wind that blew on the rock face, Ratha was warmer. She followed Bonechewer as he picked his way over talus and fallen boulders, giving greeting to the Un-Named perched on top of them or clustered around them. No one spoke to Ratha, although she felt their eyes follow her as she moved among them.

“Bone—” Ratha started. His tail slapped her across the muzzle before she could say his name. Hurt and outraged, Ratha snapped at the tail and caught a mouthful of fur before he whisked it away.

“Why did you—” she demanded, but he cut her off before she could finish.

“To keep you from making a fool of yourself and of me as well,” he said softly. “There is no use of names here. Do not forget.”

“How am I to speak to you if I can’t use your name?” Ratha asked, feeling bewildered.

“Call me dweller-by-the-water, as they do. Or, better still, be quiet and listen.”

“Yarrr.”
Ratha flattened her ears but she knew he was right. He had stopped calling her “clan cat” as well. Although the nickname had begun as an insult, he used it now in an affectionate sense. To have this stripped from her left her feeling empty and desolate, as if she were becoming one of those who had nothing behind their eyes. She hung her head and swallowed hard.

“What is the matter, young one?” The voice was not Bonechewer’s, although he still stood nearby. Ratha looked up into a pair of glowing green eyes in a face so black it seemed to her that the eyes floated by themselves in the dark.

“She is just tired, nightling,” Bonechewer said before Ratha could gather her wits to speak.

“I haven’t seen or smelled her before,” the black remarked, “yet she is too old to be of the last litters. Did she come with you, dweller-by-the-water?”

“She joined me on the trail,” Bonechewer said shortly. Ratha sensed a certain tension between him and the black one.

“We meet at the same place, among the stones-with-fangs.”

“I will be there, nightling.”

“Good.” The black turned and snarled at the two dull-eyed shadows standing behind her. “Away, cubs! I have no need of you until sunrise.” With guttural growls, the two males lowered their heads and padded away.

“Why do you keep them, nightling?” Bonechewer asked. “You are worthy of better companions.”

“If I wanted companions, I would choose others. The witless ones obey me and that is all I ask.”

“All you ask, nightling?” Bonechewer said.

The black opened her eyes all the way, revealing their full depth. “There are certain things that wit or lack of wit does not affect, dweller-by-the-water. And you seem to have made a similar choice, for I have not heard your little female speak.”

“I can speak,” Ratha spluttered, sending a burning glance at Bonechewer.

The other yawned and arched her back. “Ah. Perhaps, then, he will bring you to council.”

“I think not, nightling.”

“Very well, dweller-by-the-water,” the black said and trotted away.

“Your little female!” Ratha spat in disgust and pawed in the dirt as if she were burying dung. “If there are many like her among the Un-Named, I want nothing more to do with them. Where are you going?” she asked, for she felt Bonechewer start to move away from her.

“To the stones-with-fangs.”

“Are you taking me?”

“No. You stay here. Curl up and sleep. You won’t get much sleep later.”

“Sleep! How can I—” Ratha stopped. He was already gone, his shadow disappearing among the rocks.

She lashed her tail and dug her claws into the gravel.

What was this gathering for? What was this council the black spoke of and why hadn’t Bonechewer taken her? Was he afraid she would embarrass him by speaking his name? Ratha snorted. He was just being silly. Who other than she and he would know that “Bonechewer” was even a name? There had to be another reason.

She sniffed the ground. Bonechewer’s track was still fresh. She could follow him to the place he spoke of, the stones-with-fangs. Perhaps she could hide and attend the meeting in secret. Perhaps she would even get a chance to maul that slinky black before she could summon her body-guards. Now
that
was an appealing idea. 

CHAPTER NINE

Ratha peered between rows of jagged stones that rose from the cavern floor. Those who had come to meet were settling, and she watched them form a circle under the phosphorescent light that shone from the roof of the cave. Bonechewer sat next to two huge gray hunters, the odd blue-green glow turning his copper coat inky and his eyes emerald. Beside him on the other side sat the black. A grizzled elder who limped on three legs, a silver-coat, and a young male barely out of his spots made up the rest of the gathering.

They spoke quietly among themselves for a while and Ratha could hear nothing but water dripping from overhead into puddles on the floor. A particularly cold drop landed on her and she jumped, shivering. Then she huddled and fluffed her fur, trying to keep warm. It was like being in the mouth of a huge beast, she thought, looking up at the stone fangs that also hung down from the ceiling. Perhaps this was the maw of some great unknown animal who lay buried in the mountain. Ratha imagined the jaws closing, the spikes overhead driving down to mesh with those rising from the floor.

No, she thought, trying to still her racing heart. Even if this is the mouth of a great beast, the jaws will never move again.
It has died,
she thought.
I am in the mouth of a dead, cold beast.

The voices grew louder, drawing Ratha’s attention back to the Un-Named in their circle. Now she could hear what they were saying. She crept forward on her belly, laying her nose between two of the stone teeth.

One of the gray hunters was talking to the black.

“For you and your people, it is easy to wait,” the shaggy speaker was grumbling. “My people have come far and empty bellies have no patience. How am I to answer them?”

“In the language you have always used, gray hunter,” the black said, laying her tail across her delicate feet. “Claws and, if needed, teeth.” She looked at him through slitted eyes. “Do you doubt your strength?”

“It is talk I doubt. Let there be less of it. I and my people came to kill, not talk. When does the hunt begin?”

“When
all
are here, gray one,” interrupted the grizzled male in a scratchy voice.

“Don’t misunderstand me, gray hunter,” the black said, opening her green eyes wide. Her voice took on a silky tone. “I do understand your difficulty. I, at least, can talk to the ones I lead and many of them will listen to reason.”

“Enough!” snapped the grizzled cripple. “We have come here to plan, not to quarrel.” He turned to Bonechewer. “I see you decided to come after all, dweller-by-the-water. Your absence last season cost us, as you well know.”

“I will do what I can,” Bonechewer said.

Ratha was starting to get stiff and drops of water were soaking her ruff, but she dared not move. She had heard enough to whet her curiosity, not enough to answer her questions, although she sensed she was getting close.

“I am curious, dweller-by-the-water, why you came this time.” Scratchy-voice was speaking again. Ratha pricked her ears to catch Bonechewer’s answer.

“Old one, I hoped that you would listen to me, even though you have heard my words before.”

The gray hunter jumped to his feet. “Don’t listen to him! He would keep us hungry and save the herds of the hated ones. He is not one of us. He is clan-born filth!”

“Gray one, when you have finished howling and are ready to listen,” Bonechewer said, his voice acid, “I will tell you why I think as I do.”

The big silver-coat glared at Bonechewer and then around the circle, seeking support. Many of the eyes on Bonechewer were hostile.

“You gray idiot! Do you think I care anything for those who cast me out, who would have slain me as a cub?”

He lunged at the silver-coat as he spoke and the other shrank away. Bonechewer stood, letting his fur flatten as he turned to the others.

“Take from the herds, yes. Let the hated ones work for you. I say nothing against that. But I hear voices that speak of turning this into a vengeance hunt, of slaughtering the herds and those who keep them.” He stopped and gazed around the cavern. “You will be pulling the fur from your own tails if you do that. The clan keeps us alive. Not many of you great hunters will admit that, but it is raiding and scavenging that feeds us during this season.”

“Ptahh!
We should kill the hated ones and take their ground. Game is richer there than in our territories. That will keep us. Spare them?” The silver-coat curled his lip, showing heavy fangs. “No!”

Ratha could see from the circle of eyes that Bonechewer had little sympathy in the group.

The only one who didn’t look openly hostile was the black female, but the sight of her only disgusted Ratha.

He’s right,
she thought frantically as Bonechewer returned to his place.
He’s right. Why won’t they listen?

“Very well,” Bonechewer said. “I see that few of you share my concern. I can say no more. If you wish to keep me on this council, I will serve as you ask. Let me say only that I have warned you.”

There was silence, broken by the echoes of water dripping in the recesses of the cavern. The group began talking among themselves again in low voices and Ratha could no longer hear what they said. She didn’t care. She had heard enough.

She eased herself up, shaking as much from fear as from cold. Her legs, stiff and numb, moved awkwardly. As she turned, she kicked a piece of broken stone. It clicked as it bounced and the echo reverberated across the cavern.

Ratha froze. She glanced back at the group. All of them were on their feet, ears pricked, hackles raised. She gave a soft moan of despair. They would find her, tear her, and fling her remains down the rockface.

“Wait, all of you,” she heard Bonechewer’s voice say. “Stay here. I know who that is.”