Ratha’s Creature (The First Book of The Named) (21 page)

“For your cubs.”

“Yarrr!
They won’t be born here. You’re not that big yet. No. We’ll be back on my land when they come.”

“Then why did you dig it?”

“Because I know you don’t freeze in that tree because you want to. The smells in those other lairs raise old memories you would rather keep buried. I know, Ratha,” he said, his voice and his eyes growing soft. “I could not sleep in Reshara’s den either.”

She eyed him, wondering whether this was a challenge to reveal what she knew or an offer to let her share more of his life.

“You didn’t see your lair-father die,” she said slowly.

Bonechewer showed his teeth as he answered, “You grow bold, clan cat. Thakur must have told you, for it was he who saw Meoran’s work.” His eyes narrowed. “My brother herded his animals but let his tongue run free, it seems.”

Ratha felt the fur rise on her nape. “You would speak that way of him?
Ptahh!
I know the Un-Named do not honor those they slay, but I thought you were different.”

She thought he would strike her, but instead he licked a paw and said. “He is not slain. I did not see him among the clan dead.”

Ratha’s hope leaped ahead of her anger. “You didn’t? Could he have escaped?”

“I’m sure he escaped, but searching for him would be useless,” he added as Ratha started to open her mouth again. “If I know my brother, he will be far away by now.”

She stared down at the trampled snow around her feet. Far away, she thought. Perhaps it is best. I will think no more of Thakur.

She peered into the new den Bonechewer had dug for her, but she did not go in. She dipped her muzzle and gently nipped the top of his forepaw.

“What are you doing now?” he demanded.

“Lift your foot.”

He grunted and presented his paw to her, balancing on three legs. She began to lick the sore pads, cleaning mud from between his toes and from beneath his claws. The claws were blunted and dull, telling her that the soil had not yielded easily. No wonder he had been gone for several days! Once the paw was clean, she gave it several soothing licks and asked for the other.

After she finished, she crawled into the lair, turned around in the friendly darkness several times and lay with her forepaws hanging out the entrance.

“It is small, but well dug,” she said critically. She could see he was waiting for more of a reaction. When she said nothing else, his whiskers drooped slightly in disappointment.

She wiggled on her belly and lolled her tongue out at him. “I like it. I couldn’t have dug a better one.”

“Good!” His whiskers sprang back to their usual exuberant bristle. “I dug it far enough away from the others so no one will try to take it. And if they are so stupid as to try, they will answer to me.”

“Did you mean what you said about the cubs being born on your ground?” Ratha asked, growing serious again.

“Yes. As soon as the weather lets us travel, we’ll go. I have had enough of the Un-Named and seen enough of their foolishness. They no longer need me, nor I them. I will run with them no more. You and I, Ratha, will run together.”

He went with her back to her sentry post. There, they saw the old gray asleep in the snow, her chin on her paws.

“She’ll wake soon. I should go, Ratha,” he said, looking into her eyes. “This has been hard for you, strong as you are. I am sorry for the part I played. Things won’t get easier; not very soon. But I promise you that when this season ends, we will leave this place and never return.” Ratha looked around at the white-covered landscape.

“Snowfall has just started.” She sighed. “It will seem like a long time. At least I don’t have to sleep in a tree.”

“I know. The days may seem endless. When things get difficult, think of spring. And me,” he added, with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

She watched him trot away over the snow. The gray-coat was starting to wake up, but despite that, Ratha was happy. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Spring was slower in coming to the heights than to the lowlands. As Ratha and Bonechewer wound their way out of the hills, the sparse grass and scrub bush gave way to new growth, green and springy underfoot. They did not take the old trail, still rutted and worn by the passage of the Un-Named. As if in unspoken agreement, neither one ventured toward it, preferring to find their own way across the endless meadow that covered the hills.

Bonechewer walked ahead of Ratha, keeping his pace slow. The long scar on his flank was only starting to fade. Clan fangs had driven deep, and he would limp for the rest of his life. Ratha followed his waving tail through the grass, feeling the new life moving inside her. She was so big now that even the low grass tips brushed her underneath and her graceful walk had become awkward, her swollen belly swinging from side to side at each step.

As she and Bonechewer left the hills and came onto the plain, tiny flowers appeared among the grasses, sending their scents up into the warm spring wind.

Ratha lifted her head and watched a bird drift in lazy circles overhead. The grief was still there in the back of her throat and the memories in the back of her mind. The clan was no more, broken and scattered by the attack of the Un-Named. She, and perhaps some other ragged band of survivors, were all that was left of those who had once followed the herder’s way. Many others had left their blood where the three-horns and dapplebacks had once grazed. The Un-Named, too, had paid. Ratha remembered how the vultures circled and the picked bones grew gray and moldy.

The sun warmed her back, reminding her that those times were past. The unborn cubs moved again, and she felt little kicks inside, as if the young ones were impatient to be born.

Bonechewer stopped and came back, “Are you tired?” he asked.

“No, hungry.”

Bonechewer grunted. “Those cubs eat more than you do. They’ll be strong and healthy.”

“I can hunt for a few more days,” Ratha said, as Bonechewer took the weight off his injured leg.

“Hunt? You can’t even crouch,” he said, but his tone was gentle rather than mocking. “No, even with my bad leg the marsh-shrews will know me. You may get sick of marsh-shrews, but I swear there will be plenty of them.”

“I will eat marsh-shrews,” Ratha said as he nuzzled her bulging flank.

“Yarrr!”
Bonechewer shook his head and winced. “He kicked me! Hard enough to make my nose sting. Is that any way to treat your lair-father?” He glared at Ratha’s belly in mock anger.

“She
kicked you.” Ratha grinned. “That one’s going to be a female.”

“I’m glad they’re not inside me,” Bonechewer said vehemently.

“They’ll be out soon.” Ratha began walking.

“How soon?” Bonechewer looked alarmed.

“I don’t know. They’ll tell me. Come on, Three-Legs,” she said, strutting ahead. “We still have a long way to go.”

They saw several more sunsets before they reached the marsh where Bonechewer’s territory lay. He was glad to be home, and he trotted all over it, from the lakeshore to the hillside meadow where the spring ran. Ratha tagged after him, eager for the tang of the marshland and the glitter of the morning sun on the lake. She even followed him into the water when he plunged in to wash dust from his coat. She bobbed and rolled like a sap-heavy log while Bonechewer chased fish. By sheer exuberance rather than skill, he managed to catch one. He swam back to her, holding his shiny prize aloft in his jaws. They paddled their way back to shore and feasted on the catch.

The next task was to dig a new den for the cubs. Ratha chose a site on the hillside near the spring where dirt was soft and the digging went fast. They took turns at hunting and digging and soon the excavation was finished. Ratha inspected it, cleared out the remaining loose dirt, stamped down the rest and began to line the den with dry grass, pine needles and tufts of her own fur pulled from her belly. Bonechewer helped her, trying to find the softest leaves and the most fragrant grasses with which to make the nest.

They were making their last trip with grass in their mouths when Ratha felt a sharp cramp begin high in her belly and ripple down both sides of her flank. She had felt such pangs before, but they were mild and soon ceased. This time it grew until it became painful. She moaned and dropped her mouthful of grass.

Bonechewer waited with her until the spasm had passed. Ratha leaned against him, feeling his strength and his warmth. The pain frightened her and she was grateful for his presence. Once the cramp ceased, she was able to walk on. Before they reached the den, it happened again and the contraction was stronger. Ratha felt something break deep inside and a gush of fluid which wet the fur beneath her tail.

“They’re telling me,” she gasped, her head low.

She felt Bonechewer seize her nape and pull her up. She staggered with him to the den. He pushed her inside, settled her on her bed and stood back, looking anxiously at her.

Ratha ground her teeth together as the next spasm seized her. She thrust back with her hind legs and pushed against the wall of the den. Again the pain went away, leaving her panting and shivering. She looked for Bonechewer, but he had gone.

Panic washed through Ratha as she shifted restlessly from side to side. The nest, so carefully dug and lined, seemed terribly uncomfortable, and the dark, rather than being cozy, made her feel as though she were suffocating.

I didn’t know it would be like this,
she thought, laying her head on the earthen floor and feeling the frantic pulse in her throat.
I thought mothers just went to sleep for a while,
and
when they woke, the cubs were there.

The teats on her belly began to itch and she rolled on her side and licked them. She felt a surge beneath her tongue as another contraction started and traveled in waves along her flank. She gave a muffled cry and strained, pushing her rear paws against the den wall again. The pushing helped.

Her rapid panting was making her throat dry. She thought about going to the stream for a drink, but as she raised herself on her front paws, something seemed to twist inside her, grinding through her guts. She squeezed her eyes shut, flopped on her side and shoved her feet against the earthen wall.

Again, fear shot through her. How long would it take? Was it happening as it should? She didn’t know. She was alone with her body and the strange and awesome thing that was happening to her.

She let the fear free and it hovered around her, a cold mist that chilled her no matter how deep she burrowed into the leaves or how hard she shivered. It took hold and raged through her body, making her muscles work against each other, driving her heartbeat up until she was panting with exhaustion and turning each contraction into a crushing pain. Ratha whimpered and rubbed her cheek in the dirt. She couldn’t go any farther this way. If she let the fear possess her, she would die of terror, the cubs still unborn.

Every female since the first has gone through this,
she thought furiously.
If they can, I can. The clan couldn’t kill me; neither could the Un-Named. I am a herder of three-horns, the bearer of the Red Tongue and I am going to have these cubs.

“Do you hear me, litterlings?” she growled at her belly. “If you give me any more trouble, I’ll nip your wretched little tails when you come out!”

Ratha was startled to feel an answering kick from inside her. She grinned to herself. That one had to be the little female; the one that had kicked Bonechewer. The contractions began again and the fear rose, but Ratha fought it away.

“All right, little marsh-shrew,” she said as she braced herself against the wall. “You’re ... coming ... out!”

She grunted, strained until she thought she would burst and felt the cub slip backwards. She drew a breath and pushed against the wall until she thought she would make the den cave in. The pain gave way to exhilaration as she felt the cub inch downward through her. There was pressure between her loins and below her tail. One more push, she thought, feeling the skin bulge and stretch beneath her tail. The cub was coming headfirst, butting its way out into the world. Ratha’s heart raced as she curled herself backwards to look. Something tore, something slipped and there was a wet wiggling body in the leaves beside her.

Ratha bent her head and began to wash the cub, licking fast and hard. The tiny creature squealed as she tumbled it back and forth with her tongue. Tiny claws raked her chin and the tiny tail lashed her nose. The odor of birth clung to it, warm, rich and dark; her own scent from deep inside her body. The cub had its own smell too, a smell that told Ratha that she had been right; her firstborn was the little female. She licked until her daughter was dry and fluffy and then swept the cub to a full teat. There was a tentative nuzzle and then the little mouth took the nipple and began to suck.

Ratha ate the afterbirth and lay back, waiting for the contractions that would bring the next cub. They did not come for a while and during this time she dozed, grateful for the interlude. Another cramp woke her. This time she was ready and the second cub was soon nursing beside the first. The third slid out with hardly any effort at all. The last seemed reluctant to enter the world and, after some struggling, came out tail first. Ratha licked and massaged him as she had all the others. Soon the little female and her three brothers were lying in a row, suckling and kneading her belly.

Worn and weary, but content, she stretched as she lay on her side.

A shadow blocked the sunlight at the mouth of the den. She raised her head. Bonechewer’s scent drifted into the den. It was no longer the odor of her mate and her companion, but the scent of the male, sharp and threatening. Ratha’s hackles rose.

“Ratha?” Bonechewer called. She could see his eyes glowing at the entrance to the den.

To her those eyes seemed savage and hungry. Her cubs, she thought, starting to growl. He was coming to kill and eat her cubs. She got up, shaking herself free of the clinging mouths and claws. Even as she rose to defend her litter, she was startled by her sudden rage. She knew Bonechewer only wanted to see his cubs, not to kill them. Her feelings were no longer just hers, but those of all lair-mothers before her. She trembled as the image of a dead cub dangling from bloodstained jaws seized her mind and would not let go.