Tailchaser's Song (7 page)

“Neither have the Folk from this side of the Woods,” said Bristlejaw, “but I think Snifflick is right. We have heard these stories all night long, and no one has the slightest idea of what to do. This may be beyond us. I agree to a delegation.”

The crowd quieted for a moment; then two of the assembly blurted out at the same instant: “Who will go?”

This started another uproar, and Earpoint had to shoot his claws and wave them around purposefully before things were quiet again. Snifflick spoke.

“Well, it will be quite a long and dangerous journey. I suppose that as I am Senior Elder my knowledge and wisdom will be needed. I will go.”

Before anyone could react to this, there was a sudden snarl from the back of the gathering, and Twitchnose was striding forward. She was Snifflick’s mate, had borne innumerable litters by him, and she was a taker of no nonsense. She marched straight to Snifflick, and stared him in the eye: “You aren’t going anywhere, you old mouse-gummer. You think you’re going to sail out into the wilderness and sing your horrible hunting songs all night while I sit here like a hedgehog?” she hissed. “Think you’re going to find some slender young fela at the Court, do you? By the time you mount her with those tired old bones she’ll be as old as I am, so what’s the difference? You old villain!”

Trying to save Snifflick, Bristlejaw quickly said: “That’s right, Snifflick!—I mean, you shouldn’t go. The Folk here need your wisdom. No, a long journey of this kind calls for young cats, cats who can travel in the wintertime.” He looked around, and as his eye passed over Fritti the young cat felt a moment of impossible excitement. Bristlejaw’s gaze moved on, though, and settled on Earpoint. The weathered old tom rose under the eye of the Master Old-singer, and stood, waiting.

“Earpoint, you have seen many summers,” said Bristlejaw, “but you are still strong, and wise in the ways of the Outer Forest. Will you lead the delegation?” Earpoint inclined his head in assent. Bristlejaw then turned to Jumptall, who leaped to his feet and stood, seeming to hold his breath.

“You go also, young hunter,” spoke the lore-singer. “Be aware of what an honor there is in your choice, and behave accordingly.” Jumptall nodded weakly and sat down.

Bristlejaw turned to Snifflick, who had been carrying on a near-silent thumping match with Twitchnose. “Old friend, will you pick one more emissary?” he asked.

Snifflick returned his attention to the Nose-meet once more, and looked cannily around the circle. The assembled Folk held their breath as one while he deliberated. Finally he beckoned to Streamhopper, a youthful hunter of three summers. Tailchaser felt a pang of disappointment, although he knew he was too young to have had a chance. As Snifflick and Bristlejaw instructed Streamhopper on his great responsibility, Fritti felt a curious frustration gnaw at his heart.

When the three delegates were assembled, Earpoint stood forward to receive the message that they would carry to the ancient Court of Harar. Snifflick rose again.

“None here has traveled where you must go,” he began. “We have no sure knowledge to guide you, but the songs that tell of the Court are known to all.

“If you are able to discharge this duty, and reach the Queen of the Folk, tell her that the elders of the Meeting Wall—this side of Edge Copse, under the eaves of the Old Wood, on the fringe of her domain—pledge their fealty, and ask for her help and guidance in this matter. Tell her that this plague of disappearance has visited not just the kittenry and questing males, but—Harar curse it—the entire tribe. Tell her we are bewildered, and can find no wisdom in this matter. If she will send a message, you are charged to bring it back with you.” He paused.

“Oh, yes. You are also hereby bound to help and aid your companions—up to, but not including, the failure of your charge....”

Here Snifflick halted again, and in a moment was once more the oldest cat of the Meeting Wall Folk. He looked at the ground for a moment, and scrabbled his paw in the dirt.

“We all hope that Meerclar will watch over you, and keep you safe,” he added. He did not look up. “You may tell your families, but we wish you to leave as soon as possible.”

“May you find luck, dancing,” Bristlejaw said, then, after a moment: “This Nose-meet is ended.”

Almost all the Folk who were present rose and pushed forward—some to talk excitedly among themselves, others to get a last sniff or offer a last word to the three delegates.

Fritti Tailchaser was the only cat who did not stay for at least a moment with the brave delegation. He climbed away from the Wall buzzing with unfamiliar feelings.

At the lip of the hollow he stood scratching his claws through the rough bark of an elm tree, listening to the murmur of the crowding cats below.

Nobody at the Nose-meet cared about Hushpad, he thought. Nobody would remember her name when the delegates reached the Court. Stretchslow couldn’t even remember it now! Hushpad didn’t mean a jot more to any of them than the scruffiest old tom—yet he was supposed to wait patiently while Jumptall and the rest went parading off to the Court of the Queen, in the hope that she would solve the problem! Heavenly Viror, what nonsense!

Fritti growled, a noise that he had never made before, and ripped off another skein of bark. He turned and stared into the sky. Somewhere, he felt sure, Hushpad was staring up at the same Eye, and no one cared but him whether she was in danger or not. Well then!

Tailchaser felt hot determination as he stood on the hillside, head and tail arched. The orb of Meerclar hung above him like a shaming parent as he made an impassioned pledge:

“By the Tails of the Firstborn, I will find Hushpad, or my spirit will fly my dying body! One or the other!”

After a moment—when he realized what he had promised—Fritti began to shiver.

And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

—William Wordsworth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fritti was finding it more dificult than he had expected to leave his porch box and food bowl. The anger and frustration of the night before seemed less moving in the thin sunshine of Spreading Light—he was, after all, a very young cat, not yet a full-grown hunter. He was not really sure exactly where to begin a search for his lost companion, either.

Nosing the tattered fabric of his sleeping box, fabric that was full of familiar smells, he wondered if it might not be better to wait another day before setting out. Surely a little hunting and a frolic or two with some of the other younglings would help to clear his mind. Of course. It seemed more sensible somehow ...

“Tailchaser! I heard all about your leave-taking! How astonishing of you! I am quite taken aback.” With a thump and skid, Thinbone leaped breathlessly onto the porch. He eyed Fritti with comical puzzlement. “Do you really mean to do it?”

At that moment—though all his spirit pulled against it—he heard himself say: “Of course, Thinbone. I must.”

Once he had spoken these strange words, he instantly felt as though he were rolling downhill. How could he stop himself now? How could he not go? What would the others think? Mighty Tailchaser, strutting about in front of the Wall, telling all who passed by about his quest.
Oh, to be older,
he thought—
and not so stupid!

Surprising himself, he leaned forward and licked his paw with a calmness calculated to impress his friend. Part of him was fervently hoping Thinbone would tell him not to go—maybe even come up with a good reason.

But Thinbone only grinned and said: “Harar! Fleetpaw and I are very jealous. We’ll miss you while you’re gone.”

“I’ll miss you all very much, also,” said Fritti, then turned his head away suddenly, as if to bite at fleas. After a moment’s silence he looked back around. His friend was watching him with a strange expression on his face.

Another moment’s silence, then Thinbone continued : “Well, I suppose this is farewell, then. Fleetpaw and Beetleswat and all said to say an especial good luck from them. They would have come by, except there’s a big game of Bob-Tag blowing up, and they have to hunt out some more Folk.”

“Oh?” said Fritti miserably. “Bob-Tag? Well, I don’t suppose I’ll have much time for that sort of game for a while ... never really liked it much, you know.”

Thinbone grinned again. “I suppose you won’t have the time, will you? What adventures you’ll have!” Looking around, Thinbone scented the air. “Did little Pouncequick ever come by?”

“No,” said Tailchaser. “Why?”

“Oh, he was asking when you were leaving, and where from. Seemed quite concerned, so I supposed he was going to try to catch you and say good-journey. He looks up to you quite a lot, I think. Well, I suppose he’s going to miss you.”

“Miss me?”

“Yes. Spreading Light has almost turned, and you wanted to leave before Smaller Shadows. Wasn’t that right?”

“Oh yes. Certainly.” Tailchaser’s legs felt as if they were made of stone. What he really wanted to do was crawl back into his box. “I suppose it’s time for me to be on my way ...” he said with lame cheeriness.

“I’ll walk you to the edge of the field,” his friend replied.

As they walked—Thinbone bounding and chattering, Fritti plodding and scuffing—Tailchaser tried to remember and save each smell of his familiar grounds. He bade a silent and somewhat overblown goodbye to the shimmering field of grass, the tiny, nearly dry creek, and his favorite privet hedge.
I shall probably never see these fields again!
he thought, and: They’ll all
probably forget me in a season or less.

For a moment he felt very proud of himself for his bravery and sacrifice ... but when they reached the end of the sea of waving grass, and he turned back and saw the faint shape of the M‘an-porch where his box and bowl sat, he felt such a burning in his nose and eyes that he had to sit for a moment and paw at his face.

“Well ...” Thinbone was suddenly a little awkward. “Good hunting and good dancing, friend Tailchaser. I shall think of you till you return.”

“You are a good friend, Thinbone. Nre‘fa-o.”

“Nre‘fa-o.” And Thinbone was loping swiftly away.

 

Half a hundred steps into the Old Woods, and still in the comparatively sunny and airy outer reaches of the forest, Fritti already felt himself to be the loneli est cat in the world.

He did not know he was being followed.

 

As the sun rose to midday, Fritti continued into the forest depths. He had never been through it to the other side, but it seemed likely that a fleeing Hushpad would go that way—rather than closer to the dwellings of M‘an.

Although the sun was high, his keen night vision stood him in good stead, since the trees grew thickly together in these parts. Passing through the thickets and undergrowth, he stared up in wonder at these trees of the inner forest, trunks curved and twisted, frozen into writhing shapes like the hlizza—whose bodies lashed on after they had been killed. Every now and then he stopped to test his claws on one that was unfamiliar to him: some had bark harder than M‘an-ground, others were wet and spongy. Some of the larger ones he sprayed with his huntmark—more to reassert his own existence among these tangled branches and deep shadows than out of bravado.

Above, he could hear the songs of the different fla-fa‘az that lived in the uttermost heights of the Old Woods. There was no other sound of life but the padding of his own near-silent paws.

Then, in a moment, even the birds were silent.

There was a single sharp rapping noise, and Tailchaser froze in his tracks. The sound echoed briefly, then faded, absorbed swiftly by the leafy clutter of the forest floor. Then, startlingly, came a rapid clatter of these noises
—tok!—tok-tok! tok-tok!
...
tok-t-t-tok!—
from high above him. The crescendo of knocks spread from tree to tree, passing from a point over his head to farther into the forest. Then silence fell again.

Apprehensively scenting the air, whiskers stiff, Fritti moved slowly forward, darting glances into the light-spotted reaches of the thick foliage above him.

He was cautiously stepping over a decomposing log when there was another sharp
tok!
—and a moment later he felt a stinging blow to the back of his head. He whirled, shooting his claws, but found nothing behind him.

Another sharp blow to his right foreleg spun him around again, and, turning, he felt a third harsh pain in his flank. Twirling about from side to side, unable to find the source of the painful blows, he was hit by a barrage of small, hard objects that struck him from above. Backing away—snarling in fear and discomfort—he met another fusillade, this one from behind.

Panicking, Fritti broke and ran, and immediately the loud rapping commenced again—from what seemed like all sides at once. The stinging missiles began to fly thick and fast. Trying to duck his head and protect his eyes as he scrambled away, he ran directly into the gnarled base of a live oak and tumbled to the loam, where he was immediately bombarded by the fiercest shower yet. As he cowered, he could see the missiles bouncing away—rocks and hard-shelled nuts. The pelting became too much for him once more. As if surrounded by stinging gnats, he crashed away into the undergrowth. When he tried to turn one way, a deluge of chestnuts and small stones would push him back—always in the same direction.

As he dove into the shelter of a bramble bush, he felt his paws come down astonishingly on unsolid air. Losing his balance, he toppled forward.

As he slid over the precipice—and caught a swift glimpse of a dry stream bed a fatal distance below—he twisted his body sharply, managing to catch the bramble bush and slow his headlong plunge. Grappling the prickling branches with all four legs now, and teeth and tail, he found himself dangling precariously over the drop—only the brambles between him and a long, long fall.