Tailchaser's Song (6 page)

After much hard thought, Fritti decided that perhaps the Big Ones were a little like the Folk: some were good, and meant no idle harm, while some were not—and it was this second kind that had brought ruin to his family and his birthing-place. He found a kind of peace in this balance; thoughts of his loss began to recede from his waking Hours—if not from his dreams.

As health came back to him, Fritti once more found pleasure in the society of the Folk. He found Hushpad also, unchanged in whisker or tail. She asked him to pardon her for not visiting him during his upset days in the woods. She said she would not have been able to bear the sight of her playfellow in such distress.

Pardon her he did, and happily. With his strength returned, they once more ran together in the countryside. All was as it had been, except that Tailchaser was more given to silences, and a little less to happy chattering.

Still, his time with Hushpad was now even more precious to Fritti. They talked now, from time to time, about the Ritual that they would enter when Hushpad came to her season, and Tailchaser became a hunter.

And so their high summer waned, and the wind began to sing autumn music in the treetops.

On the last night before Meeting Night, Fritti and Hushpad climbed the hillside overlooking the M‘an-dwellings. They sat silently in the dark of Deepest Quiet for a long while as the lights below flickered out one by one. Finally, Tailchaser raised his young voice in song.

When Tailchaser finished his song they again sat quietly throughout the remaining Hours of the night. The morning sun rose to scatter the shadows and interrupt them, but when he turned to rub Hushpad’s nose in farewell an unspoken promise hung between their commingling whiskers.

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

—Edgar Allan Poe

 

 

 

 

 

The morning after Meeting Fritti awoke from a strange dream, in which Prince Ninebirds of Bristlejaw’s song had taken Hushpad and was running away with her in his great mouth. When Fritti’s dream-self had tried to pull her free, Ninebirds had seized him, and given a savage yank. He had felt his dream-form painfully stretching, stretching, becoming as thin and attenuated as smoke....

Shaking himself all over, as if to scatter the dismaying fantasy, Tailchaser rose and performed his early-morning grooming—smoothing down the sleep-ruffled fur all along his body, coaxing errant whiskers into place, and ending with a fillip that put his tail tip in perfect order.

Walking through the tall grass behind his sleeping porch, he could not shed the sense of foreboding that his dream had cast over the day. It seemed important, for some reason he could not remember. He should not—and could not—forget the dream. Why?

Practicing paw swipes at an accommodatingly bouncy dandelion, he remembered. Hushpad! She had not been at the Meeting. He must go and look for her; discover what had happened.

He felt a little less apprehensive than he had the previous night. After all, he decided, there were many possible reasons for her absence. She did live in a M‘an-dwelling; they might have closed her in, prevented her leaving. Big Ones were capricious that way.

Tailchaser made his way across the field of grass and through a copse of low trees as he skirted the Old Woods. It was some distance to where Hushpad lived, and the journey took him a good part of the morning. At last he came in sight of the M‘an-nest, standing by itself in the solitude of surrounding fields. It looked strangely empty, and as he approached he could find no trace of familiar smells.

Calling, “Hushpad! Tailchaser here! Nre‘fa-o, heart-friend!” he jogged closer, but was met with silence. He noticed the entrance hanging open, as was not usual in the nests of M’an. Reaching the dwelling, he cautiously poked his head inside, then entered.

Not only was the M‘an-dwelling empty of life, to Tailchaser it seemed empty of everything. The floors and walls were bare, and even his soft footfalls echoed as he moved from room to room. For a fearful moment the emptiness reminded him of the disappearance of his family—but something was different. There were no smells of terror or excitement; no trace of anything upsetting having occurred. Whatever reason the M’an had for leaving, it seemed a natural one. But where was Hushpad?

A top-to-bottom search produced nothing but more empty rooms. Curious and puzzled, Fritti left the dwelling. He decided that Hushpad must have run away when the M‘an left. Perhaps even now she was hiding in the forest, needing his company and friendship!

All that afternoon he roamed the wooded places, calling and hallooing, but could find no trace of his friend. When evening came he went to Thinbone for help, but the two of them had no more luck than Fritti alone. They ranged far and wide, and asked all the Folk they met for tidings, but none could help. In this way ended the first day of Tailchaser’s search for the lost Hushpad.

Three more sunrises passed without any sign of the young fela. Fritti found it hard to believe that she would simply leave the area, but no trace of violence had been found, and the other Folk had not seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. Day in and day out he continued searching for her—tired, but with a terrible, relentless need. First his family and his birthingplace, now this.

Even Thinbone gave up after the third day.

“Tailchaser, I know it is a terrible thing,” his friend said, “but sometimes Meerclar calls, and we go. You know that.” Thinbone looked down, searching for words. “Hushpad has gone. That is that, I’m afraid.”

Fritti nodded his understanding, and Thinbone went off to join the other Folk. Tailchaser, however, did not plan to give up his search. He knew what Thinbone said to be true, but felt strongly—in a manner he did not fully understand—that Hushpad had not gone to Meerclar, but was living somewhere in the fields of earth, and needed his help.

 

A few days later Fritti was sniffing his way through a hedge of privet in which he and Hushpad had played many games of Roll-and-Pounce when he met Stretchslow.

The older hunter made less noise than the wind-tossed autumn leaves as he approached, his tawny body moving with confident economy. When he reached Fritti—terribly self-conscious in the presence of the mature male—Stretchslow stopped, sat back on his haunches and gave the young cat an appraising stare. Trying to bob his head respectfully, Tailchaser caught his nose on a privet twig and let out an embarrassed mew of pain. Stretchslow’s cool observation softened into a look of amusement.

“Nre‘fa-o, Stretchslow,” said Fritti: “Are you .-.. mmm . . . are you enjoying the sun today?” He ended with an awkward gesture, and since the day was quite gray and overcast he suddenly wished he had said nothing at all—perhaps even stayed underneath the privet bush.

Seeing the younger cat so discomfited, Stretchslow sneezed a laugh and sank to the ground. He reclined there lazily, head held high and his body appearing misleadingly relaxed.

“Good dancing to you, little one,” he responded, then paused for a magnificent yawn. “I see you’re still hunting about for what‘s-her-name ... Squash-pod, was it?”

“Huh-Hushpad. Yes, I’m still looking.”

“Well ...” The older male looked about for a bit, as if searching for a tiny, insignificant thing he might have dropped. Finally he said: “Oh yes . . . that was it. Of course. You’ll want to come to the Nose-meet tonight.”

“What?” Fritti was flabbergasted. Nose-meets were for elders and hunters, and were reserved for important business. “Why should I go to the Nose-meet?” he gasped.

“Well ...” Stretchslow yawned again. “From what I understand—though Harar knows I have better things to do than keep track of all the comings and. goings of you youngsters—from what I gather, it seems there have been many disappearances since the last Meeting. Six or seven, including your little friend Peachpit.”

“Hushpad,” Fritti corrected him quietly-but Stretchslow was gone.

 

Above the Wall, Meerclar’s Eye hung and gleamed, framing a sovereign wink against the black of the night.

“We have had this problem also, and some of the mothers are getting very worried. They aren’t pleasant to be around at all, lately. Suspicious, you know.”

The speaker was Mudtracker, who lived with another colony of the Folk on the other side of Edge Copse. They had their own meetings, and seldom had more than passing contact with Fritti’s clan.

“What I mean is,” continued Mudtracker, “well, it isn’t natural. I mean, we lose a couple of kittens every season, of course . . . and the occasional male who decides to move on without telling anyone. Fela troubles, usually, if you sniff my meaning. But we’ve seen three disappear in the past pawful of days. It’s not natural.”

The visiting cat from the far side of the Copse sat down, and there was a rustle of low hisses and whispers among the gathered clan leaders.

Fritti’s excitement at being at Nose-meet with the adults was beginning to fade. As he heard the stories that the others told of mysterious absences, and saw the way the sage, wise cats around him shook their heads and scratched their masks in puzzlement, he suddenly began to wonder if they would be any help at all in finding Hushpad. It had seemed to him that as soon as the older cats had acknowledged his problem, it could be solved—but look there! The brows and noses of the clan’s protectors-of-tradition were wrinkled with worry. Tailchaser felt a sense of emptiness.

Jumptall, one of the youngest present—though older than Fritti by several seasons—stood to speak.

“My sister . . . my nest-sister Flickerswift had two of her kittens vanish just Eye-last. She is a watchful mother. They were playing at the base of that old sirzi tree at Forest’s Edge, and she had turned for a moment because her youngest was having a difficult furball. When she turned around again they were gone. And no smell of owl or fox, either—she looked everywhere, as you can imagine. She’s very upset.” Here Jumptall paused awkwardly, then sat down. Earpoint rose and looked around the gathering.

“Yes, well, if no one has any more of these ... stories... ?”

Stretchslow raised a grudging paw. “Pardon, Earpoint, I do believe ... where is he ... ah, yes, there he is. Young Tailchaser there has something to report. If it’s not too much bother, I mean.” Stretchslow yawned, showing his sharp canines.

“Tailchewer?” said Earpoint irritably. “What kind of name is that?”

Bristlejaw smiled at Fritti. “It’s Tailchaser, isn’t it? Speak up, youngling, there you go.”

All eyes turned to Tailchaser as he rose.

“Um ... well ... um ...” A sickly expression made his whiskers droop. “Well, you see ... Hushpad, she’s my friend, she’s a ... she, Hushpad is ... well, she’s disappeared.”

Old Snifflick leaned over and stared at him keenly. “Did you see anything of what happened to her?”

“No ... no, sir, but I think ...

“Right!” Earpoint leaned over and gave Fritti a brusque pawpat on the top of the head, nearly upsetting him. “Right,” continued Earpoint, “very good, yes, thank you, Tail ... Tail ... well, it was a most useful report, young fellow. Now, shall we get on with it?” Fritti sat down hastily and pretended to search for a flea. His nose felt hot.

Wavetail, another elder, cleared his throat—puncturing several moments of uncomfortable stillness—and asked: “But what are we going to do?”

Another moment’s pause, and then the gathered Folk all broke out at once.

“Alert the clans!”

“Post sentries!”

“Move away!”

“No more having kittens!”

This last was from Jumptall, who—seeing the others all staring at him—was suddenly plagued by Tailchaser’s flea.

Old Snifflick climbed ponderously up onto his paws. He looked severely at Jumptall, then gazed around at the waiting Folk.

“First,” he growled, “we had better begin by agreeing not to go yelling and leaping about in this manner. A chipmunk with a bumblebee in its tail would make less noise—and to more effect. Now, let’s review the situation.” He stared impressively at the ground, as if mustering deep thought. “First: an unusually large number of the Folk have gone missing. Second: we have no idea what or who may be causing this. Third: the best and the wisest cats from around our woods are here tonight at Nose-meet, and cannot solve the puzzle. Therefore ...” Snifflick paused to savor the effect. “Therefore, although I agree that guards and such need to be discussed, I think it important that wiser minds than—yes, even ours—should be let to know of this situation. Baffling and affrighting as it is, we have no choice but to inform Certain Others about these events.

“I suggest we should send a delegation to the Court of Harar. It is our duty to inform the Queen of Cats!” Entirely pleased with himself, Snifflick sat down as consternation and surprise whirled about him.

“To the Court of Harar?” breathed Mudtracker. “None of the Folk of Behind-Edge-Copse have been to the seat of the First for twenty generations!” There was more excited rumbling.