Motherstone (9 page)

‘Cat,’ she whispered, ‘please don’t kill her.’

‘Cat,’ she called.

It made no sign, but kept its lazy walk towards the woman. Slarda had reloaded. Thirty metres of sand separated her from the animal. She began a rearward creeping. If she was afraid she did not show it. Her eyes never blinked. She was a savage creature too. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth. The closer she let the cat come the better her chance. Her shot had to strike and had to kill.

The cat advanced. Ten body-lengths away it stopped. Its tail grew rigid, its back arched. Its ears were flattened on its head. Stiff-legged, almost clumsy, it turned side-on, inviting Slarda to shoot. She shook her head and took a half step back. No, she would not shoot, not yet. ‘Closer, red one. I’ll have your skin.’ Her whisper came to Susan across the sand. The cat seemed to dance then, came in closer, stiff-legged still, head angled low. Again it offered its side to Slarda. And now the woman acted: in one movement aimed and shot. It was her chance, the best she would have. The speed of the bolt must beat the cat.

Somehow Susan was there, she was in the Bloodcat’s mind, and knew it beat the woman not the bolt. Its spring began at pressure, not release – so it was gone before the bolt was launched, Slarda shot at nothing. Yet she was clever, and allowed for the movement; shot high, and the bolt came close. Its feathers brushed the Bloodcat’s belly at the peak of its jump. Then the cat was down, and running: four, five steps, then a bound. It came at Slarda high, dropping at her, and Slarda, in a crouch, knife in hand, reached up to slash the animal’s belly. She hoped to disembowel it. But in that upward look her throat was bared. It was enough. The cat flicked with a back leg, with claw unsheathed like a gutting knife, and cut her throat. Slarda fell, and rolled over once, and beat her shins on the sand. She lay dead. It was very simple, very quick. The cat turned from its landing place. It walked to her, and sniffed, and sat down and licked its back paw clean.

‘Slarda,’ Susan whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Slarda.’ She closed her eyes. She was so tired, so worn out in her feelings, that she was not able to move or think. She did not even open her eyes again. She felt the cat coming close. She felt it sitting in front of her, looking, waiting. She had no idea what it would do, and did not care. Then it seemed to her she slept a while. When she opened her eyes the cat was there, resting too. Slarda’s body sprawled indistinct on the sand. A narrow shadow pressed at the foot of the dune. Susan’s face and torso lay in it, but her legs were burning in the sun. She looked at the cat. She did not think it would be wise to move. ‘Cat,’ she whispered. It opened its eyes and looked at her. They seemed cooler, and the pupils, though shrinking in the light, were blunt at the tips.

‘Cat,’ she said, ‘I’m getting up.’

It watched her while she stood, then it stood too.

‘Cat, if you’re going to kill me, do it now.’

The animal twitched its tail, but gave no sign.

She said, ‘Do you remember the arena? And Ben? And me taking off your collar?’

The cat looked bored. It yawned again. It seemed fond of yawning, this cat. She knew she was not getting through to it. ‘Cat, how do I talk to you? Why aren’t I scared? Are you my friend?’ She took a step towards it. That made it act. It stiffened, showed a flash of tooth under its lip. ‘No, not yet. Not friends.’

She tried to think what to do. Jimmy had talked to Ben in pictures – and she too had learned to show, not tell. So … Carefully, keeping it simple, she made a picture of the arena: banks of spectators, tongue of stone over the drop, the dais, the High Priest. And the cat gave a screech. It leaned at her, trembling. It had memories, that was plain. She made more pictures, in a hurry: herself unbuckling the collar, freeing the cat. And the cat running, leaping up the steps of the arena, while the priests parted frantically to let it through. And the leap from arena to cliff-top, and the jungle beckoning. That was it. She flashed it like a series of slides for the cat to see. And it saw. Somehow it saw. It relaxed. The tension went out of it. It settled more easily on its legs.

‘Cat,’ Susan said, ‘I set you free.’

As if in answer, the cat closed its eyes, and opened them. It was, she saw, a sign of trust. But she could not help wondering what would happen when the animal grew hungry. Would the slide-show work?

Her head was aching and her mouth was dry. It was not easy making these pictures. They must take a lot from her, for when she moved she seemed to have no strength. ‘Water,’ she said. ‘Cat, I need water.’ She looked at Slarda’s body, and though she did not want to see it close walked towards it. The cat gave a growl, but she made another picture: a pool of water. That quietened it. She came to Slarda’s body and was glad it was lying face down. She did not want to see the woman’s throat. She unfastened her water flask from her belt and drank from it. The water was warm, but ran down her throat sweet as honey. She drank deeply, then poured a little water in her hand and offered it to the cat. The animal turned its back. It strolled away and lay on the sand.

Careful, Susan told herself, not too fast.

She unstrapped Slarda’s food pouch and retrieved her knife from where it had fallen. The woman’s leather cap had fallen off and her hair was spread on the sand. Brown hair, pretty hair. What had turned Slarda into a killer? What was it in her, and the others, that allowed them to kill so easily, and enjoy it? She belted on the knife and pouch and flask. That was all she wanted. She did not want to take the woman’s blanket or her cap, though both would be useful. Then she remembered Steen. She looked into the desert and shivered. She did not want to go, but knew she must. Slarda might have wounded him, not killed him. He might be lying there, dying slowly. She had to make sure.

‘Cat,’ she said, ‘I’m going to find my friend. Are you coming?’ It seemed best to pretend he was safe. He padded along behind her, and although he might be waiting his time to kill she would behave as though he was friendly. She followed Slarda’s steps back into the dunes. They kept a straight line, and her own trail lay alongside, denting the sand. Then she came to a place where they had parted – or rather, where Slarda’s had joined hers again. The woman had angled across from a crowd of little conical hills. A good place for an ambush, though they’d done Steen no good. She went into them and found the sand packed harder, mixed with earth and pebbles. She lost the trail. ‘Where?’ she said to the Bloodcat. It stood behind whipping its tail. ‘Help me,’ she said. ‘You can find him.’ She made a picture of Steen lying on the sand, with his arms outflung. It galvanized the cat, made it leap into the air as though stung. It growled and advanced on her. She saw the way its joints worked under its hide, so beautifully. It made her feel clumsy; but she formed the picture again, and tried to show herself and the animal there too.

The cat understood. It seemed to nod, and it raised its nose, sniffing the air, and started off round the nearest hill. It led her a long way, further than she thought Steen could have gone. But there he was – and just has she had shown him in her picture, arms out-stretched. It was as if she had known. She walked towards him beside the cat. He was in a little hollow, like something dead lying in a basin. She felt tears of pity for him, and of anger at the waste. Steen dead. Slarda too. There was no need, they should be alive. She knelt beside him and said, ‘Steen, I’m sorry.’ And suddenly she seemed to be speaking with a voice not her own – an O voice not an Earth voice, and words she had not thought. ‘I’ll try to stop it all, I promise you. No more killing.’ His mouth was wide in his shout of pain. His eyes stared blindly at the sun. She tried to close them but could not make the lids go all the way.

The cat sniffed at him and turned away. It sat on the sand and yawned. It did not want Steen for food – but ants would pick him clean. Scouts had already found him. She saw them busy underneath, by the broken shaft of Slarda’s bolt. Steen would be a skeleton, dry bones in the desert. She did not see anything wrong with that, it might be an end he would have chosen. But she wanted some way of saying goodbye. So she picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle on his chest – a kind of burial. No prayers; O had had more than enough of that. She said, ‘Goodbye, Steen. Thank you for helping me. I’m glad you were your own man, not Osro’s.’ It seemed enough. She turned away and walked towards the jungle. The cat padded easily, two or three steps ahead.

They took a new way and did not see Slarda again. It was further to the jungle than Susan had thought and she wondered if the cat knew where it was going. Perhaps it preferred to stay in the desert. In that case she would have to get away. She must reach the coast and find the Birdfolk. ‘Cat,’ she said, ‘jungle.’ She made a picture of creepers and trees. The cat growled. Did that mean yes? It did not change its course but kept straight on; and soon she saw the dark line of trees. ‘Good,’ she said, stepping faster, coming up to the animal’s side. Without thinking, she let her hand fall on its neck.

The cat’s reaction was so swift she never knew what had happened. She felt a blow on her side that knocked the breath out of her and sent her spinning across the sand in a tangle of arms and legs. She did not know how long she lay, spitting sand, wiping it from her eyes. But when she was able to see she rose on her hands and knees and faced the cat. It crouched two metres away, eyes burning, ears flat, teeth bared in the sun. One wrong move or word and it would spring. She must say and do exactly what was right, or she would die. But even as she prepared herself, she took hope from the thought that the cat had struck with its claws still sheathed, otherwise she would be dead already.

‘Cat,’ she whispered, ‘I’m your friend,’ and she made the picture at the same time: the girl, herself, unbuckling the collar, freeing the cat. Again, again she made it, keeping it simple. This was a primitive animal, much more primitive and savage than Ben. It must have only a few simple thoughts, a few responses. Attack! Kill! Tear! Eat! How could friendship be one of them? She must keep reinforcing its memory of her setting it free. That was the only pathway she had into its mind.

In a little while she stood up. ‘Now,’ she whispered, ‘we’re friends. You don’t want me touching you. But friends touch.’ She made the picture: her hand coming down to rest on its head. The cat snarled. It sank a little deeper in its crouch. ‘Stay,’ she said ‘you stay there.’ She moved several steps towards it. She held out her hand to show what she meant to do; advanced it until it was a hand-width from the cat. She let it stay there. It trembled and she told it to stop. When she moved it again the cat struck. Yet it shortened its blow, something held it back. The tip of one claw nicked Susan’s wrist, blood dripped on the sand. It was a dangerous moment. Blood might madden the cat.

Slowly Susan withdrew her hand and pushed out the other. The cat struck again, knocked it aside, but this time the claws were sheathed. ‘No’ she said. She brought her hand back. The cat pushed it away. ‘See, we’re touching.’ She made a picture: paw and hand. The cat seemed to think about it. It seemed to grow sulky, and moved back a step. Carefully, Susan closed the gap, brought herself back in touching range. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I’ll touch your head. If you and I are friends we’ve got to touch.’ She showed him herself with her hand on his head. He drew back his lip at that, but made no move. She advanced her hand; she let her fingertips come down just above his eyes. His ears flattened, that was all, he made a spitting sound, like tearing paper. But he allowed it.

After a while she moved her hand and cupped it on his head. Taking care not to move suddenly, she stepped round to his side and touched the mark left by the collar on his neck. She knelt and looked at the scars on his side. The cuts were tender still but they were healing. ‘Ben really got you.’ She made a picture of the Varg, and the cat made no response. He did not seem to bear Ben any malice.

‘Now,’ Susan said, ‘we’re friends. We can travel together. But you’ve got to have a name. I can’t call you Cat.’ She thought a while, and remembered the barn cats at home, Poorman and Beggarman. Once there had been Richman – Richman lived in the house – but he was dead. She smiled at the cat. ‘How about Thief? It seems to suit you.’

The cat moved off and cleaned its paw. She licked her own wrist where the claw had nicked it. ‘You’re dangerous,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re on my side.’ She hoped he was. She did not think they were really friends yet, or if they were it was not a friendship she was going to count on. Something could easily tip it over – hunger could. She looked at Thief licking his claw – getting a taste of her blood – and wondered when he would be hungry next.

‘Come on, Thief. Let’s get moving.’ She made another picture of the jungle; and surprisingly, making her start, something came back – a picture from Thief, the first he had sent. It had no colour but was black and white, and that, she supposed, showed how primitive Bloodcats were. Ben’s pictures were in colour. But this showed jungle like an old photograph. The point of it, she saw, was that the wall of sand was low. Thief was showing an easy way in.

‘Good,’ she whispered, ‘let’s go.’

They moved towards the jungle and turned along its edge, and the wall of sand shrank until it was level with her head. Thief turned and leaped to the top of it. She recognized the place he had shown her. She scrambled up and joined him and he started into the trees. ‘Stop, stop,’ she said. They were going too fast. She had to think. She knew where she was heading but not why. The things she would do when she found the Birdfolk were no longer clear. Once it had been a matter of getting back to the cave and going home. But now she had made Steen a promise. Between her and home was job she must do – stop the killing. How could she have said that? There was nothing she could do to stop an army – and this army had the fire Weapon, and troops that looked as savage as Tartar horsemen, the Mongol horde. Yet when she had spoken it was as if she spoke from some knowledge.

In spite of Thief's presence she felt alone. The desert gleamed like a lake of salt. Ahead the forest – mossy aisles, black trunks – made a humming silence that seemed to empty all thought from her head. She could not believe humans had ever passed this way. And she needed humans, she needed friends, she had to talk, and find out what it was she had to do. She knew her bond with O was a special one. Twice she had been called, and somehow not completed her task. Now it seemed three was the special number. Three would make things whole. But what must she do?