Ratha's Courage (13 page)

Around her the Named leaped up with paws spread, claws extended, and fangs bared, trying to break the stampede. Fessran caught one of the beasts by the tail. It swung her around, her fur bristling wildly. Thistle’s treeling Biaree hung from her neck, scooping up rocks from the ground and hurling them. They didn’t have much effect until a sharp stone hit one face-tail in the eye.

The young beast lashed its trunk, trumpeted, and swerved across the path of its fellows. Shrilling and bawling, the tuskers went down in a heap.

Ratha sprang up, shaking dust from her pelt and yowling a battle cry. Now True-of-voice and the other hunters ran alongside the Named, trying to surround and recapture the escapees.

In the commotion, two little tuskers caromed off one another, sending one crashing through the Red-Tongue-nest, throwing embers into the dry grass. The infant hastened away, batting frantically with its trunk at the shower of sparks and ashes onto its back.

Her nose full of the stink of scorched face-tail hide, Ratha whirled as smoke and then flame exploded from the grass beyond the clearing. Surging up with a menacing crackle, the fire spread as if poured along the base of the grass. It leaped high, rejoicing in its sudden freedom.

The wind kicked the flame higher, whipping it through the parched grass. Smoke tumbled and rolled down onto the Named and the hunters.

It clawed Ratha’s throat; bit her eyes. On her back, Ratharee sneezed and coughed. In the gray swirl, Ratha caught sight of a shape that at first looked like Thakur but, when the wind pulled aside the smoke curtain, revealed itself as Night-who-eats-stars.

He crouched, ears flat, ducking the smoke, but his eyes remained on the face-tails who were backing away from the wildfire, driven by the heat. Instead of helping the other hunters and the Named in catching the animals, Night remained crouched, staring, taking in the sight of flames lunging at the terrified face-tails. Abruptly his ears swiveled forward, and his eyes widened, reminding Ratha of a cub that had finally learned something it had struggled long to understand.

Her own ears flattened and went back. Her teeth seemed to bare themselves, and she wasn’t aware of starting the rasping growl in her throat. Night-who-eats-stars started violently, and then fixed her with his stare. She tensed, ready to meet him if he should spring at her. Instead, he lowered his head and backed into the smoke, vanishing.

Ratha stood still, one paw raised, ignoring the sting of ash in her fur and choking smoke in the shock of the unexpected encounter.

Another shape dashed up beside her. This time it was Thakur.

“Clan leader, follow me,” he said. Dazed, she did, galloping behind him with Ratharee bumping on her back until the air cleared. Together they made a wide circle behind the fire-line, bringing them to the main group of mixed clan and herders surrounding the frightened tuskers.

Ratha joined the fray once again, refreshed by the clear air so that her chest no longer ached and her feet were no longer leaden. With Ratharee clinging to her nape, she dashed among them, yowling instructions and commands. She saw True-of-voice moving among his people, but he didn’t have to yowl. He only touched noses, and the one touched seemed to lose fear and gain knowledge of what he or she had to do in order to force the face-tails away from the fire.

“Let it burn,” Ratha cried. “It can’t go that far. There’s a creek and a marshy area in the down-wind direction. The Red Tongue will run there and then die.”

Slowly, and then more rapidly as their captors gained control, the milling face-tails were forced to safety, and then guided back to the meadow on clan land. Thistle, smoke-stained and dirty, but unhurt, ran beside Ratha. The wildfire burned behind them, belching more black clouds into the oncoming twilight.

When they reached the meadow, the young face-tails calmed as they caught sight of others of their own kind. Ratha had the herders hold their ring until the tuskers had settled. The animals, made thirsty by the flight and parched by the smoke, drank deeply from the creek that flowed through the meadow. They sucked up water with their trunks and squirted it into their mouths.

Ratha let True-of-voice know, through Thistle, that his hunters could stay overnight on clan ground. Or, if they wished, return to their own land, to a place not affected by the blaze. The fire would soon burn itself out in the wetland.

True-of-voice, as she expected, chose to depart, leaving with his tribe. Before they went, however, the hunters laid down the meat they still had, leaving it for the Named.

He probably wants to regroup and take stock, Ratha thought. She needed to do the same—and she did, going to each clan member and seeing if he or she were hurt. She found surprisingly few injuries. Singed fur, blistered pads, someone still coughing from a lungful of smoke, cinders in ears, and a few sprains—but no bad burns, deep gashes, or broken bones. They’d only lost one or two of the face-tails, and the remainder were more than enough to cope with.

As Thakur, with Drani’s aid, ministered to the mildly injured, Ratha watched, feeling deeply grateful that none of the Named had been killed or disabled.

Only one thing bothered her now, as she sat on the sunning rock in the cool of late evening. She remembered how the black hunter had crouched, watching, as the face-tails retreated before the wall of fire. It was that understanding that lit his eyes.

But exactly what had Night understood?

Chapter Ten

With the dream-stalking hunters taking refuge on their home ground, Named life settled into familiar paths. Knowing the mating season was approaching, Ratha told the herders to cull herdbeasts and stockpile food. The Firekeepers gathered enough wood to kindle many days’ worth of campfires. Once caught in the heat of mating, her people would be too distracted.

Some clan members would not be caught up in it this time. Mothers with very young cubs would not be taken by the fever. Fessran’s youngsters were old enough that she would be. Mishanti would look after the rumblers while his friend Bundi courted. Thistle-chaser would be among the first-timers, calling to Quiet Hunter. Ratha would fight off the effects of her own heat to see that everything went well for her daughter. Only then would she let the fever take her.

“As if you had a choice,” snorted Fessran when Ratha told her friend her plans the next day. “You are older now and the heat will be stronger. Trust me, I know.”

Instead of hissing a retort, Ratha touched noses with Fessran and left, Ratharee on her shoulder, intending to patrol. She found herself drifting to the meadow’s edge, where the herding teacher was training older students how to manage the new face-tails.

Glancing at the far end of the meadow, Ratha saw Thakur end his session. He shooed away his students, recovered his treeling, Aree, from a bush, and jogged toward Ratha.

Looking as lithe and slim as though he were still young, Thakur moved effortlessly in a ground-eating pace. Ratha found herself enjoying the sight of him, the sun gleaming on his copper coat, his strong, lean muscles, and swift stride. Even the fading scar on his cheek and the fact that he was missing some claws from one foot only gave him more uniqueness and made him more attractive to her than any other clan male. As she watched Thakur approach, Ratha extended her claws in frustration, tearing at the ground beneath her feet. He is the one I want most as a mate. And he is the one I cannot have.

When the herding teacher reached Ratha, his treeling, Aree, bounded up to see Ratharee. Thakur lolled his tongue in amusement as the two treelings huddled together for a quick mother-daughter chatter session.

“Ho, Thakur. May you eat of the haunch and sleep in the driest den,” Ratha said, really meaning the words that were usually spoken in ritual.

“Thanks to you and Fessran’s Firekeepers, I am doing both. Although between you and me, clan leader, I prefer the liver.”

“Come sit with me in the shade and call me ‘yearling’ like you used to.”

With a single bound, Thakur was beside her and licking the nape of her neck. For an instant, his smell overwhelmed her and she wondered if she was to coming into heat. If so, she knew that Thakur would soon have to exile himself as he did every mating season. His heritage was half Un-Named and any cubs he sired on a clan female could lack the Named light in their eyes. Such births only brought tragedy and had already happened too many times in the clan. She remembered Shongshar and the witless young he sired on Bira. Dull-eyed as they were, Shongshar loved them, and taking them away to exile was what turned him into a tyrant. Ratha understood that Thakur dared not take the risk of fathering animal-eyed cubs, especially with her. It did not make her want him any less.

Night . . . with stars.

Dark has crept past day. Hiding. Watching. No longer going close to the fire-nest. Don’t want to be seen by the red-gold female or the sandy one. Most of all, not the tawny one.

These eyes see the bright licking thing tonguing the night. Warmth, yes, light yes, but more . . .

The paw rests on a small hollowed-out log from a fallen tree. The end closed. Sand scraped inside. The talking ones do not know that paws have this cleverness. Singing one does not know that the ears inside can choose to hear singing or not. Now they choose not, and all is silent except for what speaks within.

The eyes inside see pictures, and they move as this night-black body will move, without noise, toward brightness that bites the eyes.

More pictures now, telling what the eyes outside saw when yesterday faded. The young of the two-tailed thick-skinned prey, running to the fire-nest. Their fear-scent is hot and acrid in the nose, flooding the mouth with salt and sour, making the body tense. The skin beneath the fur prickles.

Fear and fascination, making the thick-skinned young prey draw close, yet pushing them away. Making the thick-skinned young prey confused, easier to attack.

Inside, the tongue and nose senses taste a meaty flavor. The pictures tell of less shedding of hunter blood, fewer pain-cries from wounds made by tusks.

The song and singer pleased.

Not yet. Not now. Now is for stillness.

Muscles ache with the urge to spring. When, when will the red-gold one turn away from the fire-nest? The scent of the sand-colored female comes on the wind. The red-gold turns, lifts the nose, pricks the ears. Go, go red-gold, and meet sand-pelt, leaving a path open to the burning thing.

* * *

Now is for swiftness. Jaws seize the hollowed end-closed wood. It is heavy with sand. Only a few of the talking ones sleep on the far side. Lower the head, feel the weight of sand drag at the jaws and teeth. The brightness that licks at the night sky cannot devour sand, only wood. The glowing eggs at its base will live in sand, if fed.

Steal closer. Narrow the eyes against the brilliance that blinds, the heat that sears. Reach into the nest for the glowing eggs laid by the flame. Use claws, not pads, and brace for the burning, beating pain. The song cannot banish the pain, for the ears inside have shut it out.

Paws moving in a blur before tearing, squinting eyes. Heat blasts the face. Claw the glowing orange and black eggs out. Sweep them into the sand-filled log. Sink the teeth into the bitter bark, feeling blisters rise on the nose leather, the forefeet pads, the chin, the jowls . . . desperately want the song to take away pain, but it cannot be heard, must not be heard.

Scent says that the red-gold and the sand-coat are returning. It is good that the tawny is not with them. Muscles launch this body free of the torment. Night wind cools the burning, but its touch intensifies the pain.

Want the comfort of the song. Can’t have it, for the singer will know about the glowing eggs in the sand-filled log. The singer will know about the thick-skinned prey being both drawn and repelled by the sky-licking thing.

Fleeing now, the fiery eggs hidden in the log between the jaws. Fleeing now, not only from the two returning females and the eye-clawing light, but also from the song and the singer.

Now is for distance, silence, fur flattened to hold in scent. For seeking out food for the stolen morsels of brightness and feeding them wood so that they stay alive.

Now is for waiting until the singer once again hungers for the thick-skinned prey. Now is for this coat that swallows stars to be swallowed itself by night . . . .

Ratha was dozing on the sunning rock after the morning’s patrol when she felt two clan members spring up beside her. She scented Bira and Fessran. An acridness in their smells told her both were distressed. She forced her eyes fully open and faced the two Firekeepers. Uneasiness stalked down her back to the base of her tail.

“I’ll set his guts on fire and
then
I’ll make him eat them,” Fessran growled. “Bira, quit looking like a swatted cub. It wasn’t your fault. You only left the Red-Tongue-nest long enough to nose-touch with me.”

“He, I assume, is our black fawn-killer,” Ratha said, keeping her tone mild.

“I let him stay.” Bira looked miserably at Ratha. “He only watched. Remember? You saw. I thought everyone should be able to warm themselves.”

Ratha lowered her own head and rubbed Bira’s cheek. “There is no wrong in wanting to be kind,” she said. “We need more of that, not less.”

Bira closed her eyes and her trembling eased. “You understand. You are also kind, clan leader.”

You have helped to teach me,
Ratha thought.

“Ratha’s right,” Fessran added gruffly. “It isn’t your fault. I didn’t yowl at you and I’m not going to, so lift those whiskers.”

“Can you tell me what happened? The black hunter meddled with the Red Tongue?”

“Yes. You know the way Cherfaree and I set the wood up. We
like to make it tidy. When I came back from greeting Fessran,
it was all a mess and someone had been pawing at the coals.”

“He tried to scuff out his tracks,” Fessran added, “but he missed a few and old eagle-eyes here spotted them. He’d torn his front toe pad in the scrap with Bira and me, and the mark was as plain as the tail on a tusker’s face.”