by Clare Bell
“There is only one problem,” Bira said to Thistle, as she nudged the treeling into looping a length of vine about one of Thistle’s forepaws.
“What?” asked Ratha, who was watching.
“I can send Biaree down with food or melon bits for True-of-voice. That’s not such a complicated thing. But tying vines onto someone’s paws, especially if Biaree doesn’t know that someone—that may be the hard part.”
“He won’t do it?” Ratha asked as Thistle felt her hopes sag.
“He will, but I’ll have to go down with him at least partway to coax him. I’m willing to try,” Bira added. “Thistle said there was a slanting shelf on the face.”
Thistle watched the way her mother looked at Bira. “That shelf is pretty narrow. I saw it. Even the treeling is going to have a hard time.”
Bira looked steadily back at Ratha. In the Firekeeper’s gaze, Thistle saw the words that Bira did not need to say. Even if I risk falling, I’ll try it.
The clan’s deep loyalty to Ratha, despite her mistakes, made Thistle feel envious for a moment. It also brought a new respect for her mother.
“Could Biaree work with someone other than you?” Ratha asked Bira.
Bira looked startled. “Why yes, clan leader. But why?”
“Because I can’t let you risk your life as well as your treeling,” Ratha said. “And I won’t.”
“Don’t worry about me, clan leader. The important thing is doing what needs to be done, which is saving True-of-voice.” Bira’s voice sounded calm, but Thistle picked up a slight tremor underneath.
“I am the one who made the decision to attempt the rescue,” Ratha said. “I won’t ask any of you to take the risk. Unless I fail.”
“But clan leader,” Bira faltered, and then fell silent.
Thistle felt a bolt of fear go through her. Fear for her mother. That Ratha might die in a fall from the cliff, leaving the Named leaderless. And herself without Ratha, just as she was really starting to know her mother.
“None of you can go,” Thistle heard herself say sharply. “All too . . . big!”
There was a silence. Ratha glowered, while Bira looked thoughtful. “She has a point,” the Firekeeper said.
Ratha’s answer was a low growl. “I know. I wish she didn’t.”
Thistle interrupted. “Better chance for me. Smaller. Lighter. Not part of clan. Not needed. Or not as much as you and Bira.”
“Face-tail dung!” Ratha exploded. “Of all the idiot things to say! Thakur needed you enough to bring you here. And if you think I’m going to let you hang your scrawny tail over the cliff—what if you get one of those fits?”
Thistle shivered inside at the thought of being attacked by her illness, but she refused to back down. “My problem,” she said, thrusting her nose forward until her muzzle nearly met Ratha’s. “Not yours. Not clan member . . . don’t have to obey you. Can do as I want . . . hang tail where you can’t get to ... can do what you can’t!”
“Thistle ...”
“No, listen, my mother and clan leader. You chose to help hunters. But who pushed you . . . nagged you ... made you think? Not any Named!”
With a thrill, Thistle realized that she was actually pushing against Ratha’s nose. She, the little half-Named scruffball, was making the clan leader give ground.
“Am going to take my scrawny tail down the cliff to True-of-voice. Only way to stop me is to say I can’t use Bira’s treeling.”
Ratha was going back on her haunches, but Thistle didn’t stop her advance. Not while she had her newly beloved foe on the run. “You going to do that? Tell Bira to not let me use treeling? Throw away one real chance to save True-of-voice?”
Abruptly, Thistle jerked her head away from Ratha’s nose. “Am going. With or without treeling.” She started to pace away.
There was utter silence behind her.
All right, they were going to make things hard. She was used to dealing with things when they were hard. Including her mother.
And then came a roar that made her ears flatten.
“Thistle-chaser, come back here or I’ll—”
She turned around, lifted her tail and her chin.
“—have to bring you the treeling!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The following morning, everyone in Ratha’s group assembled at the foot of the trail up to the cliff top. To Thistle’s surprise, Quiet Hunter was there, too, even though he looked weak and shaky.
“Must tell people that you are trying to help,” he said, leaning against Thakur, who stood beside him. Thistle felt a strong surge of affection and gratitude to the herding teacher for his dedication to Quiet Hunter. Thakur had stayed beside him, trying to calm him, to heal the pain caused by the loss of the song. Even though the gentle healer and teacher knew that his caring would not save Quiet Hunter, he gave all that he could.
And now Quiet Hunter, in his own way, was trying to give something back.
Thistle was startled by something touching the nape of her neck. It was the treeling, a still-strange sensation. She wasn’t used to carrying Biaree, although he had been with her since the end of the teaching sessions of the previous day. Bira had insisted on this, though Thistle knew that the Firekeeper missed the companionship of her treeling.
One day and one night—it wasn’t nearly enough time to form the kind of partnership that the task demanded. If not ready, my fault, not Biaree’s, Thistle thought. For it was as if the treeling understood the importance of what he was being trained to do. He had accepted both an abrupt change in companions as well as an intense series of training sessions. And all without any treeling fussiness or outbursts of temper.
He had tied innumerable knots around Named paws with various different sizes of vines. Thakur, in addition to caring for Quiet Hunter, had doubled as paw donor, for his feet were probably the closest in size to True-of-voice’s. He had to put up not only with having loops tied around his feet but with having the vines yanked on, since Biaree had been taught to test knots as well as make them.
Now the Named were about to see if all their preparation was enough.
Thistle watched as Ratha arranged everyone for the climb up the trail and the first confrontation with the hunters who were still keeping vigil for True-of-voice. She felt herself fidgeting with impatience as Ratha trotted from one to the other, assigning them their roles in the rescue attempt. She had sought True-of-voice’s song and could not find it. The leader might already be dead, or close to it. Any more delay and . . .
Even so, Thistle could see that what her mother was doing made sense. Ratha had put herself, Khushi, and Bira in the lead. Bira carried fire embers, nestled in a sand-filled basket that had a carrying loop. She and her treeling had made it together. Khushi had a mouthful of dry pine branches that would light quickly, if needed. It was a compromise—Ratha had originally wanted Bira to carry a lighted torch to repel any attack. It was not Thistle’s objection that had changed the clan leader’s mind, but Quiet Hunter’s soft plea that the Red Tongue not be used against his people unless there was no other way.
Thistle herself was next, with Biaree on her shoulders. Behind her came Thakur, with loops and coils of heavy vines tied onto his back and flanks. He also had a few packets of food and chunks of melon, so that the hunger and thirst that threatened True-of-voice might be fended off long enough to get the trapped leader down. Beside Thakur walked Quiet Hunter, carrying some of the lighter coils of vine ropes.
“All right, Thistle,” Ratha announced. “We’re ready.”
Ratha and Bira set the upward pace—a ground-eating jog-trot. Even so, Thistle had to keep herself from forcing her way forward or crowding the three before her. She also fought to control her fear that True-of-voice might be beyond help. She needed to keep calm in order to avoid alarming Biaree. So far the partnership had worked out astonishingly well, but she knew how quickly it had been formed and how easily it might be destroyed.
It was hard going, especially the last
section of the trail, which led to the top, where the hunters were still gathered. Thistle felt herself sweating so heavily through her pads that dust seemed to turn to slippery mud beneath her feet. Would the hunters attack? Would they rush the party as soon as she and the Named appeared? If she were attacked, what would Biaree do? Could they keep the treeling safe from the hunters?
Can’t lose Biaree. Without him, have no hope of rescuing True-of-voice.
Thistle watched Khushi, trotting ahead of her, clench his teeth on the unlit firebrands as the party emerged from the trail to the cliff top.
“Slow,” came Ratha’s voice from in front, and everyone eased to a cautious pace. Thistle could feel Biaree crouch down low on her neck. She gave a low purr to reassure him, the way Bira had taught her.
Now she could see the hunters. They were still gathered at the cliff edge. Some were sprawled out the way Quiet Hunter had been until she sang to him. Some were staggering back and forth, their bleeding paws mute witness that they had been pacing like this for days. Some were circling endlessly, their heads hanging low.
None had groomed or eaten, despite the presence of meat from the kill lying in rotting, fly-ridden piles. Their coats were dusty, matted. Some of the hunters had bare, raw patches where they had obsessively licked themselves or pulled out hair. Ribs showed and stomachs were shrunken. Drool hung from half-open mouths.
Thistle felt her own belly clench at the sight. Thought I was exaggerating about them dying. But they are.
She hoped that the hunters might be too weak or crazed to offer the Named any resistance, but her hope faded as the mourning howls turned to snarls, heads were lowered, and teeth showed.
In front, she saw Ratha narrow her eyes, take an unlit firebrand from Khushi, and hold it, ready to dip the end in Bira’s embers. There was suddenly a flurry behind her as Quiet Hunter staggered forward as fast as his shaky legs would carry him. Past the Firekeeper, past the clan leader, out to his own people, even though they had expelled him, threatened to kill him . . .
Looking at the torture in their eyes, Thistle knew that loss and pain were demanding blood, and they did not care whose. And looking at her mother’s face and the jaws gripping the torch, she knew that Ratha was ready to defend her own group—and Quiet Hunter—with the equal savagery of the Red Tongue.
Hoping that Biaree would stay quiet, Thistle also left her place, moving toward her mother. She heard Quiet Hunter speaking, trying to fend off the threatened attack with gentle words. He knew their pain, he said. He, too, was dying from it. But the ones with him intended to help. They had not come to prey but to heal.
The hunters would not believe. They were too deeply in pain to believe. The sight and smell of the strangers and the hint of their weapon, even though hidden in the basket of sand and embers, was too much to accept. Thistle knew that things would break down—were already breaking down, even though Quiet Hunter was desperately trying to get through to the rest.
“Quiet Hunter offers himself,” she heard him saying. “If anger must take life, then Quiet Hunter is ready. If the pain of losing the song is eased by killing, then Quiet Hunter is willing to be killed.”
His words sent a charge of fear through Thistle, so strongly that she felt the treeling react, too—hunching and stiffening. It was all she could do not to leap to Quiet Hunter’s side with teeth bared and claws ready. But she knew that if she did, both he and she would die, and the treeling as well. Even scaring Biaree might destroy any chance of saving True-of-voice.
As she purred to quiet the treeling, she saw Ratha turn her head, the torch-stick in her mouth moving to the source that birthed the Red Tongue.
If the flame-creature took life at the end of the branch, Quiet Hunter would not die, but any chance of reaching the hunters would. Though Thistle’s whole being cried out in agony at the choice, she made it.
With a quick nudge, Thistle sent Biaree to temporary safety with Bira.
Moving more quickly and quietly than she thought she could, she reached Ratha. Her teeth met around the unlit torch in Ratha’s mouth. As her eyes met those of her mother, she felt Ratha resist, and the branch was held between them in an abrupt tugging contest.
Ratha flicked her gaze toward Quiet Hunter, who stood with head lowered, accepting the claw swipes that were already opening wounds on his sides and flanks. His refusal to defend or guard himself was making the attackers hesitate, but it wouldn’t keep them off for long.
“For him,” Thistle heard her mother hiss through her teeth.
For an instant they were locked together, braced against each other. Thistle knew that her mother was stronger. Ratha could jerk the firebrand away from her easily. Yet something seemed to be happening deep in her green eyes. Ratha’s jaws loosened on the unlit firebrand, and Thistle heard the whisper of her mother’s voice. “For you, Thistle.”
The stick was in her own mouth and her heart was pounding wildly. She threw it aside. It was not the weapon to defend Quiet Hunter. But what was?
And then she heard it—the distant, slender echo in her mind. The song. And it said, This One knows what Thistle-chaser is trying to do. If only the people would understand.
They would if they could hear you, True-of-voice.
Then let them hear. Through you. Sing to them.
My song, my voice—not the same. Cannot be the same for them. They need the center, the soul, the strength.
The strength is gone. Death is too near. From True-of-voice take the center and the soul. From you, add the strength.
Thistle couldn’t answer. She could make no reply. Only to search within herself for what he asked for.
And then, as Quiet Hunter reeled back from another vicious strike and the threatening snarls from the hunters grew deeper, Thistle lifted her voice in the song.
* * *
Ratha looked up at the sky. The sun had moved only a little, but somehow things below—in hearts, bellies, and heads—had moved an immense distance.
She glanced at Quiet Hunter, who was with his people. The one who had first struck him was now licking and soothing his wounds. Such was the power of the song, even when it came from Thistle.
I’ll never understand these hunters, she thought. I’ll probably never like them, but at least I’m willing to give them a chance.
She crouched by the cliff edge, watching Thistle send Biaree down with bits of food and thirst-quenching melon for True-of-voice. Thakur had said that hunger and thirst were probably weakening him more than any injuries he might have. The hunters lay as close as they could get, yet out of the way of the rescue effort.
Thakur crouched close to Thistle so that Biaree could take the bits of life-preserving food to the one who so desperately needed them. In his mouth Thakur held the end of the slender vine safety rope. The other end was knotted securely about the treeling’s middle. Bira and Khushi stood ready to help Thakur with the rope or get more food.
Biaree had already made several trips up and down the cliff face, carrying as much as he could, but to Ratha, the amounts seemed woefully small.
She joined the rescuers, settling beside Thakur.
“I think we’ve fed True-of-voice as much as we can,” the herding teacher was saying to Thistle. “We don’t want to tire Biaree out; he’s still got to get the vines tied onto the leader’s paws and around his chest, if possible.”
Ratha felt a growing apprehension. Soon would come the moment that she dreaded, when Thistle would descend with her borrowed treeling. She felt that she had too many things to say, yet could not say any of them. She wished deeply that she could be the one to act in Thistle’s place, but she knew that she couldn’t. All other considerations aside, there was the simple fact that Thistle was the smallest of the party and better able to sidle along the narrow shelf. She, like the treeling, would have a safety line, and her lighter weight would minimize the chances of it snapping.
Although a good jerk probably would break it, Ratha thought. We don’t know. We haven’t been abl
e to try it out. I wouldn’t be so worried if it weren’t for those wretched fits. They attack her at the worst possible times.
She listened as Thakur and her daughter talked about the difficulties Biaree would encounter when the treeling went down with the ropes. If True-of-voice was awake, he might be able to help by lifting his limbs and other parts so that Biaree could pass the vine rope around them. Yet, if he was awake, he might accidentally scare the treeling, especially if he was in delirium or only half-conscious.
“Can you reach him?” Thakur asked.
“Difficult. Not clear. Fading in and out.” Thistle squeezed her eyes shut. “Can’t be sure. Really reached him? Don’t know. Maybe song voices were all in my own head.”
“Well, even if they were, they were the right voices.”
“So strange,” Thistle said. “Even for me.” She shook herself. “Can’t wait any longer. Treeling Biaree,” she said, gently nudging her borrowed companion, “True-of-voice won’t hurt you. Go now. Quickly.”
She looked deeply into the treeling’s sharp black eyes, making Ratha wonder if the strange gift that made Thistle able to speak to True-of-voice’s people also worked with treelings. And then with a chitter and a scamper, the treeling was down on the cliff face, finding his way to the trapped leader, holding the end of the vine rope alternately in his teeth or wound around with his tail.
Thistle wore a vine-rope harness made of two loops.
One ran under her chest behind her forelegs; the other was a breastband that anchored the first. Thakur had suggested it and Biaree had tied it, under Bira’s direction. Biaree had also tied the far end to a stout spur of rock. It would help in case of a fall, but it was no guarantee.
Ratha, wrapped up in her thoughts, was startled when Thistle’s cool nose leather touched her own.
“Be with me,” said the soft yet strong voice. “In heart, in breath. Even in guts.”
“I will be, especially the guts,” said Ratha, for she felt her own start to roll and twist with trepidation. She forced herself to watch as Thistle started to climb down, headfirst, after the treeling.