by Tad Williams
“No! No! I was hiding! Hiding!” cried Pouncequick piteously. “Hiding from them!” The kitten began to shiver uncontrollably. Fritti, worried for his little friend, began to move slowly toward him.
“Hunt-sister, in your understandable concern for your litter, I think you have mistaken another victim for one of the wrongdoers.” He was at Pouncequick’s side now. The little cat buried his nose miserably in Tailchaser’s flank and whimpered. The fox pinned Fritti with a shrewd gaze.
“What is your name, cat?”
“Tailchaser, of the Meeting Wall Clan,” he replied respectfully. His soft singing seemed to have prevented conflict.
“I am called Karthwine,” said the fox simply. “I will allow you to take your cousin-son without malice. You, however, must take the responsibility for keeping him out of the dens of my Folk. If I find him again near my pups, there will be no compromise.”
“That is more than fair, Karthwine,” said Tailchaser, giving a little head-dip of acceptance. The she-Visl looked him up and down, then turned a final glance to Pouncequick, whose face was hidden against Tailchaser’s belly.
“You sing well, Tailchaser,” the fox said slowly, taking care with her words. “But do not think to rely on that alone in this world. We foxes sing, too, and we know many things. But we also teach our pups how to bite.” She turned and stalked away in great solemnity.
The dawn was breaking above them as Tailchaser lay with a shuddering Pouncequick, singing quiet songs of reassurance. After a while, when the kitten’s terror had subsided, Fritti led him back to the sleeping tree and curled up around him. As the morning sun rose, covering the woodland floor with crisscrossed shadows,‘they fell asleep.
The heat of Smaller Shadows woke Tailchaser. Pouncequick was no longer nestled against him.
Fritti raised his head and saw the young catling up and frolicking, soft fur aclutter with pine needles and dead leaves. When Fritti rose and stretched he discovered a great soreness in his muscles. Watching the gamboling kitten with envy, he decided that he would have to set an easier pace until he became more accustomed to this steady traveling.
Pouncequick, still cavorting happily while Fritti sunned his aching legs and paws, seemed to have recovered completely from the terrors of the night before. When Fritti asked him about what had happened, however, a shade of disquiet came into the youngling’s eyes.
“Can we talk about it after we eat, Tailchaser?” he asked. “I’m very hungry!”
Fritti assented, and the next part of the afternoon was spent in a none-too-effectual hunt—spoiled in a large part by Pouncequick’s tendency to squeak when excited. They did manage to capture a couple of beetles, which—strangely ticklish going down—were at least filling. After finding a still but drinkable puddle of water, they settled down in the shade to digest.
The long, sleepy silence was broken only by the lulling whir of unseen insects. Then, as Fritti felt himself drifting into sleep, Pouncequick began to talk.
“I know I shouldn’t have followed you, Tailchaser. I’m sure I’ll be a burden, but I want so much to help you. You have been kind to me many times, when Fleetpaw and the rest just cuffed me about, or teased me.
“I knew you wouldn’t let me come, though, so I hid until you set out, and then I tracked you. All by myself!” he added proudly.
“Ah. So that’s why you were asking about my leave-taking among the Folk.”
“That’s right. I wanted to know where you were leaving from. I’m not that good a tracker,” he added a little morosely, then brightened. “Anyway, I kept my nose to the ground and followed. Everything went fairly well until midday or so; then I became confused.
“For a while it seemed like your trail had turned into someone else‘s, and then it doubled back on itself, and up and down trees—at least it smelled that way. I got very confused and wandered around for a while; when I found the track again, your traces were pretty cold. I followed as best I could, but it was getting dark, and I was hungry. Actually, I still am. Could we go find a few more beetles or something?”
“Later, Pouncequick,” snorted Fritti. “Later. First I want to hear the rest of your song, little cu‘nre.”
“Oh, yes. Well, I was trying to make up ground on you—hoping you would stop to sleep, or something—when I heard the most awful noise. It was a huge group of birds, and they were all twittering and shrieking at the same time. I looked up, and there were hundreds of them—a whole cloud of fla-fa‘az—all flying like mad around this tree, and making a terrible fuss.
“I went to the base of the tree, naturally, to see what was going on.
“It must have been horrible up top. There were piles of dead fla-fa‘az, ripped and bitten, and feathers everywhere, floating down from the upper branches. And when I looked up, I could see eyes!”
“What do you mean, ‘eyes’?” Fritti questioned.
“Eyes. Big, pale-yellow ones—like nothing I’ve ever seen. There were too many branches in the way for me to see anything else, but I know I wasn’t mistaken. Then whatever it was made a hissing noise at me, and I ran. I think it came down the tree after me, Tailchaser, because the birds stopped making that terrible ruckus—but I didn’t look back to find out. I just ran.” Pouncequick paused for a moment with his eyes closed, then continued.
“I think that there might have been more than one, from the sounds I heard. They were fast, and if I wasn’t small—able to get under bushes and such—they would have caught me. I have never been so frightened—not even when a Growler was after me.
“Finally, I could barely run anymore. I was slowing down. I couldn’t hear anything behind me, though, so I stopped to listen more carefully.
“I was standing there with my ears up, and something reached out from under a rock and grabbed me!”
“From under a rock?” said Tailchaser incredulously.
“I swear by the First! It grabbed my leg! Here, see these scratches!” Pouncequick displayed his wounds. “You won’t believe this either, Tailchaser, but the thing that grabbed me, whatever it was ... it had red claws!”
“Well, you said that something was killing the birds you saw. It was probably blood.”
“After half an Hour of chasing me over dirt and brambles? It would have come clean. Besides, this wasn’t dried blood. This was bright-red.”
Puzzled, Fritti gestured for the young one to continue.
“I shrieked like a jay, of course, and managed somehow to pull away. I went into a tangle bush as deep as I could, hoping they were too big to come in after me. I couldn’t run any farther. They didn’t make any noise, then, but I could sense they were still there.
“Then I smelled fox, and suddenly they were off. After I’d waited awhile, I staggered out from the bush and found the den-burrow. I supposed I’d go down just inside, where I’d have some defense if they came back for me. Then the Visl returned. I guess you know the rest.”
Fritti leaned forward and gave the youngster a nose-rub on his forehead. “You were very brave, Pouncequick. Very brave. So you never saw what it was that chased you?”
“Not quite, no. But I shall never forget those eyes. And those red claws! Phoof!” Pouncequick shook himself from nose to tail, then turned to Tailchaser, anxiety melted away. “All that talk of fla-fa‘az has made me ravenous. Did I mention that I was hungry?”
“I think you did,” laughed Tailchaser.
They rested through the afternoon, and set out again at twilight.
Tailchaser had some misgivings about keeping young Pouncequick with him, but decided that he really had no other choice: he couldn’t send the little cat away—back through the dangerous woods—and he himself could not give up his quest for Hushpad.
They made a fairly good pace. Pouncequick tended to trot ahead for a while, then lag behind—fascinated by a butterfly or a shiny stone. It seemed to even out, more or less, and their progress was steady. Pouncequick even managed to curb his squeaking a little, and the hunting improved.
Several da
ys passed. They fell into a routine of alternating walks and rests—a long sleep at midday, when the sun was high, and another at Final Dancing, lasting until sunrise. They hunted as they traveled, catching the odd beetle or small bird hidden in the brush, and hunted bigger game only before the lying-in time of Smaller Shadows.
One afternoon, Pouncequick caught a Squeaker all by himself. It was a young mouse, and a very stupid one at that, but Pouncequick caught it without help and was justifiably proud. Moreover, Fritti decided, it tasted just as good as the cleverer sort.
Their companionship eased the tedium of the journey for both cats, and the days flew swiftly by. Although Pouncequick’s incessant bounding and capering occasionally drove Fritti to snarling and swatting, he was still very glad to have the little cat for company. As for Pouncequick, he was delighted to be adventuring with an admired elder. The shadow of his first night in the wild seemed to have vanished, leaving no trace.
The forest seemed to change around them as they traveled—now thick and knotted, choked as tangle-bush, then open and airy as Edge Copse. Then, at the end of their fifth day in the woods, the trees began to appear successively smaller and farther apart.
Topping a jutting rock that stood out among the treetops like a fela above her kittens, Tailchaser and Pouncequick stood and watched the sun of their sixth day rise. The forest below them stretched away another league or two, becoming steadily sparser, then dwindled to an end. Beyond it lay rolling green downs; clusters of trees sat in the hollows between their rounded sides.
The downs stretched on into the distance, their farthest reaches shrouded in early-morning fog. Beyond that might lie more hill land, or forests ... or anything. No one Tailchaser knew had ever spoken of what lay beyond the Old Woods.
The two companions scented the breeze, drinking up the smells rising on the warming air. Pouncequick looked down, then butted Fritti’s side.
Below them, on a subordinate peak of the outcropping, stood another cat. It was a strange sight, all muddy, with tangled fur and wild eyes. As Tailchaser and Pouncequick stared the unknown cat looked up at them with a strange, unfocused gaze. They had only a moment more to wonder at its ragged pelt and crooked tail; then the stranger leaped down from the rock, landing unsteadily on a wide limb, and vanished into the foliage. Where it had passed, the leaves bobbed for a moment, then were still.
7 CHAPTER
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”
—Lewis Carroll
Tailchaser was doing a lot of thinking. The long days of walking had given him time to do that, and he was adding up facts in a very careful way.
Pouncequick’s story of pursuit fit in with the other things he had heard: the disappearance of some of the Folk; the Rikchikchik’s tales of cat raids.
Lord Snap had mentioned four cats: the number alone made Fritti believe someone other than Folk was responsible for the raids on the squirrel-nests. And Karthwine the fox had said that the beasts had smelled part badger, part cat. Perhaps the creatures just looked enough like cats to lead small animals like the Rikchikchik to a false conclusion.
Even Stretchslow had said that something strange was in the air. A new kind of marauding beast? Pouncequick’s descriptions of eyes and claws came back to him, and he shuddered.
With a sudden start, he thought of Hushpad—could those things have gotten her? But no, he had smelled no fear at her empty nesting place. They might have caught her in the forest, though! Poor Hushpad! Such a big world, and so full of dangers....
His attention was diverted by Pouncequick, who was annoying a badger. The great digging beasts could be savage when they needed to be. Tailchaser threw over his pondering and hurried to extricate the youngling from a potential disaster.
Dragging Pouncequick away by the scruff of the neck, Fritti mumbled an apology to the nettled badger. The beast grunted scornfully at him as he retreated, then waddled off, striped sides huffing.
A lecture failed to dampen Pouncequick much. Soon they were off again, heading toward the outer edge of the Old Woods.
Waking from his midday nap, Tailchaser felt eyes upon him. Across the clearing stood the strange cat they had seen at the jutting rock. Before Fritti could untangle himself from the snoring Pouncequick the cat was gone, leaving no trace. It seemed to Fritti that the odd creature had been about to speak to them—there had been a strange yearning in its eyes.
That evening, as they were crossing a stand of aspens, the cat again appeared before them. This time it did not run away, but stood gnawing its lower lip nervously as they approached.
Seen up close, the cat was a fantastic sight. Its original color was long since hidden under the dirt and mud that caked its fur and twined the hair into swirls and tangles. Sticks and leaves, bits of tree lichen and evergreen needles, all manner of odd clutter festooned its coat from head to tail-tip. It had bent whiskers, and its eyes looked sad and puzzled.
“Who are you, hunt-brother?” asked Fritti cautiously. “Do you seek us?” Pouncequick hung close by Tailchaser’s side.
“Who ... who ... who ... the Ruhu ...” the stranger intoned solemnly, then fell to chewing his lip again. His voice was deep and male.
“What is your name?” Fritti tried again.
“Ixum squixum ... hollow and hellioned ... how so?” The strange cat looked vaguely into Fritti’s eyes. “Eatbugs is me, I am ... I ran, so I am ... so you see ...”
“He’s mad, Tailchaser!” squeaked Pouncequick nervously. “He has the dripping-mouth sickness, I’m sure of it!”
Fritti signaled him to hush. “You are called Eatbugs? That is your name?”
“The same, the same. Grass-gobbler and stone-chewer ... isky pisky squiddlum squee ... oh! No!” Eatbugs whirled around, as if something were creeping up behind him. “Aroint thee!” he cried at the empty air. “No more of your dandly dancing out of earshot, you hugger-mugger hiss-mouse!” He turned back toward the cats with a wild look in his eyes, but as they stared, a change seemed to come over him. The crazed look was replaced by one of embarrassment.
“Ah, old Eatbugs gets confused sometimes, he does,” he said, arid scuffed the ground with his grimy paw. “He don’t mean no harm, though—never would, you see....”
Pouncequick hissed with alarm. “He is mad—did you see him? We must go!”
Tailchaser was also a little nervous, but something about the old cat touched him. “What can we do for you, Eatbugs?” he asked. Pouncequick stared at him as though he, too, had gone quite mad.
“There you are,” the stranger said. “There you be.
Old Eatbugs were just lonesome for some talk. It’s a
big world—but precious few there are to speak with.”
The old cat scratched distractedly at his ear and
dislodged a small seed pod, which fell to the ground.
Eatbugs bent and sniffed it eagerly, then a moment
later swiped at it angrily with his paw and sent it
rolling away.
“That’s your world, now isn’t it? That’s your world,” he mumbled, then seemed to remember the others. “Your pardon, young masters,” he said. “I do wander a bit, betimes. Might I walk with you a ways? I do know some stories, and a game or two. I was a hunter when the world was a pup, and I catch a fair bit of game still!” He looked hopefully at Fritti.
Tailchaser did not really want another companion, but he felt sorry for this scruffy old tom.
Ignoring Pouncequick’s frantic “no” signals, he said: “Certainly. We would be honored to have you accompany us for a while, Eatbugs.”
The mud-splattered old cat leaped up and cut a caper in the air so ridiculous that even Pouncequick had to laugh.
“Piglets and pawprints!” cried Eatbugs, then paused and looked quickly around. He leaned toward his compa
nions. “Let’s be off!” he added, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.
Eatbugs was not a bad traveling companion. His occasional fits did not prove dangerous in any way, and after a while even Pouncequick accepted him without too much trepidation. He kept up a constant stream of songs and strange poetry all through the evening. When Fritti—wanting a little peace—finally asked him to quiet down a bit, he became silent as mud.
When they stopped to rest at Final Dancing, Eatbugs was still not speaking.
Fritti felt badly about how the old cat had taken his admonishment—he had not wanted to silence him completely. He walked over to the stranger, who was lying on the ground with his eyes in that odd, unfixed gaze.
“You told us that you knew some stories, Eatbugs. Why don’t you give us one? We’d enjoy it.”
Eatbugs did not immediately respond. When he raised his head to look at Tailchaser, his eyes were filled with a great and terrible sadness. At first Fritti thought that he had been the cause, but a moment’s observation showed that the old cat wasn’t seeing him at all.
The look suddenly passed from Eatbugs’ begrimed mask, and his eyes focused on Tailchaser. A weak smile came to his mouth.
“Ah, what, lad, what?”
“A story. You said that you would tell us a story, Eatbugs.”
“Yes, I did. And I know plenty—ramblers and tumblers and bottom-droppers. What do you want to hear about?”
“One about Firefoot. His adventures!” said Pouncequick eagerly.
“Oh ...” said Eatbugs, shaking his muddy head. “I’m afraid I don’t know any good ones, kitling ... not about Firefoot. What else?”
“Wellll ...” Pouncequick pondered, disappointed. “What about Growlers? Big, mean Growlers—and brave cats! How about that?”
“By the Sniffling Snail, I do happen to know a good one about the Growlers! Shall I sing it for you?”