Page 23 of Blacktail

The lions gathered below her rumbled nervously. The senior apprentices were not worried by the sudden dark or even the strange, chittering sounds now rising up around them. A long acquaintance of her magic had accustomed them to impossible things, but the Old Kitty Mother was purring and swishing her tail with the greatest joy. Even the oldest sea turtles could not remember a world before her, but in all that time no one had ever seen her so pleased.

“Did you hear that?” She waited a moment, but no one spoke. She glanced up at the moon. It was the same—so far—but she swished her tail with something like glee. “No? None of you? Very well.” She hopped down from the rock. Daylight returned. She walked out into the grass. They knew without asking that she was going somewhere none of them could follow. Just before the grass swallowed her, she turned back to the insolent novice. “Oh—final lesson. One of you asked of my secret?”

That lion, not so menacing with the memory of darkness upon him, shook his mane in assent.

“The secret,” she said, “is that there is no secret. Everyone suffers. Some choose to surrender, and some do not. The nature of your courage, the degree of it…these are entirely up to you.”

With that she was gone, off to stalk something that only she could hear.

—

Even when they were all dead, Blacktail’s rage was still high. He defiled their corpses, shredding the flesh but eating nothing. When that was done he scattered the pieces throughout house, pissing and shitting as he went, ruining things. He understood that the red moon in his mind would never truly set, but after a time it at least dimmed. When there was nothing left to ruin, he slipped back out into the night.

Blacktail stood vigil over the body of Renren as he had once done for his mother. For now there was only grief. Once, when he was younger, he had torn out one of his foreclaws while climbing a rock. This felt like that. Everything he touched hurt. When he looked at the wall of the garden, he knew that Renren would not climb it beside him. The memory of his den on the hill was haunted by the ghost of puppies that would never play there. He knew he would never again sniff the breeze without hoping for her scent.

It crossed his mind then to lie down and wait for the end. Before too long, some two-legs will come and kill me. They kill everything that matters sooner or later. I doubt I’ll even have to wait very long. The idea was not entirely without its attractions. He had seen the look of death many times in the eyes of his prey, and he thought that whatever came next would at least be peaceful.

The red moon still shone high in his mind, if not quite so bright as before.

Blacktail stood. He shook the clotting blood from his fur. He crouched to leap the garden wall one last time, then paused. Then, in the first light of dawn, he walked back to the den of men and laid his scent on it, saying:

God may forgive them for this

but if so

I will kill Him, too.

The rising sun brought a gray sky and fat snowflakes that clung to his fur. Winter had begun.

Chapter 2

The Son of Snow

i

When Blacktail thudded to the ground on the other side of the wall, he found a gray house cat waiting in the dry grass.

“Good morning,” the cat said. “Unless you do exactly as I say, you will be deader than moose shit before the sun goes down.” He raised one of his paws, examined it, and licked it thoughtfully.

Ragged and bloody, Blacktail drew himself up to his full height. His shadow fell over the little cat. The cat did not run, only sat on his haunches and looked up at him with flat yellow eyes. Blacktail considered killing him—for form’s sake, if nothing else—but decided against it. He was bone weary and had no appetite for the blood of cats. “Hmph,” he said, and turned to go.

“Where are you going, Blacktail?” the cat asked. “Back to your hill? You must not do that. They will surely find you there.”

Blacktail stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Who will find me there?” he asked. “And how do you know my name?”

“Men, of course. They will kill you, you know. They kill everything, sooner or later.” The cat gave his paw another quick lick and put it down, satisfied. “In answer to your second question, your name was given to me by the Old Kitty Mother.” The cat glanced up, gauging Blacktail’s reaction to this last.

“Who?”

“You do not know of the Old Kitty Mother?”

“Never heard of her.”

“Strange,” the cat said. “She is a great witch, first among cats and—”

In a flash, Blacktail’s muzzle was a whisker’s length from the cat’s nose, all blood and fangs. “I…eat…cats,” he snarled. “Frequently. With great pleasure.”

Still, the cat did not run. “I am aware of that,” he said. “You devoured a cousin of mine last spring. Do you recall? Willie? He was a tabby? Pleasant fellow, good sense of humor?”