Page 28 of Blacktail

They did see. The man had located his wife’s head, it seemed, perhaps stumbled over it, and she had locked herself on to him in the only way available. Her teeth were grown long and sharp—rather wolfish, actually, Rex thought. She had clamped on to a string of tendon trailing from his stump. As the two passed under the arch, they screamed in unison, the female’s voice somewhat muffled by her full mouth.

“To build this curse the Old Kitty Mother traveled a great distance down the blackest paths of magic,” the cat said. “Look, do you see this here? This is a charm of binding, wound together with one of pain, and another of forgetfulness.” The cat furrowed his brow and scanned the room. “You know…I think she’s built a true annex of hell in this place. I really think she has.”

“And it was the Old Kitty Mother herself?”

“Who else? Look around you. If there’s another witch with even half the skill necessary to do…well…this…” The cat swished his tail in a broad circle, taking in the horrors of the room. “…I’ve never heard of her.”

From behind them the severed head spoke. The sound of it made Rex’s fur stand up—seeing such a thing was bad enough, but to be seen in turn by it, to have it speak to him, was almost more than his courage could withstand.

“What was that, two-legs?” the cat asked pleasantly. “I cannot understand you when you speak with your mouth full.”

The head carefully released its grip on the male’s stump. Her mate hissed a sigh, perhaps of relief, and continued his slow, twitchy passage toward the recesses of the house. The head teetered for a moment, then tilted over and lay on its side. Much later, Cephus would wonder how long—through how many dry, dusty ages—it would remain that way.

“You’re trying to tell me a cat did this to us?” the head said. “That’s just impossible.”

“Impossible, perhaps, for anyone but the Old Kitty Mother. I see that you’ve returned to the language of the hunt. Interesting. Was that the Old Kitty Mother’s doing, I wonder, or is it simply because of your death?”

“Language?” the head said. “What?”

The cat answered slowly, as if speaking to a rather witless kitten. “The. Language. Of. The. Hunt. It is the one true language, known to all beasts. Hunters speak it, prey speak it, now you do, too. Is it coming back to you? I’m told that your kind use it in the womb, and for a little time thereafter.”

“But—”

“I know, I know. You thought yourself above us, with your reason and your gunshots and your lights…but the hunt is eternal. It can afford to be patient. And look!” he said, bright and cheery. “Now you are one of us again.”

“Who are you?” the head said. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Oh, do you remember? I’m so very flattered. I am the one called Snooky-Ookums. You thought to chastise me once, for a small mess I made in your domain.” The cat smiled. “Actually, I’m glad you mentioned that.” He walked over to the head and raised his leg, then relieved himself briefly. The head sputtered and spat. It managed to rock back and forth a bit, but the stream spattered against it, nonetheless.

“Ahhh,” the cat said. “That’s better. And, really, it’s a pleasure to finally speak with one of you as equals. I think we shall converse again, when I’ve more time.” He turned and stared into the dripping face, met its wide, horrified eyes. “Yes,” he said. “We shall converse often. At great length.”

“But…but…how can this be?” the head whispered. “I didn’t do anything wrong, not really. Of course I’m sorry about Renren, but, well, she was just a dog.”

“Yes,” the cat said in a mild, pleasant tone that made Rex’s blood run cold. “You can say ‘just a dog’ now, while your pain is young and the memory of life is still fresh. Perhaps you’ll still be saying it when this den has rotted away to dust, perhaps even when the ice rivers flow back to cover us all. But will you still be saying it when the sun has gone dim and died? Will you still be saying it when the last of the stars fade away? When creation is ended, and you float here alone, still screaming, forgotten even by your god? You are damned, two-legs,” the cat said. This time his voice carried a hint of compassion. Somehow that was the worst of all. “Show some humility.”

Ignoring the head’s protests, the cat turned back to Rex and Cephus. “You have loyalty to your master. We understand that. Loyalty is the first virtue of dogs. But it is the will of the Old Kitty Mother that this wolf escape the hunt that is raised against him,” he said. “Old Kitty Mother, who rewards her friends and punishes her enemies. Make your own choice.”

iii

For the moment he was safe.

Panting and exhausted, Blacktail hunkered down among a small cluster of icy boulders to consider his options, such as they were. The scent of men was thick in the wind. The bay of hounds echoed through the hills.

I’ll owe this Old Kitty Mother my life, he thought, if I survive at all. He had considered Snooky-Ookums’s warning alarmist at the time it was given, but now he realized that if anything, it had been too tame. He leaned against a rock to cool himself, heart thudding in his chest.

Following the cat’s advice, he had started out toward the south that morning. Why not? he remembered thinking. I’ve never been that way before. Maybe when I get down there I can eat a moose or something. He spent a leisurely morning loping up the southern hill, cautious but not especially worried. And really, what was there to worry about? Men sometimes dabble in the hunt, but they are almost entirely without skill. That was true enough, but when he crested the ridge and looked down into the valley, he froze, jaw hanging slack, unable to credit what he saw.

A line of men stretched across the valley. They marched shoulder to shoulder, their dogs straining ahead of them. How can there be so many? Even in all the world, how can there be so many?

Far below him and across the field a red hound froze, sniffing the wind. Blacktail watched to see what he would do.

A moment later, gunshots.

Blacktail turned and sprinted back down the hill the way he had come. He was no longer leisurely. He suspected that the southern moose were safe for the time being.

About midmorning a flock of metal birds joined the hunt, swooping and diving low across the fields and open spaces. The sight of them chilled his heart. Blacktail had long mastered the tricks of ground-hunting. He felt hopeful about his ability to turn these skills around in his mind now that he played the prey. But sky-hunting was new territory. Ah, crap, he thought, remembering his first few hunts. I’m a puppy again.

He took a breath, calming himself. The first thing is to always stay under the trees. The eye of a bird is sharp as my nose, perhaps sharper. No open space is safe. Maybe I could—