Page 59 of Blacktail

“Oh?” said Fang. His shadow loomed over the little cat like a storm. “Really? What are we to the Old Kitty Mother?”

The cat’s gaze did not waver. “In truth, very little. But the traveler’s journey is long, and we would not see him delayed.”

“Who might fall before him, then, if not foolish wolves on the trail?”

The cat said nothing, but only cut her eyes to the right where the lights of men lit the valley.

Fang followed her gaze, then cocked his head to the side. “Are you seriously suggesting…?”

“I have suggested nothing,” the cat said. Her calm was implacable. “Nothing, save perhaps that the Old Kitty Mother is not given to foolish amusements or idle wastes of time. I have not seen this one, this traveler of whom she speaks, but I know some who have. Snooky-Ookums, who stood once in his shadow, now will speak of nothing else. The lynx Pounce, whose father had the honor to be killed by him. She followed in his path for a time, until she was slain by Car. He grows, she said, with every step.”

“Grows?” Fang asked. “Are we talking about a puppy?”

“No. He was mature even at the outset of his journey. But he is bigger now.”

“Bigger? What do you mean, ‘bigger’?”

The cat shrugged. “I cannot say. Pounce died before we could inquire further. Since her death she will answer no one, not even the Old Kitty Mother. But I can say that no effort has been spared to smooth the traveler’s way. As the trail of his passage moves south and my sisters behold him each in their turn, they return to the coven and there is no word for the light in their eyes. They see it in him. All of them see it, the same thing. Where before there was only humiliation and servitude, for us and our kittens and our kittens’ kittens, now at last—” The cat cut herself off, thinking, perhaps rightly, that she’d said too much. “This is a real thing, Fang,” she finished softly. “Hope is reborn.”

Fang, seeing that she truly believed, that it was not a trick, felt a flicker of what she felt kindle in his own breast. “Then we will welcome him. He will sleep in our pile and eat of our kills.”

The cat cocked her head appraisingly, giving Fang a second look. When she spoke again her tone was warmer. “Such generosity is a rare thing in these times. I will remember your words to the Old Kitty Mother.” She thought for a moment, then frowned. “But no. I must counsel against this. You might make sacrifice to him and lay it in his path, but do not take him into your pack, or speak to him, or even look on him except from a distance.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said flatly, “you would not be safe.”

The pack murmured among themselves at this. Fang himself was silent, “chewing his bone,” as they say. “Very well, then,” he said finally. Quickfoot, who was his mate—and, some said, the true head of the pack—cut her eyes at him. But she held her peace. This time.

“Very well, then,” the cat repeated. She stood and turned to go. Fang did not stand in her way. “Oh, and Fang?”

“Yes?”

“I believe I saw a yearling deer with a hurt leg down in the hollow of the creek. A pack might sleep with full bellies, if they were swift.”

Fang wagged his tail in gratitude. One by one his pack slipped into the woods.

ii

They caught the deer limping, sure enough. Over and above the pleasure of eating well, they were much amused by the expression on its face when it first saw them. It renewed its efforts and sped up the hill faster on only three legs than one might think. Quickfoot, who had a cruel sense of humor, made a show of favoring her forepaw and limping up the hill in kind, toying with it a minute before the kill.

Later, when the sun was coming up, the five of them lay in their den near the top of the mountain. The nights were growing colder, so they lay close, though not yet in a pile. All except Little One, who was the last of the half-dog pups of the Red Mountain pack.

Pure wolves have little time or patience for half-breeds, and life was hard for the small wolf with the impure scent. Little One slept alone on all but the coldest nights, when the pack needed him for his warmth. It is the way of the pack that only the lord and lady may mate. Little One never questioned that, but Lady Quickfoot was particularly cruel about it. When the heat was on her, she made a point of presenting herself to him, even though they both knew it would mean his death were he to try anything. Belly-Scar, who was strongish if somewhat lazy, made sport of subjugating Little One. He celebrated each new morning by nipping at Little One’s ears for the pleasure of hearing him yelp.

Little One never complained. He would not even be of the pack were it not for Swift Fang, who was Fang’s father and had been lord before him. Swift Fang had taken a fancy to Little One’s mother when he saw the two of them hunting at the stream. Fang never met Little One’s father. The story was he’d gone out hunting one day and never came back.

After that, Little One and his mother lived for a time as penitents on the far side of the river. She flung coy glances at Swift Fang when he came to drink. She also sang of her loneliness, probably more than was strictly necessary. It wasn’t long before Swift Fang convinced himself the pack could use another she-wolf. Only then did Little One’s mother make it clear that she would not abandon her pup.

Fang reflected that his father, though strong, had never been especially bright. Very likely he died without realizing he had been played. Little One’s mother was dead two winters now, and Swift Fang dead three. But a wolf pack honors the will of its lords, even the dead ones.

Also, half dog or no, Little One would not be driven out. From time to time Belly-Scar made a show of nipping his behind and driving him from the den. But Little One was ferocious for his size, and Belly-Scar lacked the will to truly challenge him. Besides, he had a knack for catching squirrel. Many nights a bite or two of squirrel was all that lay between the pack and sleeping with empty bellies.

“What do you think?” Quickfoot asked.

“It may be true,” Fang said at length. “The cat certainly seemed to think so.”

“Perhaps she was only spinning a story to save herself,” said Belly-Scar.