Page 74 of Blacktail

The second dog, a black-and-gold Alsatian with ragged ears and a scarred muzzle, was unfamiliar to him. Is that the war dog? The one they call Sarge? Yes. It must be. Milo is holding his council against me, I think.

Blacktail took a moment to slow his heart and breathing. His ears perked up slowly, like the eyes of a crocodile rising from black water. When the breeze cooperated, he could hear them well enough.

“…won’t matter. If it’s awake inside him, we’re finished.” It was the cat’s voice.

“Can you tell?” asked Milo.

The cat hesitated before answering in an ancient, cracking meow. “No. Not entirely. This one…the flavor of his spirit is fierce, this is true. But a fierce spirit is not such a rare thing, even in these times. It is difficult to find the language…”

“Try,” said Milo, his voice flat and commanding.

“Very well, Holiness,” the cat answered. “Do you remember yesterday?”

“I don’t see what that has—”

“Indulge me. Do you remember yesterday?”

“Of course I do.”

“And this morning? Do you remember it as well?”

“Get on with it, Larkspur.”

“As you say. And what of tomorrow? Do you remember that?”

“Do I remember tomorrow? Of course not. It hasn’t happened yet.”

“That,” said the cat, “is where you are wrong. There is no yesterday, no tomorrow—these are only God’s little riddles. What was, is. What shall be, was. There is only now. When you learn the trick of it, it is easy to see.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Milo said.

“Many things are. It doesn’t mean they’re untrue. Tell me, Holiness: How well do you remember your mother?”

“Not at all,” Milo said coldly. “I was taken from her when I was little more than a puppy, as you well know. You try my patience, Larkspur.”

“Think again,” Larkspur said gently. “It is true that you are grown now, grown and standing against the enemies of your pack. But now it is also true that you are dead, and also true that you are not yet born, and that right now you are nursing at your mother’s teat, eyes opening for the first time to see her, the great and warm one…do you see?”

The tone of the cat’s voice tugged at Blacktail’s memory. The Old Kitty Mother spoke in such a way, he thought, the fur rising on the back of his neck. She’s making a spell.

“I see only—” Milo began, his tone was just shy of a growl. Then he broke off. He froze. His eyes widened. His tongue flicked out like that of a nursing puppy. “Mama. Mama, is that you?” Then, pleadingly, “Is it really?”

“You do see,” the old cat answered herself. “What is, and what was, and what shall be—all the same.” She studied Milo for a span of heartbeats, then flicked her tail to and fro in a pattern that Blacktail found painful to observe.

“Wait!” Milo cried. “Larkspur, please, give me just another moment with her!”

Larkspur completed her gesturing as if she had not heard. A moment later she turned her attention to licking a paw.

Milo glared at her for a moment, then sighed and returned to the business at hand. “Very well, Larkspur. It is as you say.”

Sarge spoke for the first time. “Why not tell who among us will live when the morning comes?”

“I will if you like,” the cat answered.

“But?”

“But you will not like the answer, nor will you find it useful. Life and death are incidental here. Tonight we deal with matters of faith.”

“Incidental?” Sarge growled. “Recall for a moment that it will be me rather than you out there getting my ass chewed upon by a death god. I hope you can see how I might lack your scholarly detachment.”