Clan Ground (The Second Book of the Named)

Chapter Six

Thakur sat in the dry leaves underneath the oak and watched the yearlings manage the dapplebacks and three-horns by themselves. He hoped his training had prepared the young herders well enough for the work ahead of them. It was fall now, and the clan’s mating season had begun. During this time, the yearlings took charge of the animals, for the cubs had not reached the age to heed the meaning of new scents carried across the meadow on the autumn wind.

Thakur smelled the odors of females in heat. He prickled and quivered as each smell tantalized his nose. He jerked his tail restlessly, wishing the mating season hadn’t come so soon.

He would leave clan ground, he promised himself. His work preparing the youthful herders was done. Now he and the other clan adults would have to trust the skill and courage of the youngsters. Judging from the smells and the yowling courtship songs that filled the air, he doubted that any of the other clan members were thinking about the herd. Perhaps the cries of the courting males would have irritated him less if he hadn’t recognized Shongshar’s voice among them.

Thakur had hoped that the silvercoat’s youth would delay his mating for a year, postponing difficulties that might arise over the cubs he would sire. But Shongshar was older than he looked, and his rapid development into a fully mature male surprised many in the clan. A few days earlier, he had begun courting the young Firekeeper Bira, edging out Cherfan, who was also seeking her attention. The herder retreated with good grace, but admitted to Thakur that he had underestimated Shongshar as a rival. “That young rake has a louder voice than I do, if you can believe it,” Cherfan had said, lolling his tongue in a rueful grimace.

Thakur tried to tell himself that his reaction to Shongshar’s success was only jealousy, but there was a part of his mind that refused to accept such an easy answer. He had spoken to Shongshar about the possible consequences of his mating and the silvercoat’s answers had disturbed him.

“Shongshar, have you thought about Ratha’s words to you when you joined the clan?” Thakur had asked him one rainy evening not long after the ceremony that made him one of the Named. He remembered how the silvercoat turned his head, blinking as rain dripped from his eyebrow whiskers onto his nose. “She make me say when I mate and cubs are born I must bring them before her. Only if they have light in their eyes can my mate and me raise them.”

“And if your cubs don’t have the light of the Named in their eyes, they must be left to die. Have you thought about that?” Thakur persisted.

“I think it will be harder for female I mate with than for me,” Shongshar answered. “I won’t bear the cubs and nurse them. If eyes are empty, cubs will mean little to me.”

“You wouldn’t regret having to give them up?”

“No, herding teacher. Why you ask this?” Shongshar stopped, then cocked his head at Thakur.

“You seem to like being with the litterlings. I’ve seen you working with them. You almost got into a fight with Shoman when he bullied Bundi.”

“Is that bad?”

“No,” Thakur answered, “but it isn’t something I expected from you. Are you sure your fondness for the litterlings might not make you want to keep the cubs you sire?”

Shongshar looked thoughtful. “Herding teacher, not to worry. There is big difference between litterlings that are stupid as herdbeasts and those whose eyes shine bright. Even if they are mine.”

I wonder, thought Thakur.

“It won’t be hard for me. Don’t worry,” said Shongshar lightly, and he had walked away, leaving the herding teacher full of doubt.

More yowls from the forest interrupted Thakur’s thoughts. He got up and shook the leaf litter from his fur. The yearlings were busy with the herd and no one was watching him. He should go.

He left the oak and paced away as a deep roar answered one of the calls. What a fuss everybody made about the mating season! he thought crossly. Why couldn’t one choose not to be involved without being thought peculiar? He had never been very successful with the females; they drove him off in favor of stronger, louder or more odoriferous males. Even when Ratha’s leadership had raised his status from one who was barely tolerated to one who was eagerly accepted and respected, habit had still made him shy away.

Habit and something else, he admitted to himself as he jogged across the meadow. He, too, could share in the joys that this time brought if it weren’t for the uncertainty of his half Un-Named parentage. There was a small chance that cubs he sired would bear the gift of the Named, but he knew that his brother Bonechewer’s mating with Ratha had produced witless young. Any cubs that Thakur sired were likely to turn out the same.

If he went to her now, as her smell, wafting on the breeze, tempted him to do, she would accept him eagerly without thinking of the consequences. In that she would be like any Named female caught in the fever of her heat. Yet if she did, and her cubs were born as he feared, he would have wounded her in a way that might never heal.

He knew that she took a partner each season, but the male left only a lingering odor on her fur, for there were never any cubs. He had once asked Ratha if she understood why. He never asked her again, however, for the look of pain on her face had tightened his own throat as she answered. “I mated after Bonechewer and I lost the cubs. Again I took a mate, but my belly never swelled. Why, I don’t know. Somehow my body won’t let me bear another litter. Perhaps I can’t forget what happened to the first.”

“Your cubs wouldn’t be witless this time,” Thakur had said. “Not if you take a clan male. Why don’t you try again?”

“I will. I can’t help but try again. When the heat draws me I don’t think of such things, but afterward ...”

There would be nothing to regret. Still, he would not risk siring empty-eyed cubs on her. It was better that he stay away and so he had done each year, wandering the forests and grasslands beyond clan territory. This self-imposed exile was a lonely and bitter time for him. Without a companion, the journey became a weary one, and his mind often strayed back to those he had left behind. Had Shongshar not reached adulthood this season, he might have joined Thakur on the trail, but now he was back there in the midst of all the growls and tail-wavings. Thakur would go alone, returning only when his belly called him, to eat of the yearling herders’ cull and slip away again before he could be drawn into the fever of courtship.

With these thoughts burdening his mind, Thakur jogged heavily toward the stream that marked the edge of clan territory. It was just beginning to swell with the first winter rains. The water buffeted his legs as he waded in the shallows. It was only deep enough to splash his belly, but if more rain came he might have to swim back across. That thought and his wet paws did nothing to ease his temper. Mournful cries in the sky made him lift his head to see birds circling high over the tree-covered hills in the direction he was going. The cries made him think of hooked beaks and quick, sharp talons; he wondered what carrion they had found.

The wind that stole the warmth from the wet fur on his belly seemed to chill his mind as well. A good run would warm him up and stretch his muscles, he decided.

On the other side of the creek, Thakur swung into a fluid canter, watching the foliage race past as a blur on either side of him. He was proud of his speed and often ran for the sheer joy of feeling the ground slip away beneath his flying paws. He was galloping down a long grade on a deer trail beneath overhanging boughs when something darted onto the path between his legs.

One of his front paws struck it. There was a sharp screech as the object flew into the air. Whirling his tail to keep his balance, Thakur bounced to a stop, then retraced his steps to see what had tripped him.

The object moved slowly and unevenly. The culprit was a small furball dragging itself crabwise through the fallen leaves. It was the same size as a nursing cub, although not at all the same shape. He cocked his head, torn between caution and curiosity. Carefully he sidled up to it and reached out with an inquisitive paw. The creature showed tiny teeth and a pink tongue. It tried to hitch itself across the trail again but soon stopped. One rear leg was limp and dragging.

Thakur circled the animal as it squatted in the trail, following him with frightened eyes. It had a short banded muzzle, paws that bore nails instead of claws and a ringed furry tail. It was one of the tree-dwellers who had often pestered him when he tried to nap in the shade of their trees.

Here was a chance for revenge, if he wanted it, or an opportunity to find out how these creatures might taste. At least it would extend his time away from the clan by sating his belly a little.

The young treeling hunched itself in the dead leaves, giving him quick nervous glances. He could see its small sides heave and the way its racing heartbeat rocked it. He smelled the fear that seeped from the small animal. Sensing that it was helpless, the creature curled its tail around itself and clung to it as if clinging to its mother. It began to stroke and pick nervously at the fur, never taking its eyes from him.

His attention was oddly drawn to the movements of the creature’s paws. As he watched the small fingers twine in the hair, he felt something like an itch in his mind, a thought that almost came forward but then disappeared.

Thakur nosed the treeling. It tried to curl up into a ball, but the injured leg got in the way. He turned the creature over with his paw, his belly still warring with the strange itch in his mind.

The treeling, after sitting rigidly for a long time, made a sudden scramble for safety. Thakur stepped firmly on its tail. It twisted back and tried to bite his foot. He fastened his jaws loosely around its neck and picked it up. The animal went limp, but Thakur could feel its heart beating against his lips. For a moment, he felt ridiculous and his instinct was to snap it up into his mouth or fling it into the bushes with a sharp toss of his head.

I’m taking it with me, he decided at last. If it dies, I’ll eat it and if it doesn’t ... well, it might be amusing.

For the rest of the day he carried the treeling, grateful that no one of the clan was there to see him or to ask why. He shifted his grip from its neck to its scruff, which seemed to make it a little less frightened. When at last he let the creature down, it shook its soaked fur, spraying him with his own saliva.

He washed his face, made a comfortable nest and settled into it, then reached out a paw for the treeling. The animal tried to hitch itself away, but he swept it up, dragged it into the nest and crossed his paws over it. It made one little peep of protest and was still.

The next morning, Thakur was mildly surprised to find the treeling still alive and sleeping under his paw. As soon as he moved, it woke, hissed and nipped his pad. Despite its injured leg, the creature was quite lively, and it was all he could do to keep it from escaping through the grass, or fastening its small teeth in him. At last he managed to grab the animal by the scruff and shake it a few times to reduce it to a state of grudging acceptance.

At midday, Thakur stopped beside a little brook trickling between the gnarled roots of two fire-scarred pines. He was grateful to come into the shade, for the autumn sun on his back had warmed him during the journey and, with the treeling in his mouth, he couldn’t pant to cool himself off.

He put his soggy passenger down and dipped his muzzle in the stream, washing away the taste of treeling fur. With one paw on the animal’s tail, he surveyed the grove into which he’d come. The place felt peaceful and quiet without being gloomy. He could stay here awhile, perhaps dig a shallow den near the stream. First, though, he’d have to figure out what to do with his treeling.

Thakur found a soft spot under a young fir and, holding the treeling in his mouth, started scraping pine needles and litter away. Soon he had excavated a deep treeling refuge in the red clay beneath the tree. He lowered the animal gently into the hole, arranged branches and needles over it, then piled dirt on the covering before the creature could claw its way out. He stamped the soil down and waited to see if the creature would unbury itself. When he saw no sign that it was escaping, he turned to the task of digging himself a temporary den and forgot about the treeling.

In the morning, he slept late, enjoying his solitude. Here there were no tail-waving females or yowling males. No one of the clan was there to press him with their needs or fears. He heard only the quiet trickle of the brook and felt the pine-scented breeze teasing his whiskers. Until he remembered the treeling.

Thakur jumped up and ran to the little fir, only to find that he had packed the dirt down harder than he’d thought. It took determined digging to reopen the burrow. When at last he broke through, he almost dug the treeling up along with the dirt. The little creature made no attempt to escape, for it was nearly suffocated.

He pawed some clay from the brindled pelt. The treeling closed its eyes and made no protest. At first he felt relieved and then alarmed. Its passivity was probably due to hunger, he thought, and he decided he’d better feed it. But what would it eat? Well, if treelings lived in trees, they probably ate leaves, he concluded, and went off to find some.

He brought one type of leaf after another, without success. The treeling would eat none of them. At last, by accident he brought a branch that had several beetles on it. When he placed his offering outside the treeling’s hole, it poked its head out, spied a bug, snatched it up and crammed the morsel into its mouth. It continued to pick insects off the branch until all of them were gone. It looked up at Thakur with inquisitive eyes, cocked its head slightly and said “Aree?”

Later that morning found Thakur in a nearby stretch of grassland, hunting grasshoppers. He had been quite adept at this when he was a cub, although now he found lack of practice had robbed him of some skill. Finally he managed to catch one in his mouth and carry it back to the treeling, feeling the struggling insect kicking his tongue. He spat it out in front of the treeling’s burrow. A small arm emerged, caught the insect by the leg and dragged it inside. Thakur could hear more crunching sounds.

After the grasshopper hunt, Thakur stretched out for a nap in the autumn sun. He was almost asleep when he felt something climb up his back and nestle in the fur on his flank. Startled, he shook the treeling off and nosed it back into the burrow. He returned to his nap.

When he woke, he found that the treeling had climbed up on him again and was clinging to his pelt. He craned his head back, seized the creature by the scruff and pulled, but it had woven fingers and toes into his fur. Realizing that he would pull the treeling apart before he got it off, he sighed and let it stay.

After a while, he found he enjoyed having the treeling on his back. It murmured contentedly as he jogged along and made small wordless comments whenever anything happened. At first Thakur was afraid he might lose his new companion and he chose his way carefully, avoiding low branches, lest his passenger be swept off or scramble into the trees beyond his reach. He made wide detours and looked over his shoulder at every step to assure himself that the creature was still there. The treeling stared back at him, the expression on its short-muzzled face saying, “I’m still here. What are you so worried about?”

Soon Thakur ceased worrying about losing the animal. It seemed to like riding on him and sleeping in his fur at night. During the following days, he roamed far from the grove, carrying the treeling with him and feeding it on beetles and the big grasshoppers that lived in the nearby meadowlands.

He doubted that this was the food the creature had been accustomed to, but it seemed to be flourishing on its new diet. Thakur also ate a few of the insects himself, to ward off the hunger that threatened to drive him back to the clan. Eventually, he knew, he would have to go, and what was he going to do with the treeling then?

Well, it was the mating season. None of the adults in the clan would pay any attention to him. He would have to show himself to the yearlings who were guarding the herd and the fires; otherwise he might be attacked as an enemy by the over-eager youngsters. He would receive some curious stares from his pupils, but his previous authority over them would keep them from asking too many questions or trying to eat his new friend.

Friend? He was startled by the thought. Never had he supposed he could think about any other kind of animal as more than food, yet he had to admit that the treeling’s presence often brought him a quiet sort of contentment.

Thakur couldn’t help grinning as he ambled along with the creature on his back. “You funny little treeling-cub,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at it. “Sometimes I wonder if you know what I’m thinking. Perhaps I should give you a name if I’m going to talk to you as I talk to the ones in the clan.”

The treeling looked at him with wide solemn eyes. “Aree,” it said, as if it were agreeing with him.

“I probably shouldn’t. You don’t know what a name means. It means you know what you are. Treeling-cub, do you know what you are?”

It cocked its head at him.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter. I think you’re a ‘he’ and I have to call you something besides ‘treeling.’ What should I call you? Fur-Puller? Bug-Cruncher?”

“Aree!”

“Well, all right. Since that’s the only word you know, I’ll call you Aree.”

A little later the same day, Thakur was passing under a curtain of leaves when the treeling jumped from his back into the branches. By the time Thakur realized that Aree was gone, he had climbed beyond sight. The tree was too slight for Thakur to climb any farther than to the first crotch and there he perched, looking anxiously up into the branches and yowling helplessly, hoping Aree would come back.

Soon there was a rustle and Aree plopped down on him, making him lose his balance and topple out of the tree. A wild swing of his tail enabled him to land on his feet with the tree-ling still attached. When he peered back over his shoulder, he noticed that Aree was carrying something smooth and round. He had seen similar objects hanging on some trees, but since he never ate any part of a tree, he never paid attention to these things unless he stepped on one that was rotten.

Aree was fascinated. The treeling turned his prize over in his paws, looking at it and smelling it. The little creature had to stretch his jaws wide before he was able to bite into the skin, but once he did, he began munching away as if he had never tasted anything so delicious in his short life.

The fruit the treeling picked was overripe and the syrupy juice dribbled onto Thakur’s back. It ran down his side and matted his fur, making him itch. Irritated, he nudged Aree aside and cleaned his coat, but as fast as he licked himself, the treeling dribbled more juice on him.

The taste of the stuff was sweet and the only sweet flavor Thakur knew was the taste of spoiled meat. That was enough to make him stop licking. He tried to ignore the smears on his coat, but as the afternoon passed, the sun warmed his back, turning the dribbles into sticky patches and dry, crusty spots. Once Aree had discovered this new treat, he sought more and couldn’t be persuaded to dismount while eating. Thakur’s back and neck fur were soon stiff with dried dribbles and his skin itched unbearably.

There were a few flies still left from summer and they all began to swarm around him. The treeling, unconcerned, continued to stuff himself. Unable to stand the torment any longer, Thakur finally dislodged Aree by threatening to roll over on him. While the treeling sulked, he licked his back and sides, digging out sticky mats of hair in which entrapped flies buzzed angrily.

Sometimes the treeling picked more than he could eat and became fussy, taking one bite and throwing the rest away. Thakur often retrieved the discards, licking the juice from them. The first time he tried to eat one, he gagged on the pulpy texture. Once he had grown used to that, he tried to crack the pit as he would a bone. He found no marrow inside, only evil-tasting seeds. He spat everything out and opened his mouth wide, drooling saliva on the ground. He ran for the stream, almost leaving Aree behind, and lapped until the bitter taste was gone.

Thakur also discovered an interesting property of this new food. Many of the fruits still hanging had begun to ferment; eating those made his tongue tingle. Afterwards he felt warm and happy, often chasing his tail and bouncing around like a cub. Eating too many made him clumsy, and he couldn’t keep his paws from sliding out from under him. His head also ached a little. The treeling chirped happily and wobbled on his back.

The treeling once became so drunk that he fell out of a tree. A clump of ferns cushioned his landing, but he couldn’t ride without toppling off. Thakur had to carry Aree back to the den in his mouth. Thakur suffered also from the treeling’s overindulgence, for he had been eating Aree’s leavings. He was stricken with a severe digestive upset that made him forget the mild pain in his head. The two spent the rest of the day in the makeshift den, sleeping much of the time and ill-tempered when they were awake. As he lay groaning, Thakur swore he would never touch his tongue to the cursed stuff again.

Aree recovered first, but the illness laid Thakur low for several days. During that time Aree stayed with him, gently grooming his fur or snuggling against him, making soft reassuring sounds. At last his stomach started to behave itself again and he was able to stagger out of the den, shaky and thin.

He knew he needed meat and he would have to return to the clan for it. He guessed the mating season was almost over, judging by how long he’d been away. Of course now he must worry about what to do with his treeling, but at least he’d have some time to think about it on the trail.