Ratha’s Creature

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Spring was slower in coming to the heights than to the lowlands. As Ratha and Bonechewer wound their way out of the hills, the sparse grass and scrub bush gave way to new growth, green and springy underfoot. They did not take the old trail, still rutted and worn by the passage of the Un-Named. As if in unspoken agreement, neither one ventured toward it, preferring to find their own way across the endless meadow that covered the hills.

Bonechewer walked ahead of Ratha, keeping his pace slow. The long scar on his flank was only starting to fade. Clan fangs had driven deep, and he would limp for the rest of his life. Ratha followed his waving tail through the grass, feeling the new life moving inside her. She was so big now that even the low grass tips brushed her underneath and her graceful walk had become awkward, her swollen belly swinging from side to side at each step.

As she and Bonechewer left the hills and came onto the plain, tiny flowers appeared among the grasses, sending their scents up into the warm spring wind.

Ratha lifted her head and watched a bird drift in lazy circles overhead. The grief was still there in the back of her throat and the memories in the back of her mind. The clan was no more, broken and scattered by the attack of the Un-Named. She, and perhaps some other ragged band of survivors, were all that was left of those who had once followed the herder’s way. Many others had left their blood where the three-horns and dapplebacks had once grazed. The Un-Named, too, had paid. Ratha remembered how the vultures circled and the picked bones grew gray and moldy.

The sun warmed her back, reminding her that those times were past. The unborn cubs moved again, and she felt little kicks inside, as if the young ones were impatient to be born.

Bonechewer stopped and came back, “Are you tired?” he asked.

“No, hungry.”

Bonechewer grunted. “Those cubs eat more than you do. They’ll be strong and healthy.”

“I can hunt for a few more days,” Ratha said, as Bonechewer took the weight off his injured leg.

“Hunt? You can’t even crouch,” he said, but his tone was gentle rather than mocking. “No, even with my bad leg the marsh-shrews will know me. You may get sick of marsh-shrews, but I swear there will be plenty of them.”

“I will eat marsh-shrews,” Ratha said as he nuzzled her bulging flank.

“Yarrr!” Bonechewer shook his head and winced. “He kicked me! Hard enough to make my nose sting. Is that any way to treat your lair-father?” He glared at Ratha’s belly in mock anger.

“She kicked you.” Ratha grinned. “That one’s going to be a female.”

“I’m glad they’re not inside me,” Bonechewer said vehemently.

“They’ll be out soon.” Ratha began walking.

“How soon?” Bonechewer looked alarmed.

“I don’t know. They’ll tell me. Come on, Three-Legs,” she said, strutting ahead. “We still have a long way to go.”

They saw several more sunsets before they reached the marsh where Bonechewer’s territory lay. He was glad to be home, and he trotted all over it, from the lakeshore to the hillside meadow where the spring ran. Ratha tagged after him, eager for the tang of the marshland and the glitter of the morning sun on the lake. She even followed him into the water when he plunged in to wash dust from his coat. She bobbed and rolled like a sap-heavy log while Bonechewer chased fish. By sheer exuberance rather than skill, he managed to catch one. He swam back to her, holding his shiny prize aloft in his jaws. They paddled their way back to shore and feasted on the catch.

The next task was to dig a new den for the cubs. Ratha chose a site on the hillside near the spring where dirt was soft and the digging went fast. They took turns at hunting and digging and soon the excavation was finished. Ratha inspected it, cleared out the remaining loose dirt, stamped down the rest and began to line the den with dry grass, pine needles and tufts of her own fur pulled from her belly. Bonechewer helped her, trying to find the softest leaves and the most fragrant grasses with which to make the nest.

They were making their last trip with grass in their mouths when Ratha felt a sharp cramp begin high in her belly and ripple down both sides of her flank. She had felt such pangs before, but they were mild and soon ceased. This time it grew until it became painful. She moaned and dropped her mouthful of grass.

Bonechewer waited with her until the spasm had passed. Ratha leaned against him, feeling his strength and his warmth. The pain frightened her and she was grateful for his presence. Once the cramp ceased, she was able to walk on. Before they reached the den, it happened again and the contraction was stronger. Ratha felt something break deep inside and a gush of fluid which wet the fur beneath her tail.

“They’re telling me,” she gasped, her head low.

She felt Bonechewer seize her nape and pull her up. She staggered with him to the den. He pushed her inside, settled her on her bed and stood back, looking anxiously at her.

Ratha ground her teeth together as the next spasm seized her. She thrust back with her hind legs and pushed against the wall of the den. Again the pain went away, leaving her panting and shivering. She looked for Bonechewer, but he had gone.

Panic washed through Ratha as she shifted restlessly from side to side. The nest, so carefully dug and lined, seemed terribly uncomfortable, and the dark, rather than being cozy, made her feel as though she were suffocating.

I didn’t know it would be like this, she thought, laying her head on the earthen floor and feeling the frantic pulse in her throat. I thought mothers just went to sleep for a while, and when they woke, the cubs were there.

The teats on her belly began to itch and she rolled on her side and licked them. She felt a surge beneath her tongue as another contraction started and traveled in waves along her flank. She gave a muffled cry and strained, pushing her rear paws against the den wall again. The pushing helped.

Her rapid panting was making her throat dry. She thought about going to the stream for a drink, but as she raised herself on her front paws, something seemed to twist inside her, grinding through her guts. She squeezed her eyes shut, flopped on her side and shoved her feet against the earthen wall.

Again, fear shot through her. How long would it take? Was it happening as it should? She didn’t know. She was alone with her body and the strange and awesome thing that was happening to her.

She let the fear free and it hovered around her, a cold mist that chilled her no matter how deep she burrowed into the leaves or how hard she shivered. It took hold and raged through her body, making her muscles work against each other, driving her heartbeat up until she was panting with exhaustion and turning each contraction into a crushing pain. Ratha whimpered and rubbed her cheek in the dirt. She couldn’t go any farther this way. If she let the fear possess her, she would die of terror, the cubs still unborn.

Every female since the first has gone through this, she thought furiously. If they can, I can. The clan couldn’t kill me; neither could the Un-Named. I am a herder of three-horns, the bearer of the Red Tongue and I am going to have these cubs.

“Do you hear me, litterlings?” she growled at her belly. “If you give me any more trouble, I’ll nip your wretched little tails when you come out!”

Ratha was startled to feel an answering kick from inside her. She grinned to herself. That one had to be the little female; the one that had kicked Bonechewer. The contractions began again and the fear rose, but Ratha fought it away.

“All right, little marsh-shrew,” she said as she braced herself against the wall. “You’re ... coming ... out!”

She grunted, strained until she thought she would burst and felt the cub slip backwards. She drew a breath and pushed against the wall until she thought she would make the den cave in. The pain gave way to exhilaration as she felt the cub inch downward through her. There was pressure between her loins and below her tail. One more push, she thought, feeling the skin bulge and stretch beneath her tail. The cub was coming headfirst, butting its way out into the world. Ratha’s heart raced as she curled herself backwards to look. Something tore, something slipped and there was a wet wiggling body in the leaves beside her.

Ratha bent her head and began to wash the cub, licking fast and hard. The tiny creature squealed as she tumbled it back and forth with her tongue. Tiny claws raked her chin and the tiny tail lashed her nose. The odor of birth clung to it, warm, rich and dark; her own scent from deep inside her body. The cub had its own smell too, a smell that told Ratha that she had been right; her firstborn was the little female. She licked until her daughter was dry and fluffy and then swept the cub to a full teat. There was a tentative nuzzle and then the little mouth took the nipple and began to suck.

Ratha ate the afterbirth and lay back, waiting for the contractions that would bring the next cub. They did not come for a while and during this time she dozed, grateful for the interlude. Another cramp woke her. This time she was ready and the second cub was soon nursing beside the first. The third slid out with hardly any effort at all. The last seemed reluctant to enter the world and, after some struggling, came out tail first. Ratha licked and massaged him as she had all the others. Soon the little female and her three brothers were lying in a row, suckling and kneading her belly.

Worn and weary, but content, she stretched as she lay on her side.

A shadow blocked the sunlight at the mouth of the den. She raised her head. Bonechewer’s scent drifted into the den. It was no longer the odor of her mate and her companion, but the scent of the male, sharp and threatening. Ratha’s hackles rose.

“Ratha?” Bonechewer called. She could see his eyes glowing at the entrance to the den.

To her those eyes seemed savage and hungry. Her cubs, she thought, starting to growl. He was coming to kill and eat her cubs. She got up, shaking herself free of the clinging mouths and claws. Even as she rose to defend her litter, she was startled by her sudden rage. She knew Bonechewer only wanted to see his cubs, not to kill them. Her feelings were no longer just hers, but those of all lair-mothers before her. She trembled as the image of a dead cub dangling from bloodstained jaws seized her mind and would not let go.

“Ratha?” The voice was louder; the eyes closer.

“Stay out!” she hissed.

“I want to see them,” Bonechewer said, shouldering his way in. “What’s the matter with you?”

Ratha bared her teeth. “Get out!” She clawed at him. He flinched and backed away. He looked so lost and bewildered that Ratha wanted to go and soothe him. Yet she couldn’t leave her cubs, and if he came toward her again she knew the ancient rage would force her to attack him.

“I’m not ready,” she said, trying to take the harshness out of her voice.

“I want to see them,” he said again.

Ratha swallowed. “Bonechewer ...” she said trying to see him as her mate rather than a marauding male. Behind her the cubs squealed their impatience. She circled them nervously and lay down again.

Bonechewer retreated, but she could still see his face at the entrance to the den.

“Are you hungry, Ratha?” he asked softly. “Shall I hunt for you?”

“Yes,” Ratha said gratefully. “When you come back, perhaps you can see them.”

She heard him pad away and laid her chin in the leaves, remembering the hurt and misery in his eyes. There was no way she could explain it to him. A fear with no reason ... once there had been a reason. Never had a clan male attacked and eaten his young. Perhaps it still happened among the Un-Named. Ratha felt the cubs clambering over her belly, hunting for milk. They butted their heads against her, their cries shrill and demanding. She gathered them together with her forepaws and gave them her teats. How strong they were already, she thought. What fierce hunters they would be when they grew!

Again she lay back and was drifting into sleep when another idea struck her. Hunting was not the only thing she could teach her cubs. The clan is no more, she thought, lifting her head and opening her eyes in the darkness. But the way of the herder has not been lost, for I remember what I was taught and I can teach that way. Did Thakur not say that I could have been the best herder in the clan?

The memory brought pain as well as pride. She nosed the cubs. She and her children could capture beasts from the forest as clan ancestors had and graze them here on the lowland meadows. As the cubs nursed, she dreamed of founding a new clan to take the place of the old. She could also teach the Un-Named as well, so that they could keep herds of their own and no longer live by raiding. Ratha listened to the soft sucking sounds and began to purr herself. She had seen too many old things die and been a part of the dying. Was change always deaths and endings? Her memory, in a bitter voice, seemed to agree, but another voice, softer but stronger, answered no. That voice was the breathing of her young beside her.

A beginning, she thought, feeling hope rise. Perhaps this time ... a beginning.

Ratha nursed her dream along with her cubs and both flourished and grew. She tried to speak of her idea to Bonechewer, but he was more interested in his young themselves than as founding members of a future clan. Once she allowed him near the cubs, he proved to be an affectionate father as well as a determined provider. At first he approached them carefully and tenderly, dispelling Ratha’s lingering fear. Soon the litter was crawling all over their father as well as their mother. They butted their heads into his belly, sucked on his fur and wrestled with his tail.

Once the cubs’ eyes opened. Ratha could leave them while she went to hunt. Bonechewer stayed in the den with his children while Ratha ran across the marshland, stretching the cramp out of her legs and refreshing herself with the feel of sun and wind. On these expeditions, she planned how she would teach the youngsters how to herd. First, she would find a lone dappleback, perhaps too old or injured to stay with the herd. She would show the cubs how to take care of the little horse; how to keep it from straying; how to graze and water it. Then, perhaps, a dappleback mare with young. Those could be the start of a small herd. Such clever cubs as hers, she thought proudly, would learn the art in no time. They would far surpass their mother and then, when they had cubs of their own....

Each day, Ratha watched the cubs, eager for signs of their abilities. She was especially attentive to her firstborn, a sturdy little female whose aggressiveness toward any moving object within a tail-length of her, including prickly ones, had earned her the name of Thistle-chaser. Bonechewer had bestowed the name upon his rambunctious daughter after repeatedly pulling out the spines that invariably embedded themselves in that tender little nose.

“She doesn’t seem to learn,” Ratha growled, watching Bonechewer soothe the crying cub.

“She will,” he answered, letting his daughter wriggle free and flicking his tail beyond her reach. Defeated, Thistle-chaser scampered off to join her brothers.

Ratha watched the cubs stalk each other and leap into the air after low-flying insects. They were strong, fierce and quick. From the first day they had ventured outside the maternal lair, they had practiced the motions of stalking and pouncing. They seemed to be born hunters. Ratha felt dismay creep in beneath the feeling of pride. Hunting was important, but there were other things equally so, and those things the cubs seemed to ignore. Ratha pushed the uncomfortable feeling away. They’re young yet. Give them time. Her inner voice echoed Bonechewer’s words. You can’t make them grow any faster. Ratha sighed. What should she expect? She didn’t know. She could only draw upon the memories of her own cubhood. Even those, hazy as they were, seemed at variance with what she saw in her children.

When did I become aware of the world? she often wondered. When did I start to speak? I talk to Thistle-chaser and the others, but not one of them has answered, or has even tried to repeat the sounds I make.

Bonechewer could only counsel patience. “Ratha, you’re too impatient. You’re looking for things that aren’t there yet,” he said, looking at her worried face.

Ratha gazed at Thistle-chaser, cuddling up to her father, licking her nose after another encounter with her namesake. “How old were you when you began to speak?” she asked Bonechewer.

“Older than she is, I’m sure.”

“Don’t you remember?”

“No.” He nuzzled his daughter and looked up at Ratha. “You’ll lose her soon enough, Ratha. Enjoy her as she is now.”

He is right, she thought, but she couldn’t rid herself of the nagging doubt. Ratha watched the two, almost envious of their happiness. Bonechewer didn’t care what Thistle-chaser would do or be. He was content to play with her, cuddle her and make no demands on her until she was older.

Ratha tried to be patient, but her dream made her anxious. Each day, as spring yielded to summer, she looked for signs that the cubs would do more than hunt. She was cheered when Thistle-chaser and the others began to imitate her words and gestures. The first flush of pride faded when Ratha realized that the cubs had no idea what they were doing or that the sounds they made could bring anything more than praise. Ratha was now sure that the cubs’ development was lagging and the knowledge festered like a tick in her skin. To her the summer wind was cold and the gold sunshine pale.

One evening Ratha and Bonechewer went to sit on the crest of the hill above the den. Bonechewer dozed between the long shadows in the last warmth from the setting sun. Ratha lay beside him and tried to sleep, but her misery kept her awake. Far down the hill she could hear lusty yowls as the cubs chased each other through the marsh grass. A piercing howl rose above the clamor. It wavered and broke into a forlorn wail. Bonechewer woke and shook his head sleepily. “I’ll go,” he said as Ratha started to heave herself to her feet. “She’s probably pounced on another thorn ball.”

“Leave her.” Ratha stared at the ground between her paws. An insect crawled up onto a swaying grass blade and clung there waving its antennae. The carapace flashed and shimmered in the rosy sunlight. There was a soft rushing sound; grass brushing past legs.

Ratha snapped her head up. “I said, leave her!”

Puzzled, Bonechewer sat down, curling his tail over his feet. The light turned his fur to burnished copper, which caught highlights as his muscles rippled beneath his coat. Shadow hid the scar on his flank. He looked almost as he had when Ratha had first seen him, but now, seeing his beauty only brought bitterness into her throat.

Thistle-chaser too is beautiful, Ratha thought. Her coat will turn copper when the spots fade ... and her eyes are green like mine. Large bright green eyes ... and nothing behind them.

“Ratha,” Bonechewer said.

“No! Maybe the pain will teach her to think before she jumps. Nothing else will.”

He came back and nuzzled Ratha, but she would not be comforted. The wailing continued far down the hill and there was rage as well as pain in Thistle-chaser’s cry.

“I’ll get her. Wait here.”

Ratha drove her foreclaws into the soil and watched him go. Soon he was back, the cub dangling from his mouth. Ratha could see the strain in his neck muscles; Thistle-chaser was getting too heavy to carry by the scruff. He draped her across his forepaws and turned her pads up one by one until he found the thorn and worked it loose with his teeth. The cub lay on her back, cradled between her father’s paws. She rolled her head back and stared at Ratha. Ratha looked back, trying to find something of herself in those eyes, but what was there reminded her more of the eyes of the Un-Named

Despair washed over her as she realized the full truth. The cubs she had birthed, tended and tried so hard to teach shared nothing of hers except the form of her body. Behind the pert little faces and mischievous eyes lay only the hunter’s instincts.

Ratha ground her teeth together. It was so obvious as to be painful. Couldn’t Bonechewer see?

Her mate had his nose buried in Thistle-chaser’s belly. Four paws flailed around his muzzle as the body wriggled. “Arr, you’re a wild one, cub!” he crooned, nuzzling and teasing his daughter. “You’ll be as rude as your mother when you start to talk.”

Ratha suspected his words were meant for her rather than Thistle-chaser. Bonechewer peeked up at her from between Thistle-chaser’s paws, pretending to flinch under the expected cuff. His manner wilted slightly when he met Ratha’s eyes.

“Stop lying to yourself and to me.” Ratha’s voice came from a strange place inside her, cold and remote. “She’ll never talk.” She shot out a paw, caught the back of Thistle-chaser’s head and turned the cub’s face to Bonechewer. For a moment he looked into the beautiful empty eyes. Then he squeezed his own eyes shut and laid his head against Thistle-chaser. Ratha withdrew her paw. She had seen enough.

Gently he soothed the cub, who had begun to whimper. “I was trying to make myself believe ...” he said, not looking at Ratha.

“Why?” Ratha asked, barely able to speak through the misery burning her throat. “Why do our cubs have no light in their eyes? Why won’t their tongues form words? The birth was hard. Did I injure them? Or was it something in me that is not there?” She walked back and forth in front of Bonechewer. Thistle-chaser lay between her father’s paws, looking bewildered.

“No,” Bonechewer said at last. “You are clanborn, Ratha. Had you mated with a male of your own kind, your cubs would have the light in their eyes.”

“But you are of my kind,” she faltered.

“Your cubs’ eyes tell me that I am not.”

“What does it matter that Reshara took an Un-Named male? You eyes are as bright as any in the clan and you have more wit than they. Why would our cubs lack what you have?”

“Such a thing does not make sense,” Bonechewer admitted, looking down at Thistle-chaser. “Even so, I feared that it might be true. I did not listen to my fear.”

Ratha stood stiff-legged, trying to understand what he had told her. Then her rage broke.

“You knew? You knew our cubs might be like this?” she cried. “Did you sire other witless ones as well?”

He cringed, burying his muzzle in Thistle-chaser’s flank. “You were different ... the other female was Un-Named.”

Ratha felt her eyes go to slits. “Well, you have your cubs. I only wish they had been born dead!”

She flung back her head and screamed at the sky. Her dream was shattered. The one she had begun to love she could now only hate with a deep, burning bitterness like the Red Tongue in her belly.

“Ratha!”

She flung herself at him, slashing with teeth and claws. “Why? Why did you do this to me?”

Bonechewer dodged her attack, trying to shield Thistle-chaser and defend himself without hurting Ratha.

She raked his face, shrieking at him, “Why didn’t you kill me in the raid that night? Give me some kindness now. Tear my throat out and leave me for the insects!”

Thistle-chaser scampered around Bonechewer’s legs, delighted with this new game.

“Fight, Un-Named One!” Ratha howled as he backed away from her. His retreat only fed her rage. Hate and bitterness poured into her, filling her until that was all she knew. She struck at Bonechewer again and again, ripping his shoulder and laying his cheek open to the bone. He cowered in the dusk, dripping blood in his tracks. Ratha could hear the breath hissing in his throat. Thistle-chaser stumbled and rolled out from between her father’s legs. Ratha pounced on the cub, biting hard and deep. Thistle-chaser shrieked, red welling onto the spotted fur beneath Ratha’s nose.

A blow knocked her loose from the cub and sent her sprawling down the hillside. Bonechewer was on top of her, eyes blazing, fangs driving toward her throat.

Then he was gone and she was alone with the coming night and her pounding heart. Still dizzy with rage, she leaped up. She shut away the horrified part of her that recoiled at the taste of Thistle-chaser’s blood in her mouth. As if from a great distance, she saw Bonechewer licking the wounded cub. She waited as he sensed her and turned around.

“Kill me,” she said very softly. “I want no more of life.”

His eyes were two coals from the fire of the setting sun, but he stood where he was. Ratha looked past him to Thistle-chaser.

“Why don’t you leave them to starve and mate with someone else,” she taunted. “Perhaps the next time ...”

A sharp cuff flung her head to one side. She felt a muscle tear in her neck.

“Enough, Ratha.” Bonechewer panted.

Ratha took one step toward him, her eyes on Thistle-chaser. The wounded cub cowered, shaking, ugly black stains spreading across her shoulder and chest. Again a part of Ratha’s mind recoiled from the sight, but she forced that part away.

“Don’t try,” Bonechewer said. “You won’t earn your death that way.”

Ratha curled her lips back from her fangs as she watched Thistle-chaser.

“Do you really want her? She’s witless!” Her voice was thick with scorn.

“I want her. And the others,” Bonechewer said quietly. “You are right. They will never know themselves as you and I do. They will never share our gift of words. But they are mine and I will keep them, for I will have no others.” He lowered his head. “I will not mate again, Ratha.”

Her whiskers drooped as her rage fell, allowing her to see the terror in Thistle-chaser’s eyes. She sought her anger and used it to blur her sight. Soon enough, she knew, she would see all too clearly.

The cries of the other cubs drifted up the hill beneath the violet sky. The night wind touched Ratha’s fur. Thistle-chaser’s brothers were still at play. She turned to go downhill but Bonechewer blocked her way. “Stay away from them. I’m warning you.”

He raised one paw, claws extended. “I won’t kill you, but if you come near my cubs, you will leave blinded and limping.”

Ratha drew back, trembling. Now she had truly lost everything. Bonechewer would never accept her again, and there would only be fear and hatred in Thistle-chaser’s eyes. There was no returning along the trail she had chosen to take.

Again she fanned her anger into a blazing flame, burning away all regret or remorse.

“Take the cubs, Un-Named One,” she snarled. “Feed them well so they do not slay you and gorge themselves on your carcass. I go.”

She turned and trotted away, taking the path along the crest of the little hill above the marsh. The damp night wind brought her the many smells she had come to know. Never would she run here again.

She stopped and listened. Bonechewer was following her, making sure she was leaving his territory. Her anger failed her and despair seeped in. How she wanted to go to him, bury her head in his flank and beg his forgiveness, saying she would learn to love the cubs as they were, not as she wanted them to be.

He stopped at the edge of his territory. She ran on, leaving him behind. Her paws beat the ground as she galloped, filling her mind with the rhythm.

Now she was outcast to the Un-Named as well as the clan. All fangs would be bared against her wherever she went, for she would be known as a killer and a renegade. She ran, not looking or caring where she was going.

Behind her in the night a voice rose. Ratha tried to shut her ears to it, but the voice continued and grew louder. She stopped at a stream to drink and rinse the metallic taste of blood from her mouth. She ran on until at last Bonechewer’s farewell faded and died, leaving her alone with the night as her only companion.