The Named: The Complete Series

Chapter Thirteen

A few days later, Thistle was walking on her beloved beach at low tide, her treeling, Biaree, on her shoulder. Behind her paced her chosen partner, Quiet Hunter. She had longed to show him this place, since it had been, and still was, a treasured part of her life. Ratha had told her that things were quiet and that she should take this opportunity to go before the chaos of the mating season entered clan life. She planned to be back just before it started.

Ahead of her, in the scrub brush that lay high above the dunes, she heard the neigh of a dappleback. The little horses didn’t live near the seacoast; she had brought this dappleback with her from clan land.

Biaree, on her back, scratched his side with the flurry of a rear foot, and then lifted whiskers, sampling the strong, salty sea breeze. He blinked, not sure if he liked it.

His clever paws and his growing ability to tie things together under her guidance would make this trip to the beach even more fruitful than before. Biaree, with the help of some other treelings, managed to make some baggy nets that would hold fish and other seafood. The things were a bit of a mess, but they were a first effort, and they worked when Thistle tried them out on the stored fish in her creek-side pool. With some help from Thakur, she managed to tie these basket nets onto an older, placid dappleback in a similar manner to the beast-riding pads they had made for the cubs. Then she had to have something to lead the horse. She had tried her new herding skills, and they worked, but it was hard making the animal go any real distance without herder and herd-eel becoming exhausted. A treeling-knotted vine rope around the animal’s neck was far easier, both for her and the horse.

Once she was sure that the animal wouldn’t bolt or stray, she put a few fish in the net bags and walked around clan ground with her fish-carrying horse. She did get a few puzzled looks from both herders and Firekeepers, but she was used to that.

The dappleback didn’t seem to mind. She was the same animal that Quiet Hunter had used to exhibit his beginning skills. The mare probably found this duty less onerous than being chased and mauled by Thakur’s introductory herding class, Thistle decided. The horse hadn’t objected strenuously to anything yet, though she neighed a bit when Thistle rolled a heavy rock onto the end of the lead rope and left the dappleback to browse.

Now she was returning to get her packhorse and load the net bags with fish, clams, and other dainty morsels. She had recently discovered that the big sea snails were succulent and tasty when you clawed them out of the shell and bit any bad-tasting parts out. Now her catch was waiting on the beach, buried in wet sand to keep it fresh and safe from other fish-eaters.

When she and Quiet Hunter reached the sea grass and brush where she had left the dappleback mare, she pushed the anchoring rock aside with Quiet Hunter’s help. Taking the lead rope in her jaws, she made a clicking sound with her teeth and pulled gently.

At first, leading the dappleback hadn’t been that pleasant. The beast had a rocking walk and its head bobbed up and down with each steps, sometimes jerking the line. Once the rope had stuck on Thistle’s fangs. That hurt, but the dappleback didn’t mean it. The horse’s small hoofed toes clicked and scraped on rock, unlike the silent fall of feline pads. That had annoyed Thistle too, but she was getting used to the sound and had even started to like it.

The dappleback went willingly, letting Thistle lead her through a tumble of rocks, then across the sand of the back beach. She floundered a bit in the loose sand but fared better on the wet foreshore.

Quiet Hunter was living up to his name, but the silence around him was full, not empty. She knew he had enjoyed and appreciated being shown her world, paddling with her in the nearby lagoon where she had taught herself to swim, dipping paws into the tide pools with her and grimacing with surprise at the teeming life there: tentacle-bearing sea-flowers that sucked themselves into rubbery lumps when a paw came near: tiny pugnacious crabs that did battle with anything, including Quiet Hunter’s toes; and breathtakingly colored miniature creatures with filmy or feathered gills who drifted elegantly through the water and didn’t deserve to be called just sea-slugs. The pair looked as often as caught, for Quiet Hunter was developing a lively curiosity about the kind of life that lived in various places, and he wasn’t always interested in eating it.

Thistle agreed with her mother that it was amazing that Quiet Hunter had learned to live without the song, considering how dependent the other hunters were on it. She knew he still needed to go back to True-of-voice every so often, to refresh himself in the fountain of its flow. So, for that matter, did she, although the urge was more want than need. She suspected that, as long as the Named lived near the hunters, he would periodically return to his old tribe and she along with him.

She also used her voice, her scent along with movement in attempts to re-create the feeling of the song for him. Every so often she managed to do it, but capturing its essence and flavor remained difficult.

“What you can do is good enough for this one,” said Quiet Hunter, coming alongside her. He shared one trick of her speech in that neither tended to use the words “I” or “me,” except when they were with the Named.

“Can do better,” Thistle mumbled through the lead rope in her mouth. “Want to, for both of us. Want to find song for outer ears as well as inner ones.”

“This one remembers that part of it is this,” her mate said, and swung away from her to walk slowly on the wet sand, slapping his paws down so that they made sounds in a repeating cadence. Step, pause, step, pause, step, pause, step, pause.

Thistle matched his pace, listening to the sound they made together. When the dappleback’s footfalls interrupted their pace, they changed it, walking in step with the horse. Doing so was a bit difficult, but once all three sets of feet fell together, the effect was pleasing, almost hypnotic. After a while, though, it became a bit boring, and Thistle said so.

“Then there is this,” Quiet Hunter said, and varied his stride so that the slap of his paws on sand went step, step, pause, step, step, pause.

Thistle’s ears pricked forward. She found a rock for the dappleback’s lead rope, then went to Quiet Hunter and imitated what he was doing. Together they tried various gaits, listening to the sounds their feet made while walking on wet sand and while trotting, cantering, bounding, and galloping. Biaree objected to being bounced around on her back, so she stopped and let the treeling off to play in the sand.

“Funny, never listened to feet before,” Thistle panted, jogging to a stop. “Does True-of-voice use feet-sounds?”

“No, but he makes it feel as though he does.”

“Can do the same with voice, maybe? Arr, arr-arr. Arr, arr-arr,” Thistle tried, then grimaced. “Sounds silly.”

“Only a little,” her mate answered.

She went back to the horse, rolled the rock aside, and picked up the lead. Again she and Quiet Hunter walked together, matching pace.

“Listen again,” he said softly.

Thistle turned her head, looked at him.

“Not to us, or the dappleback, but to the sea.”

Thistle stopped, swiveled her ears.

“Keep walking with this one and listen.”

Puzzled, she did as he asked, and then she heard it: the inward rush and crash of the waves as a long, slow counterpoint to their footfalls. She remembered hearing this as she padded along the beach long ago, but it had meant nothing to her then. She knew that her mind had been sleeping, waking partially and only for the necessities such as sleep, food, and shelter. The Named had woken it fully, sharpened it, taught her to delight not only in her sensations but also in the growing agility of her thought.

She, in turn, had helped wake Quiet Hunter, and he was learning the excitement of experiment and discovery. In some things, he was better and he led, as he was doing now.

He changed gaits and encouraged her to follow. Again the whoosh and roar of the ocean made a background to their paw-slaps on the wet sand. A seabird sailed overhead, its wing beats blending into the river of interweaving sounds.

Thistle’s eyes widened in wonder. She reveled in the experience, and felt a sudden thrill when she glanced over at her partner and saw the rapture on his face. It was that which made her add her voice to the rest, sending it soaring upward, like the seabird, then wavering, plunging and winging up again.

She shut her mouth when she saw that Quiet Hunter had stopped and was looking intently at her. Had her impetuous squalling interrupted the hypnotic flow of sound from their footsteps and the ocean? She felt embarrassed.

“Didn’t mean to ruin it,” she said, her head starting to hang, her eyes starting to close.

She felt a nudge and then a push beneath her chin, lifting her head up again.

“You didn’t ruin it,” he breathed, the deep honey-brown of his eyes capturing her. “Not at all.”

Real happiness came over her in a rush as he rubbed alongside her and pushed her into a walk, then a matched, dancing trot against the ocean’s swell and lapse. Again she opened her mouth and let joy fountain up from her lungs through her throat, off her tongue into the sky, not caring where it went or how high. Then she heard his voice mingled with hers, deeper, perhaps a little harsh with awkwardness, but strong and willing.

It made her bound and leap alongside him, until they fell together in cat-play, making sand fly. Thistle got up and shook herself. “Not what True-of-voice does. Not his song.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Quiet Hunter said. “It makes this one feel a deep good. It is a song, but it is not True-of-voice’s. It is ours.”

“This one’s mate feels a deep good too,” Thistle purred, winding and unwinding her tail about his. She looked up suddenly, remembering the horse, hoping it hadn’t been alarmed by all the noise.

She was relieved to see the dappleback mare still stood placidly, one ear forward, the other back, as if curious about the odd goings-on. The lead rope snaked down into the sand.

“She’s not straying,” Quiet Hunter said. “Run and sing with this one … with me … again.”

Gladly, Thistle did.

After that, they both played in the sea, pawing up strands of washed-in kelp and batting them at one another until both were draped with it. Shedding their decorations back into the waves, the dripping pair went back to where Thistle-chaser had buried her catch. She found Biaree grooming himself on a rock, but the treeling refused to mount until Thistle’s fur had dried off.

She got the dappleback, and Quiet Hunter helped her fill the net bags on its sides, loading the little horse with the sea’s harvest. He dropped a sea perch when it flapped its tail in his face, but managed to scoop the fish up and secure it, along with all the others.

“Smart Quiet Hunter,” said Thistle, lolling her tongue in a cat-laugh. “Learns things quickly, even strange things like putting fish in string-tangles.”

“Smart Thistle, who learned how to make the string-tangles and put them on a dappleback,” Quiet Hunter replied, his purr deep.

“Thistle and Biaree,” she corrected. “Couldn’t do without treeling.”

Quiet Hunter sniffed Biaree, who tried to grab a handful of whiskers.

“You could have a treeling, too,” Thistle said.

The male looked dubious. “This one is not sure about treelings. Their eyes are bright with cleverness, they move with quickness, but they don’t speak and they don’t hear songs. This one is not sure he wants to be close to such a creature.”

“Quiet Hunter, you are funny but sweet. Why does it matter if a treeling can speak or if they can hear kinds of songs we can?”

“Maybe this one is wrong and needs more knowledge about treelings. Do they sing?”

She batted his face softly, cat-laughing again. “Biaree can’t sing. Just screeches.”

Quiet Hunter eyed the treeling. “Strange animal.”

“You,” Thistle retorted gently, “are the strange animal. Love you anyway.” She coaxed Biaree onto a drying but still-salty shoulder. “Will get used to treelings. Maybe even will want one.”

“This one will think about it. Not yet, though.”

Picking up the dappleback’s lead rope, Thistle started across the beach, heading toward the higher dunes and the brush beyond. Instead of walking ahead of her, as she had seen the clan’s males do with their females, Quiet Hunter preferred to pace beside her.

Once out of the sand, they headed toward the place where the sun would rise, a direction Thistle knew would guide her back to clan ground. The sun was already starting to decline down the sky, and Thistle hoped to arrive before late evening.

They broke into an easy jog trot. The dappleback seemed willing to keep pace. Thistle guessed the horse was enjoying the exercise after lazing on the beach for the last few days. The bumpier pace might cause a few fish to fall out of the net bags, but they were quickly replaced. One large clam broke its shell, but Thistle and Quiet Hunter nibbled up the bits and went on, refreshed. They talked and joked to make the journeying time go faster. Quiet Hunter was curious why the clan gave treelings names but didn’t name the herdbeasts. Thistle didn’t know, but guessed that the clan only named creatures they didn’t intend to eat.

“But we aren’t eating this dappleback,” Quiet Hunter pointed out.

“Then maybe it should have a name,” Thistle answered. “You think of one.”

The lively discussion continued along the trail, over and through forested hills, into more open woodland. They were nearing the hunters’ plain, and Thistle was asking her partner why exactly did Quiet Hunter need to know if every new creature he encountered could either sing or hear some sort of True-of-voice song, when someone appeared on the trail in front of them.

Dusk shaded the new arrival’s color to a dark gray and Thistle didn’t recognize any smell except the hunter group-scent. For a tail-flick, she thought it was the renegade Night-who-eats-stars, but beside her, Quiet Hunter said, “This one … I … I … know him. It is not the black fawn-killer. Let me nose-touch.”

Thistle clamped the dappleback’s lead tighter in her mouth, bracing her feet to hold the restive horse. She hoped this hunter hadn’t decided that her dappleback and its seafood cargo might be easy prey.

She growled, but her partner looked back over his shoulder, grimacing to quiet her. Then, with tail lifted in greeting, he approached the other, who stood still, dark-green eyes narrowed to slits.

“This one can smell that he won’t attack,” Quiet Hunter said to Thistle.

“Don’t like the look in his eyes. You sure?” Thistle hissed back, teeth still clenched on the lead rope.

“Yes.”

She squashed her own instinct to attack. The best thing she could do was to hang on to the horse and keep it from bolting. She wished she was close enough to smell the newcomer’s mood, but she couldn’t approach.

She watched Quiet Hunter and the other hunter meet in the half-light. Both tails were lifted, waving with inquiry as their nose leathers touched. Thistle could hear her partner breathe in, inhaling the other’s scent.

Quiet Hunter’s tail stiffened. His head went back in a series of jerks, collapsing him back on his rump and haunches. His fur bristled all over, and he panted in panic. The other hunter ducked aside, eyed the stricken male over his shoulder briefly, and then slunk away.

Thistle’s first impulse was to chase the intruder and shred his ears. Even though she hadn’t seen him lift a paw, he had obviously done something bad to Quiet Hunter. She pulled the laden dappleback forward so that she could reach her partner. Now he was sitting, his head down, eyes squeezed shut, one paw over his nose, fur still on end. She dropped the lead, put a rear paw on it, and gave him a worried lick. “What is it? Did he hit you? What did he do?” The sudden bitterness in his scent alarmed her and sent her treeling scampering from her shoulders to the root of her tail.

Quiet Hunter lifted his head, but instead of meeting her gaze, he sat rigidly, the expression in his eyes telling her that he was once again turned inward, as he had been when she first met him. She suddenly hated that dreamlike veil that clouded the beauty of his honey-colored eyes.

“Wake up!” she yowled. “Tell me what happened.”

“The song … This one is hearing True-of-voice again.”

Baffled, she laid a paw on his back. “But you wanted to hear him.”

Quiet Hunter jerked away, frightening Thistle. “Not as he sings now. How it has changed in color. Harsh. Black. Thorns. Claws. Fangs behind the eyes …” He reared, lashing both his head and his tail in a maddened frenzy. “No, this one can’t go, must go, why does he sing this way, why has it all turned so bleak, so wild … ?”

He started running back and forth, stopping abruptly, then turning again, fleeing the other direction, then halting so sharply he stumbled as if tripped. Now ignoring the horse, Thistle grabbed his scruff, trying to stop him, but he struggled away, howling.

“If True-of-voice has done something bad to you, will shred his face,” Thistle growled, “Quiet Hunter, talk to me!”

He panted, breaking his words up. “This one … must find others who … hear the blackness, the bleakness … Forcing this one to go away, no, not away from Thistle …”

Fear struck deep into her, lancing like pain. He leaped back and forth, head rolling, as if in agony, then with a lash of his tail, he fled before Thistle could catch him.

He was gone. Gone so completely that not even a leaf still rustled. So that there was a stillness inside Thistle before grief and anger rushed in. She tried to track him, but there was no trace, not even the bitterness of fear-scent. She had no idea what direction he’d taken.

She called his name until rawness made her voice harsh, and then cried out that harshness until she lost breath. Then she fell silent, hoping desperately that he would return and rub against her, and things would be as they were before.

She nosed around, wondering what had happened. She caught some of the other hunter’s scent, just a whiff, but enough to tell her that the strange “song,” transmitted in part by scent, was the same as it had ever been, at least for her. No change in tone or color, no bleakness or darkness. Knowing that ruled out one thought, namely that Quiet Hunter had gone berserk because True-of-voice had suddenly died and the song had fallen silent. That had happened before, when True-of-voice fell from the cliff and lay near death on a ledge below. All the hunters, including her mate, had been affected so severely that the clan thought they would die.

No, the other tribe’s leader was still alive and healthy, and acting as he always did. So what had driven Quiet Hunter away? Thistle was more baffled than ever, and her nosing became frantic.

A neigh behind her made Thistle aware once again of the horse and its load. As much as she wanted to tear around through the brush in search of her mate, she had to get this horse back safely. Her whiskers still quivering, she picked up a few spilled fish from the trail and put them back into the net baskets. Biaree, no longer frightened, clambered from her loins onto her shoulders where he settled with a sigh. With dying hope, Thistle called once again, but when the dusk remained still and silent, she picked up the lead rope with her teeth and started down the trail with the dappleback.

When she reached clan ground, she would tell Ratha what happened. Maybe her mother would know. She could ask her to send a search party to seek Quiet Hunter and bring him back.

She jogged along, trying to ignore a sad ache in her chest that seemed to spear down into her once-lame front leg. Fighting away an old fog that hovered about her eyes and mind, Thistle quickened her pace. She was determined to discover what had happened to her partner and mate. She wouldn’t rest, nor would she let the Named rest, until she found out.