The Named: The Complete Series

Chapter Ten

With the dream-stalking hunters taking refuge on their home ground, Named life settled into familiar paths. Knowing the mating season was approaching, Ratha told the herders to cull herdbeasts and stockpile food. The Firekeepers gathered enough wood to kindle many days’ worth of campfires. Once caught in the heat of mating, her people would be too distracted.

Some clan members would not be caught up in it this time. Mothers with very young cubs would not be taken by the fever. Fessran’s youngsters were old enough that she would be. Mishanti would look after the rumblers while his friend Bundi courted. Thistle-chaser would be among the first-timers, calling to Quiet Hunter. Ratha would fight off the effects of her own heat to see that everything went well for her daughter. Only then would she let the fever take her.

“As if you had a choice,” snorted Fessran when Ratha told her friend her plans the next day. “You are older now and the heat will be stronger. Trust me, I know.”

Instead of hissing a retort, Ratha touched noses with Fessran and left, Ratharee on her shoulder, intending to patrol. She found herself drifting to the meadow’s edge, where the herding teacher was training older students how to manage the new face-tails.

Glancing at the far end of the meadow, Ratha saw Thakur end his session. He shooed away his students, recovered his treeling, Aree, from a bush, and jogged toward Ratha.

Looking as lithe and slim as though he were still young, Thakur moved effortlessly in a ground-eating pace. Ratha found herself enjoying the sight of him, the sun gleaming on his copper coat, his strong, lean muscles, and swift stride. Even the fading scar on his cheek and the fact that he was missing some claws from one foot only gave him more uniqueness and made him more attractive to her than any other clan male. As she watched Thakur approach, Ratha extended her claws in frustration, tearing at the ground beneath her feet. He is the one I want most as a mate. And he is the one I cannot have.

When the herding teacher reached Ratha, his treeling, Aree, bounded up to see Ratharee. Thakur lolled his tongue in amusement as the two treelings huddled together for a quick mother-daughter chatter session.

“Ho, Thakur. May you eat of the haunch and sleep in the driest den,” Ratha said, really meaning the words that were usually spoken in ritual.

“Thanks to you and Fessran’s Firekeepers, I am doing both. Although between you and me, clan leader, I prefer the liver.”

“Come sit with me in the shade and call me ‘yearling’ like you used to.”

With a single bound, Thakur was beside her and licking the nape of her neck. For an instant, his smell overwhelmed her and she wondered if she was to coming into heat. If so, she knew that Thakur would soon have to exile himself as he did every mating season. His heritage was half Un-Named and any cubs he sired on a clan female could lack the Named light in their eyes. Such births only brought tragedy and had already happened too many times in the clan. She remembered Shongshar and the witless young he sired on Bira. Dull-eyed as they were, Shongshar loved them, and taking them away to exile was what turned him into a tyrant. Ratha understood that Thakur dared not take the risk of fathering animal-eyed cubs, especially with her. It did not make her want him any less.

Night … with stars.

Dark has crept past day. Hiding. Watching. No longer going close to the fire-nest. Don’t want to be seen by the red-gold female or the sandy one. Most of all, not the tawny one.

These eyes see the bright licking thing tonguing the night. Warmth, yes, light yes, but more …

The paw rests on a small hollowed-out log from a fallen tree. The end closed. Sand scraped inside. The talking ones do not know that paws have this cleverness. Singing one does not know that the ears inside can choose to hear singing or not. Now they choose not, and all is silent except for what speaks within.

The eyes inside see pictures, and they move as this night-black body will move, without noise, toward brightness that bites the eyes.

More pictures now, telling what the eyes outside saw when yesterday faded. The young of the two-tailed thick-skinned prey, running to the fire-nest. Their fear-scent is hot and acrid in the nose, flooding the mouth with salt and sour, making the body tense. The skin beneath the fur prickles.

Fear and fascination, making the thick-skinned young prey draw close, yet pushing them away. Making the thick-skinned young prey confused, easier to attack.

Inside, the tongue and nose senses taste a meaty flavor. The pictures tell of less shedding of hunter blood, fewer pain-cries from wounds made by tusks.

The song and singer pleased.

Not yet. Not now. Now is for stillness.

Muscles ache with the urge to spring. When, when will the red-gold one turn away from the fire-nest? The scent of the sand-colored female comes on the wind. The red-gold turns, lifts the nose, pricks the ears. Go, go red-gold, and meet sand-pelt, leaving a path open to the burning thing.

* * *

Now is for swiftness. Jaws seize the hollowed end-closed wood. It is heavy with sand. Only a few of the talking ones sleep on the far side. Lower the head, feel the weight of sand drag at the jaws and teeth. The brightness that licks at the night sky cannot devour sand, only wood. The glowing eggs at its base will live in sand, if fed.

Steal closer. Narrow the eyes against the brilliance that blinds, the heat that sears. Reach into the nest for the glowing eggs laid by the flame. Use claws, not pads, and brace for the burning, beating pain. The song cannot banish the pain, for the ears inside have shut it out.

Paws moving in a blur before tearing, squinting eyes. Heat blasts the face. Claw the glowing orange and black eggs out. Sweep them into the sand-filled log. Sink the teeth into the bitter bark, feeling blisters rise on the nose leather, the forefeet pads, the chin, the jowls … desperately want the song to take away pain, but it cannot be heard, must not be heard.

Scent says that the red-gold and the sand-coat are returning. It is good that the tawny is not with them. Muscles launch this body free of the torment. Night wind cools the burning, but its touch intensifies the pain.

Want the comfort of the song. Can’t have it, for the singer will know about the glowing eggs in the sand-filled log. The singer will know about the thick-skinned prey being both drawn and repelled by the sky-licking thing.

Fleeing now, the fiery eggs hidden in the log between the jaws. Fleeing now, not only from the two returning females and the eye-clawing light, but also from the song and the singer.

Now is for distance, silence, fur flattened to hold in scent. For seeking out food for the stolen morsels of brightness and feeding them wood so that they stay alive.

Now is for waiting until the singer once again hungers for the thick-skinned prey. Now is for this coat that swallows stars to be swallowed itself by night … .

Ratha was dozing on the sunning rock after the morning’s patrol when she felt two clan members spring up beside her. She scented Bira and Fessran. An acridness in their smells told her both were distressed. She forced her eyes fully open and faced the two Firekeepers. Uneasiness stalked down her back to the base of her tail.

“I’ll set his guts on fire and then I’ll make him eat them,” Fessran growled. “Bira, quit looking like a swatted cub. It wasn’t your fault. You only left the Red-Tongue-nest long enough to nose-touch with me.”

“He, I assume, is our black fawn-killer,” Ratha said, keeping her tone mild.

“I let him stay.” Bira looked miserably at Ratha. “He only watched. Remember? You saw. I thought everyone should be able to warm themselves.”

Ratha lowered her own head and rubbed Bira’s cheek. “There is no wrong in wanting to be kind,” she said. “We need more of that, not less.”

Bira closed her eyes and her trembling eased. “You understand. You are also kind, clan leader.”

You have helped to teach me, Ratha thought.

“Ratha’s right,” Fessran added gruffly. “It isn’t your fault. I didn’t yowl at you and I’m not going to, so lift those whiskers.”

“Can you tell me what happened? The black hunter meddled with the Red Tongue?”

“Yes. You know the way Cherfaree and I set the wood up. We like to make it tidy. When I came back from greeting Fessran, it was all a mess and someone had been pawing at the coals.”

“He tried to scuff out his tracks,” Fessran added, “but he missed a few and old eagle-eyes here spotted them. He’d torn his front toe pad in the scrap with Bira and me, and the mark was as plain as the tail on a tusker’s face.”

“Clan leader, it wouldn’t be so bad if he had just messed up the fire. But I think he stole some of it.”

“Bira, are you sure?” Fessran asked.

“There’s a bare patch where coals and embers are missing. I’ll show you.”

“I believe you, Bira,” Ratha said.

“I don’t know how he did it. If he’d used a torch, I’m sure we would have seen the flame. We weren’t that far away, and when I leave the Red-Tongue-nest, I often look back.”

Ratha’s gaze went to Fessran. “You’ve tried other ways of carrying my creature.”

“Yes, but none of them have really worked. We keep going back to torches. What rumples my fur is how can Night have figured out a way to do it when we can’t? We’re the ones who are supposed to have the smarts, right?”

“I don’t know, Fess. If he is a face-tail hunter, he has that song-thing of theirs and True-of-voice. We both saw what they can do.”

“Excuse me, clan leader,” said Bira, her voice soft but determined. “When he was watching the Red Tongue, he didn’t always look as if he was listening to their song. You saw that, too, didn’t you, clan leader?”

“Yes, I did,” said Ratha, denying the temptation not to admit it. “And it was my decision to let him stay.”

“Well, don’t claw at yourself for it,” said Fessran.

“Yes, if I need clawing, no doubt you’ll do it.” Ratha paced restlessly. “We have to think hard about this. If the black hunter took the Red Tongue, he means to use it.”

“How could he know anything … ?” began Bira.

Ratha turned abruptly, sweeping the air with her tail. “That doesn’t matter. We must find him and take the Red Tongue back. We also must tell True-of-voice what has happened. Fessran, you assemble a tracking party, since you know the black one’s prints. Bira, find Thistle-chaser and Quiet Hunter. Let them know what has happened and send them to True-of-voice. Ask him to help us find the renegade before Night harms anyone. I’ll get Thakur and join you.”

Fessran leaped up, her whiskers bristling. “We’ll get that belly-biter!”

“Fess,” Ratha paused. “Don’t kill him unless there is no other way to stop him. We have to find out why he did this.”

“Trust me, clan leader,” Fessran answered. Ratha then looked at Bira, who said, “I’ve put my fire out and get Thistle,” and galloped away, Fessran following.

Ratha looked after them, thinking, I have often feared that the Red Tongue would be stolen from us. Now it has happened. She found herself panting, and then she shook her pelt and slowed her breathing. She couldn’t waste time in panic.

Thakur, I need you. Please be there.

At the meadow’s far end, she found the herding teacher, with his students and the practice animals. As soon as he heard her, he sent the younger cubs back to their mothers and asked Cherfan and the herders to take charge of the older cubs and the animals. Fear quickening her steps, Ratha ran beside Thakur toward the tail leading to the hunters’ land. On the way they joined up with Thistle-chaser and Quiet Hunter. Bira took everyone’s treelings, promising to hide them safely in the trees. Ratha agreed with Bira that this task was not for treelings.

There was no need to seek out True-of-voice. He and his people met the Named at the boundary of the hunters’ territory. The solemn look in his eyes made Ratha’s stomach sink.

Quiet Hunter and Thistle approached the gray hunter leader, but the intensity in his gaze turned them back. He clearly did not want to talk.

Without words or gestures, he turned abruptly, looking back, his eyes commanding her and the Named to follow.

Ratha led her people slowly after him. Thakur paced beside her, slightly behind and so close that his whiskers brushed her shoulder. Quiet Hunter walked as close to True-of-voice as he could get, while Thistle-chaser took up the same position as Thakur on Ratha’s opposite side.

Ratha hoped that it wasn’t Fessran’s tracking party that had inadvertently caused trouble by invading the hunters’ land too suddenly.

“I don’t think it was Fessran,” Thakur said quietly. “I am sorry, but what you tried to prevent has happened. We are no longer the only ones who have the Red Tongue.”

Ratha could only lean forward into the wind and keep walking, wondering what she and her people would find. From the look on True-of-voice’s face, it was not something he welcomed.

Had the black renegade set a blaze that destroyed the other tribe’s hunting ground? Or worse?

Their destination was a canyon that cut into the rolling hills east of the hunters’ plain. Ratha saw it first from a distance, the tumbling smoke that belched from the canyon mouth. When they got closer, she stepped in the water of a creek that was gray and turbid with ash. The creek was spilling down from the canyon. As she shook the mud-ash from her feet, she smelled and heard the fire.

When they got closer, she saw her creature gone wild and raging in the dry, resin-filled pines that filled that cut in the earth. It was a blaze no longer, but a storm of flame, creating its own strong wind up the canyon.

Enveloping and devouring brush and trees, the firestorm made a sound no longer a hiss or a roar but a ground-shaking thunder. It left no blackened crags or stumps but burned and blasted entire trees to coals and powder that thickened the air. Ratha braced herself back against the wind that was trying to suck her off her feet and into the firestorm. It flew the tip of her tail nearly to her ear and her whiskers nearly straight in front of her face.

Frantically she thought of Fessran. Had she sent her friend into this maelstrom?

True-of-voice led his group to the side, out of the strongest wind. Ratha and the Named followed. He stood still on a small rise. Ratha, peering through the roiling smoke, saw Quiet Hunter’s dun coat moving among the hunters’ browns and grays. He was leaving True-of-voice and coming to her. Thistle-chaser joined him when he reached the clan.

Ratha, searching the surrounding hills for Fessran and the trackers, spotted movement and caught familiar smells. Soon Fessran and her party were close enough to see. They were ash-dusted and soot-streaked, but none looked injured. Much as she wanted to run out and greet the Firekeeper and her searchers, she needed to hear what news Quiet Hunter had brought from True-of-voice.

“Thakur,” she said to him softly, “meet Fessran and make sure everyone is all right.”

The herding teacher was away almost before she had finished. She turned to face Quiet Hunter. His expression was also solemn, almost stern.

“True-of-voice tells this one that female hunters had trapped face-tails in this canyon. Then the Red Tongue appeared and filled the canyon. The female hunters did not come back.”

Ratha swallowed, trying to ease the dry scratchiness in her throat. “Did True-of-voice send any searchers? Is there a chance those females escaped?”

“No. The song was torn by their death-screams. The Red Tongue has eaten them.”

“One hunter? Two? A few?” Ratha forced herself to ask.

In answer, Quiet Hunter sat, lifted both paws and spread the toes.

Again Ratha turned her head to the canyon’s entrance. She could see flames leaping over the rocky walls. The air above shimmered with waves of heat. Soon there would be nothing alive in the canyon, nothing moving except ash settling and dying coals breaking apart.

Ratha caught sight of Fessran butting her way through other clan members.

“It was him,” she panted, when she reached Ratha. “We followed his tracks here. That whelp of a belly-biting hyena let the Red Tongue loose.”

“Fessran, Quiet Hunter says that many of the other tribe’s hunters died in this fire.”

“I smelled burned face-tail hide,” the Firekeeper answered. “I wondered why the beasts would be in a canyon. So they were driven in there by hunters and then that black devil started the fire?”

“Accidentally or deliberately, yes.”

“Rrrr, if I was True-of-voice, I’d be spitting mad.”

“Well, I hope he isn’t, since I need to talk to him and tell him what happened.”

As she turned away to summon Quiet Hunter and Thistle, she heard Fessran growl, “Night-who-eats-stars, rahrrr! It’s more Night-who-lacks-brains.”

I’m afraid it’s the opposite, Fess. If anything, Night-who-eats-stars has too many brains. If he didn’t, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Who, by the Red Tongue’s flame, is he?