Tailchaser’s Song

Dewtreader's coat was a sandy beige, darkened at paws, ears, and tail to a deep brown. A sort of mask of brown also extended up from his nose, just past the upper ends of his slanting, sky-blue eyes. He had the look of a cat who had seen many strange places and things, and regarded them no differently than he did the sun and the leaves. His narrow head turned from side to side as he surveyed the Folk with almond-shaped eyes.

Something about him is very strange, thought Fritti. He looks like he's seen so much that he doesn't enjoy looking at things anymore.

"Greetings from the ancient Court of Harar." Dewtreader's voice was soft and musical, but there was a hard edge hidden underneath. "I have something to share with you, before the dancing and all begins. I know you would rather dance than listen to me, so I will be short-winded." There was a quiet hum of amusement from the gathered Folk.

"I would like to tell you something I have been thinking about, and the Song of Whitewind is part of it. Before I begin, could we sing the Song of Thanks? I would feel happier if we did. Come, sing with me."

Dewtreader began in a careful, melodic voice. After a moment, others joined in, until a whole chorus of voices swelled, rising up to the dome of trees and the starry sky beyond.

"Who passes by

so softly gleaming?

Is it just the falling snow?

Watches us

in quiet dreaming-

winter quiet, sweetly slow?

Whitewind with his coat a-beaming, where the stars are dancing, gleaming, where the winter winds are streaming- gentle Whitewind there will go…

Since he did not know the words, Tailchaser looked around at the singing multitude. Even Howlsong had his head thrown back in close-eyed rapture. Pouncequick sat beside him in respectful, awed silence, listening. All around the sibilant melodies of the Higher Singing rose and hung in the night air.

"If the darkness

calls us sweetly,

if the day is gone

completely,

we will give it all

up meetly,

only, Whitewind, tell us so…"

Something about the song bothered Fritti. White-wind had been very brave and beautiful, but he had been gone since the earliest days of all. The song they sang spoke of the Firstborn as if they could smell him, see him. He looked about at all the solemn, uptilted faces and shivered. The song ended. Staring over the sea of ears and whiskers and bright eyes before him, Dewtreader began to speak.

"On this mysterious night, when we remember the sacrifice of Viror Whitewind, I would like to speak of another cat who suffered long, long ago." The Prince Consort's voice was slow and measured, and even the bravos near the front were listening.

"Prince Ninebirds, long ago, was punished by Whitewind's brother Lord Tangaloor Firefoot. Changed and deformed into the creature we call M'an, he was cast forth into the world to serve the Folk as punishment for his pride. And he suffered. For good reason? Perhaps.

"For generation upon generation his descendants served our ancestors, venerating them and caring for them. Through eons, the Folk and the M'an became closer. Many of the Folk became dependent on the M'an to provide the things that we Folk have always provided for ourselves."

This talk interested Fritti. Quiverclaw said that the influence of M'an was on the seat of Harar-Dewtreader seemed to be discussing it before all these Folk gathered for the Celebration.

"Many who live today say that the Folk have become weak," Dewtreader continued, "that many of us have come to rely on these strange, hairless, upright cats as if they were our own parents. Some say this shows a decline, a weakness in our lives. I am not so sure of that." Dewtreader fixed his inscrutable stare on the Folk below.

"What was the sin of Ninebirds? Pride. Now, all the Folk are proud, of course-are we not the summit, the very tail-tip of creation? Do we not know the complicated dance of the earth best of all? Are these not reasons enough for pride?

"Perhaps. But was it not the pride of Hearteater, his passion to be Lord of All, that led to the death of Viror Whitewind? Does the world's music not forever lack that pure, white tone?

"Perhaps this M'an, this pathetic, oversized beast who clusters with his fellows in papery wasp nests, who goes unclawed and unfurred through the world, perhaps this object of scorn can teach us something?"

The audience was growing restless, although respect for Dewtreader's eminence discouraged noise. There was a great deal of squirming and whispering.

Tailchaser was thinking about what Dewtreader had said. It struck a subtly sour chord in him, like the faintest smell of decay. Pouncequick, though, seemed enraptured. Howlsong was craning his neck from side to side-not listening, but looking for friends.

"… For if we, in our pride," continued Dewtreader, his slanted eyes glowing with reflected light, "if we find ourselves kept and fed by these most humble of creatures, well, who is to say that it is not for the best? Perhaps the Allmother intends that we should learn humility, we prideful hunters…"

Howlsong suddenly leaped up. "Harar!" he whispered excitedly. "I had completely forgotten! My teacher, Volenibble, must sing one of the old stories tonight, and I must help him prepare! Ay! Forgive me, you two, but I must run. Oh Skydancer, he'll bite my nose off!" Without waiting for a reply, Howlsong was leaping away, bounding over the surrounding forms.

When Fritti turned his attention back to the front of the glade, he saw that Dewtreader had finished speaking. The audience had instantly begun talking among themselves. Fritti turned to his companion.

"What do you think of all this, Pounce?"

Pouncequick, jerked out of a reverie, stared blankly for a moment, then said: "Oh, I don't know, really. It's all so grand. I was just thinking about the things Dewtreader was saying, and I felt as if there were some kind of light I needed to reach just ahead. It wasn't exactly what he was saying, but something he said sort of brought it on… it was an extraordinary feeling, but I'm afraid I can't explain it very well."

"It rather bothered me," said Fritti, "but I can't get my claws into the reason, either. Well, I suppose it's beyond outlanders like us, but Dewtreader's folk didn't seem to be taking it all that seriously, "

The pause in the proceedings continued, the little groups chatting and conversing animatedly. Fence-walker had come to the leading edge of the promontory and was talking to his friends in front.

"It doesn't look as though anything will happen for a while. I'm going to go and make me'mre. Do you want to stay here and wait for me?"

"I think I'll just lie here for a while and watch, Tailchaser."

Fritti threaded his way through the crowd and out to the forest beyond the rim of the Glade. When he had finished, and covered his hole, he strolled around the edge of the bowl, enjoying the smell of the rain-washed air.

As he was padding along with head high, an exotic odor crept into his nostrils. He stopped for a moment, nose whiffling. The scent was heady and exciting. He followed it forward.

Just behind the promontory where the Queen's family sat he found a small stand of plants with tiny white flowers. This was the source of the tantalizing smell, and for a moment Tailchaser merely stood and drank it in.

It made him feel warm all over, and weak in his knees. It inflamed and then soothed him; made him itch and tingle. He stepped forward and pulled off a leaf with his teeth. He rolled it around in his mouth for a bit, then swallowed it. The taste was slightly bitter, but there was something about it that made him want more. As if in a dream he pulled off another green leaf and gulped it down… then another…

"Here now! What are you after, there?" The voice was loud and startling. Fritti leaped back from the flowering plants. A large cat was standing behind him.