“Yes, but things were different because you were there. They might have copied you. And maybe he doesn’t need help any longer.”
“Have to help him,” said Thistle, her voice intense. “To show you.”
Thakur allowed himself one tail-twitch of annoyance and then relaxed. It would do no good to say that the hunters didn’t know that he and Thistle were there and so would not do anything to “show” their observers.
He was starting to announce that it was about time to return to the others when Thistle went stiff. “Look,” she hissed. “Look now.”
The wounded male was no longer alone. A party of the hunters surrounded him. Two were grooming him while several others were bringing meat from the face-tail carcass and melons from the patch that grew nearby.
Thakur watched carefully to be sure that he wasn’t seeing what he wanted to see. But it was hard to mistake the intent of those who were nursing their injured clan mate. They cared. They understood pain and answered with compassion.
“Didn’t learn it from me,” Thistle said in a low voice.
“You are right, Thistle,” Thakur said, feeling excitement growing in him.
“That big one. Gray with white belly. Coming toward them. Think he is True-of-voice.”
Thakur studied the distant shape. It was definitely male, huge and heavy-shouldered, with a ruff. Deep gold eyes stared out of a wide gray face streaked with black.
“Why do you think he is True-of-voice?” he asked Thistle softly.
“Song said he was. Before, when I heard it…. Hard to explain, Thakur.”
If the figure was not True-of-voice, he was some sort of leader, for everyone drew aside and crouched out of his way. Was it because they feared him?
Thakur remembered the tyrant, Shongshar, who had forced Ratha out of the clan and then ruled it heartlessly. Ratha had had to kill him to free the Named and win back her leadership. Was this True-of-voice another of the same breed?
Perhaps. But the hunters also seemed to need him. At their call, he came and touched noses with each of them. Each one stretched his or her neck forward eagerly, as if the brief nose-touch was a food more nourishing than meat or a drink more thirst-quenching than water.
Thakur thought that the gray-and-white leader would approach the wounded male and groom him, but instead he sat down close by. The others formed a loose circle around the injured hunter and the large male Thistle called True-of-voice.
“True-of-voice singing to wounded one,” said Thistle, with an odd catch in her own voice. Was it longing? Thakur wondered. Did she want to be out there in the circle, “hearing,” in some strange way, a soothing voice that helped and comforted?
“Need more than food or water to heal.” It was Thistle again, speaking softly.
How do you know these things, Thistle? Thakur wanted to ask, but instead he said, “I think Ratha should see this.”
“Bring her,” Thistle said, her eyes never leaving the other clan. She seemed to be drawn to them—an attraction that made Thakur wary.
“You come back with me,” he said.
“No. Stay here. Need to stay here.”
“I’m afraid you won’t stay hidden. You’ll try to join them.”
“Want to,” Thistle admitted. “Now not good, though. Will stay, Thakur. Bring my mother.”
Nothing could sway Thistle when she was being stubborn. But she knew that it would not be an advantageous time to approach the hunters. She might disrupt whatever was going on between the gray-and-white leader and the wounded young hunter. And there was definitely something going on. Thakur could almost feel it.
Quickly he padded away to fetch Ratha.
* * *
Sometime later the clan leader of the Named crouched beside Thakur in a bush that hid them from view. Thistle had obeyed him and had stayed still, even though he knew she had been tempted to join the other clan.
“Wounded hunter and True-of-voice still there,” Thistle said as Ratha settled beside Thakur. “Others too.”
“So that is the one you call True-of-voice,” Ratha hissed after she had been watching awhile. “He’s got a good set of teeth.”
Thakur could tell by the look in Thistle’s eyes that she wanted to tell her mother about the strange “song” that was healing the injured hunter. But Ratha’s first comments had not encouraged her.
The scene with the wounded male and his leader went on for a long time. At last the circle around the two broke up, and its members wandered off to groom or nap.
“See?” Thistle said triumphantly to Ratha. “You and Bira—wrong, wrong, wrong! Hunters do take care of hurt ones!”
Ratha sent an annoyed look toward her, and Thakur groaned inwardly. Neither mother nor daughter was gifted with much in the way of tact.
“All right, I do see it,” Ratha said after a long silence. “Are you sure that the ones feeding the young male aren’t just his parents?”
“Too old to treat like cub,” Thistle said scornfully.
Thakur agreed.
“Bringing food to True-of-voice, too,” Thistle added. “He didn’t ask them.”
Thakur glanced at Ratha, who was studying the scene with narrowed eyes.
“They don’t need to fawn all over him,” she muttered. “All right, I admit I have made a misjudgment. These hunters obviously do share some of our ways. If they would stop driving us away from the face-tails, maybe we could reach some sort of agreement.”
“Have you seen enough?” Thakur asked her.
“Yes. Let’s go back. I want to think.”
Chapter Eleven
At the fire where the Named gathered, Ratha crouched with Bira, Khushi, and Thakur, listening to her daughter speak. Thistle was talking about her experiences with the face-tail hunters and how she had learned more about them.
When Thakur had returned that previous morning, with Thistle at his side, Ratha had been too grateful to ask questions, even though Thistle was subdued and looked as if she had been through another fit. She seemed to have recovered, but listening to her now, Ratha couldn’t help wondering. What she said seemed so nebulous and strange. And she actually seemed comfortable with the nature of the face-tail hunters!
Every word she says about them makes me shiver inside. How can she think that understanding more about this clan will make me accept them?
Ratha tried to keep her nose from wrinkling and her tail from twitching, but she found it hard to hide her repugnance. Thakur evidently spotted her reaction, for after Thistle had finished speaking and curled up near the fire to rest, the herding teacher approached Ratha and took her aside.
“Clan leader, come with me,” he said, and they walked away from the fire together.
“I hope you are not taking me to watch that hunting bunch again,” Ratha said crossly when they were away from the others.
The herding teacher looked at her quizzically. “You really don’t like them, do you?”
“It is worse than that. Thakur, I hate them. I wish they were all gone, or dead.” She surprised herself with the coldness in her voice.
Thakur’s silence told her more eloquently than any words the depth of his shock and surprise.
“You never thought you would hear such things from me, did you?” she said wryly, but her whiskers trembled.
“No.”
She stopped, facing him. “You want to know why those hunters make my belly crawl? It’s that leader of theirs, that True-of-voice character. From what I saw and what Thistle said, he sounds worse than any of the Un-Named, or even Shongshar. Shongshar may have been a tyrant, but he couldn’t take away anyone’s thoughts. This True-of-voice seems to have something slimy oozing out of him that turns his people into infant cubs.”
“Thistle didn’t use those kinds of words,” Thakur said.
“Thistle was so befuddled she couldn’t see the truth. How would you like having someone talking in your ear all the time so that you couldn’t think for yourself?”