To Ratha’s surprise, Thakur’s skill, or the tenuous return of the song, or both, had revived Quiet Hunter enough so that the young male could stagger to the cliff edge. Ratha had an instant of alarm when she thought he was going to stumble right over, but both Thistle and Thakur blocked Quiet Hunter and pushed him firmly back.
True-of-voice’s people gazed down at their leader with forlorn expressions and drooping whiskers. Even those whose age should have given them some wisdom looked as lost as the yearlings. And at the bottom of the rock face, more of the grieving clan looked up in hopeful and hopeless longing.
They know they can’t reach him, Ratha thought. They know he is dying. They can feel it.
For Ratha it was a heartbreaking yet eerie scene as more and more of the hunters gathered, as if to hold vigil for their lost leader.
No. He is more than their leader, Ratha thought. He is their life.
To command such devotion … Ratha felt a strange flash of envy toward the distant True-of-voice. To be so loved … without hesitation or question.
She glanced at her daughter, who was sitting beside the crouching Quiet Hunter. Thistle had laid her paw gently on his back, as if to make sure that he would not lean too far over the cliff in his attempt to get closer to True-of-voice.
Thistle was trembling, her eyes closed. She who could be safe “outside” had chosen to go within, to share the grief and suffering of Quiet Hunter’s people. Yet she was not totally entranced, for she pressed down harder on her paw each time a surge of grief made Quiet Hunter try to crawl dangerously close to the drop-off.
Ratha found herself wishing that she had even a tiny part of Thistle’s strange gift … so that she, too, could share in the powerful emotion that was binding the other clan even closer to their leader. Yet she knew she would always be watching from outside. Even if she had the ability, she would not use it.
The gift of the Named, the one that had so shaped her people, was wakeful awareness. Ratha knew it was so precious to her that she would fight and kill to preserve it. She already had.
We who are Named will never walk in dreams, she thought, with a strange mixture of pride and sorrow. Except for Thistle.
She felt someone coming alongside her. Familiar fur rubbed against her own and a wonderfully familiar smell replaced the odors of mourning strangers. Thakur. Wonderfully Named, sensible, wide-awake Thakur.
She leaned against him with a grateful sigh. For a while he seemed to be content to provide quiet companionship, but then he spoke in a calm, yet serious voice. “Clan leader, we probably should take Thistle and back off a bit. I’m starting to get some resentful looks.”
“I don’t think she’ll come. Not while Quiet Hunter—” Ratha broke off. Yes, some of the hunters were sending distinctly black looks in their direction. She knew how easily grief could flare into rage. And it could be argued that the Named had indirectly caused the tragedy.
“All right,” she heard Thakur say. “Thistle should be safe, but it would be better if we retreated.”
Ratha did not want the reminder that as long as True-of-voice remained alive, the hunters were a threat.
She agreed to back off, but insisted on staying near enough to keep an eye on her daughter. They took cover in some brush that had not been trampled.
“How long do you think they will stay?” she asked Thakur.
“Until True-of-voice dies,” he replied softly.
“It may take days!”
“I know. He was strong.”
After those words Thakur was quiet for so long that Ratha was startled when he spoke again.
“Clan leader, how do you feel about this?”
She found it very difficult to answer him. On the one side, the Named would benefit if True-of-voice’s death destroyed the hunters. No one would stand in the way and the Named could take all the face-tails they wanted. On the other, she understood too well the wrenching impact of the tragedy.
“It helps us,” she said at last. “If only Thistle weren’t caught up in it.”
Thakur looked toward the other clan. “Thistle told me that their leaders are usually older and have cubs that can succeed them. True-of-voice had a mate, but she was killed before she had her first litter.”
“This must have happened before,” Ratha protested. “They can’t be so ridiculously vulnerable or they wouldn’t have survived.”
“Maybe things are changing for them, clan leader.” Perhaps things are. And perhaps we are part of the change. The idea was not comforting.
She had a sudden odd thought. Would I help them if I could?
She stared out at True-of-voice’s people. They were drawn so strongly by the need for their leader that they risked falling from the cliff. And her daughter was sitting among them, one paw still on the male called Quiet Hunter.
I don’t know.
* * *
The vigil for True-of-voice continued. Weariness at last made Ratha and Thakur withdraw to their own camp, but the following day, she moved the base so that she could be closer to Thistle. She and Bira were careful to site it downwind of the mourning clan so that the smoke of the Red Tongue would not alarm them.
Although they are so wrapped up in True-of-voice that they wouldn’t notice, she thought as she helped Bira gather tinder for the fire.
The next question Ratha thought of was one she had trouble answering. How long would the group remain there? Certainly until True-of-voice died; but what would happen once they were leaderless?
She suspected that they would continue with the vigil, even after it had become pointless. Without direction, they might stay there indefinitely. And Thistle—how long would Thistle stay with them?
Probably as long as Quiet Hunter survives, she thought, feeling her throat tighten. She had learned how painful it was to lose someone beloved. Ratha’s chosen mate, and Thistle’s father, Bonechewer, had died in the struggle between the Named and their enemies. Now her daughter would soon know the same loss.
She tried to shake herself free of the impending tragedy. She had to look ahead, into the future. The Named had come to capture face-tails. The hunters had blocked them. Now, with the other clan paralyzed and distracted, there would be no more interference.
At an evening gathering around the Named campfire, everyone talked about what to do next. Khushi felt that the Named should make another try to capture a face-tail. The five of them had already been here far longer than intended. Fessran and the others would be starting to worry. Bira agreed. She was also getting restless.
Thakur, however, urged caution. The hunters, he said, might not be as paralyzed as they seemed. Grief and frustration could easily ignite into rage. If the bereaved group did not lash out against the Named directly, they might well take out their anger on the Named one who remained among them—Thistle.
Ratha, torn, agreed on a compromise. On the following day the Named would prepare for another attempt to capture a face-tail, but the hunt itself would not take place until the day after.
She needed to find a way to either get Thistle back from the hunters or minimize the threat to her daughter. Given Thistle’s determination, she wouldn’t return until True-of-voice died. Or Quiet Hunter.
If she even comes back at all. She may hate me for letting this happen to the hunters and then not doing anything to help. But I have no choice. Or do I?
* * *
Before Ratha could make any definite plans or carry them out, however, the hunters showed that they might be grief-stricken, but not rendered completely helpless.
The morning after the campfire meeting, Ratha woke to find Khushi and Thakur gone. Sounds of yowling and spitting from the bottom of the cliff told her that the situation had erupted into a fight.