I am taking the leap, daughter of mine. Help me land safely on the far edge.
As Ratha finished speaking to Thakur and Thistle, she watched the shock in her daughter’s eyes turn first to amazement . . . then to joy. Then she was nearly knocked off her feet by Thistle’s boisterous rubbing, purring, and licking.
“Wait!” she protested as her daughter sprang around in happiness. “I’ve only said that I will help rescue True-of-voice if we can find a way. I haven’t found that way yet.”
But Thistle, in her triumph and joy, seemed to think that the hardest part of the task was over.
Perhaps it was.
* * *
The camp of the Named was in an uproar. Ratha had a hard time calming everyone down after her announcement. She had expected that it would be Fessran’s son, Khushi, who would be hardest to convince, but instead it was Bira.
“I am not asking you to agree with me,” Ratha said finally, when the gentle but stubborn little Firekeeper refused to give up ground. “As clan leader, I don’t need agreement, even if I would like it. What I need is help.”
“Help in doing something that might hurt us?” Bira asked. “Ratha, I want to trust you, but this trail looks so treacherous.”
“I know how treacherous it feels. I’ve been on it. Bira, there is a chance that rescuing True-of-voice may hurt us. I’m ready to accept the blame if it does. But I feel now that there is a greater chance that it will help us as well as the hunters.” Ratha paused. “If you really can’t live with this, you can return to the seacoast with your treeling, if you want.”
“No. You need a Firekeeper,” Bira said staunchly as her treeling, Biaree, groomed her ruff. “I will stand behind you, clan leader.”
Standing in the center of the circle, looking at those gathered about her, Ratha at once felt immense pride and humility.
The pride was for her people as well as herself. There they were, around her. She was their center, and they her support. They had put aside personal reservations to do what their leader thought right.
Impulsive, sometimes foolish, but always well-intentioned Khushi. Bira—dainty, calm, her gentleness covering a deep-seated stubbornness that was only exceeded by her loyalty. Thakur, teacher of healing, herding, and living life in the most honest way. He was the essence and spirit of the Named.
And now Thistle, with her strange mixture of gifts and deficits. Of all, she was the unexpected visionary. She who had been most deeply wounded was perhaps the strongest among them. If she does not lead the Named, she will guide them, Ratha thought, and had a strong sense that she was looking at the future of her people embodied in her daughter.
No. She will serve more than the Named. Quiet Hunter and his people may be only the start. And I hope that I may be able to reach far enough beyond my limitations to help her.
“Well,” said Khushi, after the discussion had finally died down. “Now that we’ve decided what to do, we’d better figure out how to do it. True-of-voice probably doesn’t have much life left.”
Nor does Quiet Hunter, Ratha thought as she saw Thistle glancing at a shape lying still beneath the trees.
* * *
When Thistle felt that she could spend a few moments away from Quiet Hunter, she went to her mother and the others of the Named, who had gathered to figure out a way to save True-of-voice.
“We all saw the cliff,” Ratha was saying as Thistle joined the group. “Does anyone remember seeing any way to reach the ledge he’s on?”
“Maybe we should go and look again,” Khushi suggested.
“I wish we could,” Ratha said, “but the hunters are pretty stirred up. If we try, they’ll attack.”
“Then how are we going to get close enough to rescue True-of-voice?” Khushi asked, his voice doubtful.
Thistle was startled when the Firekeeper Bira turned to her and said, “You were with the hunters for a long time at the top of the cliff. Did you see any way down to the ledge?”
She replayed the scene over in her mind as she had done countless times. She had peered over the edge until her eyes ached, searching for a path down to the trapped leader. There was a slanting, rocky shelf that descended partway, but it petered out before it reached the larger ledge where True-of-voice was.
“Could only get halfway there,” Thistle said, and was about to add that it wouldn’t do any good when her gaze fell on Biaree, Bira’s treeling. Those creatures were good at climbing. At least in trees.
Bira inclined her head and gazed down at her treeling, who was grooming the ruff around her neck. Thistle watched the expression in Bira’s eyes change, and could almost follow her thoughts. First came astonishment, then recognition of a new possibility, but after that was a touch of fear and defensiveness.
Ratha was not slow to pick up the meaning of Thistle’s look and Bira’s response. Thistle could see her mother was trying to decide if this idea was quarry worth chasing.
“You think that Biaree could climb down the cliff to True-of-voice,” Ratha said.
“Treeling is smaller. Lighter. More toes to use for holding on,” Thistle answered.
“Even if Biaree could reach the ledge, what could he do?” This was from Khushi, who looked more skeptical than ever.
The reply, to Thistle’s surprise, came from Bira. “He could do a lot, Khushi. He could take bits of meat and melon down to the trapped leader. True-of-voice is probably dying of hunger and thirst as well as his injuries.” Her voice faded slightly as she looked down again at Biaree, and Thistle felt a stab of remorse.
“Don’t want treeling to get hurt,” she stammered. “Know how much you care for him, Bira. Maybe . . . too much to ask?”
“I think it is a good idea, Thistle,” Bira answered slowly.
“I wish it wasn’t so risky for Biaree,” Ratha said. “If I had brought Ratharee or Thakur had his treeling …”
Thakur, who had just been listening up to this point, made a suggestion. “Bira, I’ve seen you and Biaree bundle up twigs with lengths of vine. Biaree knows how to tie things. If you could get a very long length and get him to tie it around his middle and someone held onto it, he couldn’t fall.”
Thistle felt her cars prick up. How clever Thakur was! To see something that the Named used every day and be able to turn it to another purpose . . . that was a gift indeed.
She found herself making pictures in her mind. Of how the vine would attach to the treeling by using the controlled tangle that the Named called a “knot.” Of how the vine would run from the treeling to someone else who held the end in their jaws.
“Even if we can reach True-of-voice, and feed him to keep him alive, we haven’t solved the problem,” Ratha pointed out. “How are we going to get him down?”
And then the pictures in Thistle’s mind changed. Instead of seeing the vine tied to the treeling, the vine was tied to True-of-voice. And all of the Named were pulling, to lift the injured hunter up the cliff.
But would the vine be strong enough? For a treeling, yes, but not for True-of-voice.
“Would break,” Thistle muttered.
“What would break?” Ratha asked, and her gaze became sharp.
“Vines.”
“Vines?”
“The ones tied to True-of-voice,” Thistle said, wishing she had kept her silly thoughts to herself.
“How do they get tied onto him?”
“Treeling. If he can.”
Everyone sat staring at her. Thistle felt as though she wanted to slink away, back to Quiet Hunter. It was a stupid idea. True-of-voice was too heavy to be pulled up by vines. They would break. There was no point in risking Bira’s treeling for something that would never work.
But Bira herself was looking back with widened eyes. “I think you’ve got something, Thistle.”