The need to match the background was far less for herders. Standing out even helped to fascinate and intimidate herdbeasts, making them easier to manage. Freedom from the constraints of the hunter allowed the Named to choose their mates for beauty as well as ability and temperament. This tendency influenced the colors of eyes as well as pelts. Clan eyes ranged from the agate blue of newborn cubs through all shades of gray, green, yellow, gold amber, honey, hazel, copper, and dark sepia.
A part of her still couldn’t be convinced that the differences between True-of-voice’s face-tail hunters and the Named were not alien. Perhaps the impulse that made her reach out, to help rather than harm, was, in the end, misguided. A voice in her kept whispering that her choice could still lead to tragedy. It still whispered, making her search among the True-of-voice’s people for any sign of initiative or individuality.
To her surprise, she did find tiny sparks of it. She saw it among the half-grown ones, the yearlings, and some of the older cubs. In some way, the traits that were so buried in their nature fought their way out. She saw eyes that would widen and brighten with the wish to see more, ears swivel and flick forward with the urge to hear more, tails lash with impatience to know more than just the song. It was then that the young of True-of-voice’s people began to resemble the young of the Named.
As if the power within the song knew that it was being challenged, it reacted. The sparks in those young eyes flamed only briefly before they were suffocated down to embers and then darkened.
Witnessing that fading made Ratha heartsick. What right did True-of-voice or that strangeness emanating from him mistakenly called “the song” have to strangle or stifle those tiny flames? It was like seeing empty eyes in the faces of Named litterlings. That just happened. This quenching of the soul was a deliberate act.
Ratha’s heartsickness rose to anger. Why was she struggling so hard to understand something that was clearly so wrong? Why was she so willfully blind to the evil? She had the power to snatch away young ones who still held the promise of their own selves from the power that would engulf them.
Accepting Quiet Hunter among us kept his flame from being stifled. Adopting face-tail hunter cubs might do the same, and we need more litterlings.
But if I am blind, she thought, are Thakur and Thistle as well? Is what I thought of as wisdom unwillingness to see? Am I the one whose vision fails?
Chapter Six
Before the next performance came a short break. Ratha saw Thistle-chaser’s tail waving in the air, saying that she wanted to speak to her mother.
Ratha sprang down off her perch to meet her daughter. They met and rubbed foreheads. Thistle smelled good—healthy and salty-fresh as the wind from a sea beach. In her abrupt way, Thistle said, “True-of-voice has questions.”
Ratha let herself be led back through the throng to the gray-and-white leader. Watching Thistle move easily ahead of her, Ratha saw that her daughter now walked without even a trace of a limp. When they reached True-of-voice, Ratha started to speak to him, but Thistle put up a paw, stopping her.
Thistle and Quiet Hunter sat very still, eyes closed, ears forward as if listening to something distant, noses lifted as if scenting something faint. True-of-voice gazed at both of his interpreters, but he also seemed to be looking at something else beyond them.
Quiet Hunter opened his eyes, spoke quietly to Thistle, who then turned to Ratha, saying, “The song … I mean, True-of-voice feels pleasure at being shown how we keep and tend our animals.”
“Tell True-of-voice that we are glad that he and his tribe have come. It will lead to better understanding between us.”
She saw Thistle take a short breath, as if those words might be challenging to translate.
“The song is to know,” said Thistle to Quiet Hunter, “that there is … pleasure in its coming. The … spirit of the Named desires to flow close to the song so that the knowledge is mingled in both.”
At Thistle’s last words, Quiet Hunter grimaced as if they were too difficult.
Ratha’s eyes widened. Is this what she had said?
“All right, no ‘both,’” Thistle said hastily. With a glance at Ratha, she added, “Song doesn’t know what ‘both’ means. No word for things in many parts. Only for things in one.”
She turned to Quiet Hunter. “Say, ‘so that knowing pours together like water.’”
It was a little awkward, a little too Thistle-ish, Ratha thought, but Quiet Hunter indicated acceptance.
Again he sat absolutely still with closed eyes, but Ratha could smell his scent changing. The transformations were so subtle and so rapid that she couldn’t follow them. Every once in a while, Quiet Hunter touched True-of-voice and spoke to him in simple words, mixed with a soft singsong that was somewhere between a murmur and a purr. To Ratha’s ears, the sound was oddly beautiful, and she wanted to imitate it. Thistle joined in with Quiet Hunter, her voice sounding in counterpoint and descant to his.
It had a strange effect on Ratha, altering her perception of the moment so that everything seemed to slow and glide. So alien was this that a shiver ran up from her tail tip to the back of her head, making her want to shake to be rid of it.
So, the way this “song” is carried is through scent, and touch as well as sound, Ratha thought.
She found her tongue. “Thistle, did True-of-voice … I mean, the song … understand?”
Again came the exchange between Thistle and Quiet Hunter, then the inclusion of True-of-voice. To Ratha, the process seemed to take forever, but part of her sensed that it was actually swifter than Named speech.
Thistle returned with the answer. “The showing, the sharing are taken in and acknowledged.”
“I assume that means yes.” Ratha couldn’t help the tartness that crept into her voice.
“It does.”
“What about True-of-voice’s question?”
“About ‘practice.’ Thakur had to ‘practice’ to learn. Song doesn’t know what that means.”
Ratha’s jaw threatened to drop open again, but she recovered. “You know what it means, Thistle. When we start to do something, we often make mistakes. To learn the right way, we have to do it again and again.”
Thistle just stared at her in silence, and her gaze seemed a little sad. “Is no word for ‘mistake.’ Is no word for ‘right.’ No word for ‘wrong.’”
“You mean that True-of-voice never makes mistakes?” Ratha knew her disbelief sounded in her voice. “That’s not true. You had to rescue him when he fell off the cliff.”
“Mistakes happen when song isn’t heard,” Thistle said. “Or when the happening is beyond what the song knows.”
“You are telling me that True-of-voice and his people don’t make errors. That they don’t have the idea of a wrong way or a right way.”
“Song doesn’t mess up when it is within what it knows. Is no wrong way, right way, or anything other than song’s way.”
“You are saying,” Ratha began carefully, “that when True-of-voice has had even a brief experience with something, he and his people can repeat it successfully.”
“Yes. What he sees, he can do. Even if just a glimpse. Not just him either. All. Through the song.”
“So they never have to practice anything? Once True-of-voice sees something done, they all know. They never do anything the wrong way again?”
“Yes. So don’t need to practice like us. Song is like good teacher, or leader, inside head.”
Such a good teacher that the student never makes errors or disobeys, Ratha thought grimly. They can’t disobey because they have no concept of doing anything except what this song-thing commands. I really don’t like this.