Night … with stars.
Dark has crept past day. Hiding. Watching. No longer going close to the fire-nest. Don’t want to be seen by the red-gold female or the sandy one. Most of all, not the tawny one.
These eyes see the bright licking thing tonguing the night. Warmth, yes, light yes, but more …
The paw rests on a small hollowed-out log from a fallen tree. The end closed. Sand scraped inside. The talking ones do not know that paws have this cleverness. Singing one does not know that the ears inside can choose to hear singing or not. Now they choose not, and all is silent except for what speaks within.
The eyes inside see pictures, and they move as this night-black body will move, without noise, toward brightness that bites the eyes.
More pictures now, telling what the eyes outside saw when yesterday faded. The young of the two-tailed thick-skinned prey, running to the fire-nest. Their fear-scent is hot and acrid in the nose, flooding the mouth with salt and sour, making the body tense. The skin beneath the fur prickles.
Fear and fascination, making the thick-skinned young prey draw close, yet pushing them away. Making the thick-skinned young prey confused, easier to attack.
Inside, the tongue and nose senses taste a meaty flavor. The pictures tell of less shedding of hunter blood, fewer pain-cries from wounds made by tusks.
The song and singer pleased.
Not yet. Not now. Now is for stillness.
Muscles ache with the urge to spring. When, when will the red-gold one turn away from the fire-nest? The scent of the sand-colored female comes on the wind. The red-gold turns, lifts the nose, pricks the ears. Go, go red-gold, and meet sand-pelt, leaving a path open to the burning thing.
* * *
Now is for swiftness. Jaws seize the hollowed end-closed wood. It is heavy with sand. Only a few of the talking ones sleep on the far side. Lower the head, feel the weight of sand drag at the jaws and teeth. The brightness that licks at the night sky cannot devour sand, only wood. The glowing eggs at its base will live in sand, if fed.
Steal closer. Narrow the eyes against the brilliance that blinds, the heat that sears. Reach into the nest for the glowing eggs laid by the flame. Use claws, not pads, and brace for the burning, beating pain. The song cannot banish the pain, for the ears inside have shut it out.
Paws moving in a blur before tearing, squinting eyes. Heat blasts the face. Claw the glowing orange and black eggs out. Sweep them into the sand-filled log. Sink the teeth into the bitter bark, feeling blisters rise on the nose leather, the forefeet pads, the chin, the jowls … desperately want the song to take away pain, but it cannot be heard, must not be heard.
Scent says that the red-gold and the sand-coat are returning. It is good that the tawny is not with them. Muscles launch this body free of the torment. Night wind cools the burning, but its touch intensifies the pain.
Want the comfort of the song. Can’t have it, for the singer will know about the glowing eggs in the sand-filled log. The singer will know about the thick-skinned prey being both drawn and repelled by the sky-licking thing.
Fleeing now, the fiery eggs hidden in the log between the jaws. Fleeing now, not only from the two returning females and the eye-clawing light, but also from the song and the singer.
Now is for distance, silence, fur flattened to hold in scent. For seeking out food for the stolen morsels of brightness and feeding them wood so that they stay alive.
Now is for waiting until the singer once again hungers for the thick-skinned prey. Now is for this coat that swallows stars to be swallowed itself by night … .
Ratha was dozing on the sunning rock after the morning’s patrol when she felt two clan members spring up beside her. She scented Bira and Fessran. An acridness in their smells told her both were distressed. She forced her eyes fully open and faced the two Firekeepers. Uneasiness stalked down her back to the base of her tail.
“I’ll set his guts on fire and then I’ll make him eat them,” Fessran growled. “Bira, quit looking like a swatted cub. It wasn’t your fault. You only left the Red-Tongue-nest long enough to nose-touch with me.”
“He, I assume, is our black fawn-killer,” Ratha said, keeping her tone mild.
“I let him stay.” Bira looked miserably at Ratha. “He only watched. Remember? You saw. I thought everyone should be able to warm themselves.”
Ratha lowered her own head and rubbed Bira’s cheek. “There is no wrong in wanting to be kind,” she said. “We need more of that, not less.”
Bira closed her eyes and her trembling eased. “You understand. You are also kind, clan leader.”
You have helped to teach me, Ratha thought.
“Ratha’s right,” Fessran added gruffly. “It isn’t your fault. I didn’t yowl at you and I’m not going to, so lift those whiskers.”
“Can you tell me what happened? The black hunter meddled with the Red Tongue?”
“Yes. You know the way Cherfaree and I set the wood up. We like to make it tidy. When I came back from greeting Fessran, it was all a mess and someone had been pawing at the coals.”
“He tried to scuff out his tracks,” Fessran added, “but he missed a few and old eagle-eyes here spotted them. He’d torn his front toe pad in the scrap with Bira and me, and the mark was as plain as the tail on a tusker’s face.”
“Clan leader, it wouldn’t be so bad if he had just messed up the fire. But I think he stole some of it.”
“Bira, are you sure?” Fessran asked.
“There’s a bare patch where coals and embers are missing. I’ll show you.”
“I believe you, Bira,” Ratha said.
“I don’t know how he did it. If he’d used a torch, I’m sure we would have seen the flame. We weren’t that far away, and when I leave the Red-Tongue-nest, I often look back.”
Ratha’s gaze went to Fessran. “You’ve tried other ways of carrying my creature.”
“Yes, but none of them have really worked. We keep going back to torches. What rumples my fur is how can Night have figured out a way to do it when we can’t? We’re the ones who are supposed to have the smarts, right?”
“I don’t know, Fess. If he is a face-tail hunter, he has that song-thing of theirs and True-of-voice. We both saw what they can do.”
“Excuse me, clan leader,” said Bira, her voice soft but determined. “When he was watching the Red Tongue, he didn’t always look as if he was listening to their song. You saw that, too, didn’t you, clan leader?”
“Yes, I did,” said Ratha, denying the temptation not to admit it. “And it was my decision to let him stay.”
“Well, don’t claw at yourself for it,” said Fessran.
“Yes, if I need clawing, no doubt you’ll do it.” Ratha paced restlessly. “We have to think hard about this. If the black hunter took the Red Tongue, he means to use it.”
“How could he know anything … ?” began Bira.
Ratha turned abruptly, sweeping the air with her tail. “That doesn’t matter. We must find him and take the Red Tongue back. We also must tell True-of-voice what has happened. Fessran, you assemble a tracking party, since you know the black one’s prints. Bira, find Thistle-chaser and Quiet Hunter. Let them know what has happened and send them to True-of-voice. Ask him to help us find the renegade before Night harms anyone. I’ll get Thakur and join you.”