He changed gaits and encouraged her to follow. Again the whoosh and roar of the ocean made a background to their paw-slaps on the wet sand. A seabird sailed overhead, its wing beats blending into the river of interweaving sounds.
Thistle’s eyes widened in wonder. She reveled in the experience, and felt a sudden thrill when she glanced over at her partner and saw the rapture on his face. It was that which made her add her voice to the rest, sending it soaring upward, like the seabird, then wavering, plunging and winging up again.
She shut her mouth when she saw that Quiet Hunter had stopped and was looking intently at her. Had her impetuous squalling interrupted the hypnotic flow of sound from their footsteps and the ocean? She felt embarrassed.
“Didn’t mean to ruin it,” she said, her head starting to hang, her eyes starting to close.
She felt a nudge and then a push beneath her chin, lifting her head up again.
“You didn’t ruin it,” he breathed, the deep honey-brown of his eyes capturing her. “Not at all.”
Real happiness came over her in a rush as he rubbed alongside her and pushed her into a walk, then a matched, dancing trot against the ocean’s swell and lapse. Again she opened her mouth and let joy fountain up from her lungs through her throat, off her tongue into the sky, not caring where it went or how high. Then she heard his voice mingled with hers, deeper, perhaps a little harsh with awkwardness, but strong and willing.
It made her bound and leap alongside him, until they fell together in cat-play, making sand fly. Thistle got up and shook herself. “Not what True-of-voice does. Not his song.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Quiet Hunter said. “It makes this one feel a deep good. It is a song, but it is not True-of-voice’s. It is ours.”
“This one’s mate feels a deep good too,” Thistle purred, winding and unwinding her tail about his. She looked up suddenly, remembering the horse, hoping it hadn’t been alarmed by all the noise.
She was relieved to see the dappleback mare still stood placidly, one ear forward, the other back, as if curious about the odd goings-on. The lead rope snaked down into the sand.
“She’s not straying,” Quiet Hunter said. “Run and sing with this one … with me … again.”
Gladly, Thistle did.
After that, they both played in the sea, pawing up strands of washed-in kelp and batting them at one another until both were draped with it. Shedding their decorations back into the waves, the dripping pair went back to where Thistle-chaser had buried her catch. She found Biaree grooming himself on a rock, but the treeling refused to mount until Thistle’s fur had dried off.
She got the dappleback, and Quiet Hunter helped her fill the net bags on its sides, loading the little horse with the sea’s harvest. He dropped a sea perch when it flapped its tail in his face, but managed to scoop the fish up and secure it, along with all the others.
“Smart Quiet Hunter,” said Thistle, lolling her tongue in a cat-laugh. “Learns things quickly, even strange things like putting fish in string-tangles.”
“Smart Thistle, who learned how to make the string-tangles and put them on a dappleback,” Quiet Hunter replied, his purr deep.
“Thistle and Biaree,” she corrected. “Couldn’t do without treeling.”
Quiet Hunter sniffed Biaree, who tried to grab a handful of whiskers.
“You could have a treeling, too,” Thistle said.
The male looked dubious. “This one is not sure about treelings. Their eyes are bright with cleverness, they move with quickness, but they don’t speak and they don’t hear songs. This one is not sure he wants to be close to such a creature.”
“Quiet Hunter, you are funny but sweet. Why does it matter if a treeling can speak or if they can hear kinds of songs we can?”
“Maybe this one is wrong and needs more knowledge about treelings. Do they sing?”
She batted his face softly, cat-laughing again. “Biaree can’t sing. Just screeches.”
Quiet Hunter eyed the treeling. “Strange animal.”
“You,” Thistle retorted gently, “are the strange animal. Love you anyway.” She coaxed Biaree onto a drying but still-salty shoulder. “Will get used to treelings. Maybe even will want one.”
“This one will think about it. Not yet, though.”
Picking up the dappleback’s lead rope, Thistle started across the beach, heading toward the higher dunes and the brush beyond. Instead of walking ahead of her, as she had seen the clan’s males do with their females, Quiet Hunter preferred to pace beside her.
Once out of the sand, they headed toward the place where the sun would rise, a direction Thistle knew would guide her back to clan ground. The sun was already starting to decline down the sky, and Thistle hoped to arrive before late evening.
They broke into an easy jog trot. The dappleback seemed willing to keep pace. Thistle guessed the horse was enjoying the exercise after lazing on the beach for the last few days. The bumpier pace might cause a few fish to fall out of the net bags, but they were quickly replaced. One large clam broke its shell, but Thistle and Quiet Hunter nibbled up the bits and went on, refreshed. They talked and joked to make the journeying time go faster. Quiet Hunter was curious why the clan gave treelings names but didn’t name the herdbeasts. Thistle didn’t know, but guessed that the clan only named creatures they didn’t intend to eat.
“But we aren’t eating this dappleback,” Quiet Hunter pointed out.
“Then maybe it should have a name,” Thistle answered. “You think of one.”
The lively discussion continued along the trail, over and through forested hills, into more open woodland. They were nearing the hunters’ plain, and Thistle was asking her partner why exactly did Quiet Hunter need to know if every new creature he encountered could either sing or hear some sort of True-of-voice song, when someone appeared on the trail in front of them.
Dusk shaded the new arrival’s color to a dark gray and Thistle didn’t recognize any smell except the hunter group-scent. For a tail-flick, she thought it was the renegade Night-who-eats-stars, but beside her, Quiet Hunter said, “This one … I … I … know him. It is not the black fawn-killer. Let me nose-touch.”
Thistle clamped the dappleback’s lead tighter in her mouth, bracing her feet to hold the restive horse. She hoped this hunter hadn’t decided that her dappleback and its seafood cargo might be easy prey.
She growled, but her partner looked back over his shoulder, grimacing to quiet her. Then, with tail lifted in greeting, he approached the other, who stood still, dark-green eyes narrowed to slits.
“This one can smell that he won’t attack,” Quiet Hunter said to Thistle.
“Don’t like the look in his eyes. You sure?” Thistle hissed back, teeth still clenched on the lead rope.
“Yes.”
She squashed her own instinct to attack. The best thing she could do was to hang on to the horse and keep it from bolting. She wished she was close enough to smell the newcomer’s mood, but she couldn’t approach.
She watched Quiet Hunter and the other hunter meet in the half-light. Both tails were lifted, waving with inquiry as their nose leathers touched. Thistle could hear her partner breathe in, inhaling the other’s scent.
Quiet Hunter’s tail stiffened. His head went back in a series of jerks, collapsing him back on his rump and haunches. His fur bristled all over, and he panted in panic. The other hunter ducked aside, eyed the stricken male over his shoulder briefly, and then slunk away.
Thistle’s first impulse was to chase the intruder and shred his ears. Even though she hadn’t seen him lift a paw, he had obviously done something bad to Quiet Hunter. She pulled the laden dappleback forward so that she could reach her partner. Now he was sitting, his head down, eyes squeezed shut, one paw over his nose, fur still on end. She dropped the lead, put a rear paw on it, and gave him a worried lick. “What is it? Did he hit you? What did he do?” The sudden bitterness in his scent alarmed her and sent her treeling scampering from her shoulders to the root of her tail.