Quiet Hunter lifted his head, but instead of meeting her gaze, he sat rigidly, the expression in his eyes telling her that he was once again turned inward, as he had been when she first met him. She suddenly hated that dreamlike veil that clouded the beauty of his honey-colored eyes.
“Wake up!” she yowled. “Tell me what happened.”
“The song … This one is hearing True-of-voice again.”
Baffled, she laid a paw on his back. “But you wanted to hear him.”
Quiet Hunter jerked away, frightening Thistle. “Not as he sings now. How it has changed in color. Harsh. Black. Thorns. Claws. Fangs behind the eyes …” He reared, lashing both his head and his tail in a maddened frenzy. “No, this one can’t go, must go, why does he sing this way, why has it all turned so bleak, so wild … ?”
He started running back and forth, stopping abruptly, then turning again, fleeing the other direction, then halting so sharply he stumbled as if tripped. Now ignoring the horse, Thistle grabbed his scruff, trying to stop him, but he struggled away, howling.
“If True-of-voice has done something bad to you, will shred his face,” Thistle growled, “Quiet Hunter, talk to me!”
He panted, breaking his words up. “This one … must find others who … hear the blackness, the bleakness … Forcing this one to go away, no, not away from Thistle …”
Fear struck deep into her, lancing like pain. He leaped back and forth, head rolling, as if in agony, then with a lash of his tail, he fled before Thistle could catch him.
He was gone. Gone so completely that not even a leaf still rustled. So that there was a stillness inside Thistle before grief and anger rushed in. She tried to track him, but there was no trace, not even the bitterness of fear-scent. She had no idea what direction he’d taken.
She called his name until rawness made her voice harsh, and then cried out that harshness until she lost breath. Then she fell silent, hoping desperately that he would return and rub against her, and things would be as they were before.
She nosed around, wondering what had happened. She caught some of the other hunter’s scent, just a whiff, but enough to tell her that the strange “song,” transmitted in part by scent, was the same as it had ever been, at least for her. No change in tone or color, no bleakness or darkness. Knowing that ruled out one thought, namely that Quiet Hunter had gone berserk because True-of-voice had suddenly died and the song had fallen silent. That had happened before, when True-of-voice fell from the cliff and lay near death on a ledge below. All the hunters, including her mate, had been affected so severely that the clan thought they would die.
No, the other tribe’s leader was still alive and healthy, and acting as he always did. So what had driven Quiet Hunter away? Thistle was more baffled than ever, and her nosing became frantic.
A neigh behind her made Thistle aware once again of the horse and its load. As much as she wanted to tear around through the brush in search of her mate, she had to get this horse back safely. Her whiskers still quivering, she picked up a few spilled fish from the trail and put them back into the net baskets. Biaree, no longer frightened, clambered from her loins onto her shoulders where he settled with a sigh. With dying hope, Thistle called once again, but when the dusk remained still and silent, she picked up the lead rope with her teeth and started down the trail with the dappleback.
When she reached clan ground, she would tell Ratha what happened. Maybe her mother would know. She could ask her to send a search party to seek Quiet Hunter and bring him back.
She jogged along, trying to ignore a sad ache in her chest that seemed to spear down into her once-lame front leg. Fighting away an old fog that hovered about her eyes and mind, Thistle quickened her pace. She was determined to discover what had happened to her partner and mate. She wouldn’t rest, nor would she let the Named rest, until she found out.
Chapter Fourteen
Evening came slowly during the summer on clan ground. The brisk wind of late afternoon faded to a light breeze, and the sunning rock held enough of the day’s heat to be uncomfortable. Ratha was sitting in the cooling grass at its base when she saw Bira and Fessran approaching. Their forms were shaded, and Ratha knew them only by the shine of their eyes and their scents.
By Ratha’s order, the Firekeepers made only one fire-nest each night for the hunter tribe, on the border of clan land and hunter territory. The fire was small and well guarded, although Ratha felt that even doing that was a risk. Ratha did it because Bira pleaded passionately that the clan should not stop helping the hunter mothers and cubs. The renegade Night-who-eats-stars had apparently vanished, which helped Ratha’s decision.
Bira looked worried; Fessran, puzzled. When Ratha asked why, Bira answered that something odd seemed to be happening in the hunter tribe.
“Often we get others besides mothers and nurslings at the campfire. I’m used to seeing some of the young hunter males. But the last few nights only one came. He seemed upset, even a bit … crazy, talking about how the song had somehow changed and ‘gone dark’ for him. I didn’t see him last night. It may be silly, but I thought I should tell you before we went ahead and built the fire.”
“It isn’t silly, Bira,” Fessran answered. “I sent out some Firekeeper scouts to make sure the fawn-killer wasn’t still around and to see what was going on. All the younger males in True-of-voice’s tribe are affected. They ramble on about how that rat-scratching song-thing has changed for them. It seems to be driving them away.” She swished her tail as Ratha got up and paced. “These hunters seem to get more weird things happening to them. I’d rather be squabbling with the Un-Named again,” she grumbled.
“I’ve watched the mothers and other females who have come to my fire,” Bira said. “They don’t seem to feel any such change. I’d still like to make the fire-nest for them, if you feel that it is safe.”
“I …” Ratha started, then turned her head abruptly, staring into the deepening dusk. “Thistle-chaser’s back,” she said, and bounded away from the Firekeepers. They followed.
Ratha could tell by the bitter tang in Thistle’s scent that something had happened along the return trail. Her night-sight told her that Thistle’s fur was rumpled, and the nose-touch revealed her daughter’s whiskers were vibrating with anger and grief.
“Oh, Thistle,” Ratha breathed, wishing she could curl protectively around her cub, protecting her daughter from more of the blows the world gave her.
“Brought back the horse,” Thistle said shortly. “Lost Quiet Hunter.”
Ratha looked up as Fessran and Bira caught up with them. “I can guess,” said Fessran drily. “Did he start yowling some nonsense about the song going black and then high-tail it into the bushes?”
“How do you know?” Thistle glowered suspiciously at the Firekeepers and spat,“Were you hiding, spying?”
“Don’t raise your fur at me, youngster,” Fessran retorted. “No, I wasn’t. We’ve been seeing this happen to the other young toms in their tribe.”
“Others?” Thistle said, and then broke off, turning to Ratha. “Please help me find him. Know what he means. Send out Named ones in search, ask True-of-voice. Just bring him back.”
“I’ll help you, Thistle,” Ratha said hastily. “First I need to know exactly what happened.”
Thistle breathed deeply to steady herself. “Was walking back from sea with horse and fish. Passing face-tail valley. One from hunter tribe jumped out in front. Wasn’t Night-who-eats-stars. Was one Quiet Hunter knew. Said so. Then, touched noses with other. Went stiff, fuzzed fur. Thought Quiet Hunter had been hit. He talked about change in song. Fangs behind the eyes …”