Once the cubs’ eyes opened. Ratha could leave them while she went to hunt. Bonechewer stayed in the den with his children while Ratha ran across the marshland, stretching the cramp out of her legs and refreshing herself with the feel of sun and wind. On these expeditions, she planned how she would teach the youngsters how to herd. First, she would find a lone dappleback, perhaps too old or injured to stay with the herd. She would show the cubs how to take care of the little horse; how to keep it from straying; how to graze and water it. Then, perhaps, a dappleback mare with young. Those could be the start of a small herd. Such clever cubs as hers, she thought proudly, would learn the art in no time. They would far surpass their mother and then, when they had cubs of their own….
Each day, Ratha watched the cubs, eager for signs of their abilities. She was especially attentive to her firstborn, a sturdy little female whose aggressiveness toward any moving object within a tail-length of her, including prickly ones, had earned her the name of Thistle-chaser. Bonechewer had bestowed the name upon his rambunctious daughter after repeatedly pulling out the spines that invariably embedded themselves in that tender little nose.
“She doesn’t seem to learn,” Ratha growled, watching Bonechewer soothe the crying cub.
“She will,” he answered, letting his daughter wriggle free and flicking his tail beyond her reach. Defeated, Thistle-chaser scampered off to join her brothers.
Ratha watched the cubs stalk each other and leap into the air after low-flying insects. They were strong, fierce and quick. From the first day they had ventured outside the maternal lair, they had practiced the motions of stalking and pouncing. They seemed to be born hunters. Ratha felt dismay creep in beneath the feeling of pride. Hunting was important, but there were other things equally so, and those things the cubs seemed to ignore. Ratha pushed the uncomfortable feeling away. They’re young yet. Give them time. Her inner voice echoed Bonechewer’s words. You can’t make them grow any faster. Ratha sighed. What should she expect? She didn’t know. She could only draw upon the memories of her own cubhood. Even those, hazy as they were, seemed at variance with what she saw in her children.
When did I become aware of the world? she often wondered. When did I start to speak? I talk to Thistle-chaser and the others, but not one of them has answered, or has even tried to repeat the sounds I make.
Bonechewer could only counsel patience. “Ratha, you’re too impatient. You’re looking for things that aren’t there yet,” he said, looking at her worried face.
Ratha gazed at Thistle-chaser, cuddling up to her father, licking her nose after another encounter with her namesake. “How old were you when you began to speak?” she asked Bonechewer.
“Older than she is, I’m sure.”
“Don’t you remember?”
“No.” He nuzzled his daughter and looked up at Ratha. “You’ll lose her soon enough, Ratha. Enjoy her as she is now.”
He is right, she thought, but she couldn’t rid herself of the nagging doubt. Ratha watched the two, almost envious of their happiness. Bonechewer didn’t care what Thistle-chaser would do or be. He was content to play with her, cuddle her and make no demands on her until she was older.
Ratha tried to be patient, but her dream made her anxious. Each day, as spring yielded to summer, she looked for signs that the cubs would do more than hunt. She was cheered when Thistle-chaser and the others began to imitate her words and gestures. The first flush of pride faded when Ratha realized that the cubs had no idea what they were doing or that the sounds they made could bring anything more than praise. Ratha was now sure that the cubs’ development was lagging and the knowledge festered like a tick in her skin. To her the summer wind was cold and the gold sunshine pale.
One evening Ratha and Bonechewer went to sit on the crest of the hill above the den. Bonechewer dozed between the long shadows in the last warmth from the setting sun. Ratha lay beside him and tried to sleep, but her misery kept her awake. Far down the hill she could hear lusty yowls as the cubs chased each other through the marsh grass. A piercing howl rose above the clamor. It wavered and broke into a forlorn wail. Bonechewer woke and shook his head sleepily. “I’ll go,” he said as Ratha started to heave herself to her feet. “She’s probably pounced on another thorn ball.”
“Leave her.” Ratha stared at the ground between her paws. An insect crawled up onto a swaying grass blade and clung there waving its antennae. The carapace flashed and shimmered in the rosy sunlight. There was a soft rushing sound; grass brushing past legs.
Ratha snapped her head up. “I said, leave her!”
Puzzled, Bonechewer sat down, curling his tail over his feet. The light turned his fur to burnished copper, which caught highlights as his muscles rippled beneath his coat. Shadow hid the scar on his flank. He looked almost as he had when Ratha had first seen him, but now, seeing his beauty only brought bitterness into her throat.
Thistle-chaser too is beautiful, Ratha thought. Her coat will turn copper when the spots fade … and her eyes are green like mine. Large bright green eyes … and nothing behind them.
“Ratha,” Bonechewer said.
“No! Maybe the pain will teach her to think before she jumps. Nothing else will.”
He came back and nuzzled Ratha, but she would not be comforted. The wailing continued far down the hill and there was rage as well as pain in Thistle-chaser’s cry.
“I’ll get her. Wait here.”
Ratha drove her foreclaws into the soil and watched him go. Soon he was back, the cub dangling from his mouth. Ratha could see the strain in his neck muscles; Thistle-chaser was getting too heavy to carry by the scruff. He draped her across his forepaws and turned her pads up one by one until he found the thorn and worked it loose with his teeth. The cub lay on her back, cradled between her father’s paws. She rolled her head back and stared at Ratha. Ratha looked back, trying to find something of herself in those eyes, but what was there reminded her more of the eyes of the Un-Named
Despair washed over her as she realized the full truth. The cubs she had birthed, tended and tried so hard to teach shared nothing of hers except the form of her body. Behind the pert little faces and mischievous eyes lay only the hunter’s instincts.
Ratha ground her teeth together. It was so obvious as to be painful. Couldn’t Bonechewer see?
Her mate had his nose buried in Thistle-chaser’s belly. Four paws flailed around his muzzle as the body wriggled. “Arr, you’re a wild one, cub!” he crooned, nuzzling and teasing his daughter. “You’ll be as rude as your mother when you start to talk.”
Ratha suspected his words were meant for her rather than Thistle-chaser. Bonechewer peeked up at her from between Thistle-chaser’s paws, pretending to flinch under the expected cuff. His manner wilted slightly when he met Ratha’s eyes.
“Stop lying to yourself and to me.” Ratha’s voice came from a strange place inside her, cold and remote. “She’ll never talk.” She shot out a paw, caught the back of Thistle-chaser’s head and turned the cub’s face to Bonechewer. For a moment he looked into the beautiful empty eyes. Then he squeezed his own eyes shut and laid his head against Thistle-chaser. Ratha withdrew her paw. She had seen enough.
Gently he soothed the cub, who had begun to whimper. “I was trying to make myself believe …” he said, not looking at Ratha.
“Why?” Ratha asked, barely able to speak through the misery burning her throat. “Why do our cubs have no light in their eyes? Why won’t their tongues form words? The birth was hard. Did I injure them? Or was it something in me that is not there?” She walked back and forth in front of Bonechewer. Thistle-chaser lay between her father’s paws, looking bewildered.