Ratha found her way out of the cave. The bright day hurt her eyes, but she was suddenly grateful for the sunlight and blue sky. She breathed air made crisp by spray from the falls, shook herself and went back down the trail.
The task of wood gathering took much more time than Ratha expected. Once or twice she nearly lost her temper, but Fessran pointed out that if she wanted the herds to be safely guarded, the Firekeepers had to have dry fodder for the guard-fires. Ratha remembered the bristlemane attack and reluctantly agreed to let the Firekeepers finish their task.
Although she disliked being in the cave, she went up to it every once in a while to see how the Firekeepers were doing. On her most recent trip, she noticed that Fessran had set someone outside to guard the cavern entrance.
This made her more uneasy than ever. As soon as enough wood was stockpiled for the rainy season, she was going to put a stop to the activity in the cave.
Chapter Fourteen
The task of gathering wood continued to go slowly and Ratha’s impatience grew. Each day that the fire burned in the cave seemed to add to the strength and influence of the Firekeepers. Every day that she was in the meadow, she would hear the herders talking about the cave-den of the Red Tongue. Some were bold enough to speak about visiting it, although none of them had, as far as she knew.
Midsummer passed and the green of the meadow grass turned to pale gold. The herdbeasts coughed in the dust raised by the dry wind. The little stream that flowed through the meadow shrank to a trickle and the herders began taking the animals to the river to water. The Firekeepers took great care in clearing the places where the guard-fires were lit, for a single spark could set the meadow aflame.
The Firekeepers’ task began drawing to an end at last. Even Fessran agreed with Ratha that enough dry wood had been stored to last through the longest rainy season. She was less agreeable about taking the Red Tongue out of the cave, and Ratha found, to her dismay, that not only the Firekeepers, but many of the herders wanted it kept there. Why protect only the Red Tongue’s food from the wind and rain? Did it make sense to do that while the fires that were the main source for lighting all the others were left ill-protected in shallow dens dug for them in the meadow? In a bad storm, the fire-lairs could flood. Why not keep a source-fire safe in the deep cave? Then the clan would never have to worry about losing the Red Tongue even in the fiercest of storms.
What angered Ratha most about this idea was that she had no good reason to reject it. The bristlemane attack during a rainstorm had showed her how vulnerable the herds could be if the Red Tongue failed. The argument was simple and obvious. At times she could almost convince herself to think about it that way.
But the shadow of her dream remained in her mind. She still saw the hunger of those coal-red eyes and heard the voice that was the rush of the flames. “Bare your throat to me, for I am the one who rules,” it had said and her terror had made her crouch and tremble, lifting her chin. Others of the Named would do so more willingly and knowing that frightened her in a way she could not understand.
Her belly knew the truth of her fear, but her tongue had no words to shape it. How could she hold the image of her dream-creature up before the clan as a reason to reject something that might be essential to the clan’s survival? She wondered if the danger she saw was only an illusion; that she was growing fainthearted and unwilling to take risks.
The heat of the afternoon lay heavily on her as she padded along the trail that led to Thakur’s den. She smelled the scent of summer leaves and of faded flowers whose centers were swelling into fruit. Once she would have stopped to let the smells fill her nose with the richness of the season, but now her cares pushed aside any enjoyment.
She found Thakur lying in the shade outside his lair. Aree was not perched in her usual place on his shoulder She sat huddled up against him. As Ratha approached, the treeling tried to curl herself up, but her pregnant belly kept her from doing much more than looping her long tail over her shoulder. She seemed restless and unable to get comfortable.
Ratha was so used to seeing Aree on Thakur’s back or the nape of his neck that the treeling looked odd sitting beside him.
Thakur caught her look. He raised his head and grinned at her. “Poor flea-picker is getting too bulgy to stay on my shoulder. She wobbled a lot this morning and I thought she was going to tumble off.”
“When will she have her cubs?”
“Tonight, I think. She’s been gathering fern leaves for a nest in the back of my lair and her smell has changed.”
Aree reached up on Thakur’s flank, grasped two handfuls of fur and heaved herself up onto him. She reached for his tail, which he obligingly curled across his leg where she could reach it. She began pulling out tufts of hair and bundled them together in her fingers.
“She found out I was still shedding a little and she likes the fur to line her nest,” Thakur explained.
“I hope she leaves you enough to cover your tail,” Ratha observed, as the treeling pulled out a large tuft of his fur.
“Ouch!” Thakur flicked his tail out of Aree’s reach. “All right, you’ve got plenty. You’d better go build your nest before you decide to have your cubs on top of me.”
“Aree!” agreed the treeling as she clambered off him and shuffled into the den, holding the wad of fur.
Thakur looked after her anxiously for a minute. “I’m glad you came,” he said to Ratha. “You know more about this than I do.”
“Me? I don’t know anything about treelings,” she protested.
“Yes, but you do know about having cubs.”
Ratha cocked her head at him. “I did it once. I don’t see how that is going to help.”
“Well, maybe not,” Thakur conceded. “At least you can tell me what she’s doing.”
Ratha expected that Aree would soon emerge from the den to gather more leaves or steal more fur. As the afternoon shadows lengthened and the treeling didn’t appear, Thakur began to get nervous.
“Maybe I should go and see if she’s all right,” he said, rolling to his feet. He crept inside until only his tail hung out. “She’s in the nest, on her side,” he called, his voice muffled. “She’s moving a little and making funny noises.”
Ratha poked her head in alongside his flank and listened. She could hear Aree breathing and every few breaths the treeling gave a soft grunt. Satisfied that everything sounded all right, Ratha withdrew from the lair and gave a tug on Thakur’s tail.
“Come out, herding teacher. You’re worse than a curious yearling at birthing time. The best thing you can do now is leave her alone.”
Thakur backed out of the den, his fur rumpled. “Anyone would think you had sired Aree’s cubs,” Ratha teased.
“Don’t hold it against me, clan leader,” he said wryly. “After all, this may be as close as I get to having a family of my own.”
She winced. “I’m sorry, Thakur. I didn’t mean to remind you.”
“Don’t be. I’ve become used to living with it,” he said. “I decided not to take the chance and, after seeing what happened to Shongshar’s cubs, I’m more convinced than ever.” He paused. “I don’t think you would want to have to abandon another litter, especially if I was their father.”
She stretched out with her hindquarters in the sun and the rest of her in the dappled shade. She laid her head on her paws and felt grateful to Thakur that he had the sensitivity to make himself absent during the time the females were in heat. By doing so, he freed her from having to make the painful decision: whether to exile him during the mating season or allow him to take a partner. She sighed. If only Shongshar had done the same!