Ratha’s Creature (The First Book of The Named) (12 page)

The other gazed at her, a scrap of fur and flesh hanging from his jowls. It disappeared into his mouth in several swift bites and his lips drew back from his teeth as he chewed, revealing a broken lower fang. Ratha looked at his ears. One had a piece bitten out of it and the ragged edge bore the marks of teeth. Hers. It was the raider who had attacked Fessran’s dapplebacks in Ratha’s first encounter with the Un-Named raiders.

“The same words again, clan cat?” he said, looking straight at her. “Do they teach you no others?”

Ratha’s nape bristled and she felt the fur rising all the way down her spine to her tail. Her nostrils flared. She was unsure of whether to attack or retreat and did neither. She could only stare at the mangled carcass between his forepaws and swallow the warm saliva flooding her mouth.

He tore another strip from the prey. The smell from the glistening flesh brought Ratha forward. Saliva slipped between her teeth and ran over her lips into her fur.

“You are far from home ground, clan cat.” He gulped the meat. “And far from the herdbeasts that keep you fed.”

Ratha took another step forward. She could see the ends of her whiskers quivering. “I chased the marsh-shrew, broken-fanged one. Let me have what is left of it.”

“Yes, you chased it,” he agreed. His tone was light, but his eyes were wary. “You didn’t catch it. I caught it.”

“I caught it. My paws were on it before yours. I drew first blood.”

“Is that a new clan law? I thought they had enough laws and leaders to bare their throats to.” He grinned, exposing the jagged edge of his fang.

“Give me my prey!” Ratha howled and flung herself at him. Her trembling legs turned her lunge into a stumble.

He snatched up the remains of the prey and trotted beyond her reach. He sat down among the ferns and gave her a mocking look. “You are a bad hunter, clan cat. Only good hunters eat,” he said between his teeth, lifting his head to let the rest of the carcass slide into his open gullet.

“Raider! Bone-chewer! I broke your fang and tore your ear. Come near me or steal my prey again and I will chew your tail off and stuff it down your gluttonous throat!”

He lolled his tongue out at her, turned, and, tail in the air, sauntered away.

Ratha went to where the shrew’s carcass had lain, hoping to find a few neglected morsels. She found only moss, stained with blood and spittle. She bent her head and licked the green carpet, but only got the faintest taste. She closed her eyes and felt her belly twist in despair.

Only good hunters eat,
she thought.

She lifted her head and bared her fangs. She shredded the moss with her claws.

She had lost her world and everything in it. The herder’s knowledge that served her in the clan was worthless here. She had left her people far behind. Now, she realized, as she felt the grinding pain of hunger fade into a frightening numbness inside her, she must leave their ways behind as well.

I was raised to be a herder, part of her mind cried. That life is gone. What else is there? Nothing, the same part of her mind answered. In choosing to leave the clan, you chose to die.

Despair paralyzed Ratha. She wanted to sink down onto the moss and lie still forever. To become dry bones, scattered by the feet of those who would pass this way. Crumbling bones, crawling with insects.

Another part of her mind began speaking. She quieted the turmoil inside and listened. This part spoke in images and feelings rather than words. It told of scents followed along star-lit trails, of stalking and waiting in shadow, of branches breaking close by and the sudden fever at the smell of the prey. It told of a life far older than that of the clan, a life far deeper and, in a strange way, far wiser. The old part of her mind told Ratha she had that wisdom. She woke from the telling as she would from a dream and she trembled, for it was far stronger than the clan-taught knowledge. The way of the clan, she knew, went back many seasons and many lifetimes. She knew the names of those who led the clan, from the first ones all the way to Baire and Meoran. The way of the herder was old, but there was another way, ancient beyond memory. It went back to the time before the beginning. The way of the hunter. 

* * *

 
Whiskers poked out of a burrow. A timorous nose followed. Earth and small stones tumbled as the occupant emerged and peered around. Hiding in a patch of weeds, Ratha tensed. She could see the black stripes along the animal’s cheeks; the blunt snout. Delicate five-toed paws joined the whiskers in exploring the ground outside the burrow.

This hunt, Ratha thought, would be different. She knew hunger had robbed her of the speed and agility a hunter needed. She still had something that might make the difference if she used it properly: her cleverness. If she could outwit three-horns and Un-Named raiders, surely she could catch a shrew.

The marsh-shrew looked toward Ratha’s hiding place, lifted its chin and showed long chisel teeth, as if it knew she was there.

The animal’s forequarters were already out of the hole and the hindquarters soon followed. The striped shrew began wandering away from its burrow, stopping every few paces to raise its muzzle and sniff the air. Ratha’s excitement grew with every step the animal took away from its den. She quivered and bunched herself together, treading softly with her forepaws, waiting until the shrew was far from the burrow. She jerked sharply, fighting the impulse to pounce. There was something else that had to be done first.

She remained still until the shrew reached a stand of marsh grass and began to gnaw on the tuberous roots. Ratha gave it one last glance, left her hiding place and crept, not toward the shrew, but toward the empty burrow. A mound of dried mud stood to one side of the entrance, a product of the shrew’s excavations. With one swipe, she pushed the fill into the burrow and added a few pawfuls of surface mud. She pressed hard to pack it solid, then, with another glance over her shoulder, slunk back to her place in the rushes. As she settled in her nest, she purred softly to herself, pleased with her cleverness. This hunting business wasn’t so hard if one gave it some thought, she decided.

The hard part was staying still until the shrew had finished its meal of roots, and even after it had left the marsh grass, it still wasn’t ready to return to the den. Ratha watched, her impatience mixed with grudging admiration as her prey turned hunter, attacking and devouring flies and beetles. She saw the shrew leap at a dragonfly droning low over the marsh and when the little hunter fell back on the mud, she saw that it bore a broken jeweled body in its jaws. Her keen ears caught muffled snaps as the shrew bit off the insect’s legs and then continuous frantic crunching until only the lacy wings were left, scattered on the mud beside the still-twitching legs.

The shrew sniffed among the remains, turned its head up and looked at the sky, as if wishing for more and, finally sated, waddled back toward its lair. Halfway there, it stopped and its careless amble turned into a wary creep. Hidden in the grass, Ratha shivered, trying to still the clamor in her brain. The promise of food had awakened her stomach and it growled its impatience at her. Spring now. Now. NOW!

Ratha’s hind legs shot back, throwing her through the rushes. She stayed flat, hugging the ground. The shrew bolted for its den, launched itself at the entrance and bounced off the packed mud. It scurried back and forth, dodging her wildly slapping paws. She chased it away from the burrow, across the mudflat between the rushes, around a rotting log and back again. Reeds slapped her face as she dashed through them, trying to keep her prey in sight.

The shrew tried again for its burrow. It flung itself onto the packed earth and dug in a wild frenzy. By the time Ratha reached the den, the shrew had bored halfway in. She skidded to a stop; scooped the shrew out of its hole. It nipped her pad and she dropped it, squalling in pain. Squeaking shrilly, the animal reared up on its hind paws and showed its teeth. Ratha circled the shrew as it squealed and danced. She lifted one paw and slapped down hard, trying to squash the shrew into the mud. It bounced high into the air and shot off in a different direction. Ratha whirled and caught a glimpse of another tunnel opening in a mudbank beneath a tangle of swamp grass roots. The shrew was heading straight for it.

With a yowl of rage, Ratha scrambled after her prey. Despair gave her speed, but her shaky legs failed to stop her in time. The shrew reached the second tunnel before she did. She made one last snap at the vanishing hindquarters before she overshot and plowed headfirst into the bank.

The impact ground her teeth against gravel and filled her mouth and nose with mud.

Ratha recoiled, rearing back and clawing the air. The ooze clung inside her mouth, blocked her nose and she fell on her back, retching, trying to push the vile-tasting muck out with frantic thrusts of her tongue. Her maltreated stomach cramped and convulsed, sending its meager contents up her throat. She stretched her mouth wide, letting the bitter fluid stream over her tongue and through her nose, turning the ooze to sizzling froth that dripped from her jaws. Her stomach was empty, but the spasms continued, wrenching her belly and thrusting her hind legs out stiff until they quivered and cramped.

For a moment she thought she was going to heave her insides up onto the marsh mud, but the sickness soon subsided, leaving her a limp and panting heap of fur, drooling brown saliva.

She wished then that she could die and that the clan could know how she died. Meoran would howl until he farted if he knew that the proud bearer of the Red Tongue had choked on swamp mud trying to catch a wretched shrew! She squeezed her eyes shut and felt fluid run from them to join the stuff dribbling from her eyes and nose. The Red Tongue? Why think of that now? It was gone. Finding the fire once was a fluke. She would never find it again. This was the life she would have to lead, if she could.

Slowly Ratha rolled from her side onto her stomach and dragged herself through a clump of rushes to the shore on the other side. Her belly ached; her nose and throat burned. Her lips and tongue were raw. Her fangs had lost their usual smooth slickness against her tongue and felt etched and gritty.

Scum edged the bank and clung to the half-drowned rushes. A rainbow film on the water’s surface shimmered in translucent colors. Ratha closed her eyes and put out her tongue to drink.

A paw slid under her neck, shoving her muzzle away from the water. Ratha gave a weak cry and pushed stupidly against it, feeling a strong foreleg against her jaw. She opened her eyes. At seeing her companion’s tinted reflection, she cried again and turned her head away, hating the taste of bile in her mouth and hating the intruder for not letting her drink. Again she tried and again he thrust her back. She lay panting, her chin in the mud. He walked in front of her, flicking a ragged ear.

“Clan cat, doesn’t your nose tell you this is bad water?”

“I’m thirsty. My mouth burns. Let me drink.” Ratha whimpered.

“I know. I saw you being sick. You’ll be much sicker if you drink here. There’s a stream further up. You’ll be able to find it.”

“Bone-chewer, keep to your own trail! I’ll decide for myself where to drink.” She glared at him with all the hate she could muster. She narrowed her eyes, feeling them go to slits. “Why do you care if I get sick? You took my prey; you want me to starve. Go away.” Ratha rolled away from him onto her side and curled into a ball. She heard his footsteps squelch on the marshy ground. They stopped. She cracked one eyelid, hoping the silence meant he was gone. No. He was still there, sitting a short distance away, watching her with yellow eyes. Yellow eyes, in a face that seemed strangely familiar, as if it echoed the face of another.

Ratha groaned and slid her chin across her forepaws, as she looked up at him. “Bone-chewer, why do you stay?”

“I’m full. I have nothing else to do. And you are interesting. I’ve never seen such a poor hunter in my life.”

“Leave me alone!” Ratha snarled weakly. “Why should I hunt if you take everything I catch?”

“You flatter yourself, clan cat. You have yet to catch anything.”

Ratha jerked her head up and glared at him again, wishing she had the strength left to tear him into small scraps. Her head shook with anger and weariness. “I caught
you,
raider. Let your ear and your broken fang remind you of that.”

She let her head sink back to her forepaws. The weeds rustled and she felt feet pad beside her. She stiffened. “What are you going to do now, raider? Kill and eat me?”

From somewhere above her head came a low rumble that sounded more amused than threatening. “No. There’s not enough flesh on you to be worth the killing.” He cocked his head at her. His coat gleamed with red-gold highlights in the hazy afternoon sun. “Despite what you may have been told about the Un-Named, we do not eat our own kind.”

Ratha hitched herself away from him, but his tail still brushed her ribs as he curled it across his feet. “You are not of my kind, bone-chewer,” she growled.

“There are differences,” he agreed. “I am not nearly as foolish. Now that we know each other, clan cat, shall I show you where the stream lies?”

Ratha only grunted and ignored him. Her thirst was fading, along with everything else. All she wanted now was sleep. There was something still stirring in her mind, though, that would not leave her alone.

I fought the raider in the meadow but that’s not why I know his smell and his face. It is as if I know him, and yet I don’t. Why?

She opened one eye and peered past the brush of her tail at him. Her eyelid felt heavy. She let it fall shut, blotting him out. His smell grew stronger and teeth seized her ruff. Ratha’s eyes flew open as he hauled her up off the mud, shoving her forepaws underneath her with one swipe of his foot. When he let her go, she sagged, her legs buckled and she flopped down.

He backed off and gave her a puzzled look, faintly tinged with sadness. “Are you of the clan so weak that you can only lie down and die when you meet hardship? I thought you had more spirit when you mauled me in the meadow.”

“Fine words from one who stole my prey!” Ratha hissed bitterly. “Had I eaten, I could follow you.”