Электронная книга - «Clan Ground (The Second Book of the Named)». Краткое содержание книги:
He left the oak and paced away as a deep roar answered one of the calls. What a fuss everybody made about the mating season! he thought crossly. Why couldn’t one choose not to be involved without being thought peculiar? He had never been very successful with the females; they drove him off in favor of stronger, louder or more odoriferous males. Even when Ratha’s leadership had raised his status from one who was barely tolerated to one who was eagerly accepted and respected, habit had still made him shy away.
Habit and something else, he admitted to himself as he jogged across the meadow. He, too, could share in the joys that this time brought if it weren’t for the uncertainty of his half Un-Named parentage. There was a small chance that cubs he sired would bear the gift of the Named, but he knew that his brother Bonechewer’s mating with Ratha had produced witless young. Any cubs that Thakur sired were likely to turn out the same.
If he went to her now, as her smell, wafting on the breeze, tempted him to do, she would accept him eagerly without thinking of the consequences. In that she would be like any Named female caught in the fever of her heat. Yet if she did, and her cubs were born as he feared, he would have wounded her in a way that might never heal.
He knew that she took a partner each season, but the male left only a lingering odor on her fur, for there were never any cubs. He had once asked Ratha if she understood why. He never asked her again, however, for the look of pain on her face had tightened his own throat as she answered. “I mated after Bonechewer and I lost the cubs. Again I took a mate, but my belly never swelled. Why, I don’t know. Somehow my body won’t let me bear another litter. Perhaps I can’t forget what happened to the first.”
“Your cubs wouldn’t be witless this time,” Thakur had said. “Not if you take a clan male. Why don’t you try again?”
“I will. I can’t help but try again. When the heat draws me I don’t think of such things, but afterward ...”
There would be nothing to regret. Still, he would not risk siring empty-eyed cubs on her. It was better that he stay away and so he had done each year, wandering the forests and grasslands beyond clan territory. This self-imposed exile was a lonely and bitter time for him. Without a companion, the journey became a weary one, and his mind often strayed back to those he had left behind. Had Shongshar not reached adulthood this season, he might have joined Thakur on the trail, but now he was back there in the midst of all the growls and tail-wavings. Thakur would go alone, returning only when his belly called him, to eat of the yearling herders’ cull and slip away again before he could be drawn into the fever of courtship.
With these thoughts burdening his mind, Thakur jogged heavily toward the stream that marked the edge of clan territory. It was just beginning to swell with the first winter rains. The water buffeted his legs as he waded in the shallows. It was only deep enough to splash his belly, but if more rain came he might have to swim back across. That thought and his wet paws did nothing to ease his temper. Mournful cries in the sky made him lift his head to see birds circling high over the tree-covered hills in the direction he was going. The cries made him think of hooked beaks and quick, sharp talons; he wondered what carrion they had found.
The wind that stole the warmth from the wet fur on his belly seemed to chill his mind as well. A good run would warm him up and stretch his muscles, he decided.
On the other side of the creek, Thakur swung into a fluid canter, watching the foliage race past as a blur on either side of him. He was proud of his speed and often ran for the sheer joy of feeling the ground slip away beneath his flying paws. He was galloping down a long grade on a deer trail beneath overhanging boughs when something darted onto the path between his legs.
One of his front paws struck it. There was a sharp screech as the object flew into the air. Whirling his tail to keep his balance, Thakur bounced to a stop, then retraced his steps to see what had tripped him.
The object moved slowly and unevenly. The culprit was a small furball dragging itself crabwise through the fallen leaves. It was the same size as a nursing cub, although not at all the same shape. He cocked his head, torn between caution and curiosity. Carefully he sidled up to it and reached out with an inquisitive paw. The creature showed tiny teeth and a pink tongue. It tried to hitch itself across the trail again but soon stopped. One rear leg was limp and dragging.
Thakur circled the animal as it squatted in the trail, following him with frightened eyes. It had a short banded muzzle, paws that bore nails instead of claws and a ringed furry tail. It was one of the tree-dwellers who had often pestered him when he tried to nap in the shade of their trees.
Here was a chance for revenge, if he wanted it, or an opportunity to find out how these creatures might taste. At least it would extend his time away from the clan by sating his belly a little.
The young treeling hunched itself in the dead leaves, giving him quick nervous glances. He could see its small sides heave and the way its racing heartbeat rocked it. He smelled the fear that seeped from the small animal. Sensing that it was helpless, the creature curled its tail around itself and clung to it as if clinging to its mother. It began to stroke and pick nervously at the fur, never taking its eyes from him.
His attention was oddly drawn to the movements of the creature’s paws. As he watched the small fingers twine in the hair, he felt something like an itch in his mind, a thought that almost came forward but then disappeared.
Thakur nosed the treeling. It tried to curl up into a ball, but the injured leg got in the way. He turned the creature over with his paw, his belly still warring with the strange itch in his mind.
The treeling, after sitting rigidly for a long time, made a sudden scramble for safety. Thakur stepped firmly on its tail. It twisted back and tried to bite his foot. He fastened his jaws loosely around its neck and picked it up. The animal went limp, but Thakur could feel its heart beating against his lips. For a moment, he felt ridiculous and his instinct was to snap it up into his mouth or fling it into the bushes with a sharp toss of his head.
I’m taking it with me, he decided at last. If it dies, I’ll eat it and if it doesn’t ... well, it might be amusing.
For the rest of the day he carried the treeling, grateful that no one of the clan was there to see him or to ask why. He shifted his grip from its neck to its scruff, which seemed to make it a little less frightened. When at last he let the creature down, it shook its soaked fur, spraying him with his own saliva.
He washed his face, made a comfortable nest and settled into it, then reached out a paw for the treeling. The animal tried to hitch itself away, but he swept it up, dragged it into the nest and crossed his paws over it. It made one little peep of protest and was still.
The next morning, Thakur was mildly surprised to find the treeling still alive and sleeping under his paw. As soon as he moved, it woke, hissed and nipped his pad. Despite its injured leg, the creature was quite lively, and it was all he could do to keep it from escaping through the grass, or fastening its small teeth in him. At last he managed to grab the animal by the scruff and shake it a few times to reduce it to a state of grudging acceptance.
At midday, Thakur stopped beside a little brook trickling between the gnarled roots of two fire-scarred pines. He was grateful to come into the shade, for the autumn sun on his back had warmed him during the journey and, with the treeling in his mouth, he couldn’t pant to cool himself off.
He put his soggy passenger down and dipped his muzzle in the stream, washing away the taste of treeling fur. With one paw on the animal’s tail, he surveyed the grove into which he’d come. The place felt peaceful and quiet without being gloomy. He could stay here awhile, perhaps dig a shallow den near the stream. First, though, he’d have to figure out what to do with his treeling.