accept me! What could have made her miss the Meeting?”
Thinbone lowered his ears in mock terror. “An interrupted Dance of Acceptance! Skydancer’s Whiskers ! I think I see your fur falling out already! And your tail is going limp!”
Fritti shook his head impatiently. “I know you think it’s funny, Thinbone, and with your string of tail-waving females you don’t care about a real Joining. But I do, and I’m worried about Hushpad. Please help me.”
Thinbone looked at him for a moment, blinking his eyes and scratching behind his right ear.
“All right, Tailchaser,” he said, simply. “What can I do?”
“Well, I suppose there’s not much we can do tonight, but if I can’t find her tomorrow could you perhaps come out and have a look around with me?”
“I suppose so,” replied Thinbone, “but I think that a little patience will probably—ouch!”
Fleetpaw had come up from below and butted his flat head against Thinbone’s haunches.
“Come now!” Fleetpaw cried. “What is all this deep discussion? Bristlejaw’s going to tell a story, and here you sit like two fat eunuchs!”
Tailchaser and Thinbone bounced down after their friend. Felas were felas, but a story was nothing to sniff at!
The Folk squeezed closer around the Meeting Wall—an ocean of waving tails. Slowly, and with immense dignity, Bristlejaw mounted a crumbled section of the wall. At the highest point he paused, and waited.
Having seen some eleven or twelve summers, Bristlejaw was certainly no longer a young cat, but iron control was in all his movements. His tortoise-shell fur, once brilliant with patches of rust and black, had dulled somewhat with age, and the stiff fur jutting from around his muzzle had gone gray-white. His eyes were bright and clear, though, and could bring a sporting kitten to a halt from three jumps away.
Bristlejaw was an Oel-cir‘va: a Master Old-singer, one of the keepers of the Lore of the Folk. All the history of the Folk was in their songs—passed on in the Higher Singing of the Elder Days from one generation to another as a sacred trust. Bristlejaw was the only Old-singer within some distance of the Meeting Wall, and his stories were as important to his Folk as water, or the freedom to run and jump as they pleased.
From his position atop the Wall he surveyed the cats below for a long time. The expectant murmurings quieted to soft purring. Some of the young cats—tremendously excited and unable to sit still—began frantically grooming themselves. Bristlejaw flicked his tail three times, and there was silence.
“We thank our Elders, who watch over us.” he began. “We praise Meerclar, whose Eye lights our hunting. We salute our quarry for making the chase sweet.”
“Thanks. Praise. Salutations.”
“We are the Folk, and tonight we speak in one voice of the deeds of all. We are the Folk.”
Caught up in the ancient ritual, the cats swayed gently from side to side. Bristlejaw began his story.
“In the days of the earth’s youth—when some of the First were still seen in these fields—Queen Satinear, granddaughter of Fela Skydancer, ruled in the Court of Harar.
“And she was a good queen. Her paw was as just in aid of her Folk as her claw was swift to harm for her enemies.
“Her son and coregent was Prince Ninebirds. He was a huge cat, mighty in battle, swift to anger, and swollen in pride for all his youthful years. At his Naming the story had been told of how, as a kitten, he had slain a branchful of starlings with one blow of his claws. So Ninebirds he was Named, and the fame of his strength and his deeds stretched far.
“It had been many, many summers since the death of Whitewind, and none living in the Court at this time had ever seen any of the First. Firefoot had been wandering in the wild for generations, and many thought him dead, or gone to join his father and grandmother in the sky.
“As stories of Ninebirds’ strength and bravery began to run from mouth to ear among