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  For a moment, both creasia and ferryshaft seemed as frozen as the ice on which they stood. Then every ferryshaft on the river made a dash for the northern bank. Storm ran with them, spurred by the smell of their fear.

  The cats soon reached the stragglers and wove a line through the terrified animals, separating a few from the herd. They chased the whole group to the northern bank, where they picked up several adults. The cats then herded their selections back onto the river. By sheer luck, Storm happened to be toward the center of the fleeing ferryshaft, and he was not chosen.

  The cats showed no further interest in the rest of the herd. They paced around their victims for a moment, their movements light and quick. Storm saw eight cats, and at least twenty ferryshaft on the ice. The ferryshaft stood trembling, eyes dark with terror. Finally one foal sprang towards the bank, crying, “Mother!”

  A creasia pursued her. His long legs covered the distance easily, and for a moment he loped alongside her. Just before she reached the bank, he snapped her up in his jaws, and her scream ended abruptly in a flail of legs and bushy tail as the cat shook her and then tossed her into the air.

  They were so close that Storm heard the crunch as her spine snapped, and the leaden thump as her body hit the ice. The ugly sight seared into his brain—the unnatural sprawl of legs, her tiny body—so recently in motion—now so terribly still.

  Storm thought that he should run—fast and far and never stop. Yet he could not tear his eyes from the river. Not until the last ferryshaft on the ice lay dead did Storm remember the rest of the herd. He glanced around in a panic, fearing that they had fled, leaving him alone with these monsters. Storm was relieved to see the herd still scattered throughout the belt of trees.

  Then he blinked. Some of the adults were feeding along the forest’s edge. Their indifference shocked and sickened him. Can no one else hear what I hear and see what I see?

  But, no. Looking more closely, he saw foals like himself, transfixed with horror. He watched an adult male tear a mouthful of frozen grass from the earth, root and all. He did not bother to shake the dirt out before he chewed. Storm could hear the grains of sand grinding between the adult’s teeth. He chewed until blood trickled down his chin, eyes staring straight ahead.

  When the creasia had finished, they ate a little, made noises that meant nothing to Storm, and finally trooped back into the forest. They did not consume more than a tenth of the creatures they had slaughtered, and soon large, black birds began to sail from the sky to pick at the dead.

  As the vultures gathered, the ferryshaft finally drifted away. At the edge of the trees, Storm found his mother. They said nothing, but met each other’s eyes evenly, sharing at last the wretched knowledge of an ugly secret. Then So-fet gently embraced Storm with her neck, and he buried his trembling head in her soft fur.

  That evening, the sun went down in a sea of crimson and gold, and the sight should have been beautiful. But, to Storm, it seemed that all the world melted in shades of red, and that the dusky rocks were bathed in blood.

  Chapter 8. Why?

  Three days later, Storm found Pathar by a stream among the boulders. He was sure that the old ferryshaft had been avoiding him. “Why?!” Storm demanded without even a greeting. He’d never been so rude to his teacher.

  He half expected Pathar to walk away without speaking, but Pathar answered mildly. “Why is such a big question.”

  “You know what I’m talking about. Why did it happen? Why did no one tell me it would happen? Why will no one talk to me about it?” He’d been trying to talk to So-fet, but she only shushed him, and he’d noticed that his attempts drew uneasy looks from any ferryshaft within earshot. In vain, he hid near gossipy groups, hoping for some insight, but they continued their usual round of speculation about mating, the progress of various foals, and likely locations of the best grass in winter. To his astonishment, no one seemed to be talking about the killings.

  Pathar sighed. “We don’t talk about that. What good would it do?”

  “The cats—”

  “They’re called creasia.”

  “The creasia,” Storm rolled the word around on his tongue. “Do they come every winter?”

  “Every 10 or 20 days, yes.”

  Storm was horrified. “They’ll be back?”

  “Yes. You should try to stay near the center of the herd if you see them coming. They never cut out large groups, just small ones, random ones. They’re not particular. They don’t kill young more than old or females more than males, just whoever happens to be nearest when they’re doing their cull.”

  “Why?” whispered Storm.

  Pathar looked off into the distance. Storm thought that he wouldn’t answer, and then he said, “So that we will not become too many for them to control. So that we will be afraid...and ashamed.”

  “Why don’t we fight?” demanded Storm. “There are more of us than of them.”

  Pathar watched him and said nothing.

  “Even the parents of those foals on the ice…they just...watched!”

  “You think they should have died with their offspring?”

  “No! I think we should have all run out there and...and done something!”

  “We’ve agreed not to.”

  Storm was dumbfounded. “We’ve...agreed?” Storm remembered suddenly the tension in the herd when they’d first arrived at the cliffs.

  “A conference,” his mother had said. “It happens every year.”

  “What— Who—?”

  “If I tell you more and others learn of it, I could be killed.” Pathar spoke with appalling mildness. “Watch and listen, Storm, until you’re older, until you understand better what you’re asking.”

  Before Storm could respond, Pathar continued. “Creasia and ferryshaft are not the only intelligent animals on Lidian.”

  Storm was surprised. “What do you mean by ‘intelligent?’”

  “Animals who can talk to each other,” said Pathar. “Who could...tell you things.”

  Storm was instantly curious. “I didn’t know the creasia could talk. I couldn’t understand any of the sounds they made.”

  Pathar laughed. “They sound a little different. They use a few words that we don’t have, and we use a few words that they don’t have. But it’s the same language. All the intelligent species on Lidian speak the same language, except the ely-ary.”

  “How many intelligent species are there?”

  “Seven. They are the ferryshaft, the creasia, the ely-ary, two species of curbs, and two species of sea snakes.”

  “Why don’t I ever see them? What do they look like?”

  “You don’t see them because, mostly, we don’t share territory. Curbs do cross our paths sometimes, especially the smaller lowland variety. The bigger, highland curbs are rarer. Their home range is far away in the southern mountains, but their queens like to know what goes on all over the island. They send patrols that live out here and report back. Highland and lowland packs fight with each other in the mountains, and they’ll fight out here, too. They look a little like foxes, but are about the size of the cliff sheep. That’s mostly what they eat. Curbs are not dangerous to ferryshaft in groups, but they will attack lone individuals, the injured, or the young. That’s one reason you should not travel far from the herd alone.

  “As for the other intelligent species—the ely-ary are huge eagles that live on the Great Mountain in the north. And, of course, you’ve seen the creasia. They live in the Southern Forests, which they call Leeshwood.”

  “What about sea snakes?”

  Pathar hesitated. “They live in the ocean and on the beach, as well as in some of the caves. The two species are called telshees and lishties.” Pathar stopped suddenly. Storm followed his gaze across the stream to a large, dark red ferryshaft, who sat watching them in the shadow of a boulder. Storm wondered how long he’d been sitting there.

  When Storm glanced back to Pathar, he could have sworn that the old ferryshaft looked guilty. The stranger
gave a twitch of his head, and Pathar rose.

  “Who’s that?” whispered Storm.

  Pathar spoke without expression. “Charder, our herd leader.” He gave a quick, irritated flick of his ears. “Does your mother teach you nothing?”

  Storm felt embarrassed and looked at the ground. When he looked up again, Pathar had crossed the stream and stood talking to Charder, who never took his eyes off Storm. Storm felt simultaneously uncomfortable and annoyed. He stared insolently back.

  At last, Pathar returned. Storm thought he’d never looked older or more tired. “I have to go. I apologize if anything I’ve said has upset you, Storm. Sometimes age doesn’t make us wise.”

  Before Storm could think of anything to say, Pathar turned, splashed through the shallow stream, and rejoined Charder. They walked away, talking softly and not looking back.

  Chapter 9. To Bend and Not Break

  Storm tried to get Pathar to return to the subject of intelligent species on several occasions. Which ones might talk to him about the creasia? None of the species Pathar had listed sounded safe or friendly. Pathar, however, had become evasive. He would talk only of survival skills—a subject that concerned Storm more and more as winter deepened.

  Grass became scarce. Storm had to paw through snow drifts to get at the frozen stems. Sometimes, he dug laboriously though the frozen surface, only to find the ground scraped bare beneath.

  Hunger became a constant specter. Storm ate tree bark, evergreen leaves, roots, anything within reach. He learned to hunt rock rats and rabbits. He learned how to find frogs and turtles in their winter burrows and to stalk mice in their snowy runways. Meanwhile, the ferryshaft ranged back and forth along the foot of the Red Cliffs, eating as they went and traveling on when there was nothing left.

  As Pathar had predicted, the cats returned at regular intervals. They never killed more than a few animals, but the brutality of the killings made these deaths seem worse than those of the ferryshaft who died of cold or hunger. However, knowing the pattern of the killings gave Storm a degree of security. Creasia like to kill us in groups, he reasoned. They don’t kill for food, so why should they attack a small, lone ferryshaft?

  Storm had reason to hope he was right, because he was wandering farther on his own, both for food and for sport. So-fet did not try to stop him. She had joined a group of other adult females. They were not entirely friendly to Storm, although So-fet tried to cover for their rudeness. Whenever Storm spent more than a day with So-fet, she tried to give him food, which he knew she could not afford. So he kept away.

  Storm still enjoyed playing on the ice. The Igby provided the best sport because of its size and smoothness, and Storm occasionally made all-day excursions to the river, following groups of foals whenever possible. He would have liked to play with them, but he was never invited.

  The river helped Storm forget his troubles. The wind hit his face, the ice fled beneath his hooves, and he flew like a leaf before the wind. He was particularly fond of his ability to change directions quickly—a skill which Pathar had assured him was more valuable than speed. “Rabbits don’t escape hawks by being faster,” Pathar told him. “They don’t outrun. They outmaneuver.”

  As the grass grew more difficult to find, Storm turned ever more to small animals as his mainstay. He hunted at a disadvantage because he did not belong to a clique. Cliques of foals hunted together and shared food. Lone hunters had to work harder.

  In spite of everything, Storm could have managed, had he not encountered an unexpected problem. It began the first time he caught a rabbit. Storm had stalked the creature for some time. After losing it in the initial rush, he had crouched outside its hiding place for a quarter of the day until it emerged. One piercing shriek, and the chase was over.

  Storm felt a surge of pride and pleasure. He was cold and stiff from sitting so still, but the reward would be warm and satisfying. His saliva had already begun to seep into the rabbit’s fur.

  However, the animal’s dying cry had attracted the attention of another group of foals. They approached Storm, eyeing him with hungry interest. Storm’s nostrils twitched. An important clique, he thought, all high-noses from prominent families. What’s their leader’s name? Kelsy. A big two-year-old, and he can fight. Even the three and four-year-olds get out of his way.

  Storm recognized the foal almost as soon as he remembered his name. No mistaking Kelsy—fine nut-brown coat, deep hazel eyes, intelligent and proud. “Hey, runt, is that your rabbit?”

  “Yes,” said Storm, muffled around the rabbit.

  Kelsy advanced until only a pace separated them. Storm had to tilt his head up to look Kelsy in the eyes. “I don’t think you understood me. I said, is that your rabbit?”

  “And I said that it is,” replied Storm with his mouth full.

  “Wrong!” In one movement Kelsy snatched the rabbit and left a clean slash in Storm’s cheek. “It’s my rabbit!”

  Storm’s eyes opened wide, and so did his mouth. Blood began to trickle from the cut, and the watching ferryshaft exploded into laughter. “Did the little orphan lose his favorite toy?” they cooed. “Well, you don’t deserve a rabbit if you can’t keep it. Isn’t that right, chief?” Kelsy grinned, the rabbit dangling from his jaws. Then they turned and trooped off without a backward glance.

  Storm sat on the cold stone and stared after them. His belly rumbled. As he turned away, he could not suppress a whimper of frustration and pain.

  In the days that followed Kelsy’s clique continued to persecute Storm, relieving him of his prey every time he caught anything of significance. Storm’s search for a solution intensified as he grew thinner. So-fet watched with concern, but she could offer little assistance, as the attacks always came when Storm hunted alone. She tried to find extra food and often went hungry for him, but she could not support him entirely.

  Storm was not the only youngster who suffered thievery. Older and bigger foals often stole from the younger and weaker, but it only happened to the same foal occasionally.

  Kelsy’s clique had chosen to heckle Storm on a more personal level. “Is it a ferryshaft?” asked one with mock uncertainty.

  “I don’t know. It looks like a rat to me.”

  “Yes, with all that ugly fur. No ferryshaft has fur that color. It must be a rat.”

  “Poor, scrawny rat. I wonder if it’s hungry?”

  “Are you hungry, rat?”

  “Where’s your father, rat? Don’t you have a father? My father says the herd is stronger when the weak don’t live to breed.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Storm almost screamed. “What did I ever do to you?”

  “It’s not what you did,” returned Kelsy, his eyes half closed. “It’s what you can’t do.”

  Perhaps Kelsy’s clique did not know they were killing Storm. Storm got the idea that they taunted him more for entertainment than out of malice. Of course, they also enjoyed the extra meat. They were hungry just like everybody else, but they could have survived without the food, and Storm could not.

  After one particularly demeaning episode, he ran whimpering to Pathar. Blood trickled from his nose, and his gray eyes looked unnaturally large in his thin face. “Pathar,” he wailed, “they’re awful! They won’t let me keep anything I kill. I can’t find enough grass to survive. What will I do?”

  “Kelsy’s clique?” asked Pathar as if he didn’t already know.

  “Yes! Just Kelsy, really. If he didn’t harass me, the others would leave me alone. I’ll starve if they don’t stop, Pathar. Please tell me what to do!”

  Pathar watched him. “Storm, do you know why I chose to teach you?”

  “No,” said Storm miserably. I don’t know why you do anything.

  Pathar smiled. “I chose you because you don’t give up.” Half to himself, he added, “And neither did your mother.”

  “But, Pathar, it’s not fair—”

  Pathar’s voice grew harsh. “Storm, nothing in your life will ever be fair! You should have died
when you were a baby, and everyone knew it. You remember being angry last summer because adults predicted your death this winter? This is exactly what they were talking about.”

  Storm flinched.

  Pathar’s eyes softened. “Storm, do you see those trees up there?”

  Storm followed his gaze to a few gaunt trees, hardly more than bushes, that grew, spider-like, from crevices on the cliffs. “Those scrawny things are the only kind of tree that grows on the cliffs. You would expect a sturdier tree in such harsh conditions. But those tall, proud trees by Chelby Lake could never survive up there. Do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “Because, at Chelby Lake, trees grow close together to shield each other from the wind. Soil is scarce on the cliffs, and the trees must stand alone. They survive up there, all alone, in winds that would snap those tall, straight trunks by Chelby Lake. Do you know how they do it, Storm?”

  Storm squinted. “They bend?”

  “Yes. They don’t fight the wind. They bend, but they don’t break.”

  Storm felt tired. His belly rumbled. “So you don’t have any real help?” He’d been half hoping that Pathar would give him something to eat. Many ferryshaft brought gifts of food to Pathar when they asked his advice.

  Pathar sighed. “I see only two options. You can fight, or you can run.”

  “But, Pathar, I can’t fight Kelsy! He would kill me! Run? Their legs are so much longer than mine—!”

  “Storm!” Pathar almost barked. “I have given you my thoughts and my council. I have nothing else to offer. You will solve this problem yourself, or you will not see another spring.”

  Chapter 10. Pursuit and Evasion

  Storm thought. He went to sleep thinking, and he dreamed about rabbits and hawks and things that fight and things that flee. Next day, he hunted deliberately, choosing rabbits, since they had been the beginning of his troubles.