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  Chapter 15. Ally

  Later that day, as they were trudging down the cliffs, Storm said, “Leep, did you really think that white fur came from a telshee?”

  Leep looked embarrassed and didn’t answer.

  Tracer said, “We saw one.”

  Storm was impressed. “Really?”

  “Last year about this time. We were…” He trailed off and glanced at Leep.

  Leep twitched his tail and tried to look indifferent. “You can tell him.”

  “We were foraging in the Southern Wood.”

  Storm was astonished. “In creasia territory?”

  “They’re not everywhere,” said Leep. “I’ve never seen them except when they’re attacking the herd.”

  “We were orphaned in the same raid,” Tracer tried to explain. “So we stuck together. We hadn’t found a clique then, so we were desperate, and there’s good foraging across the river if you’re brave…”

  “But you don’t go over there anymore,” said Storm.

  Leep shook his head. “We passed the Garu Vell one evening. It’s less than a day’s journey from the river. And we heard…singing.”

  “It’s not really singing,” said Tracer. “It’s a sort of rising and falling hum. It sounded very close.” He shuddered.

  “You can’t tell what direction it’s coming from,” said Leep. “I think that’s why they do it—to panic their prey.”

  “Well, we panicked anyway,” said Tracer. “We ran among the rocks, but instead of getting away from it, we ran right into it. Only, it wasn’t singing for us.”

  “It had caught a creasia,” said Leep in a low voice. “It hadn’t seen us, and we were too scared to move. The cat was fighting, but the telshee had it mostly wrapped up in its coils. Then it started to squeeze.”

  Tracer made a face. “I almost felt sorry for the cat. I vomited, and that was noisy. The telshee looked around and saw us.”

  “It had blue eyes,” said Leep. “Very big blue eyes—not green like in your stories.”

  Tracer shuddered. “Who cares what color eyes it had? We didn’t stop running until we crossed the river. We found Mylo and Callaris not long after that. We never went back into the forest.”

  Storm considered this. “Why didn’t you tell that story to the others up on the cliff? It’s a lot scarier.”

  Leep scowled. “Why don’t we tell stories about creasia raids? Why don’t we tell stories about losing our parents? Storm, if you don’t understand that, then you don’t understand anything.” He trotted on ahead and Storm felt small and foolish.

  “Don’t let him bother you,” said Tracer. “The beginning of last winter was a bad time. He doesn’t like thinking about it.”

  Storm looked out over the island. “No, he’s right. I don’t understand anything.”

  * * * *

  Storm half-hoped to see a telshee that winter, but he didn’t. He did journey up the cliffs half a dozen times with his clique and even descended twice to the beach, where they spotted a few seals and devoured strange, crunchy animals from the tide pools. It was an odd period for Storm—a period of cold and hunger, but also of friendship and belonging. He had a place in the world, and he was content. His mother seemed proud of him, though he visited her rarely so that she did not feel compelled to give him food. He did not visit Pathar at all for the rest of the winter, as he did not wish to be suspected of betraying his friends for their brief act of cannibalism.

  Towards the end of winter, they did find and eat one more dead foal. Storm could not see the harm. They’d caught no game for three days and were very hungry. The foal had obviously died of starvation. Storm chewed on a piece of the ropy meat, but it was sour on his tongue. He swallowed it almost whole and let the others finish. He needed less food than most of them—one advantage of being small.

  Everyone said that this was the hardest time of year—right after everything had been eaten and right before the grass started to grow. The ferryshaft herd had traversed the length of the cliffs twice, and now they were going over the ground a third time, heading away from the river. The snow was already beginning to melt, and the ice had become unsafe to play on. Everyone said the grass would come soon.

  One ill-fated day, Mylo’s clique made the dangerous trek to the top of the Red Cliffs to search for food. Even this area had been well picked over, and the foals spread out among the trees, consuming everything within reach. Storm was stripping bark from a low branch when he heard someone shouting from the direction of the Sea Cliffs. He moved toward the sound and soon emerged from the trees.

  Grass! Little Ally had found some of the first tender blades in a tiny patch of dirt between the woods and the rocks. Storm was impressed that he’d called the others to share his prize, rather than eating it quietly by himself. None of them had eaten fresh grass since summer, and they came running. The patch was not large, but there was enough for all to have half a dozen mouthfuls of the sweet, tender stems.

  However, the youngsters had not eaten a quarter of the patch before Ishy glanced up and went rigid. He snorted, and all the foals followed his gaze to the edge of the trees, where another group of young ferryshaft had appeared. Storm recognized Kelsy at once.

  He had not seen his old opponent since he’d joined Mylo’s clique. Seeing him now made Storm feel a little queasy. He couldn’t help eyeing all available escape routes.

  If Kelsy recognized Storm, he gave no sign. The other clique’s wishes were obvious, and Storm knew what Kelsy would say before he even opened his mouth. “I believe that you’re eating our grass.”

  “Grass belongs to anyone who finds it.” Mylo spoke without conviction, and Storm could tell from his stance that he did not intend to fight.

  “Yes, and we just found it. We outrank you and outnumber you, and we can outfight you. Don’t make this ugly, orphan.”

  For an instant, Mylo hesitated, and Storm could see that he would very much like to fight Kelsy. But Mylo is no fool.

  He tossed his ragged ears and turned away. “Come, friends. There will be other grass.”

  Most of the clique followed Mylo as he started into the wood, but Ally lingered. “We warned you, foal!” snarled one of Kelsy’s party. “Leave. We don’t want to eat grass soiled by orphans.”

  “Then don’t.” The words were soft but audible, and Mylo’s clique turned in surprise.

  “What does Ally think he’s doing?” whispered Leep.

  Kelsy cocked his head. “You’re brave for someone on three legs. Get out of here before I break one of them.”

  Behind him, a foal snickered, “Don’t make him piss himself, Kelsy; he’s still standing in the food!”

  Ally didn’t move. The crippled foal was foraging very poorly at this point in the year, and he looked like skin stretched over a collection of sticks. Nevertheless, he trembled with every appearance of rage. “Mylo is right: grass belongs to whoever finds it. We found it first. Go find your own!” He took a step forward, and his scraggly coat bristled. Meanwhile, his companions had started to walk back toward the cliff. Storm could tell that Mylo was embarrassed and a little angry. If Ally’s actions resulted in a fight with injuries, Ally would pay for it later.

  Kelsy looked a little flustered. There was no glory to be gained in hurting a crippled runt, and if Ally put so much as a scratch on Kelsy, it would be humiliating. “You stupid foal,” he said quietly, “my clique will eat this grass one way or another. Getting yourself killed will not help anyone. If you walk away now, I’ll forget what you just said.”

  Ally didn’t say anything, but he moved back a pace, and Kelsy took that for acceptance. “A wise decision.” He turned away, giving the orphans an opportunity to remove themselves from what had become a dangerous situation.

  Kelsy, however, had misread the signs. No sooner had he turned his back than the sullen Ally flew at him. He sank his teeth into Kelsy’s back leg in an attempt to hamstring the larger foal.

  Kelsy’s reflexes were instantaneous. He whirled t
o snap at his attacker, lashing his body violently in an effort to dislodge him. Kelsy’s teeth raked Ally’s spine, but the whipping motion did the most harm. The tiny foal was so light that he lost his hold and went sailing through the air. He landed on the very lip of the crag. Storm watched in horror as Ally, disoriented, tried to stand, failed, and, with a scream of terror, vanished over the edge.

  For an instant, they were all too stunned to move. After a ghastly pause, Kelsy turned to Mylo’s clique. He looked shaken. “I…did not mean for that to happen.”

  Storm heard Ishy moan.

  “I gave him every chance,” persisted Kelsy.

  Storm thought Ishy might attack Kelsy, but instead he just ran away into the trees, keening softly.

  It was then that Kelsy noticed Storm. Their eyes met, and a look of recognition shot across Kelsy’s face. Is that guilt? wondered Storm. Because of me or because of Ally?

  “I did all I could,” said Kelsy again, as if trying to convince himself. The orphans bowed their heads and slunk into the trees.

  Two days later, the grass came.

  Chapter 16. Spring

  Grass grew in every hollow and under every leafing and budding tree. The ferryshaft lost their winter coats in ragged chunks. The ground around their sleeping areas grew matted with fur, and Storm saw the birds plucking it up to line their nests.

  Storm’s short summer coat was a much paler gray with only smudges of dark smoke. “It’s a good thing we don’t have to hunt much in summer,” Leep told him. “You’d scare the game. In dirty snow, though, you’ll blend right in.”

  Storm butted Leep with his head. “As though you blend any better!”

  Leep’s summer coat was sleek and black, with just a trace of white around his muzzle and ears. They’d all been eating better, and it showed. Storm couldn’t help noticing how the females watched Leep whenever they passed.

  “He’s only a two-year-old,” Tracer would shout, “but we’ll loan him to you if we can hunt with you next winter!”

  “Tracer, shut up!” Leep would hiss.

  The herd now occupied the spring feeding grounds—an area farther north than Storm had ever been in his winter explorations. As the snow melted from the plain, many of the ferryshaft moved out of the rocks in favor of the green fields. The expectant mothers, however, stayed close to the cliffs. The region had an uncommonly large number of dry caves, and these became birthing chambers for the ferryshaft.

  So-fet was not among them. Storm was old enough now to realize that his mother’s friends—including the ones he disliked—had helped her to fight off unwanted male attention last fall. She had avoided having another foal so soon in order to better care for him. As the abundance of the season provided delicacies, he sometimes brought her mushrooms, clover, or bird’s eggs. He found he enjoyed spending time with her again, now that he knew he was not a burden.

  Life became happier for another reason as well: the creasia stopped coming. Storm gathered from the conversations of adults that they never raided in the spring and rarely in the summer. They’re giving us a chance to grow, he thought bitterly, so that they’ll have more to kill in the winter. Nevertheless, the release from fear was blissful.

  The close bonds of cliques, so vital during winter, loosened as the weather grew warm. They had been essential allies. Now they were only occasional playmates. Storm still spent time with Leep and Tracer, but he hardly saw Mylo, Callaris, Tollee, or Ishy.

  Storm even risked a visit to Pathar. The old ferryshaft seemed pleased to see him and did not seem to regard Storm’s winter absence as a betrayal.

  Storm spent long, pleasant days playing sholo and hide-and-hunt among the rocks and up and down the cliffs with Tracer and Leep. Sometimes, they hunted lambs, for the sheep were giving birth as well, and newborn lambs were clumsy.

  More often than not, their quarry escaped over the slender sheep trails, where no one dared to follow. Storm was fascinated by these precarious paths. He began, slowly and in private, to explore a few of them. They were very dangerous, but he took his time and always turned back if he could no longer see a path. Storm could not help remembering those early days in winter when hide-and-hunt had not been a game to him. I’m getting too big to fit in my old hiding places, but something like this might work if I ever have to flee for my food again.

  Rarely, the sheep trails led to caves in the cliff. Storm considered these the ultimate find—places where he could rest and eat a meal without fear of falling or of being caught. It was in one such cave that he first noticed strange markings—lines scratched in the stone, with shapes and circles scratched over them. The markings looked purposeful—like something a ferryshaft could have done with a sharp rock. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would do such a thing, but the sight made him uneasy. Something other than sheep had been in these caves.

  He thought of asking Tracer or Leep about it, but he was sure they would only tell him he was a fool for traipsing about on sheep trails. His mother certainly didn’t want to hear that he’d been exploring such dangerous places. In the end, he asked only Pathar about the markings.

  Pathar smiled in an odd way. “I have no idea what those could be, Storm.”

  Storm stared at him. He knew, beyond a doubt, that his teacher was lying. Before he could formulate a response, Pathar continued. “You might find more of these markings—of which I know nothing—in other caves on the ground, especially near water.”

  After that, Storm looked for the markings everywhere. He found them, as Pathar had said, most often in caves where he could hear the distant murmur of an underground stream. Sometimes, he almost imagined that he could discern a pattern. Perhaps the markings meant “drinkable water” or “safe birthing cave” or even “danger of rockslide.” But nothing that he could think of applied to all the places where he found the markings.

  And then the season ended. All too soon, the last of the foals were born, the weather grew hot, and the streams dried up. Water became scarce, and finally word trickled through the herd that Charder, their leader, had judged the time was right to move to Chelby Lake.

  Chapter 17. A Narrow Escape

  One hot summer day around noon, Storm went for a dip alone in the lake. Last year he would not have dared to do this, for the rest of the herd was still on the plain. But he was a yearling, and age brought freedom. He stood blinking in the belly-deep water, his hooves half-sunk in mud, thinking about nothing in particular.

  A voice startled him. “Storm, do you know what the curb trap was made of?”

  Storm turned towards the bank. He was further surprised to see Tollee.

  “I’ve never seen vines like that before,” she continued, not quite looking at him. “I thought I might see them at the spring feeding grounds. I was too young to remember that sort of thing last year. But they weren’t there, and there’s nothing like them here. You—” She faltered. “You sniffed them afterwards like…like you knew.”

  Storm cocked his head. You’ve been wondering about that all this time? He slogged up the bank and shook himself. Tollee backed away from the spray of water. “They’re from Groth,” he said.

  She looked at him blankly.

  “The forest on the edge of the plain to the north. The herd never goes near it, but Pathar took me once. It…it eats things.”

  He could tell that she did not understand.

  “The plants…they don’t look like anything you’ve ever seen. They—” A thought occurred to him. “You were watching me when I sniffed the curb trap that day on the cliffs?”

  “Yes.”

  Storm took a deep breath. “Did it…move?”

  Tollee hesitated. “Yes.”

  Storm sat back. “It wrapped around my hoof, didn’t it?”

  “Yes. It looked reflexive…like a branch springing back when you press it to the ground. It didn’t look…alive.”

  Storm thought about that.

  Tollee turned away.

  Storm called after her. “Tollee… You’r
e not going, are you?”

  She looked back at him. “Going where?”

  Storm thought she sounded too casual. “You are, aren’t you? You’re going to have a look at Groth.”

  Tollee didn’t say anything.

  It’ll be my fault when she doesn’t come back.

  “Let me go with you.”

  Her ears flattened, but he kept talking. “It’s a day’s journey, and I’ve been there before.” He thought of Pathar, stumbling through the wood, calling to ghosts that only he could see. “Please don’t go alone.”

  Tollee looked noncommittal.

  “Tomorrow morning,” said Storm desperately. “You’re sleeping near Mylo and Callaris, right? I’ll come and get you. We’ll be gone for two days. Will Mylo care?”

  “No,” said Tollee.

  “Well, then, we’ll go.” And if you change your mind by tomorrow, all the better.

  * * * *

  She did not change her mind. In fact, she was gone when Storm arrived in the misty dawn of the next day. He found the flattened grass where she’d been sleeping and didn’t bother to wake Mylo or Callaris. The scent was fresh enough to imply that she’d lain down that night, but the spot was cold. She’d been gone for some time.

  Storm used a few of the curse words he’d learned from Tracer as he hurried away along her trail. He’d gotten much better at tracking since he’d been running with Mylo’s clique. Ishy and Tracer were both better than Storm, but he could follow a fresh trail.

  He lost her briefly amid the scents of so many other ferryshaft and had to spend precious time combing the edges of the herd’s sleeping area until he found her scent again, heading north along the edge of Chelby Wood. She crossed a stream and Storm lost her again. It took a while for him to realize that she’d walked in the stream all the way to the lake and then swum for a brief distance before climbing out again.