Perhaps he will be a great hunter, she thought.

His father, Brindleside, was certainly a handsome, healthy cat—there had even been a whiff of the Elder Days about him, especially when he had sung the Ritual with her on that winter night.

But Brindleside was gone now—following his nose toward some obscure desire—and she, of course, was left to raise his progeny alone.

As Fritti grew, she lost touch with her early perceptions. Familiarity and the hard day-to-day business of raising a litter blunted many of Grassnestle’s subtler sensitivities.

Although Fritti was a bright and friendly kitten, clever and quick-learning, he never fulfilled in size the promise of his hunter-father. By the time that the Eye had opened above him three times he was still no larger than his older sister Tirya, and considerably smaller than either of his two brothers. His short fur had darkened from the original cream to apricot-orange, except for white bands on his legs and tail, and a small, milky star shape on his forehead.

Not large, but swift and agile—conceding some kitten clumsiness—Fritti danced through his first season of life. He frolicked with his siblings, chased bugs and leaves and other small moving things, and mustered his green patience to learn the exacting lore of hunting that Indez Grassnestle taught to her children.

Although the family’s nest was in a heap of wood and rubble behind one of the massive dwellings of the Big Ones, many days Fritti’s mother would take the kittens out past the outskirts of the M‘an-nests and into the open countryside—wood lore was quite as important as city lore to the children of the Folk. Their survival depended on their being smarter, faster and quieter, wherever they found themselves.

Forth from the nest Grassnestle would go, her young forming a straggling, cavorting scout party about her. With the patience passed down through countless generations, she taught her ragged crew the fundamentals of survival: the sudden freeze, the startling leap, true-smelling, clear-seeing, quick-killing—all the hunting lore she knew. She taught, and showed, and tested; then patiently re-taught time and again until the lesson stuck.

Certainly her patience was often stretched thin, and occasionally a botched lesson would be punished by a brisk pawsmack to the offender’s nose. Even a mother of the Folk had limits to her restraint.

Of all Grassnestle’s kittens, Fritti loved learning most. Inattention, however, sometimes gained him a smarting nose—especially when the family went out into the fields and woods. The tempting whistles and chirps of the fla-fa‘az and the swarming, evocative scents of the countryside could set him daydream ing in a moment, singing to himself of treetops, and wind in his fur. These reveries were frequently interrupted by his mother’s brisk paw on his snout. She had learned to recognize that faraway look.

The dividing line between waking and dreaming was a fine one among the Folk. Although they knew that dream-Squeakers did not satisfy waking hunger, and that dream-fights left no wounds, still there was nourishment and release in dreams unavailable in the waking world. The Folk depended so much on the near-intangible—senses, hunches, feelings and impulses—and these contrasted so strongly with the rock-solid basics of survival needs that one supported the other in an inseparable whole.

All the Folk had exceedingly keen senses—they lived and died by them. Only a few, though, grew to become Oel-var‘iz—Far-sensors—who developed their acuteness and sensitivity far beyond even the high median of the Folk.

Fritti was a great dreamer, and for a while his mother harbored the idea that perhaps he had this gift of Far-sensing. He showed occasional flashes of surprising depth: once he hissed his eldest brother down from a tall tree, and a moment later the branch on which his brother had stood broke loose and fell to the ground. There were other hints of this deeper Var, but as time went on, and he began to grow out of kittenhood, the incidents became fewer. He became more prone to distraction—more of a day-dreamer and less of a dream-reader. His mother decided that she had been mistaken, and as the time of Fritti’s Naming grew closer she forgot it entirely. The life of the hunting mother did not permit brooding over abstractions.

It was sung among the Folk that all cats had three names: the heart name, the face name, and the tail name.

The heart name was given by the mother at the kitten’s birth. It was a name of the ancient tongue of the cats, the Higher Singing. It was only to be shared with siblings, heart-friends and those who joined in the Ritual. Fritti was such a name.

The face name was given by the Elders at the young one’s first Meeting, a name in the mutual language of all warmblooded creatures, the Common Singing. It could be used anywhere a name was useful.

As for the tail name, most of the Folk maintained that all cats were born with one; it was merely a matter of discovering it. Discovery was a very personal thing—once effected it was never discussed or shared with anyone.

It was certain, at least, that some Folk never discovered their tail name, and died knowing only the other two. Many said that a cat who had lived with the Big Ones—with M‘an—lost all desire to find it, and grew fat in ignorance. So important, secret and rare were the Folk’s tail names, and so hesitantly discussed, that nothing much about them was actually agreed upon. One either discovered this name or did not, said the Elders, and there was no way to force the matter.

Fritti and his siblings, as well as the litter of another fela, were herded into a circle. They lay hunched against each other as the Elders walked slowly around them—sniffing the air and sounding a deep rumble that had the cadence of an unknown language. Snifflick leaned down and put his paw against Tirya, Fritti’s sister, and brought her to her paws. He stared at her a moment, then said: “I name you Clearsong. Join the Meeting.” She rushed away to share her new name, and the Elders continued. One by one they pulled the other young out of the pile where they lay breathing shallowly with expectation and Named them. Finally there was only Fritti left. The Elders stopped their circling and sniffed him carefully. Bristlejaw turned to the others.

“Do you smell it, too?”

Snifflick nodded. “Yes. The wide water. The places underground. A strange sign.”

Another Elder, a battered blue named Earpoint, scuffed the earth impatiently. “Not important. We’re here for a Naming.”

“True,” Bristlejaw agreed. “Well. . . ? I smell searching.”

“I smell a struggle with dreams.” This from Snifflick.

“I think he desires his tail name before he has even received his face name!” said another Elder, and they all sneezed quietly with humor.

“Very well!” said Snifflick, and all eyes turned to Fritti. “I name you . . . Tailchaser. Join the Meeting.”

Bewildered, Fritti leaped up and trotted rapidly away from the Nose-meet, away from the chuckling Elders who seemed to share a joke at his expense. Bristlejaw called sharply after him.

“Fritti Tailchaser!”

He turned and met the Master Old-singer’s gaze. Despite the merriment wrinkling his nose, his eyes were warm and kind.

“Tailchaser. All things in earth’s season—only given time. Remember that, won’t you?”

Fritti flattened his ears and turned and ran to the Meeting.

As he drew closer to his maturity the daily company of his brothers and sisters became less important to Fritti. Each day the sun was longer in the sky, and the scents carried by the drowsy wind grew sweeter and stronger. So, increasingly, he was drawn on solitary rambles outside the range of dwellings among which his family lived and slept. During the hottest parts of the Hour of Smaller Shadows—his hunger blunted by his morning meal, his natural curiosity freed—he would range through the grasslands like his brethren of the savannahs, holding imaginary sway over all before him as he stood on a hillside, grass stems tickling his belly.

The deeps of the woods also lured him. He delved at bases of trees for the secrets of scurrying beetles, and tried the strength of outer branches, feeling the intriguing breezes of the upper air swirl through the sensitive hairs of his face and ears.

One day, after an afternoon of intoxicating freedom and exploration, Tailchaser emerged from the low scrub that girdled his woods and stopped to pull a twig loose from his tail. As he sat splay-legged, pulling at the bit of branch with his teeth, he heard a voice.

“Nre‘fa-o, stranger. Might you be Tailchaser?”

Alarmed, Fritti leaped to his feet and whirled around. A fela, gray with black striping, sat regarding him from the stump of a long-dead oak. He had been so wrapped in his thoughts that he had not noticed her as he passed, though she perched a mere four or five jumps away.

“Good dancing, Mistress. How do you know my name? I’m afraid I don’t know yours.” The bramble in his tail hanging forgotten, Fritti observed the stranger carefully. She was young—seemingly no older than he. She had tiny, slim paws and a softly rounded body.

“There is no great mystery regarding either name,” said the fela with an amused expression. “Mine is Hushpad, and has been since my Naming. As to yours, well, I have seen you from a distance at a Meeting, and you have been mentioned for your love of rambling and exploring—and here I have caught you at it!” She sneezed delicately.

Her attractive green eyes turned away; Tailchaser noticed her tail, which she held coiled around her as she spoke. Now it rose, as if of its own volition, and waved languorously in the air. It was long and slender, ending in a tender point, and ringed from base to tip with the same black accents as her sides and haunches.

This tail—whose lazy beckoning instantly captured Fritti’s admiration—was to lead him into more troubles than his own bounding imagination could conceive.

The pair romped and talked all through the Hour of Unfolding Dark. Tailchaser found himself opening his heart to his newfound friend, and even he was surprised at what spilled out: dreams, hopes, ambitions—all mixed together and hardly differentiated from each other. And always Hushpad listened, and nodded, as if he spoke the dearest kind of truth.

When he parted from her at Final Dancing, he made her promise to meet him again the next day. She said she would, and he ran all the way home leaping with delight—arriving at the nest so excited that he woke his sleeping brothers and sisters and alarmed his mother. But when she heard what it was that made him squirm and tickle so that he could not sleep, his mother only smiled and pulled him to her with a gentle paw. She licked behind his ear and purred, “Of course, of course . . .” to him over and over until he finally crossed into the dream-world.

Despite his apprehensions of the following afternoon—which seemed to pass as slowly as snowmelt—Hushpad was indeed there to meet him when the Eye first appeared over the horizon. She came the day after, too . . . and the one after that. Through all of high summer they ran together, and danced and played. Friends watched them and said that this was no mere attraction, to be consummated and then ended when the young fela finally came into her season. Fritti and Hushpad seemed to have found a deeper congruency, which might ripen later into a joining—a thing rarely seen, especially among the younger Folk.

He was struggling with something, but did not know what it was. He cared for Hushpad—more than for any of his friends, or even his siblings—but her companionship was somehow different from the others‘: the sight of her tail twining delicately behind her as she sat, or held delicately upright when she walked, tickled a part of his imaginings he could not put a name to.

Deep in these deliberations, for a long while he did not heed the message that the wind carried. When the fear-smell finally reached his pondering, puzzling mind he started with sudden alarm and shook his head from side to side. His whiskers were tingling.

He leaped forward, galloping toward home; toward his nest. He seemed to hear terror-cries of the Folk, but the air was still and quiet.

He clambered across the last rooftop, down a fence with a scratch and bump—and stopped short in amazement and fear.

Where the pile of rubble that had been his family’s nest had stood ... there was nothing. The spot was swept as clean as wind-scoured rock. When he had left his family that morning his mother had been standing atop the heap, grooming his youngest sister, Softwhisker. Now they were all gone.

He darted forward and fell to scratching at the mute ground, as if to unearth some secret of what had happened, but it was M‘an-ground, and could not be broken by claw or tooth. His mind felt blurry with conflicting passions. He whimpered, and sniffed at the air.

The atmosphere was full of cold traces of fear. The smells of his family and nesting place still hung, but they were overlaid with the awful scents of fright and anger. Although the impressions were much jumbled by the action of time and winds, he could also sense who had done this thing.

M‘an had been here. The Big Ones had lingered for a long time, but had themselves left no mark of fear or anger. Their reek, as always, was nearly indecipherable of meaning—more like the busy ants and borer beetles than like the Folk. Here his mother had fought them to the end to protect her young, but the Big Ones had felt no anger, no fear. And now his family was gone.

In the next days he found no trace of them, as he had feared he would not. He fled to the Old Woods and lived there alone. Eating only what he could catch with his still-clumsy paws, he grew thin and weak, but he would not come to the nests of other Folk. Thinbone and other friends occasionally brought him food, but could not persuade him to return. The elders sniffed sagely and kept their peace. They knew wounds of this type were best nursed in solitude, where the decision to live or die was freely made, and not regretted later.

Fritti did not see Hushpad at all, for she did not come to visit him in his wild state—whether out of sorrow for his situation or indifference he did not know. He tortured himself with imagined reasons when he could not sleep.

One day, almost an opening and closing of the Eye since he had lost his family, Tailchaser found himself on the outskirts of the dwellings of M‘an. Sick and debilitated, he had wandered out of the protection of the forest in a kind of daze.

As he lay breathing raggedly in a patch of welcome sunlight, he heard the sound of heavy footfalls. His dimmed senses announced the approach of M‘an.

The Big Ones drew near, and he heard them cry to each other in their deep, booming voices. He closed his eyes. If it was fated that he should join his family in death, it seemed appropriate that these creatures complete the job that their kind had begun. As he felt large hands grasp him, and the smell of the M‘an became all-pervading, he began to pass over—whether to the dream-world or beyond, he did not know. Then he knew nothing at all.

He was on a piece of soft fabric, at the bottom of a container. It gave him a trapped, terrified feeling. Pulling himself onto his unsteady paws, he tried to climb out. He was too weak to jump, but after several attempts he managed to get his forepaws over the edge of the container and scramble out.

On the floor below he looked around, and found himself standing in an open, roofed-over area attached to one of the dwellings of the Big Ones. Although the smell of M‘an was everywhere there were none in sight.

He was about to hobble away to freedom when he felt a powerful urge: hunger. He smelled food. Casting his eye about the porch, he saw another, smaller container. The food smell was making his mouth water, but he approached it cautiously. After sniffing the contents suspiciously, he took a tentative bite—and found it very good.

At first he kept an ear cocked for the return of the M‘an, but after a while abandoned himself completely to the pleasure of eating. He bolted down the food, cleaning the container to the bottom, then found another full of clear water and drank. This gorging on top of his enfeebled state almost made him sick, but the Big Ones who had put the meal down, perhaps foreseeing this, had provided only modest amounts.

After he drank he wobbled out into the sunlight and rested for a moment, then rose to make his way up to the forest. Suddenly, one of his captors walked around the corner of the bulky M‘an-nest. Fritti wanted to bolt, but his body’s fragile health would not permit it. To his amazement, however, the Big One did not seize him, or kill him where he stood. The M’an merely passed by, leaning to stroke the top of Tailchaser’s head, and then was gone.

So began the uneasy truce between Fritti Tailchaser and the Big Ones. These M‘an, on whose porch he had found himself, never hindered his coming or going. They put out food for him to take if he wished, and left the box for him to sleep in if he so desired.

After much hard thought, Fritti decided that perhaps the Big Ones were a little like the Folk: some were good, and meant no idle harm, while some were not—and it was this second kind that had brought ruin to his family and his birthing-place. He found a kind of peace in this balance; thoughts of his loss began to recede from his waking Hours—if not from his dreams.

As health came back to him, Fritti once more found pleasure in the society of the Folk. He found Hushpad also, unchanged in whisker or tail. She asked him to pardon her for not visiting him during his upset days in the woods. She said she would not have been able to bear the sight of her playfellow in such distress.

Pardon her he did, and happily. With his strength returned, they once more ran together in the countryside. All was as it had been, except that Tailchaser was more given to silences, and a little less to happy chattering.

Still, his time with Hushpad was now even more precious to Fritti. They talked now, from time to time, about the Ritual that they would enter when Hushpad came to her season, and Tailchaser became a hunter.

And so their high summer waned, and the wind began to sing autumn music in the treetops.

When Tailchaser finished his song they again sat quietly throughout the remaining Hours of the night. The morning sun rose to scatter the shadows and interrupt them, but when he turned to rub Hushpad’s nose in farewell an unspoken promise hung between their commingling whiskers.