Shaking himself all over, as if to scatter the dismaying fantasy, Tailchaser rose and performed his early-morning grooming—smoothing down the sleep-ruffled fur all along his body, coaxing errant whiskers into place, and ending with a fillip that put his tail tip in perfect order.

Walking through the tall grass behind his sleeping porch, he could not shed the sense of foreboding that his dream had cast over the day. It seemed important, for some reason he could not remember. He should not—and could not—forget the dream. Why?

Practicing paw swipes at an accommodatingly bouncy dandelion, he remembered. Hushpad! She had not been at the Meeting. He must go and look for her; discover what had happened.

He felt a little less apprehensive than he had the previous night. After all, he decided, there were many possible reasons for her absence. She did live in a M‘an-dwelling; they might have closed her in, prevented her leaving. Big Ones were capricious that way.

Tailchaser made his way across the field of grass and through a copse of low trees as he skirted the Old Woods. It was some distance to where Hushpad lived, and the journey took him a good part of the morning. At last he came in sight of the M‘an-nest, standing by itself in the solitude of surrounding fields. It looked strangely empty, and as he approached he could find no trace of familiar smells.

Calling, “Hushpad! Tailchaser here! Nre‘fa-o, heart-friend!” he jogged closer, but was met with silence. He noticed the entrance hanging open, as was not usual in the nests of M’an. Reaching the dwelling, he cautiously poked his head inside, then entered.

Not only was the M‘an-dwelling empty of life, to Tailchaser it seemed empty of everything. The floors and walls were bare, and even his soft footfalls echoed as he moved from room to room. For a fearful moment the emptiness reminded him of the disappearance of his family—but something was different. There were no smells of terror or excitement; no trace of anything upsetting having occurred. Whatever reason the M’an had for leaving, it seemed a natural one. But where was Hushpad?

A top-to-bottom search produced nothing but more empty rooms. Curious and puzzled, Fritti left the dwelling. He decided that Hushpad must have run away when the M‘an left. Perhaps even now she was hiding in the forest, needing his company and friendship!

All that afternoon he roamed the wooded places, calling and hallooing, but could find no trace of his friend. When evening came he went to Thinbone for help, but the two of them had no more luck than Fritti alone. They ranged far and wide, and asked all the Folk they met for tidings, but none could help. In this way ended the first day of Tailchaser’s search for the lost Hushpad.

Three more sunrises passed without any sign of the young fela. Fritti found it hard to believe that she would simply leave the area, but no trace of violence had been found, and the other Folk had not seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. Day in and day out he continued searching for her—tired, but with a terrible, relentless need. First his family and his birthingplace, now this.

Even Thinbone gave up after the third day.

“Tailchaser, I know it is a terrible thing,” his friend said, “but sometimes Meerclar calls, and we go. You know that.” Thinbone looked down, searching for words. “Hushpad has gone. That is that, I’m afraid.”

Fritti nodded his understanding, and Thinbone went off to join the other Folk. Tailchaser, however, did not plan to give up his search. He knew what Thinbone said to be true, but felt strongly—in a manner he did not fully understand—that Hushpad had not gone to Meerclar, but was living somewhere in the fields of earth, and needed his help.

The older hunter made less noise than the wind-tossed autumn leaves as he approached, his tawny body moving with confident economy. When he reached Fritti—terribly self-conscious in the presence of the mature male—Stretchslow stopped, sat back on his haunches and gave the young cat an appraising stare. Trying to bob his head respectfully, Tailchaser caught his nose on a privet twig and let out an embarrassed mew of pain. Stretchslow’s cool observation softened into a look of amusement.

“Nre‘fa-o, Stretchslow,” said Fritti: “Are you .-.. mmm . . . are you enjoying the sun today?” He ended with an awkward gesture, and since the day was quite gray and overcast he suddenly wished he had said nothing at all—perhaps even stayed underneath the privet bush.

Seeing the younger cat so discomfited, Stretchslow sneezed a laugh and sank to the ground. He reclined there lazily, head held high and his body appearing misleadingly relaxed.

“Good dancing to you, little one,” he responded, then paused for a magnificent yawn. “I see you’re still hunting about for what‘s-her-name ... Squash-pod, was it?”

“Huh-Hushpad. Yes, I’m still looking.”

“Well ...” The older male looked about for a bit, as if searching for a tiny, insignificant thing he might have dropped. Finally he said: “Oh yes . . . that was it. Of course. You’ll want to come to the Nose-meet tonight.”

“What?” Fritti was flabbergasted. Nose-meets were for elders and hunters, and were reserved for important business. “Why should I go to the Nose-meet?” he gasped.

“Well ...” Stretchslow yawned again. “From what I understand—though Harar knows I have better things to do than keep track of all the comings and. goings of you youngsters—from what I gather, it seems there have been many disappearances since the last Meeting. Six or seven, including your little friend Peachpit.”

“Hushpad,” Fritti corrected him quietly-but Stretchslow was gone.

“We have had this problem also, and some of the mothers are getting very worried. They aren’t pleasant to be around at all, lately. Suspicious, you know.”

The speaker was Mudtracker, who lived with another colony of the Folk on the other side of Edge Copse. They had their own meetings, and seldom had more than passing contact with Fritti’s clan.

“What I mean is,” continued Mudtracker, “well, it isn’t natural. I mean, we lose a couple of kittens every season, of course . . . and the occasional male who decides to move on without telling anyone. Fela troubles, usually, if you sniff my meaning. But we’ve seen three disappear in the past pawful of days. It’s not natural.”

The visiting cat from the far side of the Copse sat down, and there was a rustle of low hisses and whispers among the gathered clan leaders.

Fritti’s excitement at being at Nose-meet with the adults was beginning to fade. As he heard the stories that the others told of mysterious absences, and saw the way the sage, wise cats around him shook their heads and scratched their masks in puzzlement, he suddenly began to wonder if they would be any help at all in finding Hushpad. It had seemed to him that as soon as the older cats had acknowledged his problem, it could be solved—but look there! The brows and noses of the clan’s protectors-of-tradition were wrinkled with worry. Tailchaser felt a sense of emptiness.

Jumptall, one of the youngest present—though older than Fritti by several seasons—stood to speak.

“My sister . . . my nest-sister Flickerswift had two of her kittens vanish just Eye-last. She is a watchful mother. They were playing at the base of that old sirzi tree at Forest’s Edge, and she had turned for a moment because her youngest was having a difficult furball. When she turned around again they were gone. And no smell of owl or fox, either—she looked everywhere, as you can imagine. She’s very upset.” Here Jumptall paused awkwardly, then sat down. Earpoint rose and looked around the gathering.

“Yes, well, if no one has any more of these ... stories... ?”

Stretchslow raised a grudging paw. “Pardon, Earpoint, I do believe ... where is he ... ah, yes, there he is. Young Tailchaser there has something to report. If it’s not too much bother, I mean.” Stretchslow yawned, showing his sharp canines.

“Tailchewer?” said Earpoint irritably. “What kind of name is that?”

Bristlejaw smiled at Fritti. “It’s Tailchaser, isn’t it? Speak up, youngling, there you go.”

All eyes turned to Tailchaser as he rose.

“Um ... well ... um ...” A sickly expression made his whiskers droop. “Well, you see ... Hushpad, she’s my friend, she’s a ... she, Hushpad is ... well, she’s disappeared.”

Old Snifflick leaned over and stared at him keenly. “Did you see anything of what happened to her?”

“No ... no, sir, but I think ...

“Right!” Earpoint leaned over and gave Fritti a brusque pawpat on the top of the head, nearly upsetting him. “Right,” continued Earpoint, “very good, yes, thank you, Tail ... Tail ... well, it was a most useful report, young fellow. Now, shall we get on with it?” Fritti sat down hastily and pretended to search for a flea. His nose felt hot.

Wavetail, another elder, cleared his throat—puncturing several moments of uncomfortable stillness—and asked: “But what are we going to do?”

Another moment’s pause, and then the gathered Folk all broke out at once.

“Alert the clans!”

“Post sentries!”

“Move away!”

“No more having kittens!”

This last was from Jumptall, who—seeing the others all staring at him—was suddenly plagued by Tailchaser’s flea.

Old Snifflick climbed ponderously up onto his paws. He looked severely at Jumptall, then gazed around at the waiting Folk.

“First,” he growled, “we had better begin by agreeing not to go yelling and leaping about in this manner. A chipmunk with a bumblebee in its tail would make less noise—and to more effect. Now, let’s review the situation.” He stared impressively at the ground, as if mustering deep thought. “First: an unusually large number of the Folk have gone missing. Second: we have no idea what or who may be causing this. Third: the best and the wisest cats from around our woods are here tonight at Nose-meet, and cannot solve the puzzle. Therefore ...” Snifflick paused to savor the effect. “Therefore, although I agree that guards and such need to be discussed, I think it important that wiser minds than—yes, even ours—should be let to know of this situation. Baffling and affrighting as it is, we have no choice but to inform Certain Others about these events.

“I suggest we should send a delegation to the Court of Harar. It is our duty to inform the Queen of Cats!” Entirely pleased with himself, Snifflick sat down as consternation and surprise whirled about him.

“To the Court of Harar?” breathed Mudtracker. “None of the Folk of Behind-Edge-Copse have been to the seat of the First for twenty generations!” There was more excited rumbling.

“Neither have the Folk from this side of the Woods,” said Bristlejaw, “but I think Snifflick is right. We have heard these stories all night long, and no one has the slightest idea of what to do. This may be beyond us. I agree to a delegation.”

The crowd quieted for a moment; then two of the assembly blurted out at the same instant: “Who will go?”

This started another uproar, and Earpoint had to shoot his claws and wave them around purposefully before things were quiet again. Snifflick spoke.

“Well, it will be quite a long and dangerous journey. I suppose that as I am Senior Elder my knowledge and wisdom will be needed. I will go.”

Before anyone could react to this, there was a sudden snarl from the back of the gathering, and Twitchnose was striding forward. She was Snifflick’s mate, had borne innumerable litters by him, and she was a taker of no nonsense. She marched straight to Snifflick, and stared him in the eye: “You aren’t going anywhere, you old mouse-gummer. You think you’re going to sail out into the wilderness and sing your horrible hunting songs all night while I sit here like a hedgehog?” she hissed. “Think you’re going to find some slender young fela at the Court, do you? By the time you mount her with those tired old bones she’ll be as old as I am, so what’s the difference? You old villain!”

Trying to save Snifflick, Bristlejaw quickly said: “That’s right, Snifflick!—I mean, you shouldn’t go. The Folk here need your wisdom. No, a long journey of this kind calls for young cats, cats who can travel in the wintertime.” He looked around, and as his eye passed over Fritti the young cat felt a moment of impossible excitement. Bristlejaw’s gaze moved on, though, and settled on Earpoint. The weathered old tom rose under the eye of the Master Old-singer, and stood, waiting.

“Earpoint, you have seen many summers,” said Bristlejaw, “but you are still strong, and wise in the ways of the Outer Forest. Will you lead the delegation?” Earpoint inclined his head in assent. Bristlejaw then turned to Jumptall, who leaped to his feet and stood, seeming to hold his breath.

“You go also, young hunter,” spoke the lore-singer. “Be aware of what an honor there is in your choice, and behave accordingly.” Jumptall nodded weakly and sat down.

Bristlejaw turned to Snifflick, who had been carrying on a near-silent thumping match with Twitchnose. “Old friend, will you pick one more emissary?” he asked.

Snifflick returned his attention to the Nose-meet once more, and looked cannily around the circle. The assembled Folk held their breath as one while he deliberated. Finally he beckoned to Streamhopper, a youthful hunter of three summers. Tailchaser felt a pang of disappointment, although he knew he was too young to have had a chance. As Snifflick and Bristlejaw instructed Streamhopper on his great responsibility, Fritti felt a curious frustration gnaw at his heart.

When the three delegates were assembled, Earpoint stood forward to receive the message that they would carry to the ancient Court of Harar. Snifflick rose again.

“None here has traveled where you must go,” he began. “We have no sure knowledge to guide you, but the songs that tell of the Court are known to all.

“If you are able to discharge this duty, and reach the Queen of the Folk, tell her that the elders of the Meeting Wall—this side of Edge Copse, under the eaves of the Old Wood, on the fringe of her domain—pledge their fealty, and ask for her help and guidance in this matter. Tell her that this plague of disappearance has visited not just the kittenry and questing males, but—Harar curse it—the entire tribe. Tell her we are bewildered, and can find no wisdom in this matter. If she will send a message, you are charged to bring it back with you.” He paused.

“Oh, yes. You are also hereby bound to help and aid your companions—up to, but not including, the failure of your charge....”

Here Snifflick halted again, and in a moment was once more the oldest cat of the Meeting Wall Folk. He looked at the ground for a moment, and scrabbled his paw in the dirt.

“We all hope that Meerclar will watch over you, and keep you safe,” he added. He did not look up. “You may tell your families, but we wish you to leave as soon as possible.”

“May you find luck, dancing,” Bristlejaw said, then, after a moment: “This Nose-meet is ended.”

Almost all the Folk who were present rose and pushed forward—some to talk excitedly among themselves, others to get a last sniff or offer a last word to the three delegates.

Fritti Tailchaser was the only cat who did not stay for at least a moment with the brave delegation. He climbed away from the Wall buzzing with unfamiliar feelings.

At the lip of the hollow he stood scratching his claws through the rough bark of an elm tree, listening to the murmur of the crowding cats below.

Nobody at the Nose-meet cared about Hushpad, he thought. Nobody would remember her name when the delegates reached the Court. Stretchslow couldn’t even remember it now! Hushpad didn’t mean a jot more to any of them than the scruffiest old tom—yet he was supposed to wait patiently while Jumptall and the rest went parading off to the Court of the Queen, in the hope that she would solve the problem! Heavenly Viror, what nonsense!

Fritti growled, a noise that he had never made before, and ripped off another skein of bark. He turned and stared into the sky. Somewhere, he felt sure, Hushpad was staring up at the same Eye, and no one cared but him whether she was in danger or not. Well then!

Tailchaser felt hot determination as he stood on the hillside, head and tail arched. The orb of Meerclar hung above him like a shaming parent as he made an impassioned pledge:

“By the Tails of the Firstborn, I will find Hushpad, or my spirit will fly my dying body! One or the other!”

After a moment—when he realized what he had promised—Fritti began to shiver.