His spirit soared like a fla-fa‘az over the hills and trees and waters, the night winds beating in his face. Like the great Akor that nested in the high mountains, he sailed up, up, up. The night-belly of Meerclar was his field, to travel in where he would.

As he sailed the wind spoke in his ear with the voices of many—Grassnestle, his mother; Bristlejaw and Stretchslow. They all called his name in the fierce howl of the breeze ... but he flew on when Pouncequick’s voice cried out to him, too—not in fear, but in a kind of wonder. As he heard it he swooped down, hurtling into blackness. The roaring airs became the mad yowls of Eatbugs and Scratchnail; the soft tones of Roofshadow intertwined with their screams, speaking his heart name over and over.

“... Fritti Tailchaser ... Fritti ... Fritti ... Fritti Tailchaser ...”

Then the rushing sound of the winds changed, and became a great, ceaseless roar. He was skimming above the Bigwater, so near to it that it seemed he could reach down a paw and skim it in the waves. Salt wind flattened his whiskers, and the night sky around him was empty but for the sounding of Qu‘cef.

A bright flash, like Whitewind’s star, appeared above the horizon. Carried rapidly nearer on the broad back of the wind, he could see the light gleam, then fade, then gleam again.

A great, gray tail stood up from the waters of Qu‘cef. It towered above the waves, and at its summit the light he had seen burned liked sky-fire.

He was rushing toward it—helplessly, now—when he heard the voice of Eyeshimmer the Far-senser echo down the wind:

And suddenly the air currents carried him up again, past the shining light ... and the great, waving tail sank back down into the waters, extinguishing the glow ... and now ... and now another, softer light was kindling, spreading across the lower edge of the night sky ...

It was dawn. Fritti sat up in his bower of cord-grass, and the early-morning marsh wind came moaning through the stalks and weeds. He sood up and stretched, listening to the night insects singing a final chorus.

Sloping up from the shores of Qu‘cef, windswept meadows with green turf rose gradually on his right flank. Far away across the grasslands he could see the dwellings of M’an: small, and isolated from their neighbors. He was traveling U‘ea-ward now, green fields on his right side and the gravelly sea-strand on his left.

Woolly Erunor grazed all about the hummocky meadows. Their fleecy bodies dotted the downs like fat, dirty clouds that had settled to the ground, too heavy to stay aloft. They regarded him incuriously as he passed, this small orange cat, and when he called out to them they grimaced complacently with yellowed teeth, but did not answer.

He had come down from the meadow-track to walk along the shore. The Eye of Meerclar, rapidly approaching fullness, blued the sand and silvered the waves. By its spirit light he had caught a crab, but had been unable to force the wet and slippery shell. In disgust he had watched it limp away—sideways, as if unwilling to turn its back on him. For some time afterward he had paced hungrily up and down the strand, in hopes of finding a more unprotected morsel.

Despairing of his ill-luck, he had looked up and seen the blossoming glow on the northern horizon. After a moment’s glare it was gone, but as he stared into the darkness it returned once more. For a moment it had illuminated the night sky. A heartbeat later, it had vanished again.

Watching raptly, Fritti walked farther up the beach The unusual star repeated its cycle of brilliance and darkness. The words of the Firstborn came back to Tailchaser: “... a strange hill that shines at night ...”

The spot on the horizon flared again, and he remembered his dream: the tail in the sea—the waving tail with the gleaming tip. What was before him?

Dinner on the shore forgotten, he leaped up the rock-strewn slope. Tonight, he wanted to walk. ‘

As Firefoot had said, it rose up from the midst of the Bigwater itself, far from the gravel beach. It was a M‘an-hill, Fritti could tell: it climbed high, and unnaturally straight; it was as white as new snow.

Tailchaser made his way out to a wooded peninsula of land that reached out into the sea like an outstretched paw. From its farthest tip he could make out the island on which the M‘an-mountain grew.

The island sat in the lap of Qu‘cef, rising up from the tumbling waves. Its back was green with grass. Fritti could see tiny Erunor moving slowly on the sward. At the base of the hill-thing—which looked more like some great, white, branchless trunk—crouched a M’an-dwelling of the kind Fritti had lived near, back at the Meeting Wall, so long ago. This was his destination, so close that the scent of the Erunor carried across to him, tickling his whiskers. But between Tailchaser and his heart’s desire stood a thousand jumps of the heaving blue Qu‘cef.

You are a bug-wit, he chided himself. Why can’t you solve this problem?

He remembered the story that Earnotch had told him in the mound about Lord Tangaloor.

Well, Harar’s shining tail, he thought, what good does it do me? The fla-fa‘az owe me no favors. They hover and laugh at me.

He looked across the deep waters.

I am not too sure that I would be able to talk a gteat fish out of eating me, either, he decided. Besides, they must all know of Firefoot’s famous trick by now.

Depressed, he continued his vigil.

Crouching low in the brush at land’s end, he watched as the mysterious object bobbed its way across the Qu‘cef. It looked like half a walnut shell that had been cast away after a Rikchikchik’s meal—but it was bigger. Much bigger.

Something moved inside it. When the shell came nearer to his peninsula, he could see that the moving thing was one of the Big Ones—a M‘an. The Big One was moving two long branches back and forth in the water.

The shell, colored as gray as old tree bark, slid past Fritti’s vantage point and stopped at last on the shores of a small inlet at the base of the peninsula. The M‘an climbed out. After fussing for a while with some sort of long vine, he stamped his feet and walked away across the meadowlands toward the other M’an-dwellings.

Fritti ran excitedly down the peninsula, bounding over roots and stones. When he reached the inlet, he looked cautiously about—the Big One had disappeared—then loped down to examine this strange thing.

He sniffed it. It was obviously no walnut shell, but rather something M‘an-built. It was twice as long as the Big One was tall. The gray color was flaking off on its side, showing wood beneath. It smelled of the Qu’cef, and of M‘an, and of fish, and other things he could not identify. For a long time Fritti walked around it, scenting its strangeness, then leaped up inside. He nosed and probed, trying to discover what made it swim like a great gray pril.

Perhaps it will swim for me, he thought, and take me across the water.

But it only lay on the rocky beach—no matter where Fritti stood, or how hard he wished. He lay down on the bottom of the great shell-thing. He thought hard, trying to see a way to make it bear him over to the hill that shined. He thought ... and thought ... and all the pondering, and the warm afternoon sun, made him feel drowsy....

He awoke with a start. Disoriented, he looked wildly around, but could see nothing but the sides of the swimming walnut shell. Footsteps crunched across the gravel toward him. Groggy and confused, frightened of leaping up and revealing himself to the Big One, he dove beneath a pile of rough fabric. It scratched him as he squirmed beneath its comforting heaviness.

The footsteps of the M‘an stopped, and then the whole shell was sliding and scraping along the beach. Surprised, Fritti gripped the wood beneath him with his claws. The scraping stopped abruptly, to be replaced by a sensation of smooth motion. Tailchaser heard the Big One climb weightily over the edge, and then a regular sequence of creaking and splashing.

After some time, Fritti worked up the courage to poke a pink nose out of the enveloping folds of cloth. The massive back of the M‘an was turned to him; the Big One was working the tree limbs back and forth. The shell was entirely surrounded with water.

He curled up in his hiding spot, tail over nose, and went back to sleep.

The island rose up before him. The shell had come to rest against a wooden walkway that stretched a short distance across the water, then ended at a dirt path which wound away up the grassy slope. At the summit of this path Fritti could see the M‘an-dwelling, and—looming above it like a white, limbless Vaka’az‘me—the towering M’an-hill. The sun was still in the sky, and the white hill was dark.

Fritti made his way up the uneven path. The grass was springy beneath his feet. He stepped lightly. The wind off the Bigwater that caressed his nose and whiskers made him feel as though he had reached the top of the world.

A dark shape detached itself from the bulk of the M‘an-nest, and with plodding, unhurried steps, came partway down the hillside. It was a large dog, deep of chest and heavy-legged.

Feeling curiously light-headed and confident, Tailchaser continued his sedate walk up the grassy slope. Puzzled, the fik‘az tilted his head to one shoulder and stared. After a moment’s curious scrutiny, he spoke.

“You there!”‘ the mastiff barked. “Who be you? What be you doing?” His voice was as deep and slow as distant thunder.

“I am Tailchaser, Master Fik‘az. Good dancing to you. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The dog squinted down at him. “Huff-so-Gruff am I. You didna answer question. What be you doing?”

“Oh, just looking about,” said Fritti, waving his tail in a disarming manner. “I just flew over from the other side of the water, and I thought I’d look around. Quite a lovely place, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” growled Huff-so-Gruff, “but you shouldna be here. Be off, you.” The dog glowered for a moment, muzzle lowered, then once more cocked his head to the side. “Said you ... ‘flew’?” he asked slowly. “Cats dunna fly.”

As they talked, Tailchaser had been drawing steadily closer. Now, barely five jumps away from the fik‘az, Fritti sat, and began to groom nonchalantly.

“Oh yes, some do,” he said. “As a matter of fact, my whole tribe of flying cats is thinking of making this spot our new nesting grounds. We need a place to lay our eggs, you know.”

Tailchaser got up and began to walk in a wide circle around the dog. “Yes, think of it,” he said, looking from side to side. “Hundreds of flying cats ... big ones, little ones ... it’s quite a marvelous idea, isn’t it?”

He was almost safely past when a deep, rumbling snarl issued from Huff-so-Gruff. “Cats canna fly!! I willna have it!”

The mastiff leaped forward, baying, and Fritti turned and bolted up the hill. Within a few jumps he realized there were no trees to climb, no fences to dodge behind; it was open grass to the top of the rise.

Well, he thought suddenly, why should I bother to run? I have faced worse dangers before, and survived.

He whirled to face the great mastiff bearing down on him.

“Come on, dung-sniffer!” Tailchaser howled. “Come and meet a child of Firefoot!”

Huff-so-Gruff, in mid-bark, ran unsuspectingly into a faceful of yowling, scratching cat. His deep baying turned to a yelp of surprise as sharp claws raked his jowls.

Like a small orange whirlwind, Fritti was suddenly all over the Growler—claws and teeth and screeching voice. Shocked, Huff-so-Gruff pulled back, shaking his large head. In that second, Tailchaser was off again, ears back and tail trailing.

As the dismayed Growler gingerly ran his tongue over his lacerated nose, Fritti reached the M‘an-dwelling. With a leap and scrabble he was up the low stone wall and onto the thatched roof. Standing at the edge, he let out a cry of triumph.

“Don’t take the Folk so lightly again, you great clumsy beast!”

Down on the ground below, Huff-so-Gruff grunted. “Come you down and you be eaten, cat,” he said disgustedly.

“Hah!” sneezed Tailchaser. “I will bring you an army of my Folk to settle here, and we will tweak your tail and smack your hanging chops until you die from shame! Hah!”

Huff-so-Gruff turned and trudged away with heavy dignity.

Fritti walked softly back and forth across the thatch, his heart gradually slowing to its usual pace. He felt wonderful.

After some searching—leaning out over the edge, wrinkling his nose—he found an open window underneath the eaves of the roof. He looked carefully around for the Growler, but Huff so-Gruff was many jumps down the slope, nursing his wounds. Fritti sprang down to the stone wall, then quickly back up to the windowsill. He paused for a moment to gauge the distance to the floor inside, wavered on the sill, then leaped down.

In the middle of the room, curled in a deep-furred ball, lay Hushpad.