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Darwin's Legacy

Chapter 2 - A Chance Meeting

The fields are still wet from the storm that had moved through the valley earlier in the day. Now the worst of it was over the plains and would soon bump up against the mountains, but it was still overcast and gloomy here east of the river and more rain was likely. It was miserable weather for tracking. How can you find a lost sheep when their scent has been washed away and it's too dark to see any tracks? The young canine wondered. A sensible pooch would go home rather than stay out in this deluge, but this was his first time tracking alone, and he did not his initial solo mission to end in failure, so he doggedly carried on.

According to the herders the storm had come up so suddenly that they were not able to round up all of the livestock and get them in the pens before it hit. The opening salvo of lightning and thunder had scattered the sheep and by the time they got them corralled five had gotten away. Fearing that predators might attack under cover of the storm they had called for the trackers to locate the missing livestock.

Six trackers had been called in. They searched the perimeter of the field and determined that two sheep had gone north while three had gone east. They broke up into two groups to follow them. By the time the novice's group had reached the edge of the forest they had determined that the three sheep they were following were a ram, a ewe, and a lamb. Of them, the lamb was the least valuable, so when the trail split into three near a stump freshly scarred by lightning the youngest and least experienced tracker was assigned to follow it.

At first the thick foliage above had provided enough protection from the rain for the lamb's tracks to still be visible, but when the leafy softwoods gave way to mixed hardwoods and firs the ground became softer, and the extra moisture made the spongy moss swell up to obliterate any old tracks. Nonetheless, he was able to catch the scent of sheep on the tree trunks and bushes that the lamb had bumped against in its panic, and there were plenty of broken branches and the occasional tuft of wool to show him the way. But now he had come to a clearing where the lamb must have paused for a time, because the scent was evenly distributed and the lichen on several of the old pines that surrounded it showed signs of chewing. But the lost sheep was no longer in the clearing, and there was no indication which direction it had headed in.

The novice tracker did not know this part of the forest very well. He had come quite a distance east of the river, well beyond the borders of his village and the verge where gatherers and wood choppers operated. This was feline territory.

He looked around apprehensively. Although they shared the valley the canine village and their cultivated fields were on the west side of the river. The east side was not as good for crops so they pastured their livestock there; cattle, goats and sheep. But the herders had to keep a close eye on them because the cats would take a stray sheep or goat in an instant, and had even been known to kill a steer if it wandered far enough into the forest. The only thing that stopped them from taking the whole herd was the presence of armed herders. The village top dog had demanded that the cats return any livestock found wandering, but they refused, claiming ownership of everything east of the river, including the pastures. The long-running dispute was the major source of antagonism between the two species, but there were many others.

The tracker suspected that, deep down, cats and dogs just didn't get along.

The herds were returned to their pens on the west side every night, where they were guarded against marauding coyotes and the occasional wolf. Animals lost on the east side were almost certain to end up in the feline cook pots, since no other predators could get through the cat's territory alive. Even a lone dog in the forest was in danger of being captured, beaten and humiliated before being unceremoniously dumped on the edge of the forest as a warning to the rest of the village. One lost soul had even been killed, mistaken for a coyote in the dark, according to the emissary in charge of the party that had returned the body. The two groups had almost gone to war over that incident, but cooler heads, and a dozen or so arrows shoot from the shadows of the forest when the mob approached it, prevailed.

To be sure, the canines treated any young feline warrior caught near the village no better. The cats liked to raid the outlaying farms for small trophies of their courage. A chicken, some eggs, a wheel of cheese, a hoe, and personal items; anything kept in or close to the dog houses was considered good enough to prove their bravery. If they were discovered in the act their companions would run away whooping and hollering in a different direction to distract the pursuers. After the farmers lost sight of them the trackers would take over, and pity the cat that they cornered on this side of the river.

The raids occurred frequently enough that all of the apprentice trackers had ample opportunity to become familiar with the feline scent. What was troubling this particular tracker was the fact that their smell permeated this part of the forest.

He looked around anxiously. He was only carrying a small knife with a handle made of antler and a blade fashioned from a glossy, black stone. It was crude, but it could slice through hide, hack meat from the carcass and saw through soft wood or small bones; perfect for small game but not very useful for personal protection. But metal weapons were too precious for individual ownership and all of the proper weapons were kept in the village armoury to be issued only when the need arose. Tracking some lost sheep did not generally require one to be armed for battle. He had not even thought to grab his own cross bow, not anticipating that the trail would take him so far away from his village and his companions.

That had been a mistake he realized now, one that he vowed not to make again, if he got back alive that is.

Just then the wind came up, making the tops of the pines sway alarmingly. It was followed by a smattering of rain. The tracker knew that a downpour would soon follow. Fortunately the surrounding trees were the type with long branches and fans of broad needles that swept the ground. He would be dry and out of the wind underneath them. He selected the largest, pulled the branches apart and ducked underneath.

Turning in a crouch he pulled the branches back into place before backing up until his back bumped against the trunk of the pine. The knob of an old branch poked into his back through his woollen shirt so he shifted a bit to the left to find a more comfortable spot. It was dark as night under the canopy of thick boughs, but dry and warm as predicted. While he waited for his eyes to adjust he sucked a deep draught of air in through his sensitive nose and identified pine bark, decaying needles, old sap, and something else, something slightly musky, something ... that smelled like ...

"Hello."

The tracker momentarily lost control of his bladder.

* * * * * * * *

Snowdrop had been born earlier in the year than was usual, when the snow was still on the ground. Moreover, she was a single birth, an occurrence that had at one time been unheard of, even for a new mother, and this was by no means her mother's first confinement. Snowdrop had a dozen older siblings, most of which had survived childhood, another occurrence that was increasing in frequency lately.

Unlike the dogs with their villages and towns, the cats tended to live in the forest as they always had; fishing the streams, hunting small game, gathering wild herbs and other edible plants, and cultivating only a little grain. They kept a few pigs for the meat but mostly because they ate anything the cats did not and their manure made rich fertilizer.

Their contact with other species was limited. Coyotes that ventured off the plains into feline territory were chased off, or killed outright. The rangy mongrels had nothing that the cats wanted and they only ever came to murder and steal. Lone wolves were treated more cautiously. They were better hunters than the coyotes so they rarely bothered the feline encampments. But if they did they would be treated just as ruthlessly. Some contact with the dogs was inevitable, but it was never amicable, especially given the young male's ritual of adulthood that involved stealing from the pathetic canines.

The only species they had regular and cordial contact with were the foxes. Only the foxes knew the true number of the Feline tribes, and the true extent of their territory. But that was necessary as they could only acquire the trade goods they had come to rely on from the fox's caravans.

Legend had it that at one time, felines had hunted and fished with paws alone, and there were many comical stories of how well that last endeavour had gone. Stealing fish from a wild bear was easier it seemed than braving the water. Nowadays they did not avoid the water as before. Although swimming for enjoyment was still rare, when it was warm most would take an occasional bath by squatting in the shallows and scrubbing their fur clean with fine, wet sand before a quick rinse.

Newer than the legends were the stories of the cleaver cats that had devised tools and weapons that enabled them to hunt bigger game, fish without getting wet, and cultivate the wild grains within the encampments. But grains, fish and game were all seasonal, and the old, young and weak continued to die during the long cold winters until wise matrons devised means of preserving the summertime bounty by salting, boiling, smoking and drying the various victuals. There were stories for them too, but those tales were not so exciting. Yet every young female learned them as they watched the elders preserve the food and seal it away in clay jars or glass bottles bought from the foxes.

Nowadays the fox's goods were taking more and more prominence in daily life. They killed the game with snares, spears or arrowheads made from metal acquired from the foxes. Containers of plastic and glass they provided were replacing stoneware and clay. Their bowstrings looked like sheep gut but were not, and the fox's cleaver little lamps were far superior to anything the felines could make from sea shells and pig bladders, and less susceptible to burning up from their own flame.

Not that the trade was one-sided. The felines had plenty of goods to offer in exchange. Along with the pelts of the animals they trapped they collected a considerable amount of antler and bone that could be made into handles, grips, and shafts for the tools and weapons the foxes dealt in. And no one could manipulate wood like the felines. Their bows were prized possessions by all the canine species, even if they could only wield them half as well as the cats. Certain fish oils the felines saved worked well in the lamps, and the foxes accepted bundles of dried herbs and certain barks in exchange also. The felines also foraged for metal, plastic and glass to trade for finished products of the same materials.

Recycled metal from broken tools was fine, but old-world metal was most valuable. The cats would keep their eyes open after each rain and whenever a tree fell in a stiff wind for the glint of freshly exposed metal. Diviners walked about the meadows watching the behaviour of a lodestone in a jar of oil to find certain metals. Some used metal rods that that swayed and crossed each other over a buried source of other types of metal. Hunting parties usually took a diviner or two with them when they traveled further afield, just in case. It was not unheard of for a hunting party to return with no meat but more metal than they could carry, like the time one group stumbled upon some sort of conveyance left in a cave. Not only was the body of the strange vehicle mostly metal, another large metallic device had been found in a compartment in the front, and several tubes of the highest quality metal had been found on a rack above the seat inside. The tribe had celebrated for days after that find, and the following summer they had bought out the first fox caravan and half of the second.

The foxes traded for metal according to the type, the condition and the quantity. Ordinary steel was good, if it wasn't too rusty. Blue steel was better, and any amount of the golden-hued steel was best. Aluminum was okay. Copper was rare, and all the more valuable for it, as was silver and rarest of all, gold.

A lot of the metallic objects they found were alloys, and were too fragile to rework or too hard to melt. Some were useless to the foxes, but most could be made into something useful, like a hoe or a scrapper for the hides. The felines had tried to melt the metal they found and make objects of their own, but discovered that their fires were not hot enough to affect most metals, and heating many just made them too brittle to be used. And some were downright dangerous in the fire, like the pointy golden objects that had been found inside a small compartment of the vehicle. Those had exploded forcefully when exposed to the fire, resulting in Moon Dancer's death.

Even the plastics had their different properties. The foxes showed them the symbols that could be found on the relics of the old world and explained which to keep for trade. The foxes turned these into new products. Some had tried to replicate the fox's process but the result was a useless mass of material. The foxes were obviously holding something of their art back, as with their metallurgy. Until the mystery was solved their niche in the economic doings of the world was assured.

Trade was vigorous. And in order to acquire the tools to make their lives easier the felines had to spend more time searching for raw materials and making trade items. Snowdrop had been born in this time of change, where the tribes struggled to retain their traditional ways while adapting to the demands of innovation. But one characteristic of tribal life that had not changed was the spiritual aspect. Someone had to tend to matters of the other world, and that someone was the tribe's priestess.

Their priestess was an ancient feline whose fur was ragged from being singed by the flames of thousands of brewing fires and stained many colours by the fumes of hundreds of concoctions. She was the keeper of all wisdom, the tribe's spiritual healer and the seer. When she spoke at the council fire everyone listened, and if she disagreed with a plan of action the plan would be changed. But more often than not she stayed silent and let the other elders debate and decide on their own.

Her name was Dawn, for the brightness of her golden eyes as they shone out demurely from her half-closed eyes, or so she claimed. None living could remember her so young as to be doing anything but glaring wild-eyed and challenging at everyone or half asleep by the council fire. But Snowdrop saw her peeking between the slits of her eyes when she thought no one was watching. According to Snowdrop's grandmother Dawn had been the priestess since she herself had been hardly more than a kitten. Snowdrop had asked how that could be.

"Would she not need years of training before she learned everything she needed to know to become a priestess?" She had asked.

"You would think that that would be the case." Her grandmother had replied. "But she was very young when she was chosen. That is the way it is with the spirit world, they choose the most suitable to be the next priestess, not the best prepared. One day the spirits will tell her who they have selected and Dawn will waddle forth and inform the next priestess. Then the poor child will have only a short time to learn the secret lore before Dawn passes on and we have a new priestess."

One morning earlier this spring, just as the last of the snow was melting away, the old tabby had appeared in the centre of the encampment and called everyone to gather around her. Then she had announced that when the snows next melted, the tribe would have a new priestess. That priestess, she informed them, would be Snowdrop. Of all those present, Snowdrop was the most surprised.

Not quite an adult, Snowdrop had not yet decided whether to mate right away or learn a trade first. There were numerous jobs a female could take on if she had the talent. Meals were communal affairs and cooking was an honourable profession, as was that of food preserver. The few females that tended the meagre crops seemed happy, as did the one that cut and dyed the fur of the warriors into patterns that made them look fierce. There were also weavers, gatherers, and a few that did nothing more than clean up after everybody else. Almost all of them were good at what they did and happy with their choice though, because no one had forced them to be one thing or another.

Snowdrop had drifted from one group to another during her childhood, making friends with the youngsters her age and studying the crafts they were learning. More curious than most, she had observed and asked questions about any aspect of the trade that she did not understand. By the time adulthood was imminent she had not only learned much about the various tasks that made up daily life in the tribe, she had also learned something about almost every member, either directly or through the stories they told of their mates, parents or leaders.

The announcement changed the young cat's life. One day everyone was her friend and confidant and the next they were avoiding her eye. Those few that approached her did so only to remind her how good friends they were, and ask when she would be in a position to return the friendship with a favour or two.

"They think that you have acquired power since being chosen." Dawn had chuckled when Snowdrop had mentioned it to the ancient cat.

"Have I?" The young feline asked, a little leery.

"You have no more power than you did the day before." Dawn answered, and Snowdrop sighed with relief, but it was short lived. "That power was considerable already, of course, and you will gain more as you grow older." The old priestess had continued. "Now you just have to learn how to use it."

Snowdrop had expected her lessons to include secret lore, spells and prayers and incantations to ensure the favour of the spirits. She was disappointed when Dawn spoke mostly about personalities, tribal life and politics.

"Your job is to help the folk of the tribe cope with everyday life by interpreting how the spirit world affects it and reassuring them that all will turn out well." Dawn had chided. "It is not to attempt to change the course of those lives or influence the tide of world events. What will be, will be, and we must all make our way through as best we can. I will show you ways of reading the signs on another's face so you can predict what they are really saying, or trying not to say. Concoctions that will help clear a supplicant's mind so they can see the solution to their problem themselves, which you can bring out with a few leading questions."

"So it is all a sham? The Spirits do not really exist?"

"I did not say that they were not real, just that they do not often speak to us, or speak clearly when they do. Sometimes you have to use a little initiative and imagination when interpreting their wishes. But I will show you a thing or two in the time we have together. Secret ways of using the herbs you already know about to make listening to those elusive spirits easier."

"It stinks of trickery." The disillusioned Snowdrop retorted.

From nowhere the priestesses' shelter was filled with the boom of thunder and the light seemed to be sucked from the room. Dawn suddenly appeared three times larger as she loomed above the now terrified Snowdrop with her long fur standing straight out and fire in her eyes.

"Do not doubt that the spirits have power." She spoke in a timbre that rang with the tones of hundreds of unseen others. "Or that they can wield it through me ... or you." She added in her usual voice as the light in the hut returned to normal. "You, above all others, need to keep the faith."

Thereafter she mixed lessons in reading others with the secret knowledge and lore of the priestesses. Meditation and physical exercises to calm the spirit and clear the mind made up a goodly portion of them.

"You must be calm, open and receptive to channel the will of the spirits." Dawn advised her. "A priestess is more in tune with the land and nature than the other felines, and certainly much more than the canines, whatever species or breed they are. You must train your body and brain to be more flexible, agile and adroit than others in order to see the truth. You must keep to a strict diet so that you do not poison your body or mind, you must avoid all intoxicants save for when it is necessary in the rituals, and you must remain pure."

"Pure?"

"Unmated, spiritually as well as physically, in order to minister to all members of the tribe equally. That is the tradition and the way. Love can cloud the mind worse than the fermented fruit of the wild grapes and obsessive sexual activity can poison the spirit. Motherhood is out of the question."

Snowdrop though about that for a while before responding. Although she had no particular longing for motherhood she had never considered avoiding it either. Childless females were an object of pity, and those that failed to conceive by middle age were usually put aside in favour of another mate. It was true that she had no favourites among the young males, although several had made advances. Even a few of the older warriors had made their interest plain. No one in particular had struck her fancy as yet, but she was sure that one would, eventually.

"Is that why you have never mated?" She asked the old priestess.

"Yes. That is why." Dawn answered sadly. "I was older than you when I was selected as priestess, and there was a young warrior that I had promised myself to. But after the announcement was made he refused to look at me again, too afraid was he of breaking tribal taboo. The rest of the tribe would put to death anyone who compromised their priestess."

"So a priestess must remain a virgin." Snowdrop said with regret.

"Oh-no, I was not a virgin at the time." Dawn corrected. "Nor have I abstained completely since then. That is as bad as wanton lasciviousness. A female needs some release from the pent up frustrations. You may choose to do that alone, of course, but there are other options."

Snowdrop's shock must have been evident because Dawn put aside the herbs she was sorting and took the young feline by a paw and spoke softly to her.

"Look at our paws." She said as she held hers palm to palm against that of Snowdrop. Snowdrop's digits were noticeably longer and slimmer than those of the older cat. "Times are changing, and cats are changing with them. When I was a kitten my great grandmother, the oldest cat in the tribe at the time, told me stories passed on from her grandmother, and from the grandmothers before her. Life was much different at one time. Females went into heat and took many mates, but none permanently. Mothers and kittens lived apart from warriors, and they hunted for their own food. Many kittens died before adulthood, but then many were born, often in large litters. Priestesses were terrible, powerful leaders that subjected the warriors to their will by seduction as well as magic."

"But times changed. Couples developed the urge to live together after mating. Family groups formed. The number of kittens born at a time went down, but survival rates went up. Caring for the family became more important than one's own interests. Councils were formed to make decisions that would affect the welfare of all. Warriors and priestesses that ruled through fear were overthrown, and a new code of conduct was enforced. And while they do not talk openly about it, the females of the tribe still fear a return to the old ways. They see a sexually active priestess as a threat to their way of life, and that is why you cannot engage in such activity, not openly anyways."

"How can you keep such things secret?" Snowdrop asked. "Males talk, and the matrons say that a reputation is harder to remove than a pine sap stain."

"It is not unusual for the priestess to go away for days at a time, visiting other priestesses, observing the animals, learning from nature, communing with the spirits, that sort of thing." Dawn waved a paw dismissively. "And ours is not the only tribe in this forest, as you know. It is easy enough to find some virile young warrior from another tribe out on his dream quest. You can locate them by the smell actually; they tend not to bathe until they get their vision. They are usually half-starved and out of their head from chewing cat grass and when you show up in their cave or whatever shelter they have holed up in they will be convinced that they are being visited by a spirit."

Snowdrop remembered one new warrior the year before when he returned from his dream quest with tales of being seduced by a wild forest spirit. He had claimed that she tried to drain his life force through repeated sexual acts, but that he had overcome the spirit, exhausting it. In exchange the Spirit had cooked him a meal and given him a vision. Snowdrop now suspected that the stew he had been served was heavily laced with the mushrooms that brought hallucinations. She wondered if it had been one of the priestesses she had seen that occasionally visited Dawn.

"When you return from such a tryst, drink a tea made of these," Dawn had held up a bundle of dry leaves and a container of bark from a particular tree, "and you will not become pregnant. You can also give this tea to young females that come to you in distress before they are officially mated, but never give it to one who is already showing!" She warned. "That would kill both the mother and the unborn."

They talked more about the life of the priestess and the drugs that helped or hindered sexual urges and performance. Snowdrop was amazed at how much of the priestess's duties were bound up in the act of other's procreation.

"It seems unfair that the tribe demands celibacy from the same one that they rely on for advice and assistance in these matters." She complained.

"Ah, child, fairness has very little to do with it. You may never have kittens of your own but a few years after I am gone you will look around and realize that you helped give life to all the kittens that you see. When you are old, and with what I have taught you will live well beyond the rest of your generation, the whole tribe will be as your children." She rubbed Snowdrop behind the ears affectionately. "I know that it seems hard now, but at least you have no special someone of your own yet, so you will not start off with a broken heart like I did."

In a short time, Snowdrop came to understand that she must learn everything about everything, and everybody, if she was to minister to her tribe properly. She would learn a lot of the lore from Dawn, and whatever was left untaught when Dawn passed she could find out from the other priestesses, but some things needed to be discovered personally. That is why she was out in the middle of the forest in a thunder storm, to see what happened during one and how the plants and animals reacted to it.

The first thing she noted was that most of the animals took shelter long before the storm arrived. Even the plants seemed to know what was coming as those that could curled up their leaves and closed their flowers before the first drops of rain fell. She wondered if it was some quality of the light under the darkening clouds that caused it, or could they really sense the magnitude of the storm? Either way, it added to her knowledge of the ways of the world to have observed it.

She knew quite a lot already, she realized. Much of it was taught to her as kitten, and some she had unconsciously absorbed on her own. Dawn's lessons helped her access what she already knew, and to identify the gaps in her education. One such gap, and a rather large one, was her knowledge of the canines that lived in their valley.

Oh, there were plenty of stories and personal accounts of close encounters with the stupid, snarling beasts, or so the young warriors returning from trials of bravery described them. But if they were so stupid, she wondered, how had they developed agriculture and animal husbandry to the point where they did not want for food in even the harshest winter? And their weapons were formidable. Even though they lacked a bow's artistry or accuracy their bolt throwing devices were powerful, and plentiful.

They showed a high degree of organization on the few occasions where they entered the forest. Its unfamiliarity did as much to defeat them as the warriors did when they made their last major foray deep into feline territory. They were smart enough to retreat in good order when defeat became obvious, but had the act itself not achieved its objective of forcing the felines to keep to the woods and away from the river? They were not dim-witted, she thought, they were just ... different.

Unfortunately one of those difference was their evident desire to drive the felines out of the valley altogether. Snowdrop was convinced that a greater understanding of the dogs they shared the valley with was essential to the survival of the tribe. Finding one wandering alone in the woods after the main body of the storm had passed had been her first opportunity to observe one up close.

She watched him carefully from a distance, keeping downwind of him and off to one side because she had been warned about their phenomenal sense of smell. From the descriptions she had overheard around the fires at night this one must be a tracker. He had the floppy ears and long nose of one, and was not big enough to be their version of a warrior.

The dog was dressed in clothing that covered most of its torso, legs and arms. They were wet and clung to its body, revealing that although on the stocky side and short of limb it was well muscled. What fur she could see was short, and mostly white, however its ears, the sides of its head and the base of its tail were brown. It trudged stoically through the woods a t a good pace, making it hard for her to keep up and stay hidden. She was glad that she had worn a robe made from the sheerest doeskin and dyed green and black that blended in well with the evergreens in this part of the forest. She had chosen it so as not to spook the deer that would already be half crazy from the thunder and lightning into stampeding and hurting themselves, but now it served to keep her hidden from view.

The dog seemed to be following some scent, or trying to. It sniffed at each tree and rock and examined the ground in the rapidly dimming light, generally following a small game trail. She wondered if it was hunting, but other than a small knife sheathed on his hip she saw no weapons on him. At least he did not have to worry about running into a hunting party, she thought. Bathing was one thing, but being soaked and cold was another matter, and with all the game gone to ground the males would be taking advantage of the warmth of their huts and their mates.

Snowdrop noticed that the wind had died down and recognized it for the calm before the storm hit again. There was a small copse of pines ahead, the kind that provided excellent shelter from the wind and rain, so she left the dog, who was angling off in another direction, to his search and slipped away. Circling around to come in from the other side she chose the largest tree so that she could stretch out on one of the large branches. Squatting in the dead needles and dirt in a wet robe had no appeal for her. As soon as she was safely inside she peeled the wet garment off and hung it to dry from a higher branch on the other side of the tree.

Just as she was getting comfortable on her branch she heard a creature enter the small clearing in the middle of the grove. It sounded small, and scared, as it bleated plaintively at the distant sound of thunder. Before she could investigate she heard it force its way under the boughs of the tree beside hers. She was debating whether to investigate when a larger creature entered the clearing. From the snuffling noises it was making it was surely the dog she had been following until a few minutes earlier. It must have been following the small animal, whatever it was, she concluded. She had no time for further speculation, as just then the canine parted the branches of the tree she was sheltering in and pushed his way inside.

Snowdrop froze, hardly daring to breathe. Up to an hour ago she had never seen a dog, or expected to, and now she was barely three feet from one! She studied him carefully with eyes already adjusted to the gloom. He looked smaller than she had initially thought, probably because she was looking down on him she supposed, and quite harmless. There was no evidence of the ferocious fangs or dagger-like claws that the young warriors had described. His eyes were wide as they tried to focus in the dark and he was frowning slightly as he sniffed the musty air. All in all, with his big brown eyes and wrinkled brow he looked sort of ... sweet.

His head was turning from left to right and back again as he homed in on the odour that had drawn his attention. Each arc was shorter than the one before, and his snout was lifting to point in her direction. He must have caught her scent! In a few seconds he would have her located! She had only moments to decide whether to run, fight or ... or try something totally different.

Snowdrop drew a deep breath, held it for an instant, and then spoke firmly, in a voice much calmer than she felt.

"Hello." She said

* * * * * * * *

The dog looked around frantically. The voice had seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. When it spoke again his head snapped up. It was coming from a lump that was darker than the surrounding blackness on a thick branch just overhead. Two luminescent green eyes shone down at him from the middle of the darker patch.

The tracker had never heard a cat speak before, except when they were screaming in agony after capture, but this one sounded distinctly ... female. While he considered his next action she spoke again.

"What is that smell?"

He sniffed. The overwhelming odour now was that of his own urine. It was nothing like the feline urine he had been taught to identify. That was much sharper and stronger, like ammonia. He remembered his mentors telling him that the canine sense of smell gave them an advantage over the felines because they could track with it even in the dark. If the felines did not have their sense of smell, would they even bother to teach their young to identify different scents? Perhaps, he thought, she does not recognize the scent of dog pee.

"It's ... uh ... sweat." He answered, reaching around for the knife that hung from his belt. "I've been chasing this lost sheep, you see and ..."

"You do not need the knife." The feline interrupted as she dropped from the branch she was resting on and landed lightly beside him. She put a paw on his to stop its progress toward the sheath. "I do not mean you any harm."

The dog realized that he was in a bad position. He knew that cats were fierce fighters in close quarters and the females were said to be no less formidable than the males. A superior sense of smell was worthless in these conditions, and she had the advantage of night vision. Also, he was deep in her territory and she was not likely to out alone, not if the cats were as protective of their females as the canines were. What choice did he have? He let her guide his paw away from the knife.

"So ... what do you want with me?" He asked nervously.

"Nothing ... well ... something. Answers."

"Answers?" He was surprised. The guard dogs sometimes tortured the felines that they had captured to get information from them, like how many cats were in their tribe, who was in charge, where their camp was located and that sort of thing. But as far as he knew his village had no secrets that the cats could not discern by observing it from the woods. Unless it was about the number and type of metal weapons they kept in the armoury. If so they were out of luck, because he was too junior to be allowed such knowledge. Plus the fact that he tended to blather uncontrollably when nervous, scared, drunk or happy, and that pretty much covered the range of his emotions.

"I don't have any answers." He said, wondering how she would react.

"You have not even heard the questions yet." She responded, frustrated.

"Oh. Sorry." He did not know why he was apologising. Although he was not a big dog from what little he could make out in the gloomy space under the tree he was still larger and heavier than her. He should be more forceful, he knew, but it was not in his nature. He was a tracker, after all, not a leader or a guard dog. Following and subservient loyalty was ingrained in his being. "What are the questions?" He asked, curious.

"Let us start with 'What is your name?'" She said as she hunkered down in front of him.

"Okay. What is your name?"

Her exasperated sigh almost knocked him over, so strong was the smell of fish on her breath. She shook her head.

"Right. Very well. My name is Snowdrop. And what is ..."

"That is an unusual name." He interrupted before she could finish her question. "Why did your parents name you that? It was your parents that named you, yes? I mean, you don't earn names like the wolves do, do you? You don't ..."

"My parents named me Snowdrop," she answered before he could say anymore, "because I was born prematurely in the early spring, while the snow was still on the ground. The Snowdrop is what we call the flower that blooms at that time of year, often rising up through the thin crust of white with a lump of snow still on top, which only drops off when the sun first illuminates it. I also have a white mark on my forehead that looks like a snow drop."

He squinted and could just make out a teardrop-shaped patch of white on her otherwise black fur. He opened his mouth to allow another flood of questions to pour out, but she was quicker this time.

"What is your name?" She spit out before he could finish drawing breath.

His mouth snapped shut in surprise. It took him a second to process the question and produce the answer.

"Beagle." He answered. "Darwin Beagle."

Darwin, she rolled the word around in her head. She had never heard that word used in the common tongue before, or Beagle, although that name seemed to fit him, somehow, but 'Darwin'?

"What does Darwin Beagle mean?" She asked.

"Well, I'm a Beagle. I mean, not just from the Beagle family, although I suppose I am from the beagle family as well as from the Beagle family, but ..."

"What does Darwin Beagle mean?" She asked again, patiently.

"Beagle is my breed." He answered, ducking his head in embarrassment. "A tracking breed. All the beagles use the family name of 'Beagle' just as the collies use "Collie' and the dobermans use "Doberman'. Darwin is my first name, the name my parents gave me at birth."

"But what does it mean, the word 'darwin'?"

"It doesn't mean anything. It is just a name, like Charlie, Maggie, Keria, Sam ..." His voice trailed off. "Does a name have to mean something?"

"With us it does." She affirmed. "Usually something significant about the time of your birth or your appearance. Sometimes it takes months for the parents to pick a proper name."

"Not us. We get our first name within a few hours of birth. Often the parents have decided on it months ahead of time."

"How can they do that? They would have no idea what you would be like, or even whether you were male or female."

"They usually seem to just know how many pups they will have and what sex they will be." He shrugged. "But they always have alternatives in reserve. If I had been twins they would have called the second one either Charles or Roberta."

Snowdrop shifted her weight in the darkness. The movement startled Darwin. All he could make out of her was her pale green eyes and the white spot on her forehead.

"Do you mind if I light a candle?" He asked, reaching into his front pocket.

Snowdrop tensed. Candles were rare commodities in the tribe, but Dawn had spoken of them as being useful for heating potions over. She had intended to get some from the foxes when they next visited. They also provided light, as she recalled. She did not object, and the dog proceeded to pull something from inside its clothing.

Clothing! She thought, then the realization: I am naked!

"Wait!" She injected as he scraped a stick against the side of the box he had pulled it out of. He froze. Snowdrop reached up and around the tree to grab her sodden robe and pulled it over her head. With some difficulty, because the wet doeskin wanted to stick to her damp fur, she inched it down until she was covered again. "Alright, you can light your candle."

He scraped the stick again and it burst into flame. A neat trick, she thought, recognizing the smell of sulphur. He touched the flame to a short stick of wax with a string embedded in it and shook the stick to make the flame go out. He cleared a small patch of ground and stuck his candle into the dirt between them.

The first thing he noticed about her was how exotic she looked with her green eyes shining out from a sea of jet-black fur, her small nose and wide whiskers. The second thing he noticed was the way that her wet garment clung to her like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. He looked away hastily as his face turned red under his fur.

Snowdrop looked down to see what had embarrassed the dog and saw that the cold cloth had made the nipples on her single pair of breasts erect. Further down, the mound of her sex was outlined too. The flickering light of the candle made it seem to move, to writhe, as if it were a living thing. She plucked at the material but it just settled back against her again. She compromised by squatting with her legs up inside her robe and her arms across her chest. She noted that the canine was studiously looking away while she adjusted her pose.

"So," she said when everything was arranged properly, "what should we talk about next, Darwin Beagle?"

* * * * * * * *

It seemed like they talked for hours.

Snowdrop was full of questions, and Darwin was full of answers, opinions, observations and humorous stories about his fellow villagers. He also posed several questions himself, but not about the feline way of life, they were deeper, more puzzling questions.

"How come sheep and horses and cows and pigs can't talk?" He pondered after describing the various uses they had for the livestock.

"Because they do not have paws?" She speculated.

"Badgers, bears and racoons have paws." He countered. "Racoons even have thumbs. But they can't speak the common tongue, or any other intelligible language. I know," he assured her, "I've listened to them chatter often enough."

Snowdrop found it interesting that he would pay so much attention to the ways of the animals, but something else he had said was bothering her.

"The common tongue." She repeated. "Why is it that dogs and cats both speak the common tongue exclusively, yet the other canines all have their own unique language?" She did not expect him to answer, so he surprised her by doing so.

"Because we both live in the valley, I suppose. Maybe sometime in the past our species were more sociable and lived closer together." An intriguing thought, she supposed, but not very likely, given that dogs were most often the antagonists in the lore, and alternately portrayed as evil beings, fools or both. Darwin continued talking when it obvious that she was not going to respond. "Our church leaders say that is because of 'The Calling'."

"The Calling?"

Darwin had been lying on the ground beside her, a position they had adopted when he scratched in the dirt to illustrate a concept she was unfamiliar with. After he was done drawing they had just sort of stayed that way, side by side, as they continued talking. Now he rolled on his side, planted his elbow in the ground and rested his head on his paw so he could look at her as he spoke.

"The gods created the heavens and the earth." He said as if reciting a lesson. "They made the plants and the water, the rocks and the rain. They made the sun to shine to feed the plants, and the animals to feed on the plants, and each other. Then they created humans to rule over the earth. Then the gods went away."

"The humans wanted to be like the gods, so they made things." He continued. "Towers of glass, mountains of steel, artificial lakes full of sparkling waters. Marvelous things that flew like birds, burrowed like moles and ran faster than horses. They even created life, making plants and animals of their own design, but they were not yet the equal of the gods. So one day they decided to give the gift of intelligence to the animals, just as the gods had given it to them. They sent word out far and wide, in words that even the basest creature could comprehend, and called all that would be intelligent and live as the humans equals to them."

"Most species hid, because humans had enslaved them for their labour or for food, and they were suspicious. Others those that were still free thought that it was a trap, an attempt to enslave them, and stayed away too. But dogs were already almost the human's equals, and they stepped forward to receive the gift of intelligence. That is why we are so similar to them." He added, almost smugly.

"And what about the cats?"

"The cats also lived with the humans, but only to take advantage of them. They snuck up behind the dogs and hid between their legs when the gift was distributed among the breeds. After the gift was given the humans instructed the dogs, and the cats by accident, in the ways of sentience. Hearing the words of the humans for the first time with their new intelligence both the dogs and cats were able to understand the common tongue."

"What about the coyotes, foxes and wolves?" She asked sceptically.

"Our canine cousins had come close enough to the humans to receive some of the gift, but did not get the full benefit." He answered less certainty. "The shock of suddenly being intelligent scared them and they ran off, too far away to hear the words and complete their training. That is why they are less developed than dogs, and cats I suppose." He conceded. "And why they only learned the common tongue when they came into contact with us."

Snowdrop thought about Darwin's story for a moment before reacting.

"That is the most absurd explanation that I have ever heard in my life." She said. "Foxes are much more cleaver than dogs, for one thing."

"How would explain it then?" He sounded a little hurt. Snowball winced; she had not meant to offend.

"Well, our lore states that felines were always intelligent." She began. "We were the first creatures created by the gods. The humans were made to serve us, to do the manual labour and prepare our food. In those days cats only hunted for sport. But not all of the gods were in favour of the arrangement. One god, a trickster by the name of Reynard, created canines to harass the cats. Dog in particular integrated themselves with the humans and convinced them to abandon their duties. Cats were forced to evolve to take care of themselves, and are all the more independent for it." She could not keep the pride from her voice as she finished the tale.

"That story is as bad as mine." Darwin laughed. "What happened to the gods and the humans? They certainly did not come with us!"

"The lore is rather short on facts there." She smiled, glad that he was not offended. She noticed that when he was happy his short tail tended to wag back and forth rapidly. And he was never unhappy for very long. Felines tended to hide their emotions behind blank expressions so one needed to know the subtle signs to read them, but these dogs came with a built in mood indicator. Snowdrop wondered whether they displayed equally obvious signs of anger, fear or desire. How should she go about finding that out without actually making the cheerful beagle angry or scared? And how could she use such knowledge to benefit the tribes?

"Darwin." She said in a soft voice, rolling on her side and propping herself up on her elbow to match his pose. She had intended to simply ask him if his kin showed those emotions with their tails or other signs but the look on his face stopped her.

While lying safely on her stomach she had allowed her robe to return to its original position. The dampness and the pressure of her body on the soft ground had created an outline of her feminine features with the light-toned dust showing her curves and contours against the dark pattern of the doeskin. It did more than show them, it accentuated them.

Darwin's eyes slowly ranged from her face to her toes and back again before locking firmly on hers. She was much slimmer than most of the females he was used to seeing, but none the less feminine for it. Her long, shapely legs were mostly exposed at the moment. Her slender tail was waving languidly up in the air behind her. The dirt on her robe had highlighted the essential female form in a very intriguing fashion. And her face was all triangles: triangular ears sticking straight up, triangular tufts of jet black fur on each cheek, and the inverted triangles formed by the fans of silvery whiskers on each side of her triangular nose. She is exotic, he said to himself. Then a word he could not remember ever hearing popped into his head. He was not sure of its meaning, but it fit her even better. The word was 'erotic'. The physical reaction he was feeling from the look of her glowing green eyes and the way that the candlelight played on her body gave him a clue as to the meaning of the word. Confused thoughts filled his mind.

Darwin opened his mouth to speak. Just then the candle started to sputter. Darwin looked down and discovered that the wax was just a puddle in the dirt and the wick was almost gone.

"My candle is almost out." He said, breaking the mood.

"Yes, and it is getting late." Snowdrop, freed from stasis when he broke eye contact, sat up and parted the branches. "Look. The sky has cleared." A few rays of late afternoon sun penetrated the thick canopy of boughs. Darwin extinguished the remains of his candle and made sure that the ember from the tip of the wick was cold before burying it in the dirt.

"I had better see if I can find any sign of the lamb I am tracking before it gets too late." He said as he stood up and brushed the old pine needles from his trousers. "I don't want to be caught this deep in the woods after dark. I might run into a ...." His voice trailed off as he looked back at Snowdrop."

"A cat?" She asked in a chilly tone.

"No, no ... a ... a bear ... maybe, or a coyote. They lurk about in the dark. It would be just like one of those sneaky curs to take my lamb."

Snowdrop could tell he was lying by the way his tail drooped and the stricken look on his face. She let it pass. She could not blame him for being apprehensive, not after she had seen what the warriors did to any stray dog found wandering the forest alone. They would not kill him, but he just may wish that they had. According to Darwin, the smell of cat pee never washed out. The thought of how the canines must feel about bearing that shame distressed her now although she had hardly given it any consideration before. She wanted to change the subject.

"Oh, you said that you were following a stray animal when you came in." She said, smacking her forehead as if she had forgotten. "I should have mentioned it back then, a small creature came into the clearing a few minutes before you did and hid under the tree beside us. She lifted the branches and pointed. Darwin ducked under and a few seconds later she heard a happy bleat issue from under the neighbouring pine. She stepped out into the clearing and brushed the dust off her torso before Darwin could return with the lamb.

"Here it is!" The dog called in relief as he pushed through the boughs with the curly little creature cradled in his arms. "All safe and sound." Behind him his tail was going around as fast as a spinning wheel. He smiled across the clearing at Snowdrop, and she smiled back, his happiness infectious. Several moments passed before either felt the need to speak.

"You should be getting that little fellow back to his mama." Snowdrop said. "The sun will be down soon and with the rain gone the hunting parties will be out again." Darwin frowned when she mentioned the hunting parties. He looked down at the lamb, then back at her, and then he came to a decision. He held the small sheep out to her.

"You take him." He declared. "This one has been neutered so that he will grow fat and tasty. He will be slaughtered along with a hundred others come autumn when he reaches full size. The village won't miss one."

"But if you return with it you will be a hero!" Snowdrop exclaimed, confused. "You do not want to go back having failed, do you?"

"Ha." Darwin laughed. "No tracker gets treaded like a hero just for doing his job. Besides, they probably didn't expect me to find it anyway. We have plenty of sheep this year and they would never have sent me after it alone if they really needed it back. You take it. Your people need the meat more than we do." He gestured with the lamb, urging her to take it.

Snowdrop was touched. She knew that she should refuse; showing up back at the encampment with a lamb would evoke more questions than it was worth, but she silently took it from Darwin's arms.

"Thank you." Was all that she could trust herself to say. They stood in the clearing a few feet apart each looking down at their own feet for an awkward moment.

"Do you, uhm ... I mean, I sometimes ... do you ... oh dammit." Darwin fumbled with his words before looking up and catching Snowdrop's eye. "What I mean to say is, if I came back to this clearing sometime do you think that you might ..."

"Meet you here?"

"Uh ... yes." He looked down as his skin flushed once again.

"Two days from today, at noon?" She suggested.

"Yes!" He said eagerly. "I mean, yes. I can make that."

"Then I will see you in two days, Tracker Darwin Beagle." She responded, and with that strode quickly out of the clearing through a gap in the pines. Darwin looked after her for a moment, wanting to call her back and prolong the conversation, but finally he turned and headed out in the direction of his village.

As he walked his tail wagged rapidly back and forth behind him.

* * * * * * * *

Silver Tip was nervous, but he did not show it. Not a muscle or a hair on his body twitched. No furrowed brow or pursed lip gave notice of the worry eating away at his insides. Something bad was about to happen, and he felt powerless to prevent it. He sighed inwardly. The best he could hope for was to shape the event to produce the least damaging outcome. Pushing himself off the edge of the wagon he appeared to be innocently lounging on, he headed toward the sounds of an argument.

It had been a bad day for trading today. They had camped in a spot on the edge of the plains where the coyotes knew to find them and waited for the individuals and occasional small bunches of the canines to show. To their surprise and consternation a group of almost thirty coyotes had shown up, and that was too many coyotes in one place for Silver Tip's comfort.

Negotiations had gone poorly. Not only was a group that size unprecedented, they were cooperating. They had elected a single coyote to speak for all the rest, a unique development. The coyotes had presented the metal they wished to trade, bits and chunks of old world manufacture mostly, there was an endless supply of preserved metal in the desert it seemed. Some pieces were of more recent make, and Silver Tip recognized several pieces he had traded to the wolves on the other side of the plains in previous years. He wondered what had happened to the owners, but that was none of his business. Silver tip opened with an offer on some of the better pieces, ignoring the rusted hunks of cheap iron and the difficult alloys.

"You take all or none." The coyote's negotiator had snarled.

"That is not the way we do business." Silver Tip had replied evenly.

"It is the way we do biz-ee-nest on the plains now." The coyote struggled with the new word. "You take all, and you give more. Coyotes not fools to be tricked no more." He twisted the hilt of a short sword he wore on a leather strap. Other than that the plains inhabitant was naked, all of them were. But Silver tip noted that each and everyone carried some sort of weapon. They were better equipped than ever before.

It had gone downhill from there. The coyotes did not know of the various grades of metal, and they did not care. They wanted one price for all, and they wanted it to be based on the best price for the best pieces. The bargaining circle had degraded to a standoff with Silver Tip's canine guards growing on one side and the coyotes gnashing their teeth on the other. Finally Silver Tip had agreed on a higher price. The costs would just have to be passed on further down the line. He also promised himself that they would join up with another caravan before venturing any further into the plains, and hopefully before these crazy coyotes thought of extending their cooperation to form a raiding party.

Everything should have calmed down after the plains dwellers left ... but it did not. The foxes of the caravan were on edge because the profits from the trip looked to be in peril. The guards were stressed because they had worked themselves up for a fight but none had appeared. Now an argument had broken out over whether the small guard force could have taken the pack of coyotes. Silver Tip believed that they could, but only because he knew exactly how many fox archers were hidden around the bargaining circle. The campsite had been selected just for that reason four generations ago, and the secret of the observation and firing posts were still known only to the foxes. He was sure of that, because otherwise the guards would not be picking a fight with his kinfolk in the middle of a kill zone.

And now the argument had evolved into a fight, as he was afraid that it would. Most of the guards would have been content to trade insults with their smaller employers, but the largest, a mastiff-coyote cross with perhaps a touch of wolf, was not. The huge canine, who virtually rippled with muscle when he stretched, had a daily intake of twelve eggs, a pound of red meat, a pound of cabbage, and two quarts of milk. Silver Tip had considered the expense worth it simply for the giant's intimidation factor, but the herbs that the dog chewed to increase his muscle size also made him short tempered and prone to rage. A good rough and tumble with some of the other canines usually calmed him down.

But not today. Today the rest of the guards were on his side of the argument. They were of the opinion that the foxes had been too generous with the coyotes, that they should have killed a few and started negotiations again afterward. They were concerned that their skills were being underrated, and that when the trip failed to show a profit they would suffer little or no pay because of it. The foxes that were trying to assure them that their base salary was guaranteed were being pushed around by the larger canines, and any moment now the mastiff, who went by the name of Fang, would start tearing heads off.

They had a drill for this. Silver Tip nodded to his eldest son, Bright Eyes, and pushed the straw hat he wore to protect his old hide from the sun back on his head. He ambled toward the bargaining circle where the foxes were now gathered defensively while the canines circled them and launched the occasional kick or punch. He moved slowly to appear relaxed as well as to give his sons, his most trusted assistants, time to get into position.

Seeing the leader of the caravan strolling calmly over, his hat tilted back and chewing on a sprig of grass, made most of the guards back away from the trapped foxes, allowing them the chance to escape. But, in order to keep the guards from going after them, Silver Tip had to keep advancing until he himself was surrounded. Once he was he stood silently gazing around at the canines until they had stopped muttering. Then he spoke.

"Who doubts that they will get fair compensation when we return to camp this autumn?" He asked, looking around at everyone except Fang. For a few moments no one spoke.

"I doubts it." Fang finally broke the silence. "You is going to trade all your goods away for scrap metal and there will be nothing to pay us with when we get back."

Silver Tip was amazed. That was the most words that Fang had ever strung together without swearing, and his grammar had improved considerably in the time he had been working for the foxes. He put a friendly arm around the half-breed's waist and led him away from the rest of the guards as he spoke.

"Come with me Fang, and I will explain how we have made sure that our faithful guards are always taken care of even if it means that we foxes must suffer. We do not carry all of our wealth with us, you see. That would be too tempting a treasure to resist." He continued in that vein until they were far enough away from the rest for him to be unheard if he lowered his voice. Now came the tricky part. It would be easiest just to kill the brute now with a dagger in the heart but had to at least make an attempt at settling things peacefully.

"The rest of the guards look up to you Fang." He told the big canine, having to look up at a fair angle himself to make eye contact. He was lying, the rest of the guards actually thought that Fang was a bully and a blowhard, but they were afraid to fight him one-on-one all the same. "If you assure them that they will all get paid as promised at the end of the season they will believe you and back down. And you have my personal word that you all will indeed get paid."

But fang just poked him in the chest and snarled.

"We want our pay now! Before you give it all away to crazy coyotes and wolves."

Silver Tip sighed. Alright then, he thought, if that is how it has to be. He pulled his hat back forward on his head.

"If you stay you will get paid your full share at the end of the season, but I'll give anyone that wants to leave what they are owed in material or goods, and I'll throw in a pack with three days rations." Silver Tip said it loud enough so that the others could hear and know that he was offering a fair deal. Then he added in a lower tone to Fang, "But you have to leave no matter what. I suggest that you take the offer and depart."

"And what if I decide to just take whatever I want, eh? Who is going to stop me?" the overgrown cur jerked his head back to where the rest of the guards stood grumbling. "Them?" Then he patted the sword that Silver Tip had equipped him with and nodded at the short bladed dagger that the old fox wore. "You?"

"I suggest that you reconsider." Silver Tip almost whispered.

The half breed growled and reached across to draw the sword. Silver Tip stepped back, as if to get out of striking distance. At the same time he removed his hat.

Fang lifted his sword, took a step, and fell forward on his face. A half-dozen feathered shafts decorated his back. The guards looked around frantically, but the archers were well hidden.

"As I was saying." Silver Tip spoke up again. "You will get paid your full share at the end of the season, or you can take what you are owed now, plus some food, and leave." Then he looked down at the inert body at his feet. "Or you can join Fang. Now, it is getting late and we need to move out before those coyotes come back crazed on peyote or something, so what is it going to be?"

Two coyotes took his offer and left. The rest he assigned to bury Fang after he personally stripped him of his weapons. By the time they pulled out at dusk the tensions of earlier had disappeared so Silver Tip could stop worrying about mutiny and start wondering where he would find new guards this time of year.