Chapter 6 Mercy #2
And what exactly is this duty? Blacktail wondered…but did not ask. This time he felt no lie. All he said was “Very well. I shall hunt at the stream.”
“That way, lord!” the Great Dane said helpfully. The pack scrambled to get out of his path. They turned their faces from him as he passed.
iii
Blacktail found the watering hole easily enough—too easily. It was marked by an amazing flurry of tracks and scent. No hunter could fail to notice such a ripe collection of foolish meat. But he was coming to think that no one—especially not Milo—had hunted here in a great long while.
He moved downwind, then settled himself into the deep shadows under a cliff.
He shut his eyes so they would not gleam in the moonlight.
As he waited, he cataloged the scents that drifted to him from the water hole.
Deer. The hunt-beasts of this land are too fat to run.
Chipmunk. The prey of this land have forgotten what it is to be hunted.
Opossum. The paths to the water hole are grooved deep with the track of generations.
Rabbit. The hunt is broken here. The thought cut to the heart of him. The hunt is broken here.
As if hearing him, an opossum poked into view and walked to the watering hole on ancient, shaking legs. He gave a perfunctory glance up and down the stream—even that little display of caution was more than Blacktail expected—and dipped his white snout to drink.
Blacktail’s eyes snapped open. He sprang from his hiding blind, landing just in front of the opossum with a small splash. The opossum did not try to run but only raised his head and looked up at Blacktail. Blacktail saw no fear in his eyes, only flat curiosity.
“You,” the opossum said. “Why have you come?”
“Have the beasts of these lands forgotten so much?” Blacktail asked. “I am here to kill you and make you my dinner. This is the way of things.”
“I have forgotten nothing,” the opossum said mildly. He dipped his head and drank from the stream. “I only wonder why you chose to dine on me rather than on one of those you were talking to earlier.”
“How do you know who I was speaking with?”
The opossum shrugged. “It’s a small wood. The few of us whom Mercy hasn’t seduced look out for one another.”
“Mercy? Who is this Mercy?”
“You don’t know? I thought you knew. You were talking to her priest earlier.”
“Who, that Milo fellow?”
“That’s him, yes.”
“Why do you call him ‘priest’? I’ve met stumps that were more fierce. If he’s the one leading their hunt, they’ll soon starve.”
The opossum regarded Blacktail for a long time. “I didn’t say that he was a priest of the Forest God.”
“Who, then?” Blacktail asked, honestly confused.
“They worship their mistress, the two-legs,” he said. Then, in a singsong impression of Milo’s terrier yap, “ ‘The protector, the caresser, she who brings bacon in the night. Come! Join with us and you, too, may dwell in the palace of sammich and chewtoy.’ ” He turned his head and spat. “Mercy.”
“They worship a—Oh no. Oh, bleeding dung. You can’t mean it.”
The opossum shrugged again. “These are strange times,” he said. He bent his head to the stream again. Blacktail heard his old heart hammering in his chest. The opossum drank for a long time, then looked up to see if Blacktail would eat him now.
“Let us pretend for a moment that I believe what you say,” Blacktail said.
“Very well,” the opossum said, agreeably enough. He looked up at the sky. “Well, this is the night for hunters, isn’t it? Hello, Asah.”
Blacktail followed his gaze up just in time to see an owl glide in to roost on the high branches of an oak.
“Hello, Slighen,” the owl responded. “And to Blacktail of the Far Hill…hail and obeisance.”
Blacktail sighed. “Spare me that sort of nonsense, if you please,” he said. “I’m only here for dinner.”
The owl cocked his head at Blacktail. “Dinner is of Slighen?” he asked.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“He hasn’t decided yet,” Slighen repeated. “Asah, why don’t you come down and help him make up his mind?” Then, to Blacktail in a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “Owls are quite tasty, you know.”
“Comfort is here,” the owl said. “No to come down. But I will help.”
“Help?” Blacktail said. “I don’t need help. I’ve been chewing my own dinner for some time now.”
“Chew, Blacktail, yes. Chew and rip and swallow. You are of the hunt. But these lands are no longer of you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Blacktail barked.
“I’m afraid he’s right,” Slighen responded, sighing. “It’s not just Milo and his lot. This whole forest is subjugated under a two-legs.”
“So far as I can tell, all forests are subjugated under one two-legs or another,” Blacktail said.
“That’s true enough, but not like this. No one hunts here. Not anymore.”
“How can that be? The beasts I saw were all fat as…as berries.” When he spoke the last two words, his tone grew soft and confused.
“Are you all right?” Slighen asked. “You sounded strange for a moment.”
“Something…I can’t quite remember. For a moment I—” Blacktail cut himself off and shook his head. “It is of no consequence,” he said, his voice growing strong again. “Continue.”
The owl and the opossum exchanged a glance, but they let it go. “She leaves food, not just for Milo and his lot, but the deer and the birds and the squirrels. Some of them even feed from her hand,” said Asah. “All beasts of this land, cat and dog, hawk and sparrow, rabbit and deer and doe.”
“Everyone?”
Slighen shrugged. “Not me, not Asah, not a few others. But most. Almost all.”
Blacktail considered this for a long time. “This is another blasphemy, then.”
“Yes, lord,” said Slighen. “It is.”
“Then I shall find Mercy and eat it, and it will defile the will of the Forest God no more.”
“Lord?” asked Asah. “You seek to end the cult of Mercy?”
“Before the sun rises.”
Asah and Slighen shared a look. “Perhaps, lord, you should not take such a burden upon yourself.”
“Eh? Why not?”
“Lord, the house of Mercy is not without defenses. The ones who spoke to you were fat and weak, true enough. But not all who dwell there chose to speak.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m told there is a dog—I’ve not seen him myself, but some who I trust have—running with that pack. They call him a—what was the term?”
“A ‘hair missile.’ ”
“Right. That was it. He is their champion. This one is not fat and weak, but still remembers the old ways. Though he is enslaved to the two-legs, they cultivated him for the great hunts raised among the packs of men. He served in a great desert war with what he calls ‘the pack of green.’ ”
“Do dogs come in green?”
“Not that I know of. Not around here, at any rate. I think it’s just a saying. Either way, this one has tasted the flesh of men and liked it. They call him Sarge.”
“Perhaps he can be reasoned with,” Blacktail said.
“No, lord, with respect—he cannot. Mercy is his sun and his moon. He will die for her. Any of them will. But unlike most, this one will not die easily.”
“I fear no dog,” Blacktail said.
“He would be no match for you,” Slighen agreed. “Not alone. But he will not be alone. The cult of Mercy is a many-of-manys, and this dog will lead the hunt against you. He will lead it well.”
Blacktail said nothing to this.
“Sarge, yes,” said Asah. “He has fury and teeth, perhaps to match your own. But fury and teeth are not the real danger.”
“What, then?”
“One of the cats,” said Slighen. “The one called Larkspur. She is a witch.”
“Is she of the coven of the Old Kitty Mother?” Blacktail asked. “She and I get on well enough.”
“Larkspur? She was once, yes,” said Slighen. “But the Old Kitty Mother banished her when she fell in with Mercy.”
“Banished…but did not kill?” asked Blacktail. “That doesn’t sound like the Old Kitty Mother I know. She’s got a short temper, that one.”
“No,” said Slighen. He gazed levelly at Blacktail. “It’s very unusual, to defy the Old Kitty Mother and live to tell of it. Everyone knows that.”
“Mm-hmm.” Blacktail swished his tail meditatively. “Tell me, Slighen, why do you think that is?”
“We do not know, lord,” said Slighen, “Perhaps the Old Kitty Mother was otherwise occupied. Perhaps she is biding her time. Or perhaps…”—Slighen glanced at the sky fearfully, then the water, and finally the earth—“perhaps she feared that she could not.”
“Is this witch—What did you say her name was?”
“She is called Larkspur, lord.”
“Yes, Larkspur. Is she so strong, then?”
“Terribly strong, lord.”
“How do you know this? I am not doubting you, you understand. I am only curious.”
This time Asah answered him. “You have tasted the inner flesh that is diseased, yes? When the liver is spotted with white and gray? When the brain inside is warted and foul? When each mouthful tastes of madness and rot?”
“Ah,” Blacktail said. “Yes, I know this thing. Where the waters are fouled, you see it often.” He paused for a moment, considering. “The witch did this to someone?”
“No, no. Quite the opposite,” said Slighen.
“But that, I think, is even worse. At least from our point of view. It is easier to sicken than to heal. Before Larkspur came to this place, Mercy stank of sickness. Her insides had begun to rot. All who smelled her knew that she would die soon. We who are still of the hunt rejoiced, knowing that her blasphemy would die with her, and the order of things would be restored.”
“What happened?”
Slighen shrugged. “Larkspur happened. When she came here she was as fanatic as any of Old Kitty Mother’s coven.
I had hoped that she might be an assassin.
Perhaps she even was, at first. I don’t know what that pack of maniacs told her, what she saw, but it must have been quite convincing.
Before the first cycle of the moon had come and gone, Larkspur renounced the old ways. She threw in with Mercy.”
“Mrrr,” Blacktail said. “She will be damned for that. She must know this. But…you say she cured Mercy of her sickness?”
“Cured and more,” said Slighen. “Lady Mercy is very old, you see, and very fond of booze.”
“Eh?”