“Yearling boys and girls roving around in bands. All-night cooing and hissing spats. I’m too old for roistering.” Slypaws resumed her front paddle. It was like walking, except that she was underwater but for her muzzle.
“Look at you! You’re an alpha female in your prime. Just because you’ve had cubs doesn’t mean your life has to go saggy.”
“No, I suppose not,” Slypaws said hesitantly.
“We’re two ex-moms out on a spree. Sly and Twitch. They have a name for Coonettes like us.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“The unmated bucks are a nuisance. One simply swats them away.”
Slypaws was afraid she was going to share with her new friend what she might do with a young alpha male out for a roll. Regrettably, because of the adventure of being in the world her hormone levels were rising. She changed the topic. “I’m glad the rhythmic pounding has stopped.”
“In fact, the pounding hasn’t really begun yet,” Twitchwhisker replied. “What you were hearing was just the Primates practicing for tomorrow night’s feast.”
“Merciful Hapticia, Healer of the Hundred Sorrows of Womanhood, preserve us!” Slypaws looked up to see if she could find Hapticia among the stars. The goddess had taken her clamshell and gone.
“The noise persists for two more days and nights,” Twitchwhisker said.
“You know, I’m prepared to live with most everything that Primates do, but I can’t for the life of me appreciate the pleasure they obtain from deafening themselves with rhythmic pulsations. It provides no survival advantage whatsoever, except the elimination of noisemakers from the species.”
“Most true. If a group of Raccoons banged garbage can lids in unison against the pavement, the act would have the same deleterious effect. I refer to those old shiny lids that were made of a light metal. Do you remember them?”
“I do. The ones that were always bent. They popped off at a touch.”
“Ah, those were the days!”
At this sentiment, the two women paddled together in silence. They skirted the dark shape of Halfway Island at its northern end so they could let the strong current along the west bank of the river carry them to the boat dock.
“Bless you for coming back across the river and getting me,” Slypaws said. “You know how moms worry about their cubs.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, I still do. It’s quite irrational. You feel something’s building up, and you’re sure your children are going to end up in the middle of it.”
“You’re worried about the one who went west. Touchwit, wasn’t it?”
“No, I’m not worried about her at all. She’d rewrite reality in order to survive. And I’m not concerned about Bandit. He survives by being normal.”
Slypaws recited a saying:
The one who keeps a nose to the ground
Follows another’s scent around.
The one who lifts a nose to the wind
Ventures far, but travels blind.
“It’s Clutch I worry about.”
34
All night long, raccoons arrived under the stars. First to come were the scattered families nesting nearby along the South Creek system all the way to the Southern Frontier. Once proud families of the River Clan, they recovered their tribal organization as soon as they reunited on the land they’d fled. Around midnight, the isolated Creekers living along the North Creek tributary came, bringing with them some of their new friends from an undiscovered clan living on Primate farms in the countryside. Then came separate families no one had ever heard of. They too had suffered at the hands of No Name’s marauders and were keen to ensure his reign of terror ended. Finally, towards dawn, disparate raccoons trickled in from far-off places, including a group of dark-furred Southern people who had slipped past the High Guard units holding the frontier. All had heard that a mighty hero had assumed the leadership at Creek Town. Some said he was the favourite son of the One Who Cannot be Named. Others told that he was the terrestrial son of the Great Raccoon Ancestor himself. Still others couldn’t be sure which, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that No Name had created a vacuum by going to the city, and another protector had filled it. The upstart was worth coming to have a look at. Raccoons could tell their descendants that they had witnessed a moment in Clan history.
Clutch, watching this historical moment take form, was beginning to think it would lead to a short-lived, sputtering glory. Even with the Clan families conjoining through the magical sap of Custom, he didn’t have time to organize a defense of the Town against Meatbreath’s veteran warriors. At best he had the remaining part of the day to prepare the defenses. But at dawn, Sleekfoot returned with a captured spy, a second one sent by No Name to find out what had happened to the first. The second spy, after a little reasoning, saw where the future lay, and told Clutch that Nameless intended to declare himself Protector of the City, then send part of his High Guard back to the Creek.
“High Guard? What High Guard?” Clutch asked the spy. “They’re defending the Southern Approaches against migrants.”
“True,” the spy said. He was a tough but honest veteran, once a territorial family head but not one of the Clan Fathers. It was significant that Meatbreath couldn’t trust his privileged families to undertake independent missions, but instead chose soldiers whom he could count on to be trustworthy. This one was rubbing his jaw where Sleekfoot had bit him, helping him become even more trustworthy. “But the Nameless One has some of the High Guard with him. They infiltrated into the City in ones and twos over the last several nights.”
Clutch turned to Sleekfoot: “How large is this High Guard?”
“Nobody knows for sure,” Sleek said. “They are a specially trained unit of alpha males sworn to fight to the death to protect No Name.”
“They are comprised mostly of his sons.” The spy added. He stopped and waited for Sleekfoot to elaborate. It was a touchy subject. Seeing Sleekfoot look away, he explained the formation himself. “They are sons that No Name has sired in this last season. Separated from their various mothers, they are given special privileges in return for swearing to defend their All-Father.”
I am one of his sons, Clutch thought. But he kept the thought to himself. “Nameless has gathered a rather large force just to protect a city. What’s he protecting it from?”
“From itself,” the spy replied. “The City is harbouring Migrants who elude the police because they are cared for by packs calling themselves Citizens Brigades. These Brigades have sprung up everywhere like fleas and talk of Revolution.” At the word revolution, the grizzled veteran turned pale as a true soldier does when military affairs are confused with politics. He had no more to say.
***
“Well, what do you think?” he asked Sleekfoot after the spy had been led away and fed.
“I think you need to give direction to all these volunteers.” Sleekfoot gestured towards the camps stretched along the beach in front of Creek Town. “Also, you should send a spy to the City to keep an eye on things over there. Maybe the spy could spread the rumour that there’s nothing stirring at the Creek. That our forces are negligible. That this hero is just a figment of idle gossip that fills the air when a leader is away. That will buy you time.”
“To do what? Prepare our defenses? Meatbreath can crush us with one paw tied to his tail.” Clutch gestured at the reunited families stretched along the beach. They were singing camp songs.
