“But we can!” Touchwit said. “Excuse me for a minute.” She left the pathway with its double row of young trees. Those long-stemmed weeds by the riverbank would do. Quickly, she wove a handful of them into a wreath. Then she waded out into the river and waved until the Seagull sighted her.
37
Clutch’s ragtag militia didn’t look very formidable frolicking in the lake, laughing and splashing water on each other in the early morning light. They’d never killed anything bigger than a vole. How could they defend Creek Town from the Protector’s alpha males? Yet they possessed two advantages: numerical superiority and the power of the Clan Mothers. The second factor was not to be taken lightly. Led by the Mothers, his war bands had mastered the art of taunting during last night’s practices. They could make a pack of Droolers turn tail. Raccoons, like most mammals with the notable exception of humans, rarely fight to the death. Territorial skirmishes are won by displays of aggression: hackles raised, teeth bared, ears flat against the skull, and blood-curdling guttural growls and hissing spits. To picture them in battle is to imagine an aggression that is everything short of actual physical conflict – a display combining elements of a Chinese riot, a Climate Strike, and the Maori haka performed at the beginning of New Zealand All Blacks rugger games. Irish oral tradition remembers that prior to a battle the contesting armies sent out their satirists. On one occasion, the verses of a satirist were so virulent that the opposing king’s face broke out in blotches, causing his army to desert him. I am told that a legend in the Burmese Glass Palace Chronicles says that in early Buddhist times, when two armies met, they would build rival stupas, the shrines in the shape of domes that contain religious relics and statues of the Buddha. When the erections were complete, the armies would compare them and the army that saw the other’s was more beautiful would run away. This is what I mean by raccoon conflict. At the sound of a Clan Mother protecting her territory, an alpha male would have a bowel movement on the spot. Bandit was right: the politics of combat was decided early on by who could break the other’s spirit, who would fight and who would flee.
What was that Seagull doing? It was strutting back and forth holding a doughnut in its beak, trying to get his attention. A third guide presuming to give him advice? First, there had been a mouse, then a fox, now this gull. Curious how these councillors appeared at dawn.
The seagull dropped the object at his feet. It wasn’t a doughnut; it was a circular Making woven out of ironweed and loosestrife. The gull indicated he was supposed to sniff it. He didn’t need to.
“Is Touchwit safe?”
“Greetings, colleague. You are standing alone in thought like a Gull, so I take you to be a wise leader.”
“A wise leader follows the people.”
“A Raccoon Saying, doubtless.”
“From the lips of Procyonides the Sage.”
“Was Procyonides born in a chimney?”
“No. He was born in a distant land where Seagulls aren’t rude.”
“Perhaps it is such a wise place that the Raccoons there don’t eat the eggs of Gulls. Show me that paradise and I’ll fly there and live happily ever after. In these uncertain times, Raccoons and Seagulls should live in harmony. We both prize clams and live off the avails of Primates. Most of all, we are survivors. You are having a territorial dispute.”
“Tell me your message and begone.”
“Of course. Your sister sends her compliments. She asks: would you create a diversion to draw off Meatbreath and a portion of his forces? She wants you to pin them down for one night, tonight to be precise, so that her colleagues will have time to organize to defend the city.”
“Where? Did she say where to make a feint attack?”
“Personally, I find organized masses of bodies brawling in space rather tedious. You should try living on a sea cliff packed together with countless individualists, each caring only that they have enough space to roost.”
“I would lose my wits in an instant.”
“Your colleague sister didn’t mention it, but I can add this to her news, for you to take as you wish: some of Meatbreath’s fighters are leaving the city by stealth, as if intending to return to these hallowed shores.”
“Very interesting. A reconnaissance in force.”
“They are spending the day sleeping in trees proximate to the Sanctuary for the Dead.”
“The place where the Primates hide their bodies when they are finished living in them.”
“Precisely. But I did not say in the Sanctuary. Raccoons are afraid to go there. I said proximate to the Sanctuary. To be exact, on its city side.”
The seagull pulled up one of his legs and stood casually on the other while Clutch assessed the information.
“How many warriors?” he asked the bird.
“Ah, Raccoons can count. How interesting. I should have guessed a fellow scavenger can count. I count as many warriors as you have toes on your four feet, together with two other raccoons with all their toes.”
“Not so many as to take back the Creek. But as few as can be recalled quickly to the City in a crisis. Or reinforced to repossess their homeland, if required.”
“It is beneath my beak to speculate about matters of mechanical physics,” the seagull said.
“Would you take this message back to my sister Touchwit? Tell her that tonight I will hold Meatbreath’s forces at the Dead Zone.”
“You will hold his forces tonight at the Sanctuary. Astonishing.”
“Don’t lose touch. That’s a joke,” Clutch said.
“Raccoon humour. I understand. It’s based on a play of double senses. Cheers.”
The seagull was gone in the twinkling of an eye.
38
“You shouldn’t have come here. They do frightful things to spies.”
Sensibel had either abandoned her life of peril, or she’d promoted herself to the role of double-agent. Seeing her lounging in the slats of sunlight coming through the window of the bell tower, Bandit decided she’d somehow done both. Her methods were subtle compared to the raw equation that had taken possession of his gut. Fight or Flee. This stark choice had reached its end-point. It was now Win or Die. For Bella. He would accomplish both.
“They practically saluted Bandit,” Frisk said. “He looks just like the Protector.”
“You do,” Sensibel said to Bandit who had made a face. “It’s to your credit. Your father is treating me with courtesy.”
“Meatbreath’s a thug and a bully. If he doesn’t treat you with respect, I’m going to tear off his ruff.”
Sensibel considered her reply before answering. “Your impulse is quite noble, Bandy, but I can handle him easily. In any case, I find him generally agreeable. I prize the frank, eager character. Warmth and enthusiasm in a gentleman captivate me. And his name isn’t Meatbreath. It’s The Protector.”
