“That would be Clutch now,” Slypaws said calmly.
Meatbreath shrugged. It meant more mopping up than he’d anticipated. It might take until the moon passed overhead to subdue this lot. Then he’d eat some ribs. He’d eat them in front of these would-be leaders tied to trees, the juicy fat running down his muzzle.
But then there came the strange cry of some distant people. An alien, foreign cry. The long, brilliant keening of women in battle. He’d heard that cry before: it was the war cry of the Migrant warriors on the Southern Frontier, the cry they make when they are sure of victory.
Meatbreath, still clutching his ear, his tail dragging, lurched to the riverbank to gather his High Guard. He had a second option. He always had a second option. Proceed north to the traffic bridge beside the factory.
53
“Would you allow me, please, to make a humble suggestion, Brother Commander?”
“Certainly,” Clutch said. But humble wasn’t a word he could associate with the Princess commanding the Southerners. Her tall composure and casual competence suggested an immense inner pride. Lacking even a flicker of irony or sentiment, she was also, somehow, without the attitude one would expect to occupy the places of these vain emotions in her personality, namely sincerity. Hala was neither sincere nor insincere. She was critical, she was romantic, but she was not in the least sincere, at least not as far as he could discern. Perhaps the word courteous applied to her.
“Thank you, Brother. I am thinking – my fighters are fleet-footed and quick to pursue the racists. Perhaps they should run ahead and bring to quarter the hate-filled Oppressor.”
“That is an excellent suggestion.”
“Thank you, Brother. In this circumstance, it may not be clumsy of me to observe that your soldiery might enjoy what they are most suited to do – that is, re-possess the riverbank.”
“Yes. Let’s do that. But I think I should guard the railway bridge so that we have a means of escape, if needed.” He felt a warmth rise up from his toes each time she spoke. He really was beginning to feel like her kin. “Tell me, Sister. What does the name Hala mean?”
“Ah! It is an ancient name among my people. It means moonglow.”
“How beautiful. To think that you move like a moonbeam over dark ground.”
“No, I beg to correct you. Not beam like the Sun has a ray. Rather, the light that the Moon makes just for herself. Her … radiance.”
“Her halo,” Clutch said.
“Yes, that is it. Her halo.”
“So … when our people say hallelujah! when they are glad, they are actually praising the moon.”
Two raccoons from different parts of the Earth looked up at the same Moon.
“Yes, Brother. Peoples have more semblances than differences between them. But since we enjoy a further semblance ourselves in being commanders, may I ask, in return, what your name is?”
“It’s Clutch.”
“Clutch? Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Clutch means to grasp something solid and hang on.”
54
“The thing about Clutch is he’s cautious,” Touchwit explained. “I don’t know about the Migrant commander.”
Mindwalker shook the water out of his coat. He had been hauling defeated raccoons one by one out of the river. “She’s said to think like a guerilla leader. She’ll exploit weakness but not hold a position. And I think we’d better stop calling them migrants. They’re here to stay.”
Soon, sleek sable bodies could be seen dodging between trees and across parking lots towards the park.
“Where should we position them?” Touchwit asked.
“Wave them through to harass the enemy. They’re good at that – they’ve been doing it all summer. They cover ground quite fast. Pray that they bring the High Guard to battle before it reaches the bridge at the factory. Then we can move the Brigades north to support her. If Meatbreath escapes across to the East Bank, he can re-take Creek Town. It’s unguarded. Once he digs in there, he’ll be an eternal nuisance.”
55
Bandit remained on the stage with his mother and her companion, watching the Southerners stream through the picnic tables towards the Heights. The sight was ludicrous. There was a battle going on for the soul of the City, and here were the city folk still roistering as if nothing eventful was happening.
“Not enough,” he said professionally. He was a field commander now, having been promoted by Mindwalker, and was practicing the clipped, understated style that conveys clarity and control. His mission was to hold the eating area and keep his ears to the north.
“You’re right. Not enough at all.” Slypaws wondered at how her second son had risen in the world. He used to state the obvious. He still stated the obvious, but now that what he stated acquired a context he had suddenly become meaningful. If Meatbreath was able to keep the Migrant army in check on the Southern Frontier with part of his High Guard, think how easily he could ambush them here with all his warriors united.
“I must say the foreigners are impressive,” Twitchwhisker said. “They don’t talk; they don’t even give orders. Do they read each other’s minds?”
“They’ve been fighting together all their lives,” Slypaws said.
Time to assert his new authority. The north end of the park didn’t feel right: there should be sounds of contact with the High Guard; they couldn’t have slipped away this quickly. If they had outpaced the Southern army, they’d be on their way across the river to the East Bank. “Runner!” he called.
A Brigade partisan hopped up on the stage to his right. “Citizen Field Commander.”
“I want you to run north and obtain a report from Princess Hala.”
A quick bow of the head. Command noted. The runner leaped off the stage. But he hadn’t even crossed the eating area before he met one of Hala’s runners coming south. They touched noses briefly, then came across the lawn together and looked up at the stage. “Field Commander. Esteemed Sir, I am sent to convey the report of Hala the Glorious. We have met with an ambush beneath the traffic bridge. Most regrettable.”
