Tailchaser's Song by Tad Williams

mad?” said Alice.
    “You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”
     
—Lewis Carroll
     
     
     
    Tailchaser was doing a lot of thinking. The long days of walking had given him time to do that, and he was adding up facts in a very careful way.
    Pouncequick’s story of pursuit fit in with the other things he had heard: the disappearance of some of the Folk; the Rikchikchik’s tales of cat raids.
    Lord Snap had mentioned four cats: the number alone made Fritti believe someone other than Folk was responsible for the raids on the squirrel-nests. And Karthwine the fox had said that the beasts had smelled part badger, part cat. Perhaps the creatures just looked enough like cats to lead small animals like the Rikchikchik to a false conclusion.
    Even Stretchslow had said that something strange was in the air. A new kind of marauding beast? Pouncequick’s descriptions of eyes and claws came back to him, and he shuddered.
    With a sudden start, he thought of Hushpad—could those things have gotten her? But no, he had smelled no fear at her empty nesting place. They might have caught her in the forest, though! Poor Hushpad! Such a big world, and so full of dangers....
    His attention was diverted by Pouncequick, who was annoying a badger. The great digging beasts could be savage when they needed to be. Tailchaser threw over his pondering and hurried to extricate the youngling from a potential disaster.
    Dragging Pouncequick away by the scruff of the neck, Fritti mumbled an apology to the nettled badger. The beast grunted scornfully at him as he retreated, then waddled off, striped sides huffing.
    A lecture failed to dampen Pouncequick much. Soon they were off again, heading toward the outer edge of the Old Woods.
     
    Waking from his midday nap, Tailchaser felt eyes upon him. Across the clearing stood the strange cat they had seen at the jutting rock. Before Fritti could untangle himself from the snoring Pouncequick the cat was gone, leaving no trace. It seemed to Fritti that the odd creature had been about to speak to them—there had been a strange yearning in its eyes.
    That evening, as they were crossing a stand of aspens, the cat again appeared before them. This time it did not run away, but stood gnawing its lower lip nervously as they approached.
    Seen up close, the cat was a fantastic sight. Its original color was long since hidden under the dirt and mud that caked its fur and twined the hair into swirls and tangles. Sticks and leaves, bits of tree lichen and evergreen needles, all manner of odd clutter festooned its coat from head to tail-tip. It had bent whiskers, and its eyes looked sad and puzzled.
    “Who are you, hunt-brother?” asked Fritti cautiously. “Do you seek us?” Pouncequick hung close by Tailchaser’s side.
    “Who ... who ... who ... the Ruhu ...” the stranger intoned solemnly, then fell to chewing his lip again. His voice was deep and male.
    “What is your name?” Fritti tried again.
    “Ixum squixum ... hollow and hellioned ... how so?” The strange cat looked vaguely into Fritti’s eyes. “Eatbugs is me, I am ... I ran, so I am ... so you see ...”
    “He’s mad, Tailchaser!” squeaked Pouncequick nervously. “He has the dripping-mouth sickness, I’m sure of it!”
    Fritti signaled him to hush. “You are called Eatbugs? That is your name?”
    “The same, the same. Grass-gobbler and stone-chewer ... isky pisky squiddlum squee ... oh! No!” Eatbugs whirled around, as if something were creeping up behind him. “Aroint thee!” he cried at the empty air. “No more of your dandly dancing out of earshot, you hugger-mugger hiss-mouse!” He turned back toward the cats with a wild look in his eyes, but as they stared, a change seemed to come over him. The crazed look was replaced by one of embarrassment.
    “Ah, old Eatbugs gets confused sometimes, he does,” he said, arid scuffed the ground with his grimy paw. “He don’t mean no harm, though—never would, you