#murhel

The river was the center of it all, they said. But who ‘they’ were, no-one knew. – The Storyteller

          No living creature stirred. A light breeze blew through the thick copse of oak, maple, birch, hickory, and willow trees that bordered the west side of the river.  The east bank lay equally quiet, though it lacked dense tree cover. Instead, a short stretch of overgrown field bordered it. An old metal-beetle trail broke it in half, and ran parallel beside the river for as far as could be seen, both north and south.

          On the west bank, the gnarled roots of a fallen oak thrust up from a patch of wild azaleas; the rest stretched three-fourths of the way across the river before submerging. Both sloping banks burst with resplendent spring growth: yellow trout lilies, redbuds, serviceberries, coreopsis, and trilliums. The bright flowers nodded lazily among the thick vegetation, like sleepy heads.

          For a moment, all lay silent. Then the still air rippled with the cheerful chirps of a warbler, perched among the tree branches, eagerly piping to the sky its joy of being alive.

          Nestled among the azaleas, the shadow raised its sleek head. Ears twitched, and yellow eyes gleamed. The bird was too far to be seen, but its voice carried clearly.

          Enticing as it was, the shadow wasn’t hungry. And hunting for sport was a wasteful endeavor; burning energy best conserved for whatever unknown situation that might crop up unexpectedly. Life tended to flow that way, and she always wanted to be prepared for it.

          Still, on that note, wouldn’t it be better to try hunting now? There might not be another chance, later, especially considering the destination. But, no, even as the thought crossed her mind, she dismissed it, in a slow, disdainfully regretful manner.

          The black cat peered out from the bushes, and then slowly slunk free of them. The movement set the pale pink blossoms quivering.

          For a long moment, she regarded the fallen log. Then, with great care, the black cat stretched a paw out, considering. Cats never like to be hurried when making decisions; she was no exception. She waited, and waited, and then finally slid fully from hiding and up onto the log, like a wary snake.

          There she paused, again, perched with all four paws resting tight together. Her long tail flicked behind her in a way that both kept her balance and indicated her alert interest towards her surroundings. Her ears rotated slowly, and she eyed the other bank.

          The question of lifetimes: how to cross without getting a paw wet?

          Meticulous in her movements, she crept down the length of the log. With each step, her tail swung gently, and her ears flicked. She blinked, startling as a dragonfly whizzed past her face. Her ears snapped back in annoyance, and her claws dug into the log to prevent her slipping.

          Crisis averted, she gave a disdainful sniff, caught the dragonfly’s erratic movement out of the corner of her eye, and then moved on.

          Near the end of the dry part of the log, she stared at the other bank in earnest. It wasn’t far, and she was a magnificent leaper if she did claim so herself. It would only be one long bound, and then she’d be safely on dry ground.

          She just needed to be careful of snakes. The last mistake she wanted to make was to land on an angry cottonmouth, or a rattlesnake.

          Besides, she had a very important meeting to be getting to. She couldn’t afford to miss it for something as irritating as dying of a snakebite.

          After carefully judging the distance, and repeatedly gathering her haunches, she sprang forward, pushing off with tremendous power and propelling herself forcefully towards the bank. She landed safely, just a half a tail-length away from the muddy water-edge. She froze, scenting the air carefully, but didn’t catch any dry, meaty odor of danger that would indicate a snake.

          Picking her way meticulously through the thick vegetation, slinking low, she slipped up the bank and into the field.

          The tall grass swayed around her, brushing against her pelt like a giant pelt itself. She swished her way through it, keeping her movements fluid and light. Bit by bit she crept near the metal-beetle trail. Once she was five tail-lengths from the edge, she halted, sat down, and began to wash herself.

          As she ran her tongue over her forepaws, and then wiped her paws over her face and ears, she kept vigilant for any of the threatening growls or roars that would indicate a metal-beetle was hurtling down the trail.

          Everything remained silent, save for the now near-constant chirping in the trees behind her. She flicked an ear, and then washed her chest and shoulders. When no hint of danger pricked her, she rose, stretched, and then padded onward more boldly.

          The moment her paws touched the rough gray path and its acrid stink stung her nose, she took off, loping across like a startled rabbit. She shot into the thick grass on the other side. Crouching, she collected herself, breathing deeply and losing herself in the scents of earth and grass. Then she rose, brushed past a patch of dandelions, and meandered her way with languidly purposeful intent across the rest of the field, towards the upward slope of light forest that would give way to her destination: the very fringes of human territory, the ‘farmlands’.

          Cats lack many facial expressions. Instead, their entire body becomes their expression; their ears, tail, and posture all mold to convey their thoughts—if they so choose.

          But the black cat’s yellow eyes gleamed with amusement as she spied the galumphing, yellow tabby ball-of-fluff racing through the dandelions in the fenced-off field.

           The bulky cat scampered about, swatting at the dandelions and springing around like a maddened rabbit, completely caught up in a fit of energetic youth. The coolness of the early day, with the sun just barely kissing the treetops, set energy burning through his paws, begging to be used.

           And what better purpose than playing a game of imagined adventure? Play-acting grand scenarios, with himself as the chief hero in his fantasies, was quite captivating.

           “Not this time, my fine, feathered friend!” he yowled, springing full-into a tall clump of rosebushes. With his thick, fluffy pelt, the thorns proved little deterrent. “You may prey on my kindred, but now I shall prey on you!”

           “And thus the mighty warrior brings low the great eagle.”

           The yellow tabby sprang back from the bush and whipped around, ears flattening and pelt bristling at the drawling voice.

           The shadow dropped from the fence, landing lightly on the ground. She stretched with sinuous languor, and then stood there, tail hooked with uncertainty, poised to dash off if her reception was hostile.

           She’d always been able to outrun her heftier brother.

           The yellow tabby stared, in a half-challenging manner. His twitched and his body stiffened. “How long were you spying on me, Shadow-Stalker?”

           “Long enough, kindel.”

           The bigger cat huffed, fur flattening. It ducked its head momentarily to lick its ruff. “What brings /you/ sniffing back this way, Lumca? I thought the deep forests had called you.”

           “The call of duty proved stronger,” replied the black cat, settling back on her haunches in the manner of a very patient cat who has already planned out a long stay. Even if they aren’t particularly enjoying it.

           The yellow tabby settled back as well, flicking his bushy tail with slight interest, even as his ears flattened a tad.

           “Duty? Don’t tell me you’re trying to recruit me back into the Wanderers? I’ve told you, I’m done with that.”

           “Oh really? Well, if you’re sure you’re made to be a mob-cat, I suppose I shouldn’t try to dissuade you,” snorted Lumca. “But I’d have thought you’d have moved on to better pursuits than battling invisible enemies. Chase something real for once. Like a mouse. Or do you fear its bite?”

           The yellow tabby huffed, tail swishing. “Keep talking that way and I’ll chase you.”

           “I’d like to see you try to catch me, Murhel,” sniffed the black cat. “The world knows you run like a turtle. In fact, I might have seen faster turtles.”

           “You never did know when to shut your jaws, kindel.”

           “And you never did know when to get your head out from under your tail and start walking forwards instead of backwards.”

           The two littermates stared at each other, half-tensed, ears turned back, tails twitching, pelts bristling. Lumca hissed, and Murhel swatted, but the black cat scampered back.

           Several minutes passed, during which both cats turned away from one another, and instead fixed their attention on grooming their pelts. It was a way of cooling off one’s temper that cats often employed when they truly wanted to work things out with words, even if the other filled their pelt with ants.

           Finally, Lumca flicked her gaze back towards Merhel who looked up in response. Neither met the other’s eyes, for to do so would invite another near-clash.

           “So what in the name of Selir has kept you out here? Surely you must have killed all the imaginary eagles living here by now. Why not seek out some elsewhere?”

           The yellow tabby swatted at a dandelion. “Maybe you’re tied to the river and the forest, Lumca, but I’m here.”

           The black cat eyed the open fields, and the barn in the distance.

           “I can imagine you catch much out here, heavy pawed and lumbering as you are.”

           Murhel hissed slightly, but then said, “I have a deal with the clowders—“

           “You father kits, they feed you? How original.”

           “I defend them too.” The yellow tabby’s tail lashed.

           “How charitable.”

           “Did you come here just to provoke me?”

           “Were you born just to stick your head under your tail?”

           “We all came from under a tail.”

           “Clearly you never came out.”

           Both siblings glared at each other. They now stood stiff-legged, hackles raised, tails hooked, half-twitching in agitation.

           Lumca growled, Murhel hissed. They spat. But neither moved. Cats are loathe to engage in a true fight if they can avoid it. They’d much rather stick with a display.

           Still, the staring continued. The growling grew sharper. Things might have turned violent, had not both cats’ heads snapped round as one, scenting one thing much more important than their long-standing feud.

           Dog!

           The huge black-and-white beast bounded over the grass, barking and snarling. Murhel scrambled back away, shooting over to the fence, pelt bristled.

           Lumca, however, turned to glare at the dog with pure venom. She didn’t take kindly to the world interrupting her. Even if the interruption could tear her in half.