#pinetail

“He’s in there.” The big red tom flicked his tail lazily at a pile of rocks neatly leaning together to form a den.

“Thank you,” said Mistpaw, and trotted on past him, ignoring the sneer of the calico. Not many folks around here liked him. That was fine. He didn’t like them either.

Mistpaw made sure he didn’t pause before he poked his head into the shadows of the den. “Pinetail? You wanted to see me, sir?”

The senior’s dull tabby head lifted up out of the grass nest the local apprentices had built for his visit. He blinked slowly, twice, and his eyes focused, then brightened.

“Mistpaw!” he said with a voice like the groan of a dying tree. He slowly got to his feet, his front legs wobbling just a little. “Yes, I did. How’re you today, son?”

“Fine, sir,” Mistpaw said automatically, carefully noting the deputy’s tone on that last word. He was just visiting the river with his family for a few days, but he’d caught on fast. Everyone around here called everyone “son” or “darling” or “little lady”, and they could mean a thousand things. “Boy” or “girl” were almost always trouble. If you were really unlucky they’d say “blessed little thing” or “bless your heart”, and that meant you were about to get the walloping of a lifetime.

Today, however, “son” seemed to be affectionate. Mistpaw didn’t know why. The two of them had barely talked more than three times. Still, he knew his way around the script. He raised his head with the proper amount of amiable assertiveness and added, “How are you?”

“Fine, fine.” Pinetail shook out his fur, grass drifting to the ground. “Do you know why I called you today?”

“No, sir,” Mistpaw said (of course he did).

“Well, in about a week, you’ll be having your warrior’s ceremony,” Pinetail said. “Your mother was in here yesterday to remind me. She’s been walking on air since your brother was called in to the north.”

“He’s a mighty fine healer,” Mistpaw said, and the pride in his voice was genuine. “Might be gettin’ his name early, so we hear.”

“Then you’ll get to show off to Nettlecloud together.” Pinetail had a forced lilt to his voice; he was trying to sound impressed without actually being impressed. No one thought much of healers wherever you went, even the prodigious ones. “Now, my business with you is this: you’re eligible for multiple suffixes.”

Mistpaw blinked. “That so?”

“That is so,” Pinetail replied, tail waving. “I’ve only had to observe you for a short while, and get some word in from a few others that know you. You’ve got some good nameable traits, son. I’d like to confer with you and see what you’d like to be called.”

Mistpaw was smart. He knew that. There was no denying it, and no shame in taking pride in it. He’d never had to learn a lesson the hard way – just watch fellow apprentices get punished in some manner, and he had that knowledge tucked away deep in his mind for later. He’d barely needed to study the different suffixes to know which ones he could be given. And he already knew which one he wanted.

Still. The script.

“What would those be, sir?” he asked innocently.

“Well, the first would be a skill,” said Pinetail. “You’ve got quite a way with words, so you could be a –throat. Or one of the variances, if you’d like. –song, or –call.”

Mistsong, the apprentice thought. Does have a good ring to it.

“The others fall under –cloud,” Pinetail went on. “You could go with –dawn or –feather. Personally, I think –cloud would sound best, but that’s up to you.”

Mistpaw nodded, and hinted just a bit. “Any others, sir?”

Pinetail tilted his head, thinking. “Well, yes, but they’re just the appearance ones. –face, -fur, -pelt. Those are options, I suppose, but the two others are the ones I wanted to ask about.”

Mistpaw didn’t bother pretending to give his options any thought. “If I may, I’d like to be called –face.”

Pinetail blinked this time. “Really?”

“Yes.” Mistpaw took a second to run through his speech in his head, and then went forward with it. “Being named for a skill is just fine, or for my attitude, but I feel –face would be most fitting for me.”

Pinetail stared at him, then bowed his head to snort out a laugh. “You’re mighty aware of yourself, ain’t you, son?”

“I’ve been told so,” Mistpaw said.

Pinetail lifted his head and half-closed his eyes, scrutinizing gaze on the youngster. “And why would you not want to be called –throat or –cloud? Those are fine bragging points, I’d say.”

Did he dare tell the truth?

Mistpaw thought about it. Then he took in a breath. “Truthfully, sir, I’m not all that ambitious. I don’t need folks expectin’ anything out of me. I’m not an orator – that ain’t my goal – and I don’t intend to lay my shells out on the floor for all to see. Ain’t wise to do that.”

Pinetail’s amusement gradually fell from his face. He sat down where he was, eyes now narrowing. “You want to be named so you don’t have to do anything?”

“If you care to say it that way,” Mistpaw said, and quickly added, “sir.”

Pinetail didn’t say anything. Mistpaw took the opportunity to continue.

“Everyone’s got their opinion of me already,” he said. “I’m just a lazy little smooth-talker that can’t do nothin’ right. Long as I’ve lived, that’s worked just fine for me. I don’t need to impress anyone, ‘cept maybe my mother and brother.”

Pinetail blinked, slowly, and inhaled, then leaned a little forward.

“Let me ask you something, boy,” he said, and his voice was not loud, but it was leaned into – the very quiet inflection meant business. “The day’s going to come when you’re old and grey – really grey – and your heart fails you. And on that day, are you going to reflect on your life? Will you think about how little you’ve done, just to make things easier on yourself? No family? No friends? No accolades? No way for folks to remember you?”

Mistpaw shifted his expression into one of neutrality before it could become anything else.

“Well, sir,” he said politely, slowly, “I do believe that among the dozens of heroes and legends we have, thousands of other cats died anonymous. Does that make their lives any less valuable?”

That was the right thing to say. Pinetail was visibly impacted by his response. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling, where a crack let in a little light, and he shut his eyes in thought. Mistpaw waited silently, his own excessively fluffy tail gently tilting back and forth as if marking the heartbeats that ticked by.

Finally, Pinetail huffed out a “huh” and looked back down.

“Alright, then, Mistpaw,” he said. “If you so care to live that way, we’ll call you –face. But it won’t be me who changes your name when you get tired of it.”