see....”
Pouncequick hissed with alarm. “He is mad—did you see him? We must go!”
Tailchaser was also a little nervous, but something about the old cat touched him. “What can we do for you, Eatbugs?” he asked. Pouncequick stared at him as though he, too, had gone quite mad.
“There you are,” the stranger said. “There you be.
Old Eatbugs were just lonesome for some talk. It’s a
big world—but precious few there are to speak with.”
The old cat scratched distractedly at his ear and
dislodged a small seed pod, which fell to the ground.
Eatbugs bent and sniffed it eagerly, then a moment
later swiped at it angrily with his paw and sent it
rolling away.
“That’s your world, now isn’t it? That’s your world,” he mumbled, then seemed to remember the others. “Your pardon, young masters,” he said. “I do wander a bit, betimes. Might I walk with you a ways? I do know some stories, and a game or two. I was a hunter when the world was a pup, and I catch a fair bit of game still!” He looked hopefully at Fritti.
Tailchaser did not really want another companion, but he felt sorry for this scruffy old tom.
Ignoring Pouncequick’s frantic “no” signals, he said: “Certainly. We would be honored to have you accompany us for a while, Eatbugs.”
The mud-splattered old cat leaped up and cut a caper in the air so ridiculous that even Pouncequick had to laugh.
“Piglets and pawprints!” cried Eatbugs, then paused and looked quickly around. He leaned toward his companions. “Let’s be off!” he added, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.
Eatbugs was not a bad traveling companion. His occasional fits did not prove dangerous in any way, and after a while even Pouncequick accepted him without too much trepidation. He kept up a constant stream of songs and strange poetry all through the evening. When Fritti—wanting a little peace—finally asked him to quiet down a bit, he became silent as mud.
When they stopped to rest at Final Dancing, Eatbugs was still not speaking.
Fritti felt badly about how the old cat had taken his admonishment—he had not wanted to silence him completely. He walked over to the stranger, who was lying on the ground with his eyes in that odd, unfixed gaze.
“You told us that you knew some stories, Eatbugs. Why don’t you give us one? We’d enjoy it.”
Eatbugs did not immediately respond. When he raised his head to look at Tailchaser, his eyes were filled with a great and terrible sadness. At first Fritti thought that he had been the cause, but a moment’s observation showed that the old cat wasn’t seeing him at all.
The look suddenly passed from Eatbugs’ begrimed mask, and his eyes focused on Tailchaser. A weak smile came to his mouth.
“Ah, what, lad, what?”
“A story. You said that you would tell us a story, Eatbugs.”
“Yes, I did. And I know plenty—ramblers and tumblers and bottom-droppers. What do you want to hear about?”
“One about Firefoot. His adventures!” said Pouncequick eagerly.
“Oh ...” said Eatbugs, shaking his muddy head. “I’m afraid I don’t know any good ones, kitling ... not about Firefoot. What else?”
“Wellll ...” Pouncequick pondered, disappointed. “What about Growlers? Big, mean Growlers—and brave cats! How about that?”
“By the Sniffling Snail, I do happen to know a good one about the Growlers! Shall I sing it for you?”
“Oh, please do!” said Pouncequick, wiggling in his fur. He had missed stories.
“All right,” said Eatbugs. And he did.
“Long ago, when cats were cats, and rats and mice sang ‘mumbledy-peg, mumbledy-peg’ in the brush at night, the Growlers and the Folk lived in peace. The last of the devil-hounds had died out, and their more peaceable descendants hunted alongside our ancestorous ancestors.
“There was a prince—O, such a prince—named Redlegs, who had suffered great unhappiness in the Court where his mother, Queen Cloudleaper, ruled. He went whispering and
Pouncequick hissed with alarm. “He is mad—did you see him? We must go!”
Tailchaser was also a little nervous, but something about the old cat touched him. “What can we do for you, Eatbugs?” he asked. Pouncequick stared at him as though he, too, had gone quite mad.
“There you are,” the stranger said. “There you be.
Old Eatbugs were just lonesome for some talk. It’s a
big world—but precious few there are to speak with.”
The old cat scratched distractedly at his ear and
dislodged a small seed pod, which fell to the ground.
Eatbugs bent and sniffed it eagerly, then a moment
later swiped at it angrily with his paw and sent it
rolling away.
“That’s your world, now isn’t it? That’s your world,” he mumbled, then seemed to remember the others. “Your pardon, young masters,” he said. “I do wander a bit, betimes. Might I walk with you a ways? I do know some stories, and a game or two. I was a hunter when the world was a pup, and I catch a fair bit of game still!” He looked hopefully at Fritti.
Tailchaser did not really want another companion, but he felt sorry for this scruffy old tom.
Ignoring Pouncequick’s frantic “no” signals, he said: “Certainly. We would be honored to have you accompany us for a while, Eatbugs.”
The mud-splattered old cat leaped up and cut a caper in the air so ridiculous that even Pouncequick had to laugh.
“Piglets and pawprints!” cried Eatbugs, then paused and looked quickly around. He leaned toward his companions. “Let’s be off!” he added, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.
Eatbugs was not a bad traveling companion. His occasional fits did not prove dangerous in any way, and after a while even Pouncequick accepted him without too much trepidation. He kept up a constant stream of songs and strange poetry all through the evening. When Fritti—wanting a little peace—finally asked him to quiet down a bit, he became silent as mud.
When they stopped to rest at Final Dancing, Eatbugs was still not speaking.
Fritti felt badly about how the old cat had taken his admonishment—he had not wanted to silence him completely. He walked over to the stranger, who was lying on the ground with his eyes in that odd, unfixed gaze.
“You told us that you knew some stories, Eatbugs. Why don’t you give us one? We’d enjoy it.”
Eatbugs did not immediately respond. When he raised his head to look at Tailchaser, his eyes were filled with a great and terrible sadness. At first Fritti thought that he had been the cause, but a moment’s observation showed that the old cat wasn’t seeing him at all.
The look suddenly passed from Eatbugs’ begrimed mask, and his eyes focused on Tailchaser. A weak smile came to his mouth.
“Ah, what, lad, what?”
“A story. You said that you would tell us a story, Eatbugs.”
“Yes, I did. And I know plenty—ramblers and tumblers and bottom-droppers. What do you want to hear about?”
“One about Firefoot. His adventures!” said Pouncequick eagerly.
“Oh ...” said Eatbugs, shaking his muddy head. “I’m afraid I don’t know any good ones, kitling ... not about Firefoot. What else?”
“Wellll ...” Pouncequick pondered, disappointed. “What about Growlers? Big, mean Growlers—and brave cats! How about that?”
“By the Sniffling Snail, I do happen to know a good one about the Growlers! Shall I sing it for you?”
“Oh, please do!” said Pouncequick, wiggling in his fur. He had missed stories.
“All right,” said Eatbugs. And he did.
“Long ago, when cats were cats, and rats and mice sang ‘mumbledy-peg, mumbledy-peg’ in the brush at night, the Growlers and the Folk lived in peace. The last of the devil-hounds had died out, and their more peaceable descendants hunted alongside our ancestorous ancestors.
“There was a prince—O, such a prince—named Redlegs, who had suffered great unhappiness in the Court where his mother, Queen Cloudleaper, ruled. He went whispering and
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