There is little good in pleasing two-legs, as my kindred, trapped in small cages and waiting for the two-legs healers to hurt them, could tell you.
The two-legs who come here call me Puff. A foolish name, but I have learned that the words "Puff doesn't warm up to people" do keep the other two-legs away. I do not know my own true name. Two-legs took me away too early from my mother and dumped me in this place, where the air reeks of fear and pain and the bitter waters that the two-legs bathe us in or make us drink.
Any Soulhealer of the Free Folk knows better, not that I know so much about them. Lick the hurt. Keep the injured creature warm. But let the willing spirit go. Two-legs, I suspect, do not have Soulhealers. Instead, they have two-legs wrapped in loose white pelts, who rush from room to room to run clever hands over the Free Folk or prick them with thorns. Because they do not have quiet, hidden lairs, they make places like this one where two-legs come in with water pouring from their eyes as they bring in the Free Folk they have captured. Some of these Folk are simply scared or spoiled-idle beasts who have forgotten their pride because life is easy and food is free.
Night, though, is the bad time. At night, the two-legs lug in what they call the "critical cats."
Truly, these kindred of mine are not "critical." They are simply ready to start on their Hunt, abandoning the bodies they have outlived like a gnawed bone. But foolish two-legs pull them back.
I said that I, Puff, do not go to the two-legs and let them stroke me. Nor do I watch them. Not where they can see me do it. Still, I learn much. They are a troubled lot, but they make their trouble for themselves.
This past night, they have come in again with the trapped Free Folk they claim to "own." Too many have brought with them kittens of their own breed. They watch with even more fear than they study what they call "their cats." What a breed they are, these two-legs. Outcasts of their kind turn on their kittens and they fear to fight back!
"Puff isn't comfortable with children," says the two-legs who sits behind a low wall and stops a bell from ringing by talking to it. Usually, then, a two-legs bats away its youngling, which saves me from a pounce by a staggering two-legs kit. It is dangerous to approach such kittens. Two-legs will let others of their kind hurt their young; but the bad manners that would earn our kittens a swift cuff must go uncorrected, lest I start to hunt the Dreamtrails before my body is outworn.
I run from where the two-legs and the sick Folk wait into the inmost lairs where the food bowls are. Enticing smells of meat and fish rise from the bowls. The other two Folk who live here, Fenster and Purvis, are not around. For the moment, all the bowls belong to me.
"There you are, Puff! We need your help, boy!"
Big hands sweep me up. The food was just a trap! I squall and kick out with my strong hind legs, but the two-legs female holds me fast. So clever they are, those two-legs, with their deft hands. So much they take from us.
The two-legs holds me. Her littermate brings up a stick that buzzes like hornets and chews away my fine full ruff. Bitter water splashes upon my now-bare hide. I see the glint of the thorns the two-legs healers use, and I kick wildly.
"Now, be good, Puff!" I hear, and a hard hand scruffs down upon my neck. Trapped like the Folk outdoors! The thorn in the eldest's hand pricks me and hurls me out into the sleep that has no Dreamtime.
When I wake, I know the two-legs have taken something else from me-strength. Now I lie in the inmost lair where the smells of bitter water and sick, frightened Free Folk make my nose twitch. Gum clogs my eyes, and I feel weak, like a female after her first litter. My breath pants in and out.
"Puffs awake now. Here, Puff. You were a good boy." A piece of chicken, too cold from how they keep it fresh, drops beside me. I wrinkle up my muzzle and turn my face away. Let them worry.
Bloodscent tinges the air: mine. This time, the two-legs have stolen my blood itself from my poor body while I slept. What won't they sink to? I trace the scent over to a cage. One of the Folk is lying in it on the special cushion that brings the warmth of sunlight to lairs where the only light comes from the walls.
The newcomer is of a fine size. He has a deep, sleek coat, except where his neck is bound with cloths. They smell of bitter waters and hold in place the clear, hollow thorn that feeds my blood into his throat.
He twitches and flexes his paws. They have seven toes, and that, as all Free Folk know, means strength and craft. I fight up onto my haunches, nip up my bribe of chicken to give me strength and walk unsteadily to stand before him.
He opens his eyes, and I am trapped. His eyes are huge and wise as the full moon, full of shadow from the Dreamtrails. And then I know.
"I greet my younger brother," purred a voice inside my head, "and thank him for his gift, which makes me strong." For now, the sense came, though the voice does not admit it.
I drop my head to my paws. I would bow further and show my underbelly, but the stranger flicks up a corner of his lip: no need. Respectfully I curl my tail around my haunches and set myself to listen. It is not every day that one meets a Soulsinger; cut off too early from my mother's teaching, I have never met one before.
My fur fluffs up and I start to squall with rage. It was his time, yet two-legs had drawn him back, him, a Soulsinger, and stuck him with their awful thorns. How dare they?
"Be quiet, or you'll bring them here," he warns. Again, he uses the inner voice. "Yes, we can talk thus. Your blood is in me, as much as if the same female had borne us."
He looks as if he has to fight to raise his head. He closes his eyes, and I know he fights his body for more strength.
Why would a Soulsinger fight the call? Surely the Dreamtrails can hold no fear for him.
"Do you wish to take the Trails?" I ask. So clever these two-legs are, yet it is not hard to puzzle out their tricks. I could open that lock, dislodge the thorn, and send the Singer forth.
The Singer twitches his head: no. When his eyes blink open again, they are calm. The leafshadow has grown dim.
"I would not profane your gift by wasting it. Stay and talk with me."
"What is your name?" A Soulsinger, he has the right to ask that, and I, the obligation to reply. Untaught in the ways of the Free Folk I may be, but I know what is owed to those who deal with souls.
Not knowing my true name, I put my nose down again in shame. "I am called Puff," I say, wrinkling my muzzle in contempt for the two-legs sound.
"Perhaps you are too big and strong for a Puff," he agrees, then pauses. "I am Merlin."
"That is a two-legs' name," I sniff before I think.
"My name," he corrects me. "I am a named being, named by my human after a Soulsinger and healer of the human kind. Many songs come with this name, my human says. He who bore it hunted in a great wood and was accounted very wise in human dreams-which, you may be surprised to know, are as rich as our own. My human gave me the singer's name, but I have taken it for my own."
He holds his head proudly, despite the thorn. Then his eyes soften, fond as a tabby with one fine kit.
"Did you see my human when she brought me in?" he asks.
Was it for his two-legs he had stayed? I would not have thought a Soulsinger could be so great a fool. And yet, there it shone in his eyes. Love for a two-legs. Worry for a two-legs, though he was the one who was ill.
I start to tell him I do not look at two-legs, but those wise, troubled eyes force me to hunt back on my memory's trails. His human-there had been just one. Had she brought a kitten of her own? No, not that one… I shut my eyes… yes!
"The short two-legs with the long head-fur. The she who yowled all the while she brought you in-was that your two-legs?"