Days passed, and the trench was gradually extended from the hollow where it had begun over the rise to the stream. It became deep enough so that someone could walk in it with only the tips of their ears showing above the edge, and wide enough to turn around in. Ratha and her companions interrupted their work only to eat, sleep and relieve themselves. Each section of the spillway was covered over with branches and brush as it was completed, so that if intruders threatened, the diggers only had to conceal the open trench they were working in.
Sunset came a little earlier each day, giving them less light to work by. Falling leaves drifted into the trench and had to be cleared out. Ratha sensed that it was nearly time for the clan’s mating season to begin, but neither she nor her female companions showed signs of going into heat. She vowed to herself that even if she did, she was going to stay at the bottom of the trench and use her restlessness to dig. Fessran and Bira agreed with her, saying that, if any of them felt the onset of the mating urge, they could send Thakur away to fish and provide food while they continued to work. The layout of the spillway was now complete, with two pilot trenches running side by side to mark the width of the remaining section to be dug.
One morning Ratha and Bira were widening the side of the channel when Ratha felt something sting her nose. She looked up to see gray clouds rolling above the trees; another drop struck her between the eyes.
“The rains are coming early,” said Thakur, leaning into the trench and alternately glancing down at her and up at the sky.
“How far are we from the stream bank?” she asked, lifting her nose above the piles of dirt on the edge.
“A few tail-lengths. We’re going to have to dig deeper, though, to cut through the bank and make the water run this way.”
She sighed and went back to work.
Overhead, the clouds grumbled and the rain began. At first it was light and helped by softening the ground so that the work went faster. As it grew into a pelting downpour, the bottom of the trench became a bog. The diggers fought to keep their footing on the slick clay and frequently fell into puddles or accidentally spattered each other with the pawfuls of mud they flung aside. Their small companions began to look less like treelings and more like soggy mudballs.
At the end of the day, Ratha would crawl shivering from the trench, her coat soaked, her underside and flanks grimy with clay and gravel. Once she was under shelter, Ratharee made a determined attempt to groom her, but the treeling was often so exhausted that she fell asleep when she had barely begun. Ratha was so tired, she didn’t care.
The work grew more difficult and the task seemed endless. Sometimes Ratha, in her haze of fatigue, couldn’t remember what the purpose of it was. She felt as though she had spent her life scraping away at this wretched hole and would do so for the rest of her existence. When at last Thakur leaned down into the trench again and cried, “Stop!,” she paid no attention to him and kept on digging mechanically until water began seeping through the gravel and soil at her feet.
She felt Thakur drop into the ditch beside her, seize her scruff and shake her. “Ratha, stop! We’re finished. If you go any farther, the water-path will flood before we’re ready.”
She blinked, trying to pull herself out of her daze. She scrambled out of the trench after Thakur and saw that he was right. Only the remaining thin wall of earth held back the stream. When the time came, they would dig at the embankment to weaken it until it broke, sending the flow down the spillway, into the hollow and down the cracks that vented the cave below. The cave-fire would perish in a rush of water, and those who tended it would be swept away.
Despite her exhaustion, Ratha felt a surge of triumph. She was ready. Now all the remained was to wait.
Chapter Eighteen
The sun hid for days behind a heavy bank of clouds, and the rain fell without ceasing. The stream began to swell, surging and cutting away at its banks until Ratha feared the wall of earth at the high end of the spillway would not hold it back. Now she crouched on the rise above the stream bank, watching the swirling water with anxious eyes.
The break had to be controlled, Thakur had said. If the packed earth gave way too soon or in the wrong place, the rushing water could destroy the channel and race down the hillside, missing the hollow. All their work would be useless if that happened.
Ratharee huddled on the ground beneath her, seeking shelter from the rain in the warmth between her forepaws and her breast. Ratha could feel the little body shiver.
“It won’t be long now, Ratharee,” she said softly, feeling the treeling’s paws on her forefeet. “Bira’s gone down to spy on the cave. She’ll be back soon.”
As she waited for Bira, she found herself thinking about Shongshar, as she had often done during the past days. At first her mind had been clouded with hate. Once the cave-fire was destroyed and his rule ended, she vowed to force the Firekeepers to change their arrogant ways. No one in the clan would speak Shongshar’s name without a hiss. Both his memory and his ways would be buried.
Yet she now realized that as ruthless and cruel as he had become, Shongshar had greater vision than she had. He was right: she had left the true understanding of the Red Tongue’s power to him, and thereby forfeited her leadership. The veneration of fire had thrust her people into debasement and a savagery previously unknown among their kind, but it also fed a hunger of the spirit, a need that could neither be ignored nor denied.
He was also right that the Named were pushed beyond themselves by the awesome presence of the Red Tongue. Not only did gazing into the fire inspire them to greater strength and courage, it gave them the vision to seek beyond the limits of their everyday life for a sense of meaning. Even Shongshar’s dream of extending his rule beyond clan ground was as inspired as it was arrogant, she admitted grudgingly.
As much as she hoped to obliterate all traces of his rule from among her people, she knew some of the things he had done could not be changed. This realization had forced her to put aside her hate long enough to see that not everything the Firekeepers had done under his rule was wrong. Storing wood and sheltering the source-fire in the cave were sound ideas, even though they had been turned to self-serving purposes.
If a large shelter such as the cave had been located in the meadow instead of far up the creek trail, it would have been more difficult to misuse. Had the Firekeepers been made to understand that the Red Tongue’s power was a gift for all to share, perhaps it might have been more difficult for Shongshar to lead them astray. And if she had understood the need of her people to belong to a power greater than themselves and used it for good instead of turning it aside, then Shongshar might not have been able to turn the clan against her.
Ratha heard the slap of wet pads and caught the smell of Bira’s soggy pelt. The shapes of the young female and her tree-ling appeared through the rain.
“Most of the Firekeepers are inside,” she panted as she crouched beside Ratha. “Shongshar is having a great feast in the cave. Where are Thakur and Fessran?”
“They’re coming.” Ratha shivered with cold and impatience.
When the other two arrived, Bira told them the news. They looked at each other with rising excitement and then all eyes turned to Ratha.