He crested the hilltop and loped down a steep slope, scattering gravel and ducking under deadfall. He wiggled through a thicket of brush, leaped a narrow brook, and bounded up the next slope, his paws silent on the soft green grasses. His ability to see in the darkness amazed him. Mice darted through the grass in the meadows, and packrats skittered in the jumble of rocky outcrops. Their sight and scent stirred hunger in his empty belly.
He loped through a patch of wildflowers so tall they brushed his golden muzzle, then ran alongside a grove of aspen trees. Their white trunks glowed in the starlight. Eyes glinted from the densest part of the forest. He tipped his nose and smelled the air. Elk. Three of them: two cows and a calf. They watched him pass, then calmly went back to foraging.
The first sliver of Sister Moon’s face blazed over the shining peaks. Poor Singer hurried.
Racing up an icy slope, paws slipping, he stood on a windy knoll and slitted his eyes against the freezing gale. His fur ruffled up and down his back. He searched the jagged snow-covered peaks, until he thought he knew the right one, then headed for it.
Why doesn’t this look familiar? I know these are the right mountains, but this isn’t the trail I followed with my father. Am I lost?
He swerved around a lightning-struck stump and loped higher up the slick side of the mountain, his eyes on the lofty summit. He didn’t see the cave.…
Panic threaded his muscles, turning them shaky, making his breath come in shallow gasps. This has to be the way. It has to.
Snow had gathered in the fur of his paws and melted to clumps of ice that spread his toes until they hurt, but he refused to take the time to chew them out.
Poor Singer bulled through a snowdrift taller than his head, leaping and struggling to climb the steep incline. After the long days without food, he could feel what little strength he had draining away, being devoured by his trembling muscles. When he clawed his way up, he stood on a rocky ledge and shook snow from his coat. A haze of glittering white surrounded him. As it cleared, he looked up.
A tingle eddied through his veins. This was the peak. He could not be mistaken about that. It looked like an ice spear, white and jagged.
Poor Singer scrambled up the rocky ledge, and when he struck a shallow meadow, he ran with all his heart, his pink tongue dangling from the corner of his mouth. His muscles prickled now, as if starved for blood, but he charged up the last slope. Above him, the peak turned to solid rock. Snow filled every crevice, and a fog of windblown ice crystals haloed the summit.
There!
He almost missed it. Since the last time he’d been here, the creeping barberry bushes had grown up, covering half the entry—or disguising it. The holly-shaped leaves reflected the starlight with blinding intensity. No wonder he hadn’t seen the dark hole. Now it blended with the snowy slope.
Poor Singer shouldered through the bramble, his fur catching and tugging painfully. He left a trail of golden tufts on the branches. This time the narrow tunnel was pitch-black and foreboding.
He walked deeper, then broke into a trot, racing down the slope, calling, “Keeper of the Tortoise Bundle? Where are you? I used to be Buckthorn, of the Coyote Clan. I—”
“I know who you are, Poor Singer.”
Her voice came from everywhere, echoing off the walls, resonating in his soul.
Poor Singer licked his muzzle nervously and slowed to a walk. The air grew warmer, and he could hear the plopping of water as it dripped into the dark pool below. He edged forward, one breath at a time, his claws tapping the moist stone, creating a staccato like arrows upon rock.
His padded paws slipped into the water-filled hollows in the floor, soaking his feet, melting the ice between his toes. The cave smelled curious. He knew that odor; it clung to tumbled stone walls and dusty crevice burials: the scent of ancient destruction.
“Where are you?”
“Come closer. I’m here. Down here.”
Poor Singer edged forward, searching the blackness. The plop, plop of water grew louder. How close was he to the pool? He couldn’t be more than—
Like an explosion, silver light poured through the entrance, and the cave burst into blinding waves of blue flame. He collapsed on his haunches. Brilliant turquoise sparks tumbled and winked, surging across the roof and flowing down the walls to coat the floor of the cave. The wondrous pool turned luminous. Poor Singer focused on it, trying to still his hammering heart. The water looked so calm. In the midst of this blaze, it provided the single still point. Had he noticed that last time? Or had he been so stunned that fear had devoured his senses?
He saw her.
She walked from a hidden fissure in the rear of the cave, her long black hair draping around her, the folds of her red dress shining with a purple hue. Poor Singer’s whiskers quivered in awe. So … there was another chamber, the entrance perfectly hidden by the seamless appearance of the turquoise walls. She followed a narrow path around the curve of the pool and came to stand over him, her midnight eyes wide, her gaze penetrating. The fire in the cave surrounded her like a effervescent halo.