Fierce Cub

Rishi attacked the task with the same focus she attacked everything. As her father’s only child, she had an important legacy to uphold. Her father tracked the snow cats, which would be a dangerous job no matter when or why he did it. In the late winter, the snow cats had their cubs, and that was the most dangerous time to track the snow cats, and it was the most important. Rishi’s father would track pregnant mothers for days, through the blue-grey world full of snow and ice where, in the winter, the sun never quite rose. They’d eat caribou jerky and light only the smallest fires, and grit their teeth against the scratching of Tomb Breath, the spirit of cold wind, and they’d keep as near to the pregnant snow cat mothers as they could. Every day they risked attracting the ire of the pregnant mothers. That was the trick that made Rishi’s father important: he knew how close to get without getting too close.

Then, at a time every bit the same as every other moment of the pursuit through the woods, some sign visible to Rishi’s father signaled something to him. “Come, Rishi,” he said—two of the ten words she’d heard from him for many days. They’d string all their supplies up in a tree and leave behind as much as they could that had a scent. Then they’d begin sneaking through the sleeping spruce trees, all of which Rishi knew kept an eye open only at exciting times like these. All trees approved of times when they might see men—men, the wood burners, the tree choppers—getting killed. The spruce trees half-woke from their winter slumber to watch Rishi and her father creep through the snow toward the snow cat’s den.

Time had come for Rishi’s part. Days earlier, she and her father had come to see the snow cat’s den, so Rishi knew where it was, though she couldn’t see it in the gloom. Crawling on their bellies in the snow, Rishi and her father got nearer. Then, when they had almost got there, Rishi’s father reached out and squeezed her arm—the only affectionate sign he ever gave her, and the signal that he would not go any further. From there, she went on alone, angrier and more focused than ever.

She heard every thud of snow shaking from the needles of the watching spruce trees. She wished the spruce trees would be more polite. Though they did not have eyes she could see, she knew so well that they watched her that she had trouble ignoring them. No wind blew past her, so she could listen closer.

And what she heard was snow cat. But she did not hear snow cat mother. She heard, as she knew she would, snow cat cubs.

That’s how she knew that whatever invisible signs her father had seen had shown him truth. They always did. She never doubted him. Although a small part of her wished he would sometimes get it wrong.

No time for that thought now. It was cowardly and not useful. She pushed it out of the way, and she swam through a snow drift. Moving by inches she crept closer to the den. She did not know how long it took. The nighttime did not have measure anyway, so it did not matter. The palest of blue glows started in the east before she reached the den. The morning, such as it was in late winter, broke. That would only be a help to her, and mean little to the snow cat. She, after all, relied more on scent than on sight. And she would be tired after bearing her cubs.

Rishi crept to the entrance of the snow cat’s den. It was a crevice made by a rock fallen over a hollow, and it was more spacious than many of the tents back in her village. It had no leavings of meals, as you might expect. It was better to keep the smell of your meals far from you. The snow cats knew that. All the den had in it was snow cat.

In spite of her fear—which she never admitted to having—Rishi always took a moment to peer at the mother. This one sprawled out on her side at the back of the den. The curve of her rose and fell, a darker darkness in the den. The noise of her breath, though faint, came as more sound than the noise of even fat Girish, the witch of the village, because the snow cat mother was far vaster. Vaster than Girish. Vaster than the small ponies of the nomads who’d come to trade. Though not so vast as the mammoth. In spite of her fear, Rishi wished she could see the snow cat out in the light, see its thick fur, mottled white and black, and its bright eyes, and its movements, so like river running in a thaw or the wind in the summer grass.

And, wrestling near it, two smaller shapes moved in the darkness. Then came the riskiest part. Rishi’s heart pattered in her little chest. From deep in her furs—where it would keep warm next to her skin—she pulled a pouch of oil skin. From the oil skin, she pulled a wad of linen. The wad of linen dripped with milk.

The smell of it caught the noses of the two wrestling cubs, which was good. It would catch the attention of the mother too, which was not good.

Keeping her hand as steady as she could, Rishi held the milk-sodden cloth toward the cubs. Though they had no doubt recently eaten, they would no doubt be hungry. Snow cats could not get enough to eat sometimes to make enough milk for their cubs. The smell of milk overcame any misgivings the cubs might have about its unexpected source. Both cubs pattered toward her. They both sucked at a corner of the linen.

Rishi looked past them at a glint in the dark. The mother snow cat’s eyes opened. They looked at Rishi. For the moment, they showed nothing but interest. The mother waited, sure in herself that no matter what would happen she would master the moment.

Then Rishi did the stupidest thing anyone who ever saw a snow cat could do. It was her job to do it. She’d done it before. She knew how. It never felt safe.

All sneaking abandoned, Rishi grabbed the easier of the two cubs. She grabbed it tight, but not so she would hurt it. It reacted with surprise, but not violently. She let it keep the milk-sodden linen.

Then Rishi bolted. She turned round and ran as fast as her short legs could take her.

It would not be fast enough. It had never been fast enough. It would never be fast enough. She had surprise in her favor and nothing else.

She had to survive for twenty paces. They felt like the longest twenty paces of her life. The growl of the mother at her heels shook her. The mother snow cat didn’t roar. Rishi didn’t warrant anything louder than a growl. The growl shook her enough without being loud.

At the spot she knew, Rishi dove into a snow bank. The snow cat mother’s growl just about turned to a purr. She knew that Rishi could not get away now.

Then her father lit the line of mammoth fat oil in the snow. They had laid it days earlier, and the snow cat had left it alone because it had been boiled to the point where it didn’t smell like food anymore, it just smelled bitter and unhealthy. But it burned, and it burned hot.

Rishi’s father cut the ties that kept the twigs and cones up off the ground, and they fell onto the line of burning oil. They caught fire in a rush, scattering sparks everywhere.

Then the snow cat mother roared. More from surprise than from pain.

Rishi looked around. The snow cat mother paced behind the line of fire. She did not want to cross it. Fire scared everything except the People of the Valley. That was one of the only things they could say about themselves and say it gave them power. Rishi knew spruce trees drew away from the flames, expressing their disgust with their shaking needles.

“Come, Rishi,” her father said, coming out of the shadows and speaking the eleventh and twelfth words he had said to her in days, and probably the last. He helped her to her feet. Without another look back, they hurried through the trees back to the camp. The fire would keep the snow cat back for a while, but not for long. When the fire went out or when the snow cat discovered a way around or over the fire, Rishi and her father wanted to be far along their journey home—far enough that the snow cat could not afford hunting them.

Then they would return to the village with this new cub. The villagers would crowd around Rishi and praise her quick hands, as they always did.

“Will they let me name this one, do you think?” Rishi asked her father. Her father smiled. He didn’t know. Rishi didn’t know.

For the days of the journey back, what she did know was it would be her job to make sure that the cub got enough milk, and soon would get caribou jerky in shreds. She knew that for at least these days it took to get back to the village, the cub would have a good mother. Perhaps not a mother with a familiar shape, but a willing one.