not a
child. You are not even alive. Hungry though, and thirsty
again. Exquisite misery. Crawl.
A dead bird.
Had Rivan brought it? It looked fairly fresh, although ants ate it.
He stuffed it into his mouth, feathers, ants and all. It fed him,
although the feathers almost choked him, and someone growled. It
filled his stomach, but now he was thirsty again. Rivan led him on,
and he smelt water. A stream. He drank. Trees rustled overhead,
stirred by a cool wind. There were frogs in a pool downstream; he
could hear them croaking. He crawled towards the sounds. Little
green frogs. Too slow to evade his grasping, bloody hands. He
stuffed them into his mouth, the portal through which sustenance
passed. His teeth crushed tiny bones, and cold blood oozed from
slimy flesh.
Blood ran from
his hands, and he licked it off. It tasted better than frog, and he
sucked his palms, biting his skin to make more of the warm, salty
fluid flow. Pain jolted him. He was eating himself. That was really
stupid. Find more frogs. Drink more water. He was a hunter with a
sleek, lithe body and sharp claws. He was a cat. Bonded to a dead
cat. The bond sustained him and gave him strength. Rivan's
strength. A cat's lithe form, its sharp senses and supple grace. He
would hunt and eat. Nothing else mattered. Rivan would come back
soon.
The pond had a
lot of frogs in it. Too many. Conash ate them all, and still his
hunger gnawed at him. He found eggs in the reeds and ate them. A
duck tried to defend its nest, and he pounced. His legs were
stronger now. The duck struggled, and he snapped its neck, ripping
off its feathers with quick, deft, bloody hands. Rivan watched him
with gentle approval. The boy tore the raw meat with sharp fangs.
His claws gripped it while he snarled and spat. He had regressed to
a cat, or progressed. The heavy slave chain around his neck annoyed
him, but he could not free himself of it.
Darkness came,
and he slept, then woke when the light returned. He found more
frogs, and another nest. A drake fell afoul of his swift pounce and
ripping claws. The pond mud stank, and he smeared himself with it
to hide his scent. He prowled around it, a feline hunter, ready to
kill whatever he could, and eat. Darkness returned, and he slept,
shivering. Another day passed as a cat, then another, until he lost
count. Ages passed again. He hunted and ate, growing stronger. He
was a strong corpse now, although he smelt like a rotten one.
Conash the cat
was eating a frog when a clatter of hooves alarmed him, and he
slipped into the reeds. A man rode up on a broad bay mare and
dismounted. Conash sniffed the air, scenting tobacco, dried meat,
and blood. The horse sucked at the water, and cat Conash watched it
with hungry eyes. Perhaps it was a little too big. The man was
smaller though. Would his claws and teeth be enough? Perhaps a rock
would help. He found one, just the right size, and smooth. Madness
filled him. He was going to hunt a man.
The plump man
sat on the pool's bank and paddled his pink feet in the water.
Conash looked down at his own feet, which were black. He squatted.
A steel spring coiled inside him. It had been growing stronger,
hunting frogs and ducks, this cold spring that was his new core.
Hunter. Killer. Drinker of blood. He hefted the rock. The man's
skull was like an eggshell, it would shatter. He hated men. Conash
stood up for the first time since he had become a cat and sprang at
the man. The fat merchant goggled at him, and Conash slammed the
rock down on his sneering head. It cracked, and the man
slumped.
Conash sat down
and stared at the dead man. Blood ran from the corpse's head in a
steady stream. The boy's eyes burnt. He had killed a man. Now he
would eat him. No. Rivan appeared before him, and snarled. No
eating men. Conash rocked, shivering. What had he become? A corpse
that needed to eat. A survivor. Frogs tasted bad, ducks were hard
to catch. His ribs protruded. He must find more food.
Rising to his
feet, he went to the
child. You are not even alive. Hungry though, and thirsty
again. Exquisite misery. Crawl.
A dead bird.
Had Rivan brought it? It looked fairly fresh, although ants ate it.
He stuffed it into his mouth, feathers, ants and all. It fed him,
although the feathers almost choked him, and someone growled. It
filled his stomach, but now he was thirsty again. Rivan led him on,
and he smelt water. A stream. He drank. Trees rustled overhead,
stirred by a cool wind. There were frogs in a pool downstream; he
could hear them croaking. He crawled towards the sounds. Little
green frogs. Too slow to evade his grasping, bloody hands. He
stuffed them into his mouth, the portal through which sustenance
passed. His teeth crushed tiny bones, and cold blood oozed from
slimy flesh.
Blood ran from
his hands, and he licked it off. It tasted better than frog, and he
sucked his palms, biting his skin to make more of the warm, salty
fluid flow. Pain jolted him. He was eating himself. That was really
stupid. Find more frogs. Drink more water. He was a hunter with a
sleek, lithe body and sharp claws. He was a cat. Bonded to a dead
cat. The bond sustained him and gave him strength. Rivan's
strength. A cat's lithe form, its sharp senses and supple grace. He
would hunt and eat. Nothing else mattered. Rivan would come back
soon.
The pond had a
lot of frogs in it. Too many. Conash ate them all, and still his
hunger gnawed at him. He found eggs in the reeds and ate them. A
duck tried to defend its nest, and he pounced. His legs were
stronger now. The duck struggled, and he snapped its neck, ripping
off its feathers with quick, deft, bloody hands. Rivan watched him
with gentle approval. The boy tore the raw meat with sharp fangs.
His claws gripped it while he snarled and spat. He had regressed to
a cat, or progressed. The heavy slave chain around his neck annoyed
him, but he could not free himself of it.
Darkness came,
and he slept, then woke when the light returned. He found more
frogs, and another nest. A drake fell afoul of his swift pounce and
ripping claws. The pond mud stank, and he smeared himself with it
to hide his scent. He prowled around it, a feline hunter, ready to
kill whatever he could, and eat. Darkness returned, and he slept,
shivering. Another day passed as a cat, then another, until he lost
count. Ages passed again. He hunted and ate, growing stronger. He
was a strong corpse now, although he smelt like a rotten one.
Conash the cat
was eating a frog when a clatter of hooves alarmed him, and he
slipped into the reeds. A man rode up on a broad bay mare and
dismounted. Conash sniffed the air, scenting tobacco, dried meat,
and blood. The horse sucked at the water, and cat Conash watched it
with hungry eyes. Perhaps it was a little too big. The man was
smaller though. Would his claws and teeth be enough? Perhaps a rock
would help. He found one, just the right size, and smooth. Madness
filled him. He was going to hunt a man.
The plump man
sat on the pool's bank and paddled his pink feet in the water.
Conash looked down at his own feet, which were black. He squatted.
A steel spring coiled inside him. It had been growing stronger,
hunting frogs and ducks, this cold spring that was his new core.
Hunter. Killer. Drinker of blood. He hefted the rock. The man's
skull was like an eggshell, it would shatter. He hated men. Conash
stood up for the first time since he had become a cat and sprang at
the man. The fat merchant goggled at him, and Conash slammed the
rock down on his sneering head. It cracked, and the man
slumped.
Conash sat down
and stared at the dead man. Blood ran from the corpse's head in a
steady stream. The boy's eyes burnt. He had killed a man. Now he
would eat him. No. Rivan appeared before him, and snarled. No
eating men. Conash rocked, shivering. What had he become? A corpse
that needed to eat. A survivor. Frogs tasted bad, ducks were hard
to catch. His ribs protruded. He must find more food.
Rising to his
feet, he went to the
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