Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

Suddenly the cat didn’t seem the utterly invincible, terrifying killing machine. Suddenly it was an old, tired cat, and Ar’tor once again felt pity.

I WILL HAVE NONE OF YOUR PITY! Old Cat screamed, and lunged at Ar’tor with a paw. Ar’tor stumbled back, slashing frantically with the knife. He thumped onto his butt.

Old Cat glared at him, then licked at the shallow cut along his paw with an enormous pink tongue. His eyes were m^ rpthoughtful now.

“I’m sorry . . Ar’tor said, not realizing quite what he was saying.

He had to be mistaken, but it suddenly seemed that Old Cat smiled. Don't be. Perhaps. Just perhaps. Do not question. Do not ask. Do you love your people?

“Yes.”

Do you hate the man who killed your brother and uncle?

“Of course.”

I’m going to give you a chance. Just a chance, to kill him.

Ar’tor shook his head.

“The only way 1 could do that would be to ambush him . . . to kill him from behind. That would solve nothing.”

You do not understand. I mean for you to kill him in fair combat. To shame him, to humiliate this great warrior, is my aim. For him to be slain by a stripling would be my greatest revenge.

“Revenge for what?”

Quiet! Do not ask! Do not ever ask.

“1 can’t do this ... I cannot do this thing.”

Old Cat dropped his head, yellow eyes rolled up to his head as he stared through Ar’tor piercingly. You can. You will.

“We have only two moons. You saw him. He can kill any man in the hills.”

Any man, yes. You will not be a man. You will live with me. Eat with me. You will learn to be a cat. He will expect a man, but this you will not be. .. .

And so began the strangest apprenticeship that any human being had ever undertaken. For the remainder of that day, resting only long enough for the sweat to dry on his forehead, Ar’tor attacked the fearsome Old Cat again and again, every time rebuffed with another swiping paw.

Over and over, all day long, until Ar’tor forgot the meaning of fatigue. Every time he believed that he could go no further, Old Cat bared his terrible teeth, and panic swept away the exhaustion.

Until finally, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, Ar’tor could literally lift his knife no longer. There was no more strength, not even when Old Cat’s teeth closed around his neck. Ar’tor gasped for breath, his legs become lead, his blood acid.

And as he slipped into unconsciousness, he heard Old Cat mindspeak gruffly, Perhaps. Just perhaps, young cub. . . .

Every muscle in his body ached, felt as if he had been stretched over an anvil and pounded out like sheet metal.

Ar’tor uncurled from his ball and crawled out into the morning light. There was no goat this time, merely a small bird. He crawled out toward it. Old Cat snarled, stopping him dead. No! Stretch first. Stretch always.

“Stretch?”

And Old Cat showed him. With a luxuriant rolling motion of his body, Old Cat extended his claws out, gripped the ground and arched his hips up into the air. His spine crackled with the extension. Old Cat turned his huge head and glared at Ar’tor. Now you.

Ar’tor pulled and torqued until he felt as if his poor stiff body were being torn into pieces.

And when he was done to Old Cat’s satisfaction, he was given the bird. He cooked it hurriedly, finally ripping it off the spit before it Was done. He wolfed it down, watching Old Cat’s yellow eyes staring at him, always staring.

And now we run.

Ar’tor grinned. “That 1 can do. We are great runners! My brother and I used to run up in the mountains all day.”

That is not running. Cats do not run foolishly, squandering their strength. They pick their time, and then they spring. You must learn to spring.

Old Cat backed Ar’tor against the rocks, facing him toward the lip, fifty paces away.

Now. Run there. As fast as you can.

Ar’tor loped across the dead, frozen grass, turned and grinned back at Old Cat, who was nowhere to be seen.

What . . . ?

He turned again, and looked behind him, and there the great feline sat, looking up him disgustedly. I didn't tell you to crawl like a crippled lamb. I said RUN.

Old Cat fetched Ar’tor a buffet that fair straightened his hair out. Ar’tor tumbled to the ground. He shook his head and looked up into the cat’s flaming amber eyes. They held nothing but the promise of death.

Down. Crouch. Relax your legs. Dig your toes into the ground. Now RUN!

Old Cat was right behind Ar’tor now, jaws snapping, and Ar’tor ran, sprinted almost without breathing, ran as fast as he ever had in his life. He dug in his heels as he neared the rocks, stumbling to a halt.

No! Turn and RUN!

Ar’tor didn’t bother to plead for mercy. He turned and ran, every muscle and ligament in his body burning.

Over and over and over again he ran, until he had to stop to chew mushy snow, to heave for breath. To stretch out his cramping leg muscles.

And then, after a meal of the rest of the bird, he picked up the knife.

Cover your belly! Old Cat’s mindspeak was a scream. The cat emphasized the point with a paw swipe so much faster than Ar’tor’s sweat-stung eyes could follow that his attempted defense was a travesty.

Old Cat’s claws raked Ar’tor’s midsection, leaving three roughly parallel lines that seeped blood. Ar’tor stared at them in astonishment. Surely in another instant his intestines would gush forth, and he would die howling in the snow.

You disgust me. It's a scratch. Next time, a little deeper. Now crouch! Cover your belly! Up on your toes! FIGHT!

On and on they went, Old Cat mindspeaking Ar’tor through the movements, until the boy wasn’t sure who controlled which body. There were times that he felt Old Cat in his mind, command and response so close together it seemed he had no volition at all.

And other times, as Old Cat stalked toward him, the feline’s mind was open and talking to him, so that he felt what Old Cat felt, understood the tensions and relaxations that gave a cat its power and speed.

And other times, most of the endlessly long and exhausting day, Ar’tor felt like the clumsiest and most stone-footed creature that the gods of Spring and Summer had ever let live.

That night, Ar’tor tried to escape.

Quietly, oh so quietly, Artor crept out from between the rocks and peered around. There was nothing in sight, no sign of Old Cat. Perhaps the old bastard was out hunting. If so this was a perfect opportunity to . . .

He scampered across the plateau, and began to climb down.

Good. Nothing to stop him. He’d be gone before . . .

That was odd. What was under his foot didn’t feel like a rock. Not like a branch, either.