"Why are you doing this?" Storm almost screamed. "What did I ever do to you?"

"It's not what you did," returned Kelsy, his eyes half closed. "It's what you can't do."

Perhaps Kelsy's clique did not know they were killing Storm. Storm got the idea that they taunted him more for entertainment than out of malice. Of course, they also enjoyed the extra meat. They were hungry just like everybody else, but they could have survived without the food, and Storm could not.

After one particularly demeaning episode, he ran whimpering to Pathar. Blood trickled from his nose, and his gray eyes looked unnaturally large in his thin face. "Pathar," he wailed, "they're awful! They won't let me keep anything I kill. I can't find enough gra.s.s to survive. What will I do?"

"Kelsy's clique?" asked Pathar as if he didn't already know.

"Yes! Just Kelsy, really. If he didn't hara.s.s me, the others would leave me alone. I'll starve if they don't stop, Pathar. Please tell me what to do!"

Pathar watched him. "Storm, do you know why I chose to teach you?"

"No," said Storm miserably. I don't know why you do anything.

Pathar smiled. "I chose you because you don't give up." Half to himself, he added, "And neither did your mother."

"But, Pathar, it's not fair-"

Pathar's voice grew harsh. "Storm, nothing in your life will ever be fair! You should have died when you were a baby, and everyone knew it. You remember being angry last summer because adults predicted your death this winter? This is exactly what they were talking about."

Storm flinched.

Pathar's eyes softened. "Storm, do you see those trees up there?"

Storm followed his gaze to a few gaunt trees, hardly more than bushes, that grew, spider-like, from crevices on the cliffs. "Those scrawny things are the only kind of tree that grows on the cliffs. You would expect a st.u.r.dier tree in such harsh conditions. But those tall, proud trees by Chelby Lake could never survive up there. Do you know why?"

"No."

"Because, at Chelby Lake, trees grow close together to shield each other from the wind. Soil is scarce on the cliffs, and the trees must stand alone. They survive up there, all alone, in winds that would snap those tall, straight trunks by Chelby Lake. Do you know how they do it, Storm?"

Storm squinted. "They bend?"

"Yes. They don't fight the wind. They bend, but they don't break."

Storm felt tired. His belly rumbled. "So you don't have any real help?" He'd been half hoping that Pathar would give him something to eat. Many ferryshaft brought gifts of food to Pathar when they asked his advice.

Pathar sighed. "I see only two options. You can fight, or you can run."

"But, Pathar, I can't fight Kelsy! He would kill me! Run? Their legs are so much longer than mine-!"

"Storm!" Pathar almost barked. "I have given you my thoughts and my council. I have nothing else to offer. You will solve this problem yourself, or you will not see another spring."

Chapter 10. Pursuit and Evasion.

Storm thought. He went to sleep thinking, and he dreamed about rabbits and hawks and things that fight and things that flee. Next day, he hunted deliberately, choosing rabbits, since they had been the beginning of his troubles.

His tormentors appeared predictably. "I think you have something for me," said Kelsy when Storm did not respond at once. "Drop it, rat."

Storm did drop it, but he didn't back away. "My name is Storm, and if you want it, come and get it." He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the rabbit and ran.

"Haven't you grown suddenly bold!" exclaimed Kelsy behind him. "Or should I say stupid?"

As Storm listened to the voice growing fainter, he felt a p.r.i.c.kle of fear, as well as a surge of pleasure. Whatever happens, the expression on his face was worth it. The rabbit waggled in Storm's mouth as he ran over the snow-dusted rocks. He could hear his pursuers, their hoofbeats clattering. They were not far behind him, but they were behind and out of sight. Storm a.s.sumed he was getting away.

Not until he raced around a rock and came face to face with Kelsy, did Storm realize his mistake. He made a dodge that would have certainly been unsuccessful. Fortunately for him, the rest of Kelsy's clique galloped around the rock at that precise moment, and collided with their leader. The group took only an instant to disentangle themselves, but Storm was running again, now just a few lengths ahead of them.

Kelsy ran to the unbroken ground on the edge of the boulders, Storm realized, where he could move faster and more quietly. I ran in a straight line. He guessed which way I'd go and got in front of me. I can't be so predictable.

Storm heard a crunch and realized that he was gripping the rabbit tightly enough to break bones. His legs felt wobbly. If this doesn't end soon, I'm done.

Meanwhile, Kelsy was berating himself for not being quicker. He thought of how foolish he would feel if stories went round that he'd been outrun by a lone runt with no fighting experience.

Then Storm disappeared behind a boulder that Kelsy recognized. "Len, you and those others go around, and I'll take these five straight through." Storm had entered a short slot canyon. Kelsy planned to send one group of foals to the opposite end of the pa.s.sage and another through the front, trapping their prey in the middle.

Kelsy's eyes widened in surprise when he charged the length of the slot and slid to a stop. His friends swore that Storm had not left from their end, and no ferryshaft foal could have jumped over the high walls.

Arguments erupted, and everyone accused everyone else so fiercely that Kelsy thought they might fight. "Listen to me!" he barked. "No one made a mistake! If that foal did not leave by either end of the canyon, then he must still be inside. How many places can he hide?"

So the clique stopped fighting and spread out to search. Before long, they were scouring the thorn bushes that grew thick along one wall of the pa.s.sage. "He must be in there, Kelsy. Like you said, how many places could he go?"

"But I went through that whole section already," argued another. "It's not deep."

"Here's the answer to your riddle," called Kelsy, who had left them and begun poking among the thorns. The foals gathered around him. Kelsy stood in front of a hole in the rock, hardly bigger than a fox's den. The thorns had overgrown it, but a faint trail of beaten branches revealed that some animal had been coming and going recently, prying back the thorns to get inside. Kelsy stared into the darkness.

"Well," he said, after a moment's dismal silence, "I suppose we weren't so far off when we called him a rat. He certainly goes to ground like one."

His clique gave a few half-hearted chuckles.

"Don't worry, friends. We'll have other days. I don't know how far back that tunnel goes but...Storm! If you can hear me, I hope you realize that this isn't over! We're not playing games anymore!" He turned, tail still high, and the group trotted away.

"It was never a game to me," muttered Storm. He crouched only two lengths away and breathed a sigh of relief when they had gone. For a moment, he remained perfectly still, savoring the silence and safety. Then, as the tension left his body, he began to laugh, softly at first, then louder. "I am going to survive this winter, Pathar." And he settled down to enjoy his meal.

Kelsy did not catch Storm the next time he chased him, nor the next. Soon the clique chased Storm every time they saw him, whether he had food in his possession or not, and still they could not catch him. Storm had a new hiding place every other day. He was so small that he could fit almost anywhere. Other foals laughed at Kelsy because of Storm, but not too loudly. They were not so clever at hiding.

Chapter 11. A Race and a Corpse.

Kelsy, as it turned out, had the sense to know when to quit. His efforts to catch Storm were only calling attention to his failure. Within a month, the chases ceased. No one tried to steal Storm's food, and he received no more ripped ears or torn shoulders. But in solving one problem, Storm had created another. At least while the foals chased him, they acknowledged his existence. Now they completely ignored him.

Storm discovered, even as he enjoyed his meals, that he missed the chases. He still explored the rocks and caves, but no crisis arose to give meaning to his actions. As the days pa.s.sed, he grew bored and lonely.

One bleak day in midwinter, Storm followed a group of foals to the Igby to skate. The sky was a dismal gray, and it fit his mood as he drifted back and forth some distance from the others. He practiced by running as fast as he could and then stopping as quickly as possible.

He became so preoccupied with his efforts that he did not notice a light brown male of about his own age, who glided by with increasing frequency and finally stopped to watch him. The newcomer laughed.

Storm looked around.

"What are you doing?" asked the stranger.

"Practicing stopping."

"What's the point of that?"

"So that I can turn faster."

"I don't see how stopping can help you turn," observed the newcomer, "or what good turning is for that matter." There was an uncomfortable pause, during which Storm fervently hoped that the foal would leave. "Do you want to race?"

That question caught Storm by surprise. He did not care to inform this person that he had never raced another foal before. "Alright."

"We'll race to that big tree across the river. Do you see the bird sitting on the closest branch? We start when it flies." The two foals crouched in tense silence. At last the bird ruffled its feathers, flapped into the air...and they were off!

It didn't take Storm long to relax and enjoy the race. Although he wanted to be annoyed by the stranger's remarks, something inside him glowed under the unexpected attention. The pair was evenly matched, and they flew side by side over the frozen surface, laughing at times when they hit a rough place and skidded.

However, when they finally reached the tree, the stranger was ahead by a body length. Storm found that he didn't mind. The two stood together for a moment, catching their breaths. "You're not a bad runner," said the newcomer. "I didn't win by much, and my legs are longer."

Storm smiled. "Yes. But I've played your game, and now it's only fair that you play mine."

"Oh?" The foal looked surprised. "And what is that?"

Storm shoved off, putting several lengths between them. "Catch me if you can."

Some time later, the stranger stood panting on the ice. Storm watched from several lengths away, winded, but laughing. "Do you give up?"

The other foal smiled. "Yes. I've never seen anyone run like that. You double like a squirrel under a hawk! What do they call you?"

"Storm."

"My name is Tracer, and I know some friends who might like to meet you. If you come with me, I'll introduce them."

Storm knew what he was being offered. He knew he should pounce on it, yet he hesitated. "Why would they want me?"

"Because I say you can run." Tracer was smiling, but there was something desperate and brittle behind his eyes. "We're orphans," he added, after a moment. "Our best runner died yesterday. Are you coming or not?"

Storm followed Tracer back across the river, but he almost turned back when he saw the group, tearing at a sheep they'd managed to bring down in the deep snow beneath the trees. No clique would allow a stranger to approach a fresh kill, and these foals looked rough-scruffy and half starved, with a few open sores.

The two largest bared their teeth at Storm. He was instantly aware of Tracer at his back. He was aware of something else, too. The sheep was not a sheep.

Storm swallowed. Suddenly, the air felt too thick to breathe.

"She was already dead," said Tracer behind him. "She slipped and broke her leg a few days ago."

Storm hardly heard him through the hammering of blood in his ears. There were five other foals, counting Tracer, and they'd already surrounded him. Did he do all that running to tire me out?

"What is this?!" snarled the largest foal. Storm judged him to be at least two years old-dirty brown with a ripped ear and a broken front tooth.

"He can run," said Tracer calmly. "We need a new runner."

"You could have brought him later! If he goes to the elders, they'll kill us."

"He won't do that," said Tracer. "He's alone, Mylo."

"He looks awfully well-fed to be alone." Mylo came forward, bristling, and sniffed.

Storm cowered to the ground. It was too late to run. They were all around him. His fear that they'd brought him here to eat him gave way to fear that they would kill him to keep their secret. Elders did kill ferryshaft who were discovered feeding on the bodies of their own dead. Behind the others, a single foal continued to methodically devour the corpse.

Another foal, almost as big as Mylo, gave Storm a shove with his scarred muzzle. "He's a runt. He probably lives on roots. He won't starve until next winter when he's bigger. In the meantime, he's useless."

Tracer seemed unperturbed. "He-can-run. He can get into small s.p.a.ces, Callaris. We will starve without someone like him to flush the prey."

"Ally can get into small s.p.a.ces," countered Callaris with a jerk of his head and a sneer in his voice that told Storm exactly what he thought of Ally.

A tiny foal, even smaller than Storm, limped out from behind a tree. Something was wrong with one of his back legs. It was small and twisted-a birth defect that should have been a death sentence. His large eyes met Storm's and then jerked away. So, six of them, he thought. But this one won't kill me. He'll just eat my liver after I'm dead.

"Ally can't run," persisted Tracer.