some of his damn pets loose around these parts, them fuckers like scare all the game away from wherever they're at, you know, they stink as bad as snakes and alligators. I'm like flat bushed and my stomach's growling like I was still a damn old boar-hog, too."
Nestling his steel cup back among the coals, Fitz stood up, paced over to the tree, untied the rope, then took the lowered carcass over to the waiting lion. While the huge beast rent flesh and crunched bones, they continued to silently converse.
"Where's Sir Gautier?" asked Fitz.
"Well, like, man, he nor me expected you back so damn soon, you know. Like, you ain't been gone a whole day, you know. He went off to see could he find the rest his Normans, man. He shouldn't have no trouble there, like, man, he can just follow the stink." The feeding carnivore added, "He should ought to be back in two, three days, like anyway. Hang around, man. You can spend the time like shooting some more of these; they're good eating, see, but the little fuckers are like too fast for me to catch one, usually. I'll be done with this soon, man, hand me down that bird up there, too, huh?"
Fitz shook his head. "That pheasant's my breakfast, Cool Blue. Do you want what's left of the one I just ate?"
"Like is the Pope a Catholic, man?" was the lion's reply, "Like throw them over here; I'm like starving, tramping around these fucking boondocks all day for
nothing but a few damn frogs. What'd you like do with the guts and the head and legs and all of this little thing, huh, man? Like they're some of the best parts."
But when Fitz had directed Cool Blue to the spot he had dumped the offal from his kills, little was left aside from bloodstained leaves and stray feathers. The lion's color became almost navy blue and Fitz ended by giving his companion the other pheasant, reflecting to himself that he could breakfast out of die supplies he had brought from the other world, Sir Gautier not being on hand to take a share. Then he banked the fire and zipped himself into his sleeping bag under the overhang, the entrance more or less blocked by rocks, the motorcycle and other gear and the huge, blue Hon sleeping just the other side of the firepit.
Hungry as the lion still remained, Fitz doubted that any edible creature would survive long enough to get across the small clearing to the overhang and him, so he went to sleep feeling as secure as if he had been in the soft bed in his other-world bedroom, guarded by multitudinous alarms and a twelve-foot cyclone fence topped with barbed wire.
Nonetheless, he awakened a bit after moonrise to the certain knowledge that he no longer lay alone in the rock recess. Opening his eyes to bare slits, he could see between himself and the lit clearing a shape that was patently feline but clearly not the bulk of the baby-blue lion.
"Tom . . . ?" he projected telepathically, "Puss . . . ? Is that you?"
"Yes, my dear, old friend," came the silent beaming into his mind from the leopard-sized beast, moving close enough to lick at his face with a broad, rough tongue, "I am the creature you once knew as Tom/ "
As the hundred-and-a-half pounds of lithe, furry animal lay down beside and snuggled against him, Fitz wondered again—for the umpteenth thousandth time again—if this, any of this, was truly real and, if the events of these last few years had indeed taken place, how it was that they could be real.
And the huge grey cat read his thoughts, half buried though they had been. "Yes, my old friend, my dear friend, it is, has been and is now real. You must accept it, for all that there yet is too much of the mere human left in you to understand it. You must accept it on the faith that you will in time understand it all."
"Mere human, Puss?" he beamed. "If f m not a human being, then what the hell am I, pray tell? What am I supposed to be becoming? A cat, like you? A lion, like Cool Blue?"
He sensed a gentle humor in the silent reply from the now-recumbent feline
Nestling his steel cup back among the coals, Fitz stood up, paced over to the tree, untied the rope, then took the lowered carcass over to the waiting lion. While the huge beast rent flesh and crunched bones, they continued to silently converse.
"Where's Sir Gautier?" asked Fitz.
"Well, like, man, he nor me expected you back so damn soon, you know. Like, you ain't been gone a whole day, you know. He went off to see could he find the rest his Normans, man. He shouldn't have no trouble there, like, man, he can just follow the stink." The feeding carnivore added, "He should ought to be back in two, three days, like anyway. Hang around, man. You can spend the time like shooting some more of these; they're good eating, see, but the little fuckers are like too fast for me to catch one, usually. I'll be done with this soon, man, hand me down that bird up there, too, huh?"
Fitz shook his head. "That pheasant's my breakfast, Cool Blue. Do you want what's left of the one I just ate?"
"Like is the Pope a Catholic, man?" was the lion's reply, "Like throw them over here; I'm like starving, tramping around these fucking boondocks all day for
nothing but a few damn frogs. What'd you like do with the guts and the head and legs and all of this little thing, huh, man? Like they're some of the best parts."
But when Fitz had directed Cool Blue to the spot he had dumped the offal from his kills, little was left aside from bloodstained leaves and stray feathers. The lion's color became almost navy blue and Fitz ended by giving his companion the other pheasant, reflecting to himself that he could breakfast out of die supplies he had brought from the other world, Sir Gautier not being on hand to take a share. Then he banked the fire and zipped himself into his sleeping bag under the overhang, the entrance more or less blocked by rocks, the motorcycle and other gear and the huge, blue Hon sleeping just the other side of the firepit.
Hungry as the lion still remained, Fitz doubted that any edible creature would survive long enough to get across the small clearing to the overhang and him, so he went to sleep feeling as secure as if he had been in the soft bed in his other-world bedroom, guarded by multitudinous alarms and a twelve-foot cyclone fence topped with barbed wire.
Nonetheless, he awakened a bit after moonrise to the certain knowledge that he no longer lay alone in the rock recess. Opening his eyes to bare slits, he could see between himself and the lit clearing a shape that was patently feline but clearly not the bulk of the baby-blue lion.
"Tom . . . ?" he projected telepathically, "Puss . . . ? Is that you?"
"Yes, my dear, old friend," came the silent beaming into his mind from the leopard-sized beast, moving close enough to lick at his face with a broad, rough tongue, "I am the creature you once knew as Tom/ "
As the hundred-and-a-half pounds of lithe, furry animal lay down beside and snuggled against him, Fitz wondered again—for the umpteenth thousandth time again—if this, any of this, was truly real and, if the events of these last few years had indeed taken place, how it was that they could be real.
And the huge grey cat read his thoughts, half buried though they had been. "Yes, my old friend, my dear friend, it is, has been and is now real. You must accept it, for all that there yet is too much of the mere human left in you to understand it. You must accept it on the faith that you will in time understand it all."
"Mere human, Puss?" he beamed. "If f m not a human being, then what the hell am I, pray tell? What am I supposed to be becoming? A cat, like you? A lion, like Cool Blue?"
He sensed a gentle humor in the silent reply from the now-recumbent feline
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