Nightpool by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

The sentient, speaking animals were aware of
death, too, his mother had said, and so were capable of
understanding the meaning of all life. The ordinary animals, living
only for the moment, did not deal with such meanings, and knew
death only at the instant it struck them.
    Teb thought he would like to sleep in here,
among the pictures of these knowing creatures. But he went on. He
turned from the great cave reluctantly, robing the animals in
darkness once more, and went quickly, deeper in, toward the
crawling tunnel. When he reached it he tied the pack and waterskin
to rope, and tied that around his waist so they would drag behind
him. He went into the low hole on his hands and knees, pushing the
lamp ahead.
    Crawl and push, crawl and push, the lamp a
yellow pool drawing him on. He thought of the other children who
had crawled here, generations gone, before there was need to flee
from soldiers, children playing tag with the foxes. He was through
at last and pushing past a row of small den caves; then his light
found the mouth of the wriggling tunnel. How small it looked, so
very low.
    He lay down full length, pushed the lamp
ahead, and slid in. It was tight. He had grown. He wriggled and
pushed, and dragged himself ahead, the walls pressing in. He could
get stuck here. He could panic as Camery had panicked once.
    He was soon very hot and uncomfortably
thirsty. He could not reach behind him for the waterskin. He pushed
deeper; the stone pressed his shoulders and arms. He began to sweat
under the weight of the stone. He wanted to thrust it away, pushing
at it with his elbows, sweating harder, his heart pounding; then at
last he lay still.
    But he must go on. The middle was the
smallest; it couldn’t be much farther. He inched forward,
squeezing, his clothes catching on the stone. So hot, the walls
pressing in and in . . . Sweat ran down inside the heavy
leather tunic and matted his hair. He pushed ahead an inch, another
inch. Why had he come this far? He could never back up, never. He
was trapped here. He wanted to scream out and pound with his fists
but could hardly move his arms.
    Then suddenly his outstretched hands felt
the walls give way, felt only space as the tunnel ended; and with
one final, straining shove, he shot out into the free, open
cave.
    He stood up, sucking in air, then stretched
tall. He untied the pack and waterskin and drank, then stripped off
the hot tunic. He pulled off his boots and pants, working them free
of the chain. He stood naked and free, and only then able to
breathe again, fully.
    Then very carefully, to see if he could, he
slid into the tunnel again, feet first, slipped back a little way,
then out again. Yes, it was easier naked. Scratchy, though. But he
knew he could get back all right, with his clothes off. He took up
the light and followed it into the first of the small den caves.
Here he drank again, then began to shiver in the cave’s chill. He
pulled on his clothes and lay down with his head on the pack. It
was then he remembered Garit’s note and pulled it from his pocket.
He held it close to the flame, but the words were only rows of
marks. He picked out his own name, nothing more. What if his life
were to depend on his ability to read such a message?
    He was nearly asleep when he thought he
should blow out the candle, but knew he could not sleep in the
pitch dark that night, even if fire ate air. Besides, there were
small open portals in the caves higher up, and all these caves were
connected. He turned over, sprawling on the cold stone floor, and
gave in at last to sleep.
    He did not know he was watched, and had been
watched since well before he climbed off his horse onto the
boulders.
    When they were sure the boy slept deeply,
the foxes slipped into the cave, wary only of the burning lamp, and
stood watching him and drinking in his scent. Twelve pale
foxes.
    They had started following Garit’s band when
first the six riders came up off the meadow onto the stony ridge,
followed