He watched the door close.
The room was quiet after the no-tail had gone. Very quiet. The faint sound of footsteps had retreated into silence, but he waited for a long time to make sure they would not come back.
His gaze travelled the prison. There were no red lights beneath the glass eyes. They had stopped blinking at every movement ever since Fearful had touched that panel beside the door.
When he was sure the no-tail would not return, he went into his den. He had already taken note of the food there, placed on a wooden structure out of his easy reach, but there was no water. He had drunk the last of his own late the previous night, and after a whole day without he was thirsty.
High in one corner there was a metal grille. Behind it a gleam of reflected light showed him where a glass eye was watching, but the red light below it stayed dark.
The food was placed right at the back of the wooden structure. He rose up on what he thought of as hind-legs, but could not quite make his paw reach. It seemed there was no alternative.
Awkwardly, he planted his hind paws flat on the floor and straightened his legs.
He hadn't been in this posture since he was captured. The floor seemed a long distance away, and he lurched, steadying himself against the wood.
There was a second, smaller wooden structure set beside the first. He knew what it was for: he had seen Fearful sitting on one while he was reading.
He did not want to do what no-tails did. But his knees were trembling, and it would do no harm, surely, to just rest them briefly while he ate.
Slowly and awkwardly he lowered his body onto the structure. His top lip shuddered away from his teeth at the feel of it, but as he settled into it he felt again that unwelcome pang of recognition. He thrust it down with savagery. It was not-pack, and he would not acknowledge it.
Now the food was in easy reach. He put out a wary paw and pulled it close.
The thing that it was resting on was divided into two sections. Presumably this was for some mysterious no-tail reason. He was too hungry right now to care what it might be.
There was meat … though the no-tails had done something to it, so that the surface looked different. They had also cut it into small pieces. He examined it carefully, the saliva flooding into his mouth at the smell of it, and eventually took a wary bite of the very smallest piece.
Bloody hell. The phrase sprang into his mind from nowhere, and he snarled even as he began wolfing down the meat, so that momentarily he choked; but he swallowed down the lump of half-chewed food and got back control of his breathing, and ate the rest with more moderation.
Beside the meat there was a small heap of what looked like hard white flowers. He sniffed them suspiciously. They did not smell of anything much, but he was very hungry. Finding that one was palatable enough, he ate all the others too. Several lumps of yielding white stuff with a glistening golden crust were found to be delicious, and went down almost whole.
When it was all gone he eyed the fruit, which lay in the smaller, separate section. It was pale yellow, cut in strange curved slices. There did not seem to be any stone, though the shape suggested that the flesh might have been cut away from around one. Its texture appeared firm, even slightly woody.
Very, very cautiously he licked one of the slices.
The phrase was much louder this time, but he was too thrilled by the taste in his mouth to protest. He almost whimpered with delight as he devoured every scrap, even licking the plate to catch up every drop of delectable juice.
This went some way towards assuaging his thirst, but he still knew that he needed more fluid.
There was another object on the wooden surface, this one smaller, with much steeper sides than the first. He was afraid that it would tip if he pawed it towards him, so he stood up again and leaned forward to peer into it.
It was empty. Angrily he pawed at it anyway. It did tip – easily. Somehow he knew there should have been water in it. It was made to hold water. He did not know how he knew this, and did not want to ask himself the question; all that mattered was that the foolish bowl should have had water in it, and it had not.
There was an object attached to the wall near where the disappointing bowl had been. He glared at it. It was made of the same stuff as the clear that the no-tails put across his eyes when he was stunned, and through it he could see water. More than enough water to slake his thirst, but how was he to reach it?
He used the smaller structure to climb onto the larger. He pawed at the object and tried to bite his way through the clear. He tried to prise the top off but it was firmly fixed in place. Finally, in a wild outburst of rage and frustration, he found himself hitting it with one clenched paw – an action that frightened him almost more than the prospect of not being able to reach the water did. But even this had no result, other than to hurt his paw. The infuriating object could not be broken off or broken into.
There was enough space on the surface for him to lie down as long as he curled up small, and so he did, in order to study the water container and think about the situation.
Had the no-tails done this to punish him? To torture him?
He was in no doubt that they were capable of it. But a small voice in his mind – a very, very small voice as yet – suggested that Fearful would not have done this.
He thrust the thought away from him, but it came back, and whispered persistently that Fearful was the only no-tail who had shown them any kindness; and not only kindness, but trust. The same kind of trust that the puppies had shown when they clambered over him, or tugged at the rags of his not-hide, or fell asleep in the curve of his body.
It was pack.
He licked agitatedly at the white on his right foreleg. Dorcha was a no-tail too. He tried not to remember this, but it was true. She was pack, but she was a no-tail as well.
There was another truth hidden behind this. It frightened him so much that he refused to look at it. Instead he lashed out with his paw again, striking the metal band at the bottom of the water holder.
It was sheer accident that the blow hit awkwardly, slid off and slammed into the round thing set into the base of it.
Instantly a jet of water shot down from the nozzle above this and hit the wood underneath him. The splash from it sprayed him across the belly, startling him so much that he recoiled, and very nearly fell off the table altogether. Only a frantic grab saved him, and even that left him so precariously positioned that some very undignified squirming indeed was necessary to re-establish himself securely again.
The table was now wet. He licked the water off it and looked more closely at the round thing for a few moments before pressing it tentatively with his fore-toes.
More water gushed onto his wrist.
He tried to lap from the stream but met with little success. In the meantime, the precious water was running over the table and soaking him, and the level in the container was falling.
He sat up and looked at the thing called a cup.
With the utmost reluctance he pushed it beneath the nozzle and made it balance on its narrow end. It was not easy to achieve, but finally he managed it. Then he pressed the nozzle again, stopping when the cup was close to overflowing.
Very, very carefully he pawed the cup away from the container. At last, he could drink, and when it was empty he could get more.
The table was uncomfortable and he was afraid that if he moved without due thought he would tip the cup over. Gently he slid off again, landing on the chair. The cup was now in front of him.
He lowered his head and began lapping gratefully. The cup still seemed a little unsecure, however, so almost without thinking his left forepaw slipped around it. The long, flexible toes embraced it naturally, and held it steady.
It took several refills before his thirst was completely slaked.
Feeling more at ease than he had done at any point since his captivity began, he left the den again. The room was still silent and deserted.
Dorcha had not left her den.
It felt strange to step across the space where the intervening bars had been. He watched warily for them to begin dropping as he did so: it could still be a trap. They remained motionless, however, and he put his head cautiously into the other den.
His mate was lying on her side, curled up tightly. Her forepaws were wrapped around her head, and she was shaking. Tiny whimpering noises were coming from her.
He moved to her quietly, whining softly to let her know she was not in any danger. He was here now; he would protect her. He would do everything he could to save her from the no-tails' incomprehensible malice.
A lift of his head showed him that she had not eaten or drunk. He knew now what he had to do to help her, and how it could be done.
He rose readily onto his hind paws this time. There was a plate on her table too, as well as a cup. There was food on the plate, the same as there had been for him, though this fruit was a darker yellow; the slices were a different shape, and looked slippery. His mind reluctantly said peach.
Carefully he filled her cup and slid it across the table with the plate until it was close to the edge. All she would have to do was rise onto her hind legs and she could eat and drink just as he had done. He would show her how to hold the cup with one of her paws so that it couldn't spill.
She refused to stand up.
He nudged her and pawed her, making the gentlest of encouraging sounds. She needed to eat and be strong. How could she have healthy puppies if she wouldn't eat? How would she nurse them?
Was she ill?
He nuzzled her face anxiously. It was wet, and when he licked it he tasted salt, but it was not hot. Then he looked at the hurt place on her hind-leg. That too was covered in white, but this white was soft, a strip of not-hide wrapped firmly around the injured part. It would take very little work to prise it loose and pull it off, and his first instinct was to do so, but …
he hesitated. He suspected that Fearful had applied this to her. If that was the case, then maybe pulling it off would not be good. During the last few days the wound had been causing her pain; he had known it by the way she kept shifting, trying to find a way to ease it. Maybe the white was meant to help her, too.
She sat up, whining. Her body language was eloquent. She did not want food or water. She wanted comfort.
This was perplexing. He felt that they should simply curl up next to each other and sleep, but his forelegs had other ideas. They wanted him to put them around her – an action which had been simple and straightforward when he had mated her, but that was apparently not what was called for now.
She lay back down again. It seemed that she was having similar problems. She pawed his chest when he straddled her, and bit irritably at his chin. He did not know what to do, and nor did she. In an attempt to placate her, he tried licking her face again, and she bit his nose as well. He yelped. That move had not been a success.
In the event, they achieved some kind of acceptable compromise. She curled up and he settled down behind her so that their bodies pressed together; cautiously he wrapped one foreleg around her. His other, injured one was nestled between them, but the white prevented it from being hurt. She was still wearing her fur, of course, and the soft hairs tickled his mouth, but that was a small price to pay for peace in the den.
They slept, and for the first time since being torn away from the pack, he had no nightmares.
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