Motherstone by Maurice Gee

them, or both. And that would be that.
    It placed one paw over the lip of sand, testing it. Then it stepped out and slid down, forelegs stiff and tail like a snake. It was so bright on the sand Susan shielded her eyes. She heard the wooden slap of Slarda’s bow. The cat twisted, almost lazily, shifting its line, and kept on sliding. The bolt pocked the sand and slid down too, a stocky poisonous dart with a needle tip. Sand buried it at the foot of the slope.
    Susan watched the cat. It stepped out on the flat and stretched itself like a house cat at a fire. Again it yawned and its jaws creaked. It seemed lazy, bored, but its tail gave it away, whipping stiffly from side to side. Still it seemed to pay no attention to Slarda; and Susan gave her no attention either. She heard the frantic jacking of her bow as she reloaded. Slarda was a movement at the corner of her eye. The cat filled the rest. It stopped its yawning and turned to face her. She saw those eyes again, that she had seen in nightmares – hot and yellow, pupils in a flame-point. They seemed to cut into her like knives, penetrate to where heart throbbed and lungs pumped. She seemed to have no secrets from the cat, it saw into her brain to where the secret of her life was kept.
    ‘Cat,’ Susan whispered, ‘don’t. Please.’
    She heard the slap of Slarda’s bow again. The cat seemed to give no muscular movement, it sprang stiff-legged, it levitated, and the bolt whined under it, a yellow wasp, and struck the sand with a kapok sound. The cat had twisted in its jump. Now it faced Slarda. It began to step carelessly towards her. It was
strolling
. Susan leaned forward, she whispered, ‘Cat.’ For now she saw the marks on its side, the four raked scars running from shoulder to hip, pink and sore and tender in the hair. And saw the mark worn by a collar on its neck. This was him, this was the one. It was the cat the High Priest had kept, and ordered to kill her. The cat Ben had fought, and clawed on its side. And she had taken its collar off and sent it home. And here it was, in its jungle, on its sands – hunting Slarda. She watched. She knew the woman had no chance. She felt sorry for her and wanted to save her, but telling her to run would serve no purpose.
    ‘Cat,’ she whispered, ‘please don’t kill her.’
    ‘Cat,’ she called.
    It made no sign, but kept its lazy walk towards the woman. Slarda had reloaded. Thirty metres of sand separated her from the animal. She began a rearward creeping. If she was afraid she did not show it. Her eyes never blinked. She was a savage creature too. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth. The closer she let the cat come the better her chance. Her shot had to strike and had to kill.
    The cat advanced. Ten body-lengths away it stopped. Its tail grew rigid, its back arched. Its ears were flattened on its head. Stiff-legged, almost clumsy, it turned side-on, inviting Slarda to shoot. She shook her head and took a half step back. No, she would not shoot, not yet. ‘Closer, red one. I’ll have your skin.’ Her whisper came to Susan across the sand. The cat seemed to dance then, came in closer, stiff-legged still, head angled low. Again it offered its side to Slarda. And now the woman acted: in one movement aimed and shot. It was her chance, the best she would have. The speed of the bolt must beat the cat.
    Somehow Susan was there, she was in the Bloodcat’s mind, and knew it beat the woman not the bolt. Its spring began at pressure, not release – so it was gone before the bolt was launched, Slarda shot at nothing. Yet she was clever, and allowed for the movement; shot high, and the bolt came close. Its feathers brushed the Bloodcat’s belly at the peak of its jump. Then the cat was down, and running: four, five steps, then a bound. It came at Slarda high, dropping at her, and Slarda, in a crouch, knife in hand, reached up to slash the animal’s belly. She hoped to disembowel it. But in that upward look her throat was