“They are well, T’carais. Little, black—soft—thing…”

He signed understanding.

“It—the T’carais’amp…”

This could not continue. “Please tell the tale clearly, Broodmother. Do you say that the T’carais’amp is endangered?”

“I do!” she cried, knotting her fingers together. “It—the soft thing—came out of the hills today and sat upon the stone at the base of the L’apeleka field, a short distance from the egglings and I, and seemed busy with something or another in its—its hands.” She paused to collect herself.

“Then, it began to make noises—horrible noises, T’carais, high-pitched and whining—just as the three youngest began a fight among themselves, which I of course had to attend to…”

“Of course, “he agreed, since this seemed required.

“When I looked around, the T’carais’amp was—was at the rock, holding out his little hand. And that—thing held out its hand and was going to—going to touch him!” Again she took a time to return to composure.

“I snatched him away, T’carais, and was hurrying back to the others when—it hissed at me, T’carais!”

This was new. “Hissed at you? By all descriptions, this is but a member of the Clans of Men. I do not recall having heard one of this family hiss…”

“Well, perhaps it was not itself that hissed. It was—holding a reed, T’carais, and I believe that it somehow caused the reed to hiss at me. When I turned to protect the T’carais’amp, it bared its teeth and said ‘D’neschopita!’”

This was apparently the awful whole, for she unknotted her fingers and stood with head bowed, awaiting his judgment.

It bared its teeth and cried ‘Pretty’? Odd and odder.

The T’carais had traveled much and judged most of the members of the Clans of Men harmless, if hasty. Their music had a certain charm, their actions a touch of madness bordering on art. Certainly there seemed to be no lasting harm in this one.