Well, now you know even more than I do! I have to say, these morphographers, or field workers, or whatever they are, are a smart bunch. They tell me things about my co-wives and co-mates and even about myself that I never thought about before.

But I’m going to tell you something they never knew.

In a lot of ways, my life for the past 30-odd years has been OK. Or better than OK. It certainly was different from the 55 or 60 before that.

I’m always torn between remembering my life with Drushka and Ranee and Kanyaa–I loved them so much–all the wonderful kits we raised together, and remembering the horrible way it ended and how miserable I was. I never imagined anything could be like that. And I still wonder why I’m even alive. Once in a while, in fact, just being alive makes me feel bad. That’s an improvement, though: there was a long, horrible spell when I felt bad for being alive all the time.

I guess the place to start is after that morphologist Roper left. He said he’d be back to the site in two or three months, and left some of his stuff. But we never saw him again. Time passed, uneventfully. Then, maybe two years after he left, all of us got sick. The two middle kits, Bobbie and Brenda, died. Everyone else recovered, but us co-mates were as cold as unripe boys. There’d been a wlkatar just four months before, so we knew it would be a long time before another one. So my brother and I made plans to pay a call on the monuxes to have our guts beaten to a bloody pulp by their stupid fucking. Yeah, fucking. That’s what they think they’re doing! Cock-whipping is all they know. They think we’re sexual deviates, that our tails are the same as cunts. (Who could be that stupid except on purpose?)

There was one problem. Drushka was still too weak for a gang rape by a herd of walking dicks. And even if he survived the experience, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t still be cold, or maybe we’d go cold again. I wasn’t in any great shape either, after all. But we’d heard reports of illness at some other family sites in our clans, and since we were cold anyway, it seemed like a reasonable as well as sociable thing to do for me to look in on them. Carry our good wishes. Catch up on the family news. See if there was anything I could do to help.

The old ladies wanted to come along. They were anxious about their kin, and besides, hadn’t visited in a while. The whole thing was a sorry mess. The first two sites we visited were deserted. It was pretty alarming. Worse, one of my ancestresses was so upset she insisted on staying put. Insisted. Said she was born there and lived there half of her life and couldn’t leave now. But there was nothing there! I pleaded, the girls’ great-great-great-grandmothers scolded, but Lydia was like a tree. "You’ll die here" we all said. "I know", she said.

Well, the third one we got to, they were just recovering from an illness that sounded like what we had. Two of their kits had died, too, and the illness killed Drushka’s and my great-grandmothers on our fathers’ side. Last time we’d seen them they were a couple of salty old dames pushing 160 and full of juice.

Truth to tell, Rose and Lily weren’t in any great shape, either. I could tell they were in a fix over Lydia. And on top of being worn out by the travel they were distressed by everything we encountered.

The family wanted to know what I’d heard of hunters. Nothing, in fact, and I couldn’t even believe I was hearing the question. Hunters? Here? That’s totally illegal. But after stewing about it I gave into my worries and changed my plans and headed back to our family site right away. The old parties thought they’d stay. They insisted it was because they were too worn out, but I suspected they thought they’d be in the way. They would, but it almost made me decide to stay.

In the end, we all came to the conclusion that it was best if I leave and take two weanling kits with me: Tim and Mickey. There were four pairs of different ages left, which normally would have been manageable, especially if my great-grandmothers had still been alive. But on top of everything else, one of their moms had died of the disease, too, and their co-dads, my uncles, were still pretty sick. Grace, the one surviving wife, had her hands full with suckling babes six months old. If Rose and Lily stayed, they could help, but not much.

They were all so bitterly unhappy to see the kits go. It tore me up. Like that Mr Roper says, adoption isn’t uncommon among wlko, but my kinsmen were already shaken. One loss after another. This was just one more blow.

But it was a relief, too, I could tell.

I set out for home with the two barely weaned babes. I carried them. Generally one or the other rode on my shoulder, one leg down my chest and the other down my back, his little arms around my neck. Sometimes he’d cover my eyes without meaning to. The other I carried on my arm. They’d trade places from time to time. They were so quiet. I know they were frightened and lonely.

And then we were delayed two days by fires. That was really odd. We sometimes get wild fires, set by lightening, but there hadn’t been any storms for weeks. It was the wrong season anyway. But I could smell fire on several sides, and the smoke was very thick in places. You can always get away from fire if you’re by water, but we weren’t. And I was afraid of getting cut off. No, not "afraid": I was scared out of my fur. At night, at least, you could see it, see the burning, long before it got too close. It was never more than a horrible glow on the horizon. But I didn’t get much sleep. I tried to hide it from Tim and Mickey, but I was half crazy with fear and worry.

When we got back to the family site, it was horrible. My brother and our wives were dead. Murdered. And mutilated. The kits were nowhere to be seen. We had four, after the two had died: two little green-eyed girls of 13 or so and two boys, Bruno and Boris, who had been doing nothing for five years, I swear, but eat, sleep, and link. I don’t remember having any such appetite for sex when I was their age! They’d gotten a taste of cunt at the last wlkatar, not so long ago, and had a real hankering to spend some time between the legs of wlkwim, so we’d started to talk to families in Drushka’s and my clan about marriage. We had one excellent prospect lined up. It was an easy sell, since the boys were affable and friendly, easy to be around. Real heartbreakers, those rascals.

And so were our girls, Trish and Tina. We’d had inquiries. They were beautiful, no doubt the prettiest girl kits we’d ever brought up, but 13 is a little young to marry, we all agreed. If they’d gotten pregnant at the wlkatar, it would been a different story. I’d say they were actually even more pleased than the boys by their experience with the opposite sex. They certainly put their backs into it. Slept for a solid week after we got home, or so it seemed. And spent most of their waking hours with their heads together, talking about this boy and that boy and wondering if they were pregnant.

I think both of them were sort of pining after two certain particular wlkon who’d fucked them. Handsome rogues, fucked them half a dozen times apiece. That doesn’t happen by accident, so the attraction was mutual. The girls’ moms and dads, well, we weren’t exactly keeping score. We were busy. Busy deciding between such things as more fucking or maybe a link for a change, and taking a little nap. But the girls definitely were on the prowl. We teased them that just about every male at the wlkatar had one or the other at least once. But they spent a lot of time later talking about these two dreamy guys from Clan 2. Clan 2, no less! Real classy lads. A catch–except for the detail that they were married and had a bunch of kits.

But you know the way girls are: Trish in particular was in a tizzy over whether to pine over the unavailable Clan 2 boyfriends or pine over a pair of equally unavailable brothers every bit as old as Drushka and me. And lovely as the youngsters from Clan 2 were, by comparison, I thought she knew what she was talking about: those older men were mature and courteous. And must have known how to make a girl very happy. They took turns in Trish for most of one night, before juicing just once apiece! Unheard-of. And she practically passed out from the beautiful feelings. They even took Trish from both sides at once, which she loved. I’ve never seen so much hkshihh on a girl’s fur.

But like I say, they were married.

The available boys they’d fucked with, I gather, were written off as "wlkatar rejects". Awkward and callow. Interested in leaving their juice in you and nothing else. "Fucking like it was some sort of contest", Tina said. Fun while it lasted, which wasn’t long. All a blur. Still, there was one of them–a lanky kit from Clan 30 or some such–I thought Tina talked about him with a kind of sneaking affection. And at least he wasn’t–they weren’t married. I wouldn’t mind having them for sons-in-law, either, what I knew of them.

Neither girl got gifts from the wlkatar. Not at all unusual; still, considering how much SkhtuS pumped into those little slots (especially by their attentive young men), it’s surprising that nothing took. I wouldn’t have minded a bit if the Clan 2 youngsters, or even that older couple, had fathered a kit or two. And I wouldn’t have minded a bit having the rawboned youths from Clan 30 in the family, one way or another. I guess lots of not-quite-handsome people make up for it with personality, or something.

But now there was nothing. They were gone. The children. All four of them. I looked around a little for their bodies. I didn’t dare stay too long. Everything smelled like smoke. And strange scents.

And carrion.

I was too busy gagging to cry. I grabbed up a few things, including that stupid "Report" thing that Roper had left behind. Why, I don’t know. I guess I thought it was important. I had a sort of duty to save it, or something. And the few things made of metal that hadn’t been stolen–a couple of pots, and the knives.

And then the kits and I ran.

We lived somehow for several months. It was awful. I decided to stay away from big water as much as possible, since that’s where hunters would be looking for wlko. It felt very strange. I’d never been out of sight of water for as much as one week, never mind eight or twelve in a row. We had a hard time finding anything to eat, though at least nhlasah fruit was in season; and while ksehmhhss is no fun at all to eat without the right stuff to go with it, it keeps you alive. I could catch small animals once in a while. I can cook OK, but I’m no good at making fire. I tried. But we ate everything raw.

The kits were miserable and lonely. For all they knew this was simply what they were in for when their parents gave them to a stranger. They didn’t know enough to be terrified. They left that up to me.

I had no practice being afraid, myself. Not afraid like that. Afraid every minute of the day, day after day. Afraid and sick inside. Afraid and alone. I didn’t cry except when the kits were asleep, or I tried not to. I wasn’t successful. Years later, they admitted that, curled up against my chest and belly fur, they’d wake up in the middle of the night and listen to my moans and whimpers.

I had no idea how to avoid hunters, so I concentrated on getting away from the fires. I could smell smoke no matter what direction the wind was from, but it seemed definitely fainter from the north, and we kept going that way.

One day, we were making our way through tall grass toward a little clump of shishemu trees. All three of us were very thirsty. I thought there had to be water somewhere around the trees. A spring or a stream. Just as we got to the edge of a little clear area right by the grove I was startled, first, by a ground dove flying up practically right under my feet. Then, when I saw what was in the clearing I almost did a backward sommersault. I probably would have, if I hadn’t been carrying the kits–Tim on my shoulder, Mickey cradled in my left arm.

I know better than to walk downwind, but I was intent on that stand of trees. And it lay to the north, besides.

"Hello, white-balls" he said. Kind of drawled it. Low, rasping voice. "You’re finally here. You got a broken leg or something?"

It was a wlko. No: it was a rupellid. Big shoulders. And those horrible marks on his arms. A real brute. And he talked with a funny accent; I had a hard time understanding him.

"No", I said. I was rattled. "I’m not lame. I, um, guess you could smell us."

"Right", he said. "But I didn’t know there was three of you. Those things yours?" he asked, indicating the kits, "or are they–provisions?" He was busy licking his whiskers as he talked. He’d just eaten, seemingly. But not well. He was a big, muscular brute, no question–I could hardly take my eyes off his arms–but there were ribs sticking out under his fur.

Tim was holding on to my neck so hard he practically throttled me. Mickey was burying his face against my shoulder. "I’m scared, Daddy", Tim said, very softly. I was barely together enough to realize that it was the first time either kit had called me "daddy". But I was so untied I don’t know to this day how I held on to the little ones.

"Neither", I said. "I mean, yes, they’re mine. This is tshihs, here on my shoulder, and LhhoSh-hstkihs."

"Family names, I hope", the rupellid said, sarcastically. "Or did you stick a couple of innocent kits with names like that on purpose, white-balls?"

"I didn’t name them at all", I said, starting to get sore. "They’re cousins. And as for white fur, mister–a rupellid with a white purse?! That’s one for the books!"

He was lying on his back, sprawling, actually. Hind legs wide apart. His chest and belly were bright white from chin to asshole, including his sheath and eggs. As white as can be. But they were wet with hkshihh. I would have scented it a kilometer away if the wind had been right.

The whole exchange hardly took seconds. The thug was lying against something. I wasn’t paying attention to anything but the rupellid. I guess I took it to be a rock, I don’t know. But then I saw it was a monux.

"What’s wrong with the pony?" I asked.

The rupellid looked over his shoulder toward the animal’s head, still licking his whiskers. "He’s sort of dead."

"Dead? How did that happen?"

"I killed him."

"How–"

The brute shrugged. "Broke his neck, I guess."

I couldn’t believe my ears. I guessed that the pony had just made a man of this guy. But I couldn’t imagine–

"He hurt me", said the rupellid.

"They always do."

"And he was very insulting."

"They always are."

"Called me names. Said I was a pervert. Said I wanted his stupid pony-cock in my ass. Wanted it. Hunh. Why I’d want pain like that he didn’t say. Man, that was something else. This–this freak here, he’s the pervert, if you ask me. Making something ugly out of something beautiful. If I never see a cock like that again, it’ll be too soon. And I don’t like being called names."

"Well, everything you’ve said sounds about right. Anyway, white-nuts, unless that’s just monux-come, it seems to have worked." I nodded toward his groin.

He looked down his front for a long moment. "Yeah. I know. Great feeling, being normal again. I tried it out on our friend here."

"You–you did something like that with a–with a corpse?!"

"No way! Hey, he was perfectly alive. Not to say lively."

"You linked with a monux?"

I’d never heard of such a thing.

"Yeah. I was black for the first time in months. I’ve never been so hot and horny. Those guys’ve got real sexy butts, too, don’t you think?" A lewd growl rumbled briefly in his throat. "Anyway, I just took his ass."

"But they don’t do that!"

It was bewildering, but it seemed like this self-assured thug didn’t know much about monuxes.

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. "Who knows? Anyway, this one did. Not that he had much choice. He did kind of yell and scream, and he said the meanest things. Really. Such a mouth on him. But, OK, it wasn’t just his bad manners. Last thing I needed was a whole herd of these penis-freaks coming down on me."

"So you killed him."

"Well, yes, I guess you’d put is that way. I think his neck broke. Anyway, it made me juice." He yawned. "Horny as I was, I wasn’t getting very far very fast. I missed the third hand. Or rather, my drill did." He gestured toward his sheath. "But then his asshole clamped down on my black. Just like a wlko, almost. And man, did my balls snap. Whoa! Whoa! I’d almost forgotten what it feels like. It was be-yew-ti-ful."

He sighed and sort of stretched.

"Having sex with a dead man?"

"I told you. He was alive for most of it. And never what you’d call very dead. His asshole was still plenty alive, anyhow, even at the end. Last part of him to die, probably. Fitting."

I was feeling queasy. Tim repeated his whimper about being scared.

"Listen, white-belly–you by any chance have a knife in that sling of yours?" he asked. "You look as hungry as I feel. Well, OK, I’ve eaten the soft bits already. His tongue and his cock. But a knife would be real handy. There’s enough for a feast, here, but I wasn’t looking forward to trying to get under a pony’s hide with nothing but my claws."

With those arms he looked like he could pull a monux’s leg off by brute force.

"You–ate his cock?"