On the Edge
Cyril didn't too much mind the frontier. He mostly kept to himself in his cabin, heading into the village square on Sundays to pray, sell, talk and train. He kept his striped tail groomed, fished in the creek, and pretended it was the old country, only quieter.
On a Monday in February, he shivered as he hacked at hard garden soil. The forest land was good, and free for the taking, but why did the weather have to be so unreliable? Even with his black-and-white fur, and with the village a good ways away, he needed to wear pants and a shirt all season.
That chilly morning, Cyril leaned on his shovel and stared into the trees, which is what saved him. He saw figures sneaking by. Not mephits like himself -- natives. Four of them, whose weird grey-brown bodies blended in with the woods. It was always an unnatural sight, like the centaurs of myth. Cyril froze. The natives had bows and quivers slung across their long second backs, and their loping four-legged walk was taking them towards his village!
Cyril dropped the shovel. He hurried into his cabin to grab his musket and powder, and then he ran. For half a mile his boots pounded hard ground, till he got within sight of the smith's shop. He could smell Auren at work with hot iron and charcoal. "Raiders!" Cyril called into the shop.
Auren looked terrified, but he fumbled for the musket that was gathering dust in a corner. "How far?"
"Right behind me," Cyril huffed. "A few minutes. They were sneaking."
The smith's own striped tail flicked high in alarm. His fur was singed with sparks from the forge. "Wait here and catch your breath. I'll sound the alarm."
Cyril gratefully flopped onto a chair for a moment while Auren darted outside. In a minute he heard the chapel bell ringing, but the gunshots started just moments later. Cyril stood and went outside.
The moment he did, the air cracked and a native yelped, taking a bullet to the chest. The creature was a female, L-shaped like the others of her kind. The impact knocked her onto the grass with six limbs clutching the air. Cyril instinctively ran in her direction. Not a civilized person, just a native, but this was the first time he'd actually seen the guns used on someone. Not like the training dummies. There was blood on her brown fur and he felt like he had to get her to safety.
While Cyril ran, Auren called out, "What are you doing?" Auren and several others had smoking guns, and other shots were going off nearby. The natives had their bows out, and an arrow clipped so close to Cyril that he felt wind from it. Caught in the crossfire, Cyril threw himself to the dirt near the fallen native.
She stared at him, eyes dulled with pain. Cyril had never looked at one of these creatures this closely before. Her tail had sideways rings instead of proper skunk-stripes, and a black mask of fur highlighted those green eyes. Feathers and beads and deer-hide were her only clothes, and the hide shirt had a gaping bloodstain. The natives were just savages... but not animals. He guessed she had a name and a home, and that she wouldn't be returning. His fists clenched. What madness had possessed the natives to let her travel with a war party?
Gunshots, arrow-fire and shouts pierced the air around Cyril, but he couldn't even stand without being hit. He was useless! And in a moment he was distracted anyway, since he'd noticed something else about her. The native's lower belly was rounded and heavy. She lay on her side, gasping and bleeding, and didn't resist when Cyril moved to press a hand against her. Life moved beneath her skin. Cyril looked back up to her face, and murmured a prayer. "God... I wish there was something I could do." He'd run out here in a moment of compassion for someone he should have dismissed as an implacable enemy.
A sharp pain knocked Cyril to the dirt and burned into his tail. A furious native charged him with another arrow already drawn. Cyril saw the big six-limbed beast coming for him but was too shocked to do more than crawl to one side. The arrow was ready now. He saw the stone tip aimed accusingly at his face.
The woman shouted, and the arrow flew. But at the last moment the archer had changed aim, missing Cyril. The archer skidded to a stop beside the dying woman and tore off her shirt, trying to stop the bullet-wound, but it was obvious there was nothing to be done. She gave the same shout, delirious, raising one trembling hand. The native took her hand and spoke to her urgently. She said the same thing a third time. The archer turned to Cyril with a shocked look on his face. Cyril looked back and forth between them; the noise of battle had seemed to vanish.
The native man yelled something, and all the other tribesmen broke off their attack. They hurried to grab the woman and sling her across their long backs. Cyril was on his feet now despite the arrow sticking horribly out of his tail, reaching out towards her. His head ached and his tail was bleeding. The natives were running away! Cyril's own people cheered. He barely heard them. People, killing each other over nothing! And these native "animals" cared about each other, had families even. He felt sick and weak, an intruder in the frontier land. Cyril's legs gave out and he collapsed to the forest floor.
Cyril woke up dizzy, aching all over. Auren and his wife Sara were there, peering down at him. "Are you with us?" Sara was saying.
Cyril's throat was too dry for him to speak, so he nodded weakly.
"Thank God!" said Auren. "We were able to get the arrow out; it looks like your tail will recover. It wasn't the worst damage the savages did. And when you didn't wake up for hours..."
"Hush," Sara said, dabbing at Cyril's face with a damp cloth. She brought him water. "Suffice to say we paid for being off guard."
Auren sat nearby, taking off the blacksmith apron he wore. He seemed to have forgotten he'd kept it on all through the attack. So Cyril hadn't been out for long. Cyril saw the relief in his friend's face and wondered how bad the wound really was. Just an arrow -- not as bad as seeing that woman's whole chest-fur stained red... He shuddered and coughed. "She was..." he tried to say. The feel of her stretched belly had been so strange -- but doomed. Why that waste of innocent life?
"What were you thinking?" Auren said. "You ran towards them."
"I got pinned by the crossfire. Auren... they're people, aren't they?"
The smith and his wife stared at him. Sara said, "What made you think differently? Of course they are, heathen or no, six limbs or four. Which is precisely why they're such a danger."
"They killed Ven," Auren blurted, throwing his apron aside. "Just like the others last winter."
Cyril winced. His tail tried to hide and lanced him with pain instead. He'd hardly known Ven, a harmless farmer, and he wasn't at all the first to die from natives' raiding and the pox. For eight years the colony had stood here in this new world, four of them with Cyril there, and hardship had moved in as a permanent settler. He felt numb about the news of Ven, maybe as a way not to think too hard about how many more raids and reprisals there'd be. It seemed that civilized folk would never live here without having to fight the natives for every claw-length of ground.
"It couldn't have just been a raiding party," he said.
"That hardly matters." Sara crouched and changed the bandages on Cyril's aching tail. He tried to keep it still. She said, "Why not move closer to the shore? It'll be safer than that outpost of yours."
"It's home," Cyril said. He'd built the cabin in a fit of stubborn pride so he could say he was not just in the kingdom's farthest colony, but truly on the edge of civilization. "Besides, they didn't kill me when they had the chance."
He went back home with a splint on his tail, and tended to his garden. There had to be something better to grow in this soil than corn and wheat and carrots, but it was hard to ask the natives anything in their chittering tongue and not get arrowed in response. Pulling weeds helped calm him. The woods were quiet.
A week later, Cyril woke up dazed and spent the whole morning retching. The slightest smell of food set him off again. It wasn't for hours that he felt better, but when he did, it was as though nothing was wrong. And again the next day he felt awful, but it passed before he could make himself see Sara for more help. After that, there wasn't more than the occasional queasy spell, and his appetite came back in force.
After next Sunday's chapel service, Cyril felt taller. The ground looked farther away and he kept wobbling, unsteady on his feet. His stomach churned too. He staggered home and crawled into bed for an afternoon nap.
He woke up feeling incredibly relaxed. He stretched way out, with his feet kicking the bed and his feet touching the door.
Cyril glanced backward, and panicked. There was something else in the house with him! No, worse, attached to him! When he tried to scramble away he found he was four-footed, with an extra torso brushing the floor. His tail was way behind him, just like...
He sprayed in panic. The musk made his eyes water, even with his natural resistance. He looked like one of the natives! His tail was still broad and striped, and his fur black but for his white stripes and other markings, reaching way down between his front legs along the new torso. Four legs though! And between his forelegs there was nothing but white fur. He flipped over and studied his underside, afraid. Whew - everything was still there, just dragged all the way back to near his hindlegs. What had happened?
And, how could he get help without being mistaken for a native? Even with his fur pattern still right, he had to find someone before they reacted too quickly to seeing a four-legger. He put on his vest and hat, realized he couldn't wear pants, and staggered outside, blushing. It took him a few minutes to stumble around his garden, figuring out how to walk. Auren's house was closest. Cyril paced in that direction and kept his striped tail waving as obviously as possible. "Auren! Sara! Help!"
Auren appeared at the smithy's door, musket in hand, jaw hanging open. "Cyril?!"
Cyril let out the breath he'd been holding. "Yes, it's me! Don't shoot."
"What's going on?" said Sara from somewhere inside. "Dear God, what...?"
Auren stared at him, with Sara peeking over his shoulder. Sara was the first to recover. "Best get yourself inside."
He did, and stood with tail curled between his legs. "I don't know what happened."
Auren walked around him, amazed. "The 'what' is obvious. Why, is another story. It could be a disease from those beast-men out there."
"A curse," said Sara.
Cyril fought back tears. "I'm faithful enough, aren't I? And I lived through the plague, same as you." He'd come to the new world well after the first terrible winter, but had arrived just in time for the year of pox.
Auren grimaced, fidgeting with tongs from the forge. "Either way, the beasts did something to you. What do we do about it?"
"I can't go back to the village," said Cyril. "They'll shoot me."
Sara said, "Then we call the pastor. If a curse it is, he'll break it; otherwise he'll pray for you at least."
Her husband added, "And let everyone know to be a little more careful in picking targets."
Cyril shuddered, looking back over his stretched-out body. It felt alien, monstrous. It made him glad to be far out where he wouldn't have to face everyone's stares.
Max, the village priest, stared at Cyril and listened intently to everything that had happened. He said, "Can you recite the Litany?" Witches and possessed people couldn't get it right.
Cyril's head was full of questions and fears. He tried to focus, and started out with the words that'd been drilled into him since childhood. "Our Maker, who dwells..."
Everyone listened, leaning close to see if he'd get it right. Cyril quailed and took refuge in the words pouring out of him. After a while he forgot what was next. "I don't know! What's the rest?! All I can think of is, Amen!"
The priest let out a breath. "The Amen was the end of it. You said it exactly right."
Cyril's vision blurred and he wiped his eyes. "Then...?"
"I don't sense anything evil about you. If anything you seem healthy, full of life. How do you feel?"
Cyril's stomach rumbled, way back by his hindlegs. "Hungry." And relieved! Whatever was wrong, it wasn't the devil's work.
Max actually laughed, and patted Cyril on the upper shoulder. "That's easier to deal with than possession. With that long body I'd expect a big appetite. We'll all share a bit of the spare crops; it'll be another good growing year if we can keep from being shot."
"I'll work for the food," said Cyril.
"That you will. Spoken like a good man."
Hearing that made Cyril's ears perk up and his tail untuck itself from between his hindlegs. He looked to Auren and Sara. "And you don't hate me either?"
"No," said Sara. "It's still you we're seeing. Now, do you think with that strong back of yours you can haul some wood?"
Cyril threw himself into the extra work. For the first few days his friends escorted him all over the village, meeting people's stares with a friendly tail-wave and an offer to help with whatever they were doing. It was the most he'd been involved in town affairs since his first days in the new world.
His mood was unstable, though. Sometimes he'd find himself weeping for no reason, or pointlessly lusty, or flaring up in anger so that he had to turn away and chop firewood before he could do anything he'd regret. And he ate whenever he could, scrounging cheese and fish and vegetables, whatever people could spare. All that extra muscle in his new limbs made him faster, tougher, and hungrier. It took weeks to notice how comfortable he felt despite all the mood swings and the weirdness of walking on four paws. April's light warmed the world, and the dreams started. Wonderful ones, forgotten the moment he awoke but full of blooming flowers and a feeling of being loved.
He woke up one morning in his cabin, curled in his pile of blankets. There'd been a woman, holding him and rubbing gently along his underside... Cyril forgot the details as he woke, but it'd been nice. He lay on his backs. His mid-paws stretched and hugged back on himself, brushing over his lower belly.
He felt pudgy today. Still half-asleep, he poked at the fur around where he figured his stomach was. The skin felt stretched a little, not flabby, so maybe he'd just had too big a meal. He was still hungry though, and his belly rumbled. It kept doing that occasionally for the next few days - just doing little flips and gurgles. It didn't hurt though. In the afternoons he sprawled on the ground, resting paws on his stomach, and that seemed to make things settle down. He didn't know why, but if anything it felt nice.
Cyril started to worry about the flab. Into May he kept working hard, cutting trees and trotting around town as a courier and scout, but the pudge was just getting worse. Between that and the indigestion, he decided to visit Sara one evening.
"Oh, hello," she said, opening the door. "Auren is off chatting about iron and guns."
"I was hoping to see you," said Cyril, taking off the cap he wore to make himself more obviously not a native. "Do you have any medicine for an upset stomach?"
Sara said, "Feeling all right? Let me see. Here, lay on your side."
Cyril settled onto a rug and eased himself onto his right flank. Even as he did that, he felt his stomach start up again, stronger than even this morning. It was like someone was poking at him.
Sara knelt beside him and felt along his belly. "Well, with all you've been eating..." She trailed off, tail curling curiously.
"What?" said Cyril. "My stomach has been odd lately."
She said, "No, this here is your stomach." She moved her paw farther up his underside, where his skin felt flat and normal. Then she slid fingers away, avoiding his sheath, down to the odd swelling to poke and rub at it. Just then, it felt like something squirmed within his belly and poked at his skin from inside.
Both of them startled. Sara looked ready to spray him. "That was...!" Her hand trembled as she moved to feel his belly again. It was still doing that rumbling. "Cyril, I'd say it's impossible, but one miracle's already happened to you. It feels like..."
"Like what? What's wrong with me?"
She stared at his belly, then back at his face. "As though you're carrying a child."
Cyril laughed, feeling his stomach twitch. No, not his stomach... And she wasn't laughing along. His midpaws drifted to the swelling. They felt the way his skin stretched tight over the odd, warm weight inside him. A slowly growing weight, starting to move...
Sara said, "That day we were attacked, what happened to you?"
Cyril thought back to the native and the soft feel of her own belly. "I wished, I prayed there was something I could do for that woman. But she was dying."
"Maybe your wish was granted. To take over for her as a mother."
Cyril stared back at Sara, whose expression was hard to read. He took her hand to reassure himself. That squirming inside him started again. This wasn't natural. It couldn't be happening to him! He pressed midpaws against himself as though he could make the belly go away.
"If... if I'm right," said Sara, "you're only a few months along, and showing this much already. You're going to get bigger, and won't be able to hide it."
"Then what can I do?" Everyone would stare at him even more. And he'd grow... oh, God, was there a kit really growing there?
"It's a miracle. It has to be. You should make peace with this, with whatever's happening to your body." She stood and paced, nervously going to her drawers of herbs. "I don't know that you have much of a choice now."
Cyril tried to get through the day, but was a wreck. He kept breaking into tears or laughing at how this couldn't be happening. All the while he kept thinking it was his own prayer at work, if Sara was right. Maybe in the morning everything would be back to normal, two legs and trim belly, and he wouldn't have to think about raising a little skunk-kit.
After a long time he fell into a restless sleep. He sweated in his blanket-pile. The woman was there again in his dream, just like the native but without her round, pregnant middle. She was thin and beautiful. Her masked face smiled down at him while he lay on his backs, and her paws stroked through his fur.
Cyril reached up to cuddle her, and she settled atop him, nose to nose. When she spoke it was in the natives' odd language, and he didn't know what she'd said. But there was a question in her eyes. The woman's middle paws rested on the sides of his pudgy belly. She needed to know... something.
He realized from her look, her questioning tone, that he really did have a choice. She could take back the miracle, she was saying. It wasn't fair to do this to him or any man without him knowing. The kits (more than one?) would die with her, otherwise, but it wasn't his obligation to save a native's life.
Cyril stared into her eyes, horrified at the thought. "Let them die, when they could live?"
She spoke and this time he understood. "And be born... to you? You don't have to do this."
He sobbed quietly, cursing himself for letting his feelings get to him. Everything about his body felt strange, not his own. He hadn't asked for this, not really!
He cradled his belly, paws brushing against hers. "Neither did they," he murmured. Little innocent ones, resting inside him. "They just need a mother. Can I really be that for them?"
"You can," the native seemed to say. "If you're willing, you'll get everything you need. It's not all bad. Though not every man would have the courage."
It wasn't bravery, really, but compassion for the little ones. They should get a chance to live, and however this had happened to Cyril, he'd be heartless to deny them that. "I'll do it," he said. "I'll take care of them."
The woman leaned down and kissed him, holding tight for a long time. She was holding back tears of her own.
And then he was awake, with sun streaming through the window and paws resting on what he now knew to be a growing womb.
It was though his body had needed permission to let the kits grow. Over the summer he swelled in earnest. It snuck up on him slowly enough. One day he could still pretend the belly was just fat, and a few days later he'd crossed a line of feeling definitely, undeniably pregnant. The sensation was like nothing Cyril had experienced before, of course. The squirming, kicking and churning in his belly went on for hours sometimes. He got into the habit of rolling onto his long back and lying there, resting midpaws against himself and... singing. Just tunes from the old country in his laughable singing voice. The kits would quiet down when he sang a little and rocked side to side. He imagined how they'd pester and tease him once they were born. Always, he'd lay there longer than he had to, with a smile on his face.
He had another of the dreams. The woman was there, petting his tail. Around her he felt relief from the growing weight in him, and from the stares. "The preacher told everyone," he said to his imagined visitor. "Max called this a miracle, and I guess it is."
She was doing something with her paws, rubbing around his hindlegs. It was a very nice feeling, but... "Hey," he said, blushing. "What're you doing?"
The woman smiled and said, "Getting you ready."
Cyril went wide-eyed as he felt his skin shifting, reshaping under her touch. Before he could object, she'd moved on to nuzzling at his chest. It felt wonderful as her nose brushed over his fur, making his chest grow more sensitive. "And you'll need these..." she said.
Cyril brushed her hair as she teased at his chest. Every breath seemed to make it swell a little, starting to curve and weigh on him. Of course he should've expected this part, but these changes went beyond the belly and the squirmy kits hidden there. He started to cry. "I'm a woman?"
The native spirit looked up at him. "No, no, you'll keep everything. But you need more than extra legs to be a proper mother."
Cyril put one hand to his chest and looked back at himself, trying to see what else she'd done to him. He could guess. When he flipped onto his back he found he was still male, technically, but that he also had all he needed for giving birth when the time came. "Oh, God."
"Yours or my people's?" she asked.
"I don't know."
She kissed Cyril's cheek. "I've been watching over you. Let my people see you, when it's time." She hugged him close, letting him smell the strange scent of this land's natives again. It mingled with his own musk to make him feel peaceful, and proud.
He woke up relaxed by whatever he'd been dreaming. Slowly Cyril heaved himself upright from the bed onto all fours. Something felt different today. He walked outside to feel the breeze and found he was waddling with wide hind hips. At the same time he scratched his fuzzy white chest and felt the soft, heavy breasts hanging there.
For a while he stared, heart pounding and tail twitching. The tail brushed down between his legs and made him even more unnerved. He took a couple of deep breaths and steadied himself. He cupped his chest and gulped. "Okay... I'll need these." The rest of his shifting body was all right, considering, and male enough. If also female. His kits squirmed comfortably as he tried walking with his wider hips. After a few steps of jiggling and swaying he started to laugh at himself. "What a mess I am!" Hungry, too.
He grabbed a shirt and pulled it on, shivering at how the linen rubbed over his chest and stretched tightly. For good measure he donned his militia vest so he wasn't so obviously poking out in front. People had been staring at him enough already! Rather than go into town to do more errands, Cyril figured he could put that off and make himself useful by hunting. With his musket slung over his shoulder and powder-horn at his upper waist, he walked out to the woods beyond his hut.
As usual Cyril sniffed the wind. Game was still common out here beyond town, even with the native hunters. The walk did him good. He was waddling a bit and the musket's carrying strap slid between his new breasts, but that was all right. Soon he caught the scent of a deer. Ah, some fresh meat would be good for the kits! Cyril slinked into the woods and started along the trail, watching for signs of the deer's passage. After half an hour of walking, though, he found himself panting. At every step he was jiggling, waddling, feeling over-tired from the exertion. He had to go on, though! How could he let this, this blessing of his ruin his hunting and the rest of his work?
He walked on but soon had to lean against a tree, in danger of fainting. His kits kicked him and his cheeks burned with shame at being so out of shape. Just last week he'd been helping to haul wood around the village. Now, he was just an eating machine, unable to help anybody. His tail dragged along the ground as he trudged back home, hips swaying with each step. At home a snack of some leftover jerky helped cheer him up, but he was still stupidly crying over nothing, over being fat and ugly and useless. He needed to see a friendly face.
Auren was at work again. "You look miserable," he said, taking off his leather gloves to usher Cyril in and pat him on the shoulder.
"I know," said Cyril. He sniffled as he settled onto the floor, overheated by the forge nearby. "I can't deal with this."
The smith leaned against the wall. "There isn't much choice. What's there is there." He finally seemed to notice the breasts hidden under Cyril's vest, and tried not to stare.
"But how can I take care of myself when I'm like this? I can't hunt!"
Auren crouched beside him, eye to eye. "You still have your garden, right? And you're becoming a mother. It's normal to be a little helpless, and rely on others."
Cyril wiped his eyes and saw his friend smiling, trying to cheer him up. Auren had always been there. Now with that look of caring and concern on his face, and those muscled arms, Cyril found himself wishing... what?
Auren hugged him around the upper waist, and it was warm and wonderful. But then the smith stepped back with a startled expression, stammering an apology.
Cyril's mind reeled. "I... I should go!" There was a new warmth under his tail and he very much didn't want to think about it.
Auren could only nod. Cyril waddled back to his home and doused himself with cold water. He was still shivering when Sara knocked, asking, "May I come in?"
Cyril answered the hut's door, looking guilty. Auren's wife stood there with a basket of bread and fruit.
She said, "Auren told me what happened. I don't blame either of you, if that helps." There was some mischief in her eyes, though, when she added, "A mother-to-be often needs attention from her man."
Cyril stared at the floor, ashamed. "He didn't mean to show me any affection like that! I wasn't thinking clearly, and, and... Why do I need to go through this?" He looked up into her eyes, sniffling.
Sara set the basket down and gave him a hug, too. "You're blessed. Blessings don't always mean an easy life."
Blessings? "There was something the mother of those kits said... The original mother. Whatever it was in her language, convinced the other natives not to attack me, or to keep fighting. She said it three times." He settled down onto his long lower body, laying sideways. He meant only to look at his heavy belly for a moment, but his forepaws drifted down to caress it. He'd become tight and full, and even now one of his kits bumped against his taut fuzzy skin as if to greet him.
"Are you listening?" said Sara.
Cyril looked up from focusing all his attention on the kits. "Oh! I'm sorry. What is it?"
She shook her head ruefully. "You're certainly starting to act the part. I was saying, three kits if her words are any guide. I don't think it will be long now before they're ready. Will you be?"
"I'll have to be, for them."
"Do you have any idea what will happen to you afterward? Will you change back?"
"I don't know," he said. He'd need to feed the kits... ah, that would be wonderful! He smiled serenely.
Sara hesitated before suggesting, "You should have someone to help you take care of them. If you stay like this, you should marry. Possibly a husband."
Both of them blushed. It was hard to object that he was male when he could feel his kits squirming inside.
There came a day when the wind began to blow cold through his fur. He was outside, chopping wood, enjoying the strength of his muscles even while talking to the kits about the old country and about village life. "Sara should be by this afternoon to check on you, and then we can spend the evening relaxing."
The tree he was working on gave a sudden snap, sooner than expected. Cyril leaped to one side and made sure he was clear of the falling trunk. He stood there with one forepaw raised, ears alert, then laughed at himself. He'd really gotten used to the extra feet and to how he could move with them. Even with the challenge of the extra weight. "You okay in there?" he asked, laying down on his side to check himself over for the tenth time today. Just then, there was a twinge of pain low in his underbelly.
Cyril yelped. He staggered upright and turned in a circle, trying to make sure he was all right. Oh, Maker, he had to hurry! He rested the axe back on his improvised belt, then trotted toward Sara's place.
She didn't answer for a minute. Cyril paced, trotting in circles. Then when she finally opened the door he said, "I think it might be time!"
Sara laughed. "Another nervous mother! Cyril, if I didn't know you were a man..." She smiled and ruffled his tail with warm fingers. "Come in and I'll have a look."
Cyril blushed as Sara began to check his changed body over. He got his answer not from her but from another sudden convulsion, this one stronger.
Sara's ears flicked back in surprise. "This soon? I'd expect you to be in labor for hours, but at this rate we need to get you comfortable right away."
Cyril's claws dug into the rug. "Are the kits all right?"
"They're fine so far as I can tell, and energetic! I've never worked with a four-footed mother like you. Now let's get some bedding; maybe if you rear up on your hindlegs this will be easier."
A memory came to him. "Their mother, the native I mean, wanted me to be seen by her tribe."
"You can show off after you're done."
Minutes later, while Cyril was trying to get ready, Auren opened the door in a panic. "They're back! A whole mess of them, armed!"
Cyril yelped, caught by another contraction. Auren gaped at him, saying, "Now? This has to happen now?"
Cyril panted, blushing deeply. "I don't have much say in the matter."
Auren grabbed his musket and powder-horn. He told Sara, "The men are gathering to fight off the natives. Be ready to run to the church." In the distance, someone whooped.
"I'll go," said Cyril. "I need to." He struggled to stand.
Both Sara and her husband pushed him down. "You're busy," said Sara.
"There's just it! They need to see this. They need to see me."
"Are you crazy?" said Auren.
Cyril pushed his way past Auren and staggered outside, willing the kits to behave for just a little longer. "The natives are here for a reason."
He wobbled along not toward safety at the church, but toward the village's edge. A squad of militia had already gathered by the time Cyril and a protesting Auren reached them. A band of a dozen natives loomed in the distance amid the trees, stamping too many feet.
Cyril walked between the groups, started to tell them not to fight, then yelped and collapsed onto his side as the kits decided time was up.
Both sides swarmed toward him, stopped as they saw one another coming on, then warily approached more slowly. Spears and guns and bows lowered. Then the natives' leader called back over his shoulders and brought forward a woman with a blanket and a bag. A healer, a midwife.
Cyril's world shrank to his own body and the growing strength of his contractions. He was being watched over by the native healer and by Sara, and it didn't matter who else was there for the spectacle of the transformed colonist.
In a little while he lay flat on his backs, panting, and stared for the first time at a trio of kits. The midwives had just cleaned them off. His vision was blurry with tears. He felt them against his fur before he even got a good look at them. There was a six-limbed stripe-tail like himself, a two-legged ringtail, and another four-footer with a spotted pattern. They were the three most wonderful creatures in the world, and it didn't matter where he was or what the people around him were saying.
When the natives' chief got through to him, Cyril hugged his kits close, letting one of them drink for the first time. Though he was in a dreamy haze as the labor pains wore off, he paid a little attention as the native explained by gesture and a few broken words that there should be peace, now.
Of course there should.
It wasn't easy forging that peace, but the miracle of Cyril's motherhood seemed to everyone like a message from on high. He was the one to start spending more time among the natives, learning their language, and to raise the kits in a mix of cultures. In time he entered into a relationship that the holy men of two religions managed to justify and bless after much confusion, giving Cyril a very accepting wife from among the newest colonists, and an open-minded husband from the natives. He continued to live in the middle, as the town grew outward toward the tribal land and began to be less of an intrusion, more of a partnership.
Cyril spent the rest of his life raising a family. He was a father several times over and a mother, to his surprising eagerness, again and again. With all of his kits blessed with good health like himself, living and going on to marry among both cultures, the descendants of the blessed Cyril became too many to count. Our combined peoples spread across a continent and made a mighty city of this place, this colony that had been visited by miracle.
Sometimes it wasn't even clear that a family carried his gifts until they showed up unexpectedly, skipping generations. Ours is one such family. Or so I know, now, watching your extra paws start to grow. There might well be some other changes ahead, but we'll help you deal with those if they happen. Our line is used to compassion, family, and the unexpected. It's a fine tradition for you to join.