'What did we talk about?'

  'Balticea, that was a good number of seasons ago.'

  'Time aplenty to see a certain calf reach maturity.'

  Bodiah caught herself—Balticea's unannounced arrival, her allusion to retiring, all made perfect sense now. The southerner's past had come back to haunt her.

  'Let me refresh your memory,’ continued the Grand Matriarch. ‘On that occasion we discovered something precious in common. We had compatibly aged children.'

  'I know,’ Bodiah was reminded. Her son had been a full season and a half older than Balticea's yearling granddaughter. Since bulls matured later than cows, the hatchlings were ideally matched. ‘You're referring to the pact we made.'

  'Indeed I am. Bronte and Darved were pledged to each other back then. My grandchild is ripe to inherit my matriarchship. It is only fitting and proper that she be mated before doing so.'

  'There was a condition, if I remember rightly.'

  Balticea suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘Was there? All that happened quite some time ago. Like you said, one can't be expected to recollect every detail of that meeting.'

  'Quit backsliding, Balticea. You are old, but not senile or forgetful.’ The elder cow was suitably abashed. Without further ado Bodiah pointedly asked, ‘Has Bronte outgrown her ugliness?'

  'No, but...'

  'You said her hideous disfigurement would disappear, given time.'

  In a rare admission of fallibility Balticea gruffly said, ‘I was mistaken.'

  'Then perhaps I'll have to reconsider our agreement.'

  'That'll be inappropriate.'

  'You had this merger in mind from the very start,’ accused Bodiah. ‘That's why you advocated so strongly for this union all those seasons ago.'

  Balticea remained brusque. ‘I could see a deathly pattern even back then. The Thunderfeet are failing. This is the best strategy to break the fatal stranglehold over us.'

  'I can't condone my son being mated to such an undesirable cow, Balticea. You assured me Bronte would grow from an ugly hatchling into a normal adult.'

  'Don't belabour the point.'

  'It's a pretty significant point. Darved will be ostracised for mating with—for lack of a less hurtful description—a freak!'

  'Just because we are friends doesn't give you the right to criticise my judgement,’ the Grand Matriarch said frostily. ‘We entered into a pact. Your son would partner my heir. The provision you set is immaterial now. You have no daughter to inherit your position, Bodiah. When you die, who'll lead your herd?'

  'I will appoint someone to.'

  'The eligible cows will be squabbling over the role even before your body cools and still be contesting the ascension while the Killjaws pick them off one by one. Be practical. This is the only way. Darved will be mated to Bronte, she'll take my place as supreme Thunderfoot leader, and your herd will fall directly under the jurisdiction of the new Grand Matriarch.'

  The lesser matriarch conceded defeat. ‘How repulsive is my future daughter-in-law?’ she sighed resignedly.

  'Bodiah, I never knew you could be so shallow. Let's hope your son hasn't inherited his mother's prejudices.'

  'I'm assuming your herd members don't care one whit about Bronte's looks.'

  'They've accepted my granddaughter for who she is.'

  'Precisely. She's your heir, Balticea. They don't dare reject her on that score alone.'

  Bodiah made a valid assessment, compelling the Grand Matriarch to rethink her stance. Had grandmotherly love blinded her to the heartbreaking reality that Bronte was nothing short of being a barely tolerated outcast in her own herd? Balticea compensated for the grim evaluation with her renowned thinking. ‘Bodiah, you must convince them otherwise by befriending and supporting Bronte. Once the others see your acceptance of their new leader, they'll be won over. But you yourself must first put aside your bigotry.'

  Bodiah mulled over the ‘suggestion'. The fate of the sole two Thunderfoot herds left in this region rested on her broad back. She swallowed her pride. ‘I'll do it. Not for your sake or mine, but for Darved's. Knowing my boy as I do, he will actually look forward to courting your granddaughter. In that respect he's a hopeless romantic, much like his father was. I only want my son to live a long and happy life without being alone.'

  'That is also my desire for Bronte. On that score I'm glad we agree.'

  'What's the next step then in your grand plan for salvation?’ Bodiah asked acidly. She may have accepted the coming upheaval in her life, but that is not to say she liked it.

  'I go and get my herd. They're less than half a day's march away. We'll see you around midday tomorrow.'

  Balticea plodded off, leaving Bodiah to fume over the Grand Matriarch's meticulousness.

  * * * *

  Bronte was nervous. Soon she would be introduced to her arranged beau, but first she had to meet with the approval of his dam. Her grandmother assured Bronte that her future mother-in-law was no terrifying old hag, though the younger cow was not convinced. The steely-eyed matriarch staring fixedly at her across the way looked about as friendly as an attacking Killjaw.

  'Come over and meet Bodiah,’ Balticea called out encouragingly to her granddaughter. The fellow Thunderfoot leaders stood apart from their respective herds, bridging the awkwardness that separated the bands of milling sauropods. The others would not crossover and socialise until given the go ahead from the Grand Matriarch. Until that nod happened, they had to be content to watch the exchange from the sidelines.

  Bronte slowly ambled toward the matriarchs, chaperoned by Kahla. The pair had been disgustingly inseparable since Balticea's niece had been appointed her custodian, denying Bronte any opportunity of sneaking off to be with Chappy. She risked a glance backwards and felt her heart tugged by Florella's sad countenance. Her foster mother should rightfully be at her side to give her daughter away.

  'I hope you like rejection,’ Kahla whispered spitefully to her kin. ‘No mother will want her son to mate with you.'

  'Shut up, you're spoiling my day,’ Bronte muttered peevishly.

  'Hello, child, you probably won't remember me. You were barely hatched out of the nesting trench when I first laid eyes upon you,’ greeted Bodiah. Her cordial words had an underlying tone that was decidedly cool.

  'No ma'am, I don't,’ the unsure cow courteously replied.

  'I'm sorry to see you haven't changed a bit.'

  Kahla sneered at that snide comment.

  The tension of the moment was not lost on Balticea and she promptly interceded. ‘Now is a good time for the betrothed youngsters to get acquainted,’ she curtly suggested.

  Bodiah glared at the Grand Matriarch and called out to her son. ‘Darved, join us.'

  Bronte strained her neck to catch the first glimpse of her beau. She was not disappointed. The foremost ranks of Bodiah's band parted as a handsome bull plodded forth across Fernwalk. The sky was leaden and blustery, yet the milky noon sun burnished his mahogany hide, accentuating his masculinity. Bronte caught her breath and Kahla fumed with envy. Grandmother had chosen well.

  Darved halted by his sour-faced mother and regarded the blemished of the two northern cows with an intensity that made her squirm bashfully. ‘You have to be Bronte,’ he rumbled approvingly.

  Bronte shyly returned his gaze. ‘I guess I am.'

  Clearing her throat, Balticea said to Bodiah, ‘Time to let these two get to know one another,’ before addressing the herds, ‘Okay, Thunderfeet. You may mingle.'

  The ground shook as dozens of heavy-footed bodies converged en masse. Old and distant friendships were renewed, while new fellowships began. Gossip from the forest grapevine was exchanged and debated. The matchmaking matriarchs left the fraternising sauropods to catch up and retired further out onto the plain to finalise plans for the takeover. It was essential the transition progressed smoothly. They did make a point of staying in plain view of the acquainting teens during their discussion.

  'That goes for you too, Kahla,’ Balticea commanded with a shout. Her scowling niece was loitering by the teens. ‘Leave them be and go hobnob.’ The widely disliked cow withdrew and wandered off alone. She had no friends to speak of in either herd.

  Bronte and Darved, heedless of the chattering throng, were captivated with each other. To them both it seemed no other Thunderfoot in the world existed.

  'Do you feel as maladroit as me?’ asked the bull.

  'More so,’ confessed Bronte. ‘What do we do now?'

  'Talk.'

  'About what?'

  Darved eyed the conversing leaders. ‘Family seems a good starting point.'

  Bronte snorted sardonically. ‘Is your mother always this happy looking?'

  Darved guffawed. That was the icebreaker. ‘Actually, this is one of her better days,’ he wryly stated.

  'Grandmother and Bodiah make the perfect couple then.'

  The bull and cow laughed heartily at that wisecrack.

  'But seriously, Darved, I don't think your mother likes me.'

  'Don't take it to heart. She finds it hard to like anyone. I'm surprised she liked my father enough to mate him.'

  Bronte glanced about. ‘I don't see your sire. Where is he?'

  'Father is dead. He passed away when I was only four.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that. I can sympathise. I lost my mother when I was but a hatchling.'

  'That's rough, Bronte.'

  'It's no big deal. I never really got to know her.'

  'And your dad, is he living still?'

  'Yeah, but he's never been what you call an active participant in my life.'

  'It's tough growing up without a father,’ agreed Darved.

  Bronte looked over at Bodiah and was met by a frank and unfriendly stare. ‘Bodiah really doesn't approve of me.’ She grew coy. ‘Do you like me?'

  'Very much.'

  'All of me?'

  Darved instantly grasped her meaning. ‘Oh that. The naevus doesn't bother me, Bronte. It just means you're different.'

  The cow was crestfallen. She preferred not to stand out.

  'I like different,’ added the bull.

  Bronte was gladdened. ‘I think we're off to a wonderful start,’ she beamed.

  She and Darved spent the remainder of the day lost in each other's company talking about trivial matters and things of consequence with equal ease. The couple was a match made in heaven. They were soul mates. Around late afternoon they indulged in a pastime that all Thunderfeet shared and walked over to the forest verge to feed. The watchful eyes of the two matriarchs never once left them. The sky was turning scarlet with the purpled shadows stretching and deepening by the time they had satiated their enormous appetites on their fill of groundcover fronds.

  Plucking a bouquet of ferns at his feet, Darved presented the offering to Bronte.

  'Oh, no thanks,’ she politely declined. ‘I couldn't swallow another mouthful.'

  'They're not for eating,’ Darved mumbled. Talking was extremely difficult when holding a bunch of stalks in your mouth. ‘It's part of the courtship ritual.'

  Bronte was more than a little vague. This was one subject her knowledgeable grandmother had not covered with her. Even Aunt Flo neglected to educate her on ‘the birds and the bees'.

  'You're supposed to take it and follow me,’ prompted the bull.

  'Where to?'

  'That poplar grove over there.’ He gestured to a nearby stand of cottonwoods with their arrowhead trunks and triangular leaves.

  'And what am I to do with it once we get there?'

  'We eat it together after consummating our mating. Mother told me that a couple tends to feel hungry after, you know ... it.'

  Bronte looked away in embarrassment. Both she and Darved were first-timers, as Thunderfoot custom dictated, but he was plainly better informed than her. The self-conscious cow glanced back at Balticea, who rumbled encouragement. Bodiah continued to glower menacingly.

  Turning her attention back to Darved, Bronte thought she glimpsed a flash of red in the forest behind her newfound bull. Accepting the proffered greenery, she filed behind Darved as he led her into the copse. It was a bit of a tight fit for the titans to squeeze their bulk through the close-growing boles, but they managed in the end and found themselves in the treeless center fenced away from prying eyes.

  The cow's nervousness intensified and she accidentally dropped her arrangement of ferns. ‘I'll pick them up,’ she hurriedly said.

  'Leave them for now,’ Darved softly urged. He inched close and tenderly nuzzled Bronte's neck with his snout.

  'This is all happening so fast,’ she whispered giddily, her mammoth body trembling.

  The bull drew back. ‘You wish me to stop?'

  'I didn't say that,’ responded Bronte, provocatively rubbing her flank against his and lowering her head in readiness.

  The coupling was brief but intense. During procreation a Thunderfoot cow has to support the full weight of an adult male on her back, so the union was mercifully over in a matter of a few minutes. Darved dismounted and rested. He and Bronte would mate several more times during the night to ensure fertilisation.

  * * * *

  Bronte woke ravenous. She gulped down the gifted ferns and, still hungry, stole from the poplar grove in search of more green edibles. It was a couple of hours past midnight and Darved, exhausted from his efforts, slept soundly on his feet.

  The cow felt curiously fulfilled and refreshed, in spite of the tiring events of the evening, having had her first decent sleep in ages. No terrifying nightmare haunted her dream state this time, although ever since meeting Gideon her presage had subtly altered on those nights it invaded her dreams unbidden. The unknown incubus pursued her unremittingly through that ghostly landscape, but the undefined phantasm waiting to rescue her skeletal reincarnation now took on a solid form. It shone forth in blazing white light as Gideon. Bronte could hardly help but recognise the significance of this and came to the disquieting conclusion that her nightmarish vision indeed had the signs of being a portent—but of what exactly? And what was the tail-less stranger's link to her oppressing feeling of doom?

  Finding an enticing clump of fernery nearby, she began to feed when a peculiar noise pulled her up short. It sounded very much like a hollow whistling.

  'Pssst, over here.'

  Bronte knew instantly who it was and followed the telltale low-key hoot of Chappy. She found him hiding furtively in a sycamore stand. ‘Come out of there,’ she instructed him.

  'Not bloody likely—do you know how close we are to the Killjaw throne?’ Chappy tapped his head with a forefoot. ‘I must need my skull examined for being here. It'd be far simpler if I just trotted up to ole King Rexus himself and offered my carcass as a free meal. Then I wouldn't have to worry any more about constantly looking over my tail for trouble to show its fanged mouth.'

  'You're being ridiculous.

  'Oh, am I? You can say that cause you're not the “meat of the day” on the Killjaw menu. I ought to be heading north, but no I've gotta play the part of best friend and go in the opposite direction of my kin right into bone-crunch central.'

  'I thought I saw you skulking about earlier. That red nose of yours is a dead giveaway.'

  The Duckbill reared up and covered his conspicuous nasal flap with his front feet. ‘I don't skulk. I merely loiter and observe.'

  Bronte stared hard at her pal. ‘Did you happen to see anything tonight you really shouldn't have been watching?'

  'If you mean Thunderfoot intimacies, please. I'm no pervert. I looked away at the appropriate moments.'

  The cow took no comfort in that statement. ‘Will you stop hiding in those trees like a day-old hatchling and come out?’ she barked irritably. She took exception to Chappy's previously unobtrusive nearness. ‘You can hide behind me if you like.'

  Chappy stepped clear of the trunks. ‘This'll go down well with my fellow bulls,’ he remarked sourly. ‘Protected by a girl.'

  'Would you prefer becoming breakfast for some marauding Killjaw?'

  The Duckbill sulked. Bronte had never seen Chappy so moody before.

  'What's the matter now?’ she said as he glanced about uneasily.

  'I've been on edge ever since, well, that encounter. I have hardly slept a wink.'

  'I can relate to that, Chap. There's something else though. You're not normally this agitated.'

  'I have a nervous disposition when I'm surrounded by hills with legs. Never have I seen so many Thunderfeet in one place at the same time.'

  'You of all reptiles should be used to crowds,’ said Bronte, citing the clamorous Duckbill throng Chappy had lived in all his life.

  'They haven't got two matriarchs I've got to hide from.'

  Bronte understood his qualms. She also suspected that his migratory instinct was demanding to be heeded, adding to his edginess. ‘Has Gideon been in contact?’ she asked with typical directness.

  'No. How about you?'

  The Thunderfoot shook her small head.

  'He had better not leave it too much longer. I need to be off shor...’ Chappy abruptly broke off.

  Bronte looked at her chum in the faint starlight filtering through the leafy canopy overhead. He was standing bolt upright with a blank expression on his snout, his normally pliable bill stiff as a board. That was not an unusual look in itself for Chappy. He often sported a faraway simper. What alarmed Bronte was the glazed cast to his eyes. Normally a showcase for his effervescent nature, they were dull with blindness. ‘Chappy, are you alright?'

  The Duckbill began to walk away, if you could call his motion walking. He moved like a marionette on a string, his limbs and tail jerking in response to an unperceived puppeteer.

  'Where are you off to?’ Bronte called after him in a frantic whisper.

  The bull continued his stilted walk with unseeing eyes, the unknown force possessing him guiding him through the inky forest without a single misstep. Not knowing what else to do, Bronte lumbered behind. Their bizarre stroll lasted just under an hour, the last quarter of which saw Bronte struggle against clogging undergrowth, pushing her enormity between tightly packed trees her smaller friend passed through with ease. Grumbling terribly, she ground to a welcome halt when the stiff-legged Duckbill came to rest beside a quietly gurgling stream of blackish water.