by Greg Curtis
Chapter Eight
“Have you considered growing some more fur?” Whitey asked.
Manx looked up in surprise. He'd fairly much forgotten that the cat was there. In fact he'd just been sitting out on the back porch, letting the sun catch his face, with a book in his lap, and trying to forget most of the problems in his life. Like the fact that there was a wild boar now turning his back yard into a series of excavations as it ate his vegetable garden. And of course the fact that there was a cat sunning herself not far away, laughing at his discomfort.
“Not really. No.” He answered the cat tiredly and then stared at the sky as a few parrots flew by. They really were quite pretty birds. But he wasn't that keen on their squawking. Or the fact that a couple of the blue ones were trying to build a nest in his mailbox.
“It's a pity. It would do so much for you!”
“I'm fine with my scars, cat!” he grumbled at her. “And I don't want a beard.”
“Who said anything about a beard?” The cat looked at him curiously. “I meant everything! Fur everywhere! It would help so much!”
Manx sighed. He should have expected it, he supposed. It wasn't as if she'd ever said anything nice before. And she had been quiet for a while. He'd probably been due another cutting remark.
Then again he was somewhat surprised that Lady Marshendale hadn't turned up on his front door with a gallows party. Damn that woman scared him! But for the moment it seemed she had her hands full with the beasts. He didn't know what she and the guards were doing – there was no news anymore – but he heard sporadic weapons fire every day. And sometimes there were more battles in the night sky. Once he even thought he'd spotted a man with wings flying overhead – but that was pure madness! Wasn't it?
The good news was that his back porch was surrounded by a small fence of white wooden railings. He doubted it would stop the boar if it wanted to come through, but the animal surely had no wish to do that. After all there was only brick to dig up. There was nothing to eat. It was more interested in the rest of the gardens.
“Cat, why don't you go and sun yourself somewhere else. And try to remember, I'm the one who fills your bowl. I might decide not to!”
“Or you might decide to finally get to work on my itching!” she contradicted him sharply. “It's not been good enough lately! Anyone would think you didn't want the job! And it is a rare honour!”
Manx groaned. It wasn't enough that he kept a roof over her head and fed her, she had to be petted regularly. And even then she still complained about it. As for the honour – it wasn't rare enough! Still, he wasn't getting anywhere with his reading. And watching the damned boar tear his garden apart wasn't a lot of fun either. So he put his book down on the table beside him and called the furry little nuisance to him. Soon she was in his lap, purring happily and instructing him about where and how she wanted to be scratched. That was her name, he supposed. She with the sharp claws who must be adored. The name suited her. Especially the part about her claws which she kept digging into his thigh. She always did that, despite the number of times he told her not to.
Damn, he wished he could go back to work! Go back to his underground bunker full of books and things that made sense. His bastion of reason and logic. But he couldn't. He couldn't even leave his home. The whole city was under curfew. It had been now for four long days. Which meant he'd been stuck in his home with Whitey for all that time. And the damned boar who came every day to destroy his garden and that of his neighbours. As if that wasn't bad enough, no one had come to take care of his pig problem! He would have done it himself, save that he didn't have much in the way of weapons, and every time he got too close to the beast it squealed menacingly. Which made him think of something.
“So why is it,” he asked, “that of all the creatures in the world I can only speak to cats?” He didn't actually expect an answer – or at least not a good one. But she surprised him.
“Because the Mother decided it should be so,” Whitey told him. She raised her head up. “Under the chin!”
“The Mother?”
“The first cat. You know her. You've been muttering her name now for days.” She closed her eyes and purred a little louder.
“I have?” That didn't seem likely. But he obliged her by getting to work on her chin.
“Ao. The Mother.”
“Ao is the mother of cats?!” He was shocked by that. First by the very fact that cats had a goddess. He would never have guessed that. But then by the idea that a cat goddess had human priests or shamans. And yet it made sense in a strange way. What he'd read about Ao had said that she was a goddess of nature and chaos. What creature more resembled that description than a cat? By turns playful and mischievous, then wild and reckless. And of course always aloof and arrogant just for good measure. And when he thought about it even the goddess' name sounded a little like the sound a cat made.
“Of course. Who else would she be?” Whitey turned her head away from him then dug her claws a little into his leg. “Now the shoulders and the back. A really good scratch – it's been a long day and your floors are dusty!”
Manx did as she demanded. After all the cat was telling him the first new thing he'd heard in days. Many long boring days.
“You know, there are humans who pray to your cat mother?”
“Of course. Not all of you bald monkeys are complete dullards!”
Manx was surprised – but mostly by the fact that she hadn't added “like you”. Maybe she was mellowing? But he doubted it.
“Everything I've read says that one of them, a shaman, is responsible for bringing all these creatures, like piggy here, to the city.”
“This reading you talk about is bad for your head, monkey.” She continued stretching out underneath his fingers, enjoying the petting. “Don't you know that? The Mother would not do such a thing.”
“Because people are being hurt?”
“Because her children are being hurt!” Whitey corrected him.
“But who else could do it except that these shamans?” Since the cat seemed to know a little something about what was happening, he thought he'd press her for a little more information.
“Who knows? Probably the gaudy monkeys, like the one who's bothering you.”
“The Silver Order?!” That didn't make sense to Manx. “They're the ones trying to stop this happening!”
“Of course they're trying to stop it. They're the ones who stole the magic to start with. Now it's breaking loose and they're trying to stop it. Every cat knows that.”
“The Silver Order stole the magic?” Manx stopped what he was doing as he heard that, and of course promptly got told off by the cat. But it made some sense. It explained why in a world where there were no witches and wizards the Silver Order had unicorns and flashing silver swords. And maybe it also explained why Lady Marshendale could be in Winstone so soon after the first attack. She'd known of the breach as soon as it had happened. But it didn't explain how Walken had come to her so quickly, or why she'd come after his family.
“Don't you know anything?! Long ago. Before any cat remembers. But we know that life was wonderful before then. The Mother made sure we always had full bellies and warm places to sleep. Then they came with their silver and blades, they stole the magic, so that only a little remained. But the Mother saved a little for her children and a few others so we could still speak to a few of you.” She paused for a moment. “I don't know why.”
“So we could feed you, I'd guess,” Manx told her sarcastically.
But even as he said it Manx knew something. Or rather he remembered something. From the night he'd freed Walken. The man had called her a liar. He hadn't thought of it at the time. It was just another of many things that had happened. But suddenly it occurred to him that there was one reason why Walken might arrive so soon after the attack by the hell beasts. If he'd been called. So what if he hadn't come willingly at all. What if Lady Marshendale had brought him, dropped him in a cell right from the start and told h
im what he needed to say and then promised him he could leave after the trial and the executions.
It was only a guess, but it explained a lot of things. The only thing it didn't explain was why his family had been in line for the hangings. Were they just convenient scapegoats, ready to be blamed? Or was it something more than that?
Manx sat there quietly for a long while after that, petting the cat and staring at the boar uprooting his back yard, and thinking. And mostly what he was thinking was an obvious question. How did you steal magic? Because it wasn't like gold that you could put in a sack, or wine you could pour into a jar. In fact there was only one container he could think of that would hold it. And that container had arms and legs and the ability to escape prisons.
It seemed unlikely. In fact it was almost impossible. But what if the Silver Order hadn't exactly stolen magic itself? But rather they'd stolen those who had it? Locked them away in a gaol? And what if now, whatever gaol they'd been holding them in, was failing? And then a fiend had escaped? Followed by a shaman of Ao? And were more coming?
“Alright you!” He stopped petting the cat and instead wrapped his hands around her, picked her up and turned her around so that she was facing him, her legs dangling.
“Monkey man!” She yelled at him as best she could, unhappy that her petting session had ended so strangely. “Put me down or I'll scratch your eyes out!” She waved her arms at him to demonstrate.
“That's enough of that!” He told her firmly. “Somewhere in this city or nearby is a place where cats can't go. A gaol where those with magic have been locked away for centuries. And somewhere else is a shaman who has escaped from that gaol. A follower of your Mother.”
“So?” Whitey hung there staring at him, unhappy with her treatment. “And what does that have to do with you treating me like some child's doll?!”
“I need to find them. And you, you worthless rat, need to put the word out with the rest of your kind. Find the shaman and find the gaol.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to bring magic back to the world. Your Mother demands it.” But that wasn't why he wanted it back. He wanted magic back because it was the only hope he had of being healed. And perhaps because if it was free in the world, Lady Marshendale wouldn't be in so much of a hurry to try and hang him and his family. She'd have too many others to hang first.
“You don't know the Mother!” Whitey objected.
“But she knows me,” he retorted. “After all she was the one who gave me the gift to be able to speak with you. Or had you forgotten?”
“I don't forget!” Whitey protested indignantly.
Actually Manx knew she did forget. Usually though what she forgot was for reasons of convenience. And when it wasn't, when she actually forgot something unintentionally, she denied it. “Good. And do you want the magic of the Mother to return to the world? For you to always have a full belly and a warm place to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn't sound convincing.” And it wasn't. He suspected the cat had simply been telling him what she'd been told. But that she didn't completely believe the stories herself. She just held to them because they made her feel good.
“You can trust me,” she told him.
“Trust you?!” Manx tried not to laugh and ended up snorting. “You're a muck spout of the first water! Of course I can't trust you!”
“But I can trust your belly. And your belly tells me that it wants to be full. But it's not going to be full again, until I get what I want. And I want to know where this shaman is. And where this place is that cats can't go.”
“And don't even think about telling me some lies. I'll check it out for myself before you eat again! So you'd better get moving!”
“No! You can't do that!” She protested, eyes wide with horror. “I'm adorable!”
“And yet, I can!” With that he put the cat down on the floor, and then watched as she started grooming herself angrily, between shooting him evil stares.
“Never trust a monkey!” she muttered unhappily at him.
“Oh you can trust me.” Manx smiled at her. “You can trust me not to feed you until you've done what I say!”
“Bastard!” She hissed at him. “I should never have let you serve me!”
“Why are you still here?” Manx asked her pointedly. “Because while you're here calling me names, I'm planning what I'm going to cook for tea. You know, the meal you're not going to be eating!” And he knew she loved his cooking. Actually she just loved food.
“Piss pot!” But even as she swore at him the cat was leaving. Heading into the house and hopefully out the front door.
Manx smiled as she left. For the first time ever he seemed to be gaining the upper hand with the cat. Though he thought he still might sleep with the door to his bed-chamber closed tonight. She probably wasn't jesting about scratching his eyes out in the middle of the night!
Chapter Nine
“Piss pot!”
Manx woke as he heard himself abused through the bed-chamber door by one angry cat. And he was irritated by it. He'd had a full day of peace since he'd told her she wasn't getting any more food. In fact he hadn't even seen the cat. And he'd grown used to it. To the quiet. And mostly to not having an insufferable little fluffy piece of vermin alternately insulting him and then demanding food and affection. He'd suspected it would continue. Or he'd hoped it would. After all it was unlikely she could find what he'd demanded.
“What is it Whitey?” He asked tiredly, rubbing at his eyes and then rolling over in his bed.
“That's “She with the sharp claws who must be adored”, you muck spout,” the cat snapped back at him. She was obviously not in a good mood. “And my belly's empty thanks to you!”
“Well you know my terms,” he answered her. “Find the shaman and I'll fill your belly.” Then he stretched a little and wondered what time it was. It had to be the early hours of the morning. Too early for this.
“And I've found her!”
“What?!” Manx gave up on stretching and stared at the darkened door. “Her? The shaman's a woman?”
“Yes, her, a woman! Now feed me!”
“Not likely. Have you forgotten that you're a trickster?! I'd feed you and never find this woman because she never existed. You were just lying. Again.”
“I'm not lying,” the cat protested.
“Then you'll have to prove it. Take me to her.” That probably wouldn't be such a clever idea in the middle of the night in a city filled with wild animals, but he knew the cat couldn't do it anyway. The woman probably didn't exist. And even if she did Whitey wouldn't have found her. She probably wouldn't even have looked for her.
“Then you'll feed me? The stew with the gravy? Lots and lots of gravy?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “I said I would.”
“Then get that ugly bald body out of yours and come downstairs. She says she wants to meet you too.” The cat sniffed loudly. “Foolish trollop! She clearly doesn't know you!”
“What?! She's here?!” Manx woke up hurriedly when he heard the cat say that. She'd actually found the shaman? And brought the woman to his home? That didn't seem possible. But never the less he threw off the bed covers, sat up and started dressing hurriedly. Apparently there was a woman in his home even if the rest was a lie.
It didn't take him long to dress, but it still seemed like an eternity. To him and to the cat who kept demanding that he hurry up. Her belly was empty. Still she stopped complaining when he finally opened the door and then hurried down the stairs in his slippers.
At the bottom of the stairs, he turned into the living room, despite Whitey's insistence he head into the kitchen, and got his first look at his visitor. And it seemed for a moment that the cat had actually been telling the truth. There was a woman in his home. But was she a shaman of Ao? He didn't know. However at the least it seemed, she could speak cat.
“Hello?” He greeted her, and reached for the light switch.
“Hold with that.”
She waved her arm at him and he found his hand turning away from the light switch. “There are people watching this house.”
“People? … Watching me!?” Manx was caught by surprise. Who would be watching him? And what was the point of standing around in the darkness? He could barely make out anything about his visitor. But then again, maybe that was the point. “Who?”
“Servants for the Silver Order, I assume,” she replied. “Brigands and mercenaries. Undoubtedly enemies whoever they are.”
“Then … shouldn't we do something?” Even as he asked he couldn't imagine what he was supposed to do.
