The Blue Cat of Castle Town

by Catherine Cate Coblentz

  “This is the old Remington tavern,” said the man. “I shall put that in the cloth. Its lines are simple. Its roof is low. I have seen its like in Ireland. Men talked here of liberty and from this tavern they went forth to make their words more than words. People eating from these tablecloths and seeing the old tavern will recall the taking of Fort Ticonderoga without a shot, in the name of Jehovah and the Continental Congress. And those who know the story of Castle Town will tell then of Samuel Beach, who walked and ran sixty miles over hills and through valleys to call volunteers to this tavern. Sixty miles is a walk, pusskins. In Massachusetts at that time a man named Revere rode through the night to rouse men to fight for liberty. But in Vermont a man walked. That too should be remembered.”

  “Mew! Mew!” agreed the blue kitten.

  “Now this is the first medical school in Vermont. They say it will soon be closed. But it will be seen on the tablecloths forever.”

  The weaver sketched, too, the cobbler’s shop and the old church on the village green.

  “They are building a new church, soon,” he explained. “And this building is really not at all beautiful. Yet for these women in Castle Town the old church has meant much. So it shall go in their tablecloths.”

  “Mew,” agreed the kitten.

  Then the pair of them went back to the weaver’s shop.

  The loom was filled with an ugly cloth of black and white mingled together. “Woolen cloth for Arunah,” said the weaver. “His favorite pepper-and-salt. What a joy it will be to weave linen and forget the man.”

  He cut the half-woven woolen from the loom and threw the mingled mass of cloth and yarn in a pile in a corner of the room. The kitten found the pile soft and comfortable and curled down contentedly, singing his song.

  After a time John Gilroy began to sing, a song which went with the pattern growing beneath his fingers, went with the sound of the treadle, the thump of the baton pressing the warp more firmly against the woof. It wasn’t the song of the river — not yet. But the kitten remembered that Ebenezer Southmayd had been some time learning the song, though he had known it before.

  “Thread over and under. Thread three over and under.

  Two over and under. Now here is the steeple

  For folk to remember. Forever and ever.

  Sing well, said the river, sing well.

  Linen threads crossing, the loom shuttles tossing,

  Knot on the wrong side, and thread pressed down firmly,

  Something to keep through the spring and the winter,

  Yesterday held in the thread of my weaving.

  Yesterday deep in the song of a kitten,

  Yesterday held by a life weaving beauty.

  Sing well, said the river, sing well.”

  Sometimes there was a bit more from the river’s song, slipped into the weaver’s song, and at such times the kitten thought John Gilroy was surely learning. Yet, at other times, he seemed to have forgotten the river’s song entirely. Then one morning, the kitten, who was becoming discouraged, drew a quick breath of relief. For the weaver opened his lips and began to sing, a trifle haltingly to be sure, another whole line of the river’s song.

  “Out of yesterday song comes, it goes into tomorrow.

  “After these cloths are finished,” the weaver promised the kitten, “I will do another. And into that one, pusskins, I shall put all the beauty, and joy of yesterday — all the dreams I once had of tomorrow.”

  New words came into John Gilroy’s singing that morning. And there was something about the very look on the man’s face that made the blue kitten certain that in a few minutes — a very few minutes — the weaver would sing loudly and joyfully the song of the river. Seeing the light growing on the man’s face, he was, the kitten understood, singing straight toward that song.

  “Here I sit weaving and weaving,

  The linen threads flashing away —

  Dunk, dunk, dunk, dunk.

  Here I sit weaving and dreaming

  From Castle Town clear to Cathay.

  Dunk, dunk, dunk, dunk.”

  But just as John Gilroy flung his head back, with the words, “Sing your song …” as luck, or fate, or something would have it, there was the sound of a horse being ridden hard, a gallop which stopped suddenly at a sharp order by the weaver’s very door. There was the click of spurs on the doorstone, and a demanding Rappety-rap, rappety-rap, rap-rap-rap on the door.

  The blue kitten, lying on the pile of discarded woolen cloth and yarn, held up his head. And he saw that the weaver, who was working on the last border of the second tablecloth, looked startled.

  Without waiting for the door to be opened, the rider, the one who had knocked so sharply with the butt end of his riding whip, opened it himself and strode into the room. Everything about the tall newcomer was dark and harsh. His clothes, his hair, his beard, even his eyes were dark and somber. And it seemed as though a dark cloud, too, was about him, so that the very sunlight in the weaver’s cottage dimmed. The kitten, who by this time felt he knew mortals very well, had never seen one such as this.

  “Quick, Gilroy,” said the man brusquely. “I have come for my cloth — my pepper-and-salt. You should have brought it to me and saved my time. I must have a new suit made of it at once and the tailor must hurry, for I shall wear the suit when I sign the contract for the Lightning Express.”

  Express? What was that? questioned the kitten to himself.

  The man’s breath came as fast as his words. He had thrown down the whip and now he opened and shut his hands as though wanting them to be filled with something which must be very important, the kitten judged, so agitated was the newcomer’s manner.

  “Quick,” he demanded, “where is the cloth?”

  Instinctively the kitten had inched himself beneath a fold of the discarded woolen material, so that only one amber eye looked forth. That eye however watched with astonishment as the weaver seemed to shrivel and grow smaller in the presence of the dark one. Even the lines of the weaver’s face seemed to change, and the corners of his mouth grew lax. He stood in front of his loom as though to hide the weaving from the other’s sight.

  Why, decided the kitten, the weaver was afraid. One mortal afraid of another! But even as he came to this conclusion, he saw the weaver’s hands begin to shake.

  “Quick,” demanded the other. “The cloth!”

  “But — but,” came from John Gilroy.

  “Do you mean to say my order is not ready?” demanded the other. “What is that you are doing?” He had picked up the whip, and now he pointed with it toward the loom.

  “I — I have been singing my own song, sir,” came from the poor weaver.

  “Singing your own song? What do you mean?”

  “Weaving such tablecloths as will live forever. See, are they not beautiful enough for a king?”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” The whip cracked in the air and the weaver quailed as though he had been struck, while the kitten thrust himself a little deeper in his hiding place, so only the merest slit of an eye watched the room.

  “Prettiness will bring you little money. I will pay you double what I promised, but the pepper-and-salt must be ready in time.” The dark one put his hands in his pocket and drew out gold carelessly and generously enough, flinging the coins on the woven linen.

  “You work for me, Arunah Hyde!” he said.

  Arunah Hyde, why that was one of the names on the river’s list. It was the blue kitten’s turn to quail. Well, he would never enter this man’s door, river-list or no river-list. That was certain!

  But the weaver was picking up the coins, was bending contritely before the dark Arunah. “Yes, sir,” he was saying. “It shall be done.” His mouth looked very weak indeed, decided the kitten. Not only were his shoulders stooped, and all his tallness gone from him, but the very lines of his face were changed. “You shall have the cloth soon, sir,” he said. “I will hurry.”

  After Arunah Hyde had left, it was as though the darkness he had broug
ht with him stayed behind in the weaver’s cottage. At last the weaver spoke, slowly but definitely as though he were held in the dark spell of Arunah’s words.

  “The tablecloth I hoped to do when these were finished, was only a dream I had, a foolish dream, no doubt. Arunah says dreams are stuff and nonsense. Gold is shining and very real.”

  “Sing your own song,” began the kitten hopefully

  But the weaver opened the door and set the kitten outside. “You must run along now, pusskins,” he said. “I have no time for listening to you.”

  The blue kitten remained for a long while beneath the sign of the weaver, looking at the door shut firmly against him. He was dismayed. He was discouraged. Could it be possible, after all, that he was just an ordinary kitten?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ARUNAH HYDE AND THE DARK SPELL

  WHEN he had been with Ebenezer Southmayd and John Gilroy, the weaver, in Castle Town, the kitten had heard at different times great commotions outside. Such commotions he learned came from coaches drawn by four and even six horses. The horses were always straining at their bits, for the whip was plied unceasingly along their flanks, as the drivers, with anxious calls and even oaths, urged them forward. Faster! Faster!

  Never having moved at a fast rate himself, the blue kitten could not understand. Neither his mother’s teachings nor the song of the river had given him explanation for the need of haste. Cats moved quickly only to catch mice. And his mother had, he knew, neglected this part of his education.

  Yet the blue kitten could understand that the hoofs of the speeding horses might well be dangerous to a kitten, even such an extraordinary kitten as he — for of course he must be extraordinary. It would be wiser, he decided, to walk at the very edge of the highway. So, not having made up his mind in the least as to where he should go to find a hearth, nor of whom he should ask admittance, he started quietly and calmly enough, along the ditch. To be sure the next name — as he remembered it — on the river’s list was that of Arunah Hyde, but he had already made up his mind not to go there, river-list or no river-list.

  However, before he had taken half a dozen steps, there was the sound of great commotion behind him, the clatter of a coach, the thudding of horses’ hoofs, the snapping of a whip. The kitten crouched low in the ditch where a cloud of dust, a shower of pebbles, flooded over him as the first of the horses dashed by. In desperation the kitten leaped for the safety of a rock by the side of the road.

  Afterward he never could tell whether he reached the rock or whether a long thin hand reaching down from the driver’s seat had snatched him in mid-air. At any rate, the kitten found himself going up and up in a half circle — never had he moved so fast — and landing with a thump, breathless but unhurt, on a cushioned seat. Who? What? But a boastful voice was already answering.

  “No one, I tell you, but Arunah Hyde could move fast enough to do that! Now on —” the man was roaring at the horses — “on to the Mansion House. We must cut at least three seconds from yesterday’s record. Faster, fast …” The thin and cruel whip once more began lashing the sides of the horses.

  The blue kitten looked at the roadside moving like a flash on either hand. He would have leaped but he did not dare. So he cowered, low on the seat, the dark spell of Arunah Hyde flooding over him, frightening him, even as it had frightened the weaver.

  Then his memory and his hope came to his aid. Surely the river had mentioned this man. And it might be, after all, the river knew there was a hearth in Arunah’s house suitable even for a blue kitten. Arunah Hyde was an important man, that was certain. Even the weaver had bowed low before him.

  Just then deep, deep from the kitten’s memory came a very whisper of words, words which until that moment had been quite forgotten. He had been dozing a little, the cat admitted, when the river told him of Arunah. But he had dreamed as he slept. And from that dream — or was it a dream? — came the warning. It seemed as though his left ear, even now, was twitching a little.

  “Never sing your song to him!

  Take heed of what I say!”

  Such a memory was silly. What had he come to Castle Town for, if not to sing his song?

  “Sing your own song,” began the blue kitten. The purr wasn’t very loud, for the blue kitten was like to sneeze from the dust. Even his teeth felt gritty.

  Flash, snap, went the whip, snarling as it bit into the sleek wet sides of the horses. Flash, snap, clack, clack.

  “Faster! Faster! We’ve but a minute to go,” yelled Arunah. “There’s yesterday’s record — we must beat that. Beat that!” The whip slashed at the horses, and the man’s eyes were on the watch set deep in a block of wood lashed on the dashboard. He must go faster. He must!

  “Sing your own song” mewed the cat bravely.

  “I am singing it,” cried the man through clenched teeth. “Hurry! Hurry!” Up came the whip, and the kitten shuddered with the horses, while Arunah yelled.

  “Castle Town shall be the center of the Universe. And I shall be the center of Castle Town!”

  And before the blue kitten could catch his breath to start the second line of the river’s song, the coach and six stopped before a most imposing building. The front of it shone white in the sun, for that front was fashioned of marble. Tall white columns were set along a front porch, columns which went up and up.

  This was quite different from the humble quarters of Ebenezer Southmayd and John Gilroy. Even the blue kitten was impressed. He would, he decided, at least take a look at the hearth. He jumped down from the cushioned seat, and from habit hastened to test his front claws on the first white column.

  Pshaw! He sneezed disdainfully, as white powder showered over him. He did not know that the column was only brick covered with plaster, and not hard like the slabs of the floor at all. He knew only there had been enough dust and sneezing for one morning.

  But Arunah was swooping him up once more. “Nice kitty, nice kitty,” he was saying soothingly. “Come into my mansion. You shall drink thick cream from a silver bowl, until …” It was a good thing, perhaps, that the blue kitten could not see the glitter in the man’s eyes, the amused quirk of his mouth.

  The man’s voice did sound strange, but the words were words of welcome, so the kitten began stating his terms hopefully.

  “And live, I hope, by a warm hearth,” he mewed. Still, even as he asked for this, deep from inside his brain again came the warning — words of caution which he could not recall ever hearing. And this time there was no doubt about it, his left ear was twitching.

  “Beware of Arunah! Take heed, blue kitten.

  For you work different spells.”

  Arunah Hyde was putting a silver bowl — he said it was silver, but it was only Ebenezer Southmayd’s cheap tinny metal — in front of the blue kitten. The bowl was filled with yellow cream. The cream was thick and good. The blue kitten weighed eight ounces more after drinking it. He felt changed and comfortable — and a little dull, as he sat down by the edge of a great hearth, where he was in danger of being trod on, to watch what happened next.

  It was, the blue kitten soon learned, most exciting to live in the Mansion House. Rush! Rush! Rush! Through the opening door he caught glimpses of this coach and that stopping, exhausted horses with steaming nostrils, their sides wet and dripping and marked always with the whip.

  The people the coaches brought streamed in through the doors. The moment they were inside, these travelers were rushed to the tables for mulled cider and brandy.

  “Quick! Quick!” Arunah kept calling to the women who prepared and brought great tankards of the steaming drinks.

  “Quick! Quick!” he would call to the travelers who were drinking. A horn would sound urgently after Arunah’s words, and the travelers were hurried out. The whips were plied. All day long one stagecoach after another was either appearing or disappearing in clouds of dust, and travelers were streaming in and out of the Mansion House.

  Arunah was here. He was there. He was ordering a horse saddl
ed to rush the mail north, for the coach to the north was five minutes overdue. And the mail would be late.

  “Late! Late!” cried Arunah, wringing his hands, almost weeping with dismay. “Late! Late!”

  Arunah tumbled the blue kitten out of the rocker, for the travelers had crowded him from the hearth. Arunah brushed the kitten off a stool. He crunched his tail underfoot. Or he pushed him with one boot out of his way.

  But he fed him often. Thick, yellow cream from the silver bowl that was not silver at all, though Arunah always said that it was. Tinny plates filled with delightful lake salmon, or piled high with chicken. And the blue kitten grew and grew. He gained six ounces more or less every day. His eyes glazed now and then from the abundance of food in his stomach. He was growing fat and lazy.

  Arunah paused occasionally to heft him. Then one day he burst out. “My, you are almost grown, blue kitten. When you are a cat you will be fat indeed. Then you will be useful to me. Very useful.”

  The blue kitten did not like the sound of the words. It was almost as though they held a threat. Om — om. What was the word he had heard someone say. Ominous! That was it. Ominous! It was about time, decided the kitten, that he teach Arunah the song. He had kept putting it off because the man was so busy. And he had been busy too, drinking cream, eating salmon and chicken. But now that Arunah had paused for a little to admire him, he would see what he could do.

  “Purr,” began the blue kitten. He managed to get as far as to purr loudly about the song coming out of yesterday and going into tomorrow. Then using his most persuasive notes the blue kitten begged, “Sing your own song,” when Arunah, the restless, interrupted him.

  “I have sung a song. And it is my own,” he boasted. “No one in Castle Town, I tell you, has sung such a song, nor sung so fast, nor so loudly. For who else has done what I have done? And who will be remembered as I, Arunah Hyde, shall be remembered?

  “For I came to this town a poor boy, dependent on my relations. I swept people’s floors, anyone’s floors. I clerked in a store. I was at everyone’s bidding. But I worked. How I worked, and I went without. I saved every penny till I bought that store. I, Arunah, was the business man, the merchant. People began to bow to me then. I bought more and more. And I prospered. I had gold. I had power. I had a mill. I had a quarry. I hired carpenters and they built a school for me. People bowed still lower. I was the projector. I was the architect — or at least I furnished the money …”