Greta and Boris

by Sian Norris

  Every Saturday, the King Whiskers (whose rather grander full name was King Marmaduke Nikolai Whiskers Blue) would invite the aristocracy of the Kingdom to the palace to partake in a breakfast feast. This meant that as well as the King, Queen Alexandria, (a beautiful and elegant cat whose full name is Isis Ashanti Alexandria Blue), Prince Boris, the Royal Princesses Aurora and Griselda and the young Prince Sweep; the chefs also had to prepare for the Egyptian family, the Chinese family, the French family, the Ginger Royals and Baron Silver, his six kittens and the Baroness.

  The kitchens were frantic, preparing hot and cold milk, a selection of fried mice and delicately poached salmon, fried kippers, several plates of biscuits, bird wings, and a number of extra specially ordered items, manufactured cat food being a particular (although disapproved) favorite of the young Prince Sweep (full name, of course, Marmaduke Nikolai Sweep Blue).

  Hot and flustered, but proud of his handiwork, the head chef of the palace (a white cat with pink eyes called Gordon) handed the platters over to the black-and-white waiting servants who would deliver the food to the royal banquet. At one end of the table sat the King Whiskers and opposite him sat the Queen Alexandria. Seated on either side of her were the Princesses, followed by the guests, whilst on the left of the King sat Prince Sweep. But at the right hand seat of the King, Boris’ place at the royal table was empty.

  ‘Welcome my friends and kin,’ purred the deep and rich voice of the King, ‘to this great breakfast, prepared by the finest cooks in my vast feline kingdom. As ever, my wife and I are honored to invite your company to our humble table. I welcome my wife’s family, the worthy cats of Egypt, and the great muses of China. I welcome my dear countrymen, the Gingers and Baron Silver. Friends and allies we have been for many years. And last but by no means least, bonjour! To the French cats, for whom there is always room at this banqueting table. If we are all here, then let us begin!’

  ‘My dear,’ said the graceful Queen in her deep and smooth voice. ‘I am sure our guests were warmed and welcomed by your kind speech. However, it is impossible for us to begin this meal, as I fear we are not all present. You may notice the seat on your right lacks an inhabitant. Our good son, the noble Prince Boris, is remarkably absent.’ (Do not be alarmed by the manner of speech employed by the Royal family. They feel a strange need to speak in long elaborate sentences, where a few words would suit just as well.)

  ‘Good gracious, my love, you are right! Well, this is an unexpected delay. I had high hopes of this being a flawless and enjoyable morning in the company of our kith and kin. Now, where could the little scamp be? I propose we leave the table, and go and wake the lazy Prince up.’

  And with that, King Marmaduke Nikolai Whiskers Blue stood to his full height, clapped his forepaws together, and the party rose to follow him. They trooped out of the banqueting hall, through the throne room, past the King’s study and the now little-used nursery, around the regal fountain, past the gallery where the many portraits of the Royals and their predecessors were displayed, up the curving staircase which led to the Imperial bedroom, down the straight staircase which led to the hallway where the Princesses had their bedrooms, and up another twisting stone staircase, past Sweep’s room and tutor ’s office, along and along, past the vista that looks onto the Royal gardens, until they finally reached the chambers of the Royal Prince.

  ‘Now now, son, we’ll have no more of this nonsense!’ cried out King Whiskers. ‘You have slept long enough and delayed the banquet. Wake up and join us for the feast carefully prepared for us by our good and generous staff below.’

  Yet there was no reply. ‘My dear,’ said the Queen. ‘Perhaps we should just go inside.’

  The King opened the heavy door that separated Boris’ room from the hallway. It was a simple room, a few books, a writing desk, a large comfortable bed and a picture of his human on the wall. However, aside from these few possessions, the room was empty. Boris was nowhere to be seen. The Princesses and young Sweep started to laugh. ‘Boris!’ they called. ‘Come out and play! Where are you hiding? We’re seeking!’

  ‘Hush there,’ said the Queen. ‘I do not think, my dears, that Boris is playing a game.’

  The King strode nervously across the room towards the bed.

  ‘No my love,’ he said, his voice graver and more serious than it had been for many, many years. ‘Boris is not playing a game. This is no game at all.’

  He bent over the bed and, lifting something from it, he turned to face his uneasy audience. There were shining tears in the King’s kind eyes, and in his hand was the seal of the Rat King. ‘This is no game at all. I am sorry,’ he paused to repress a sob, ‘I am sorry and regretful to have to announce, that Prince Marmaduke Nikolai Boris Blue, heir to my throne, future ruler of the Kingdom of Cats and guardian of its citizens, has been stolen from us by our mortal foe, that most dangerous of enemies, feared by cats, dogs and our human responsibility, the Rat King.’

  A cry of horror echoed around the room, as Queen Alexandria fell in a faint to the floor. The Princesses began to whimper, whilst Sweep merely looked confused. The King let out a great howling MMIIIAAOOOW! of dismay. Quickly regaining his royal self-control, he lifted his head to face his blue-blooded subjects.

  ‘The Prince must be rescued,’ said the King. ‘An announcement must be made.’ He looked at his waiting courtiers with sad and solemn eyes. ‘I shall meet you in the throne room but first, first I would like to be alone with my family.’ Overcome with emotion, he bent to lift his wife to her feet, and gathered his three remaining children around him, as the weeping cat citizens bowed low and left Boris’ room.

  In which Greta’s worries are increased

  Greta was woken up on the second day of the summer holidays by weather that was far less friendly than the previous morning’s glorious sunshine. Instead, the rain hammered down hard on the windows, and the wind fought and battled with the apple tree that less than twenty-four hours previously had provided such welcome relief from the hot rays of the sun. Greta shuddered and pulled her blankets up around her, for although strictly speaking it wasn’t cold, the weather gave one the feeling that such comfort was needed. She leaned over to inspect her clock, and groaned when she saw its face. It was only eight o’clock! And she had decided to spend the holidays having long sleepy lie-ins, as opposed to early mornings of schooldays. There was no real fun in waking up early, unless of course it was to pursue travels and adventures. She lay back on her sheets and called out to Boris. There was no way he would be up and about earlier than her on this occasion.

  ‘Boris!’ she whispered. ‘Boris? Wake up! It’s time to wake up.’

  She held her hand out of the bed and twiddled her fingers in a beckoning gesture. But there was no reply. For the second time that morning a shudder went through her. Something was definitely wrong. Boris would never, ever leave her for this long by herself. She knew him well enough to be sure of that. Her and Boris, well, they were only really ever apart when Greta was at school, or on holiday, in which case he stayed with Aunt Annie. This was just too different to how he normally behaved.

  Greta all of a sudden felt a ridiculous desire to cry. It hit her rather too hard how alone she was in her house. Still, she wasn’t going to cry. Not Greta. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, grabbed her dressing gown, and got out of bed.

  ‘If he isn’t in here,’ she reasoned, ‘then it’s perfectly plausible that he is elsewhere in the house. Now, there’ll be no more of this silly cowardliness.’ Pulling her dressing gown tighter around her, she left her room and went downstairs into the kitchen.

  After putting the kettle on and her toast in the toaster, she automatically bent down to give Boris his breakfast. But the plate of chicken she had left him yesterday was untouched, as was the milk that was beginning to curdle. ‘Oh Boris!’ she thought. ‘What am I going to do?’

  She spread the honey on her toast and nibbled it distractedly, wandering around the house to see if Boris was in any hiding
place. Not that he was, or would be. So she found herself back in the kitchen and, for comfort, put some more toast on.

  It was when she was sitting back at the table, toast in hand and tears being pushed back, that she heard scratching on the door and loud miaowing. She jumped up.

  ‘Boris!’ Greta cried, and ran over to the door to let in her drenched cat. Only, when she opened the door, it wasn’t Boris sitting there. Instead, she found a small female white cat, with upturned green eyes and tan and black patches over her slim body.

  ‘Miaow!’

  Quelling her distress that it wasn’t her beloved Boris, the cat-loving side of Greta’s nature took over. ‘Oh you poor thing!’ she said, scooping up the soaking wet cat into a towel, bringing her inside and pouring her some milk. ‘You poor little thing, you must be drenched’.

  ‘Oh, well, I’m ok,’ the cat replied.

  Greta stood stock-still. She thought that the cat had just spoken to her, but she knew that was impossible, and that the only people who thought that cats, or any animals for that matter, could speak, well, they were a bit odd. And she may be a little unusual, but odd she was not. Even so, just to be sure, she thought she had better not respond. For the only people stranger than people who thought that cats could talk, were those who spoke back.

  The talking cat let out a strange laughing meow. ‘Aow hee hee. Don’t worry Miss Greta! I know what you’re thinking, and I promise you that you aren’t going mad, it’s just that normally we cats prefer not to converse with humans in their own tongue. It would be like you speaking French when you didn’t have to. But when the occasion arises…’ and she shrugged to finish her meaning.

  Greta still didn’t respond, and began to surreptitiously pinch herself to check that she was, in fact, awake. She was, and that didn’t solve her confusion one bit.

  The cat stopped her laughing. ‘Look,’ she said, her tone serious. ‘If you are going to refuse to believe your own ears and eyes, your own sense in fact, we are going to have serious difficulties. So would you please just trust me on the fact that I am speaking to you, and would you be courteous enough to reply? I don’t want to have to get high-handed and angry, but…’

  Swallowing deeply, Greta decided to take the plunge. After all, no-one was here to see her talking to a cat, and she would talk to Boris without batting an eyelid. But as far as she knew, Boris had never spoken back.

  ‘Umm, ok,’ she said. ‘I’m Greta.’

  The cat rolled her eyes. ‘I know who you are. That’s why I’m here! However, I believe that I remain a stranger to you, therefore I will introduce myself. I am Miu Sumire Kyrie Mi-ke, a Japanese mi-ke cat, and I have been sent by my Lord and Master, His Excellency and most Magnificent Liege, his Royal Highness, the King Marmaduke Nikolai Whiskers Blue, King of the Cats and the Kingdom of Cats.’

  ‘B…b…but why?’

  Kyrie looked up at her, with confusion in her eyes. ‘Why? Why do you think? It’s about Boris!’

  Greta’s hands flew to her face, and she let out a little cry of relief. ‘You know where Boris is? Oh thank goodness for that! Where is he? I’ve been so worried.’

  ‘My dear Miss Greta, you are not the only one who has been worried. The whole Kingdom has been in uproar since the disappearance of Prince Boris…’

  ‘Wait,’ Greta interrupted. ‘What do you mean, Prince Boris?’ Kyrie shook her whiskers. ‘Boris is the Prince and Heir apparent to the Kingdom of Cats. He is the son of the King. You, Miss Greta, are not aware of the exalted role you play in our society. That the Prince chose you for his human is an honor indeed. But it is an honor that comes with responsibility. For it rests with you to be the one to rescue Boris and bring him back to the kingdom. The Prince has been kidnapped by our most mortal enemy, the Rat King, and you, as the Prince’s human, have been chosen to rescue him.’

  Greta sat heavily down on her chair, bringing her level with Kyrie who sat upright on the tabletop. All of a sudden she felt horribly tired. Everything had ceased to make sense. All she wanted to do was go back to bed and begin the day again.

  ‘I don’t understand. First you say Boris is a Prince, then that there is a Kingdom of Cats, and a Rat King, and he has taken Boris. And you want me to rescue him. I don’t understand any of this. How can I be the one to rescue him, if all of this makes no sense to me? I didn’t know any of this stuff existed until ten seconds ago. I’m sorry Kyrie, but you must have made some mistake. I can’t rescue Boris. I’m sorry.’

  Once more Kyrie shook her whiskers.

  ‘Miss Greta,’ she said. ‘I cannot force you to rescue our Prince. And yes, I can see how this may all be rather overwhelming. But you have to help us. You are the only one who can help us. Without you to bring back Boris, then the fate of the Kingdom, of our homes, of our families – all of this is under threat. And on behalf of the King, I beg of you, do not leave us in this plight.’

  ‘But why me?’

  ‘Because you love him!’ said Kyrie. ‘No-one else loves the Prince as much or as deeply as you. And with love comes responsibility. It will be dangerous, but you will have me by your side, and I am a great warrior. If you truly love Boris, you will help us in this. Please, Miss Greta.’ Kyrie looked up at her with pleading green eyes, slightly wet with tears of fear for the fate that awaited her and her land without Greta’s aid.

  There was a long silence before Greta dared to speak. Even as the words fell from her mouth, she didn’t really know what she was going to say.

  ‘Ok. I am not brave, and not very capable, but I love Boris, and I have to bring him back. I have to.’

  Kyrie smiled. ‘Miss Greta, you are both brave and capable, and all the other things you doubt. And your love proves this. But you will learn. In the meantime, we have to prepare!’ She stood up and turned around three times. ‘And thank you. You don’t know what this means to all of us, to me.’ And in a statement of firm friendship and gratitude, Kyrie nuzzled Greta’s body with her head.

  In which the King makes a speech

  Whilst Greta was still asleep and dreaming of where Boris may be hiding, the Kingdom of Cats was in a state of uproar. The Queen had been taken to her chambers, whilst the younger members of the royal family had been sent to their childhood nursery with their tutors and nurses to look after them, keep them safe and occupy their minds. This was really a rather futile task of course, as despite their youth, the two girls and one tom were perfectly aware of the situation. Griselda and Aurora were whimpering quietly, whilst Sweep sat very quietly in the corner of the room, staring blankly at his open book, struggling to hold back his very real and very frightened tears.

  The King meanwhile had to consult his advisors. Sitting on his throne in the long grand hallway, so vast that the paintings on the ceiling of great cats through history were barely visible to the naked eye, he began his speech.

  ‘Lords, Ladies and subjects. I am grieved to be forced to make this announcement to you. A great tragedy has occurred in our Kingdom. Together, we must work towards a plan, a solution. I call on you now to help me, your King.’

  He paused, letting his courtiers take in his words with muttering and confused looks, and giving himself a few moments to recover himself and appear composed.

  ‘This morning,’ he continued, ‘my family discovered to our pain and horror that my eldest son, heir to my throne and beloved by all who know him or see him, the Prince Marmaduke Nikolai Boris Blue has been cat-napped by our most deadly and hated foe, the Rat King. I have asked you here today so together we can plan the safe recovery of your Prince, and of my…my son.’ With these words the King was forced to stop.

  Overcome with emotion, he hid his eyes behind a clenched paw, as the assembled cats in the throne room miaowed their sympathies.

  But there wasn’t a lot of time to waste in mourning the Prince’s kidnap. They had to plan! Ideas were thrown around – perhaps a full scale war against the Rat Kingdom would suffice, a suggestion quickly quashed by the peace-loving royal. Perhaps a
n arrangement to make a deal with the Rat King would work; an offer of trade or swapping of land. It would be damaging to pride indeed, but surely worth it if it ensured the safety of the Kingdom and of Prince Boris. But nothing could be reasonably decided.

  In growing despair, the cats simply could not find a plan that everyone could agree would work. By this point, news of the abduction had spread and the cats who lived far from the palace were travelling to the center of the kingdom to find out exactly what was going on and what was going to happen. The only answer that could reasonably be given was a simple ‘I don’t know.’

  After many hours, the throne room began to fall into an exhausted silence. The Queen Alexandria had joined her husband

  and the two sat together on their thrones, paws joined and eyes locked as they awaited a solution. But hope was fading fast.

  The King had decided that perhaps now was the time to make a further speech. Yet he had barely risen to his feet when from across the throne room, the door was heard to open.

  ‘I know what must be done,’ said a soft, feminine voice, with a barely discernible trace of a foreign accent.

  The crowd of cats parted, with great gasps of awe and amazement. For standing in the open doorway was a feline that many of the younger cats had only heard about in legends and at school. She (for indeed it was a she-cat) was white, with upturned green eyes and black and tan patches, beautiful and elegant, yet with a heart as brave as a lion’s, and the strength of a leopard.

  ‘Kyrie!’ cried the King. ‘Kyrie! You have returned!’

  Kyrie smiled and bowed her beautiful head. ‘Your Highness. A good warrior always knows when to return to her land.’

  ‘Welcome Kyrie,’ the Queen said, smiling warmly. ‘You do not know how grateful we are to have you here with us, on this most fearful of days.’