Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  “I can imagine.”

  “Might as well wait it out here.”

  Gary threw the holy water and missed. Then he threw the bottle. The boy, now only with basic demonic residue in him—the sort that can be cured with a bit of apple pie and a tumble in the hay—screamed and sizzled and crawled backwards on the ground. The demon winced.

  The life of Man is poor, nasty, brutish and short, as Mister Hobbes used to say. The lives of Demons are even worse.

  “You’ll stick to your word, then?”

  “Rules,” I said.

  “What do you think my next host might be like?” Now he was getting nervous.

  “You should put up a bit more of a fight.”

  The boy’s body flopped and crawled upside-down.

  “Well, obviously, you’ll need someone who can travel,” I said, watching Gary advance on the crawling boy-puppet, murmuring a prayer I had taught him. “Someone who might be able to get away with being a bit eccentric, you know what I mean.”

  It wasn’t the right prayer, but I’d dug it out of an old book, and out in these parts that was enough. Ring a ring a rosie, it went, a pocket full of posies.

  “Uh-huh,” said the demon distractedly, blurring a bit. “Looking forward to that one, for sure.”

  Ashes, ashes, we all fall down, sang Gary, flinging more salt.

  “Maybe someone who comes into contact with your folks often.”

  “That would be very nice. Go on, keep talking, this really burns.”

  “Maybe someone—” and here I stopped a bit.

  And stared at the giant, golden-headed dimwit with the sword. Singing a nursery rhyme, of all things. And the villagers in mid-clap behind him. The boy would faint from the psychic pain, and Gary would strong-arm him back to the village, where they’d douse him in cold water and baptise him again. Come evening Gary would be the toast of the town, and whoever hired us would be wheedling away for a discount, and Gary, utterly and absolutely drunk and happy about being wanted, would agree, just like he had on the last five jobs, and that stupid maiden would give him a kiss, and that would be that.

  “What about him?”

  “What about him?”

  I nodded at Gary. “Think you could improve him? Same Gary, but you know, a little bit smarter, better with money?”

  “Oh.” The demon thought about it. “Yeah, very easily. And if we come across a stock market or two—” He bent to cough out an ectoplasmic hairball. “Ugh. Salt. You were saying?”

  I thought about it a bit. Bloody tempting, I know. A proper sidekick, God-touched and demon-powered, able to swing a sword and do their own taxes for once. But—

  But Gary trusted me. We’d been through a lot together.

  “Bit of a low bar, really,” said the demon, as if he was reading my thoughts. Which he probably was.

  We both looked at Gary, who had crouched in the mud next to the comatose boy, planted his sword heroically in the ground, and was singing fit to wake the death, in a voice like a horse trying its hand at opera. Ring-a-ring-a-rosie -

  What a blithering idiot.

  “Rules,” I sighed. “They’re all that separate us from the humans.”

  “I take it that’s a no.”

  “Hard no,” I said. “Now get in the bag. We’ll take you to the next town, there’s a baron who might fit the bill quite nicely. And you owe us one.”

  Yudhanjaya Wijeratne is an SFF author and data scientist from Colombo, Sri Lanka. He co-founded and helps run Watchdog Sri Lanka, a factchecker. His work spans data science, linguistics, artificial intelligence, public policy, and futurism. When not doing these things, he argues with the cat and experiments with machine-generated art.

  65

  A Cat for the Keeper

  By Lilly MacKenzie Hurd

  The lighthouse keeper’s cat had died, and I knew I had the perfect replacement. But this journey had begun long before I boarded the boat to the island.

  “The cat’s dead.“

  My heart leapt in my throat as the soft but urgent voice of a man crackled over the post office radio. Something deep in my soul stirred back to life. It couldn’t be him, but it was… Wasn’t it?

  As I stepped closer to eavesdrop, the boisterous Mrs. Simpson grabbed my arm and spun me around. She had a tongue like a fishwife and when she sets her sights on a target for the latest gossip, nobody stands a chance. Her shrill voice drowned out the radio, blethering on about the unfortunately large nose on her sister’s baby, the rats in the storeroom, and who missed church on Sunday. I didn’t even try to get a word in, just nodded and raised the occasional eyebrow. As she drew in a breath for the next barrage of gossip, her husband came around the corner. “Miss MacLeod,” he tipped his cap to me apologetically and ushered his wife out of the shop. I turned back towards the radio.

  “Well, I guess I’d better find my brother a kitten,” a tall man in the corner said, his voice matter of fact.

  “He’ll be beside himself out there,” the postman weighed in.

  “I know,” came the quiet reply.

  Neither of them noticed I was listening from the far side of the shop, but I pretended to examine the bin of oats just in case. I willed the voice on the radio to speak again, to stifle that fraction of uncertainty that lingered. I would have heard more had it not been for the loudest woman in Scotland.

  The two men went back and forth about the issue at hand. Despite my intense need to hear the voice again, I was struck by how comically endearing it was to hear two rough and weathered men discussing where to acquire a kitten.

  “I have a kitten.”

  Lord have mercy I said it out loud. Did I? Both men turned to look at me. I HAD said it out loud.

  “Pardon me?” The tall man asked.

  “I happened to overhear that you were looking for a kitten, I have a spare…an extra…I mean my cat just had another litter and I’ve given away all but one. You can have her.”

  I cringed at my clumsy delivery. A spare kitten? How eloquent.

  “Well, that’s perfect, Miss…?”

  “Catherine. Catherine MacLeod.”

  “Angus. Much obliged. I can come by and pick her up this evening, I’ll need to leave at first light.”

  “No need to collect her this evening, I’ll be ready in the morning.”

  Why did I say that? I’ll be ready? I’m going with him? He looked as confused as I felt.

  “I don’t take visitors to the island. The seas can be rough at a moment’s notice, and it can be a tiring trip for those not used to the ocean.”

  He was respectful but quite firm. The tone men take with women or children who don’t have the sense to know what they’re saying. I’ve had enough of that tone in my life, and wouldn’t stand for it anymore. I squared my shoulders for a pleasant reply.

  “I’ll deliver the kitten myself. I won’t be any trouble, and it’s sure to be a fine day. Imagine rough seas, there’s not been a cloud in sight!"

  He had clearly noted the change in my demeanor. He shook his head, and opened his mouth attempting to reply. But the look on his face gave him away. It was the same look my father gave my mother whenever he was choosing his battles. It can take a lifetime to master the skill of intimidating a man without him realizing it.

  “Well…“ He hesitated. I waited. It was coming, the moment of defeat.

  “Right, I’ll see you first thing.”

  Angus extended a hand to help me into the boat. Silky ribbons of pink-hued water snaked away from the bow. I sat in the back, my kitten in a basket at my feet.

  “Will the wee thing get seasick?”

  He had tried to act indifferent about the kitten but wasn’t fooling me. It’s funny how men do that, guard their emotions about delicate little things. It’s quite sweet.

  “She might, I’d better take her out. If she’s to be an island kitten she had better get used to the sea!”

  I opened the basket, bright green eyes greeting me from the wooly shadows she was nes
tled in. She let out a tiny mew, and attempted to climb up my skirt before I got a hand around her.

  “Hold on wee sook.” I giggled. “I’ve got you.”

  It was a lovely day to be on the ocean, and Angus was a fascinating companion. He said he spends most of his time on the water, and he had the knowledge to show for it. He pointed out coves and cliffs, and spoke of the living things in the landscape. I suppose everyone loves their home but I’m so besmitten with these Scottish islands, and truly believe this must be the most special place on earth.

  When we first set out, the horizon was barely distinguishable as calm water met sky in a suspended line of pale blues and pinks. As the sun embarked on its daily journey, the sky became a deeper blue, and as we got further away from the harbor, small white-capped waves stretched out in all directions. I vividly remember being on my grandfather’s boat, listening to tales of the sea. His descriptions of these “white horses” that cap the waves captured my imagination.

  Angus was full of stories too, it must run in a fisherman’s blood. Just like my grandfather, it was hard to tell if he was telling the truth, or spinning yarns.

  “I’ve seen a selkie, just around there.” Angus gestured towards a small rocky mound jutting out of the sea.

  “Mmm hmm,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Seems every fisherman has seen one!”

  He laughed, that twinkle in his eye. “I did. She was still in her seal form.”

  I rolled my eyes at him, but joined in as he laughed at his own joke. He shared his brother’s charm, and my nerves calmed as the hours went by. Now it was me who was blethering on, carried away by my fascination and fondness for the sea.

  I could have asked Angus questions for hours more but he was intently watching the kitten from the corner of his eye, though feigning disinterest.

  She was a lively wee soul, and had been an endless source of amusement and sweetness since her litter was born. On a croft, cats are vital for catching pesky wee beasties. A lot of cats means a lot of kittens, and it can be a challenge to get them all off my hands. But I was quite fond of this one, and had actually planned to keep her. Her green eyes reminded me of the deep sea, and she had a stubborn, playful personality. But I would give anything I have to the man I suspected was on that island.

  “You really didn’t need to trouble yourself, Miss MacLeod. I could have managed a kitten, and it’s no small thing to miss out on fair weather like this for croft work.”

  I nodded. “My family will manage a day without me, and I miss being on the water. I used to go out often was a young lass with my grandfather, before I was old enough to help with the women’s work.”

  I sighed and stared off to the horizon. Why must there be dedicated women’s work? Why couldn’t I go out to sea? Stuck in a croft thick with peat smoke for the rest of my life had about as much appeal as marrying a sheep. Salty air in my lungs? That’s a dream.

  I looked down at the kitten, who clearly felt the same. She sat in my lap, making little bobbing motions with her head as she sniffed the salty air. She summoned the courage to stumble her way back down my skirt and was shimmying ungracefully across the resupply boxes towards Angus. The sunlight caught the wispy long hairs that stood out from her orange striped coat.

  He was clearly pleased with her, watching her hobble towards him.

  “Feisty wee thing!” He laughed, relaxing, forgetting his pretenses and giving one of the ropes a good shake in front of her face. She batted at it, and tumbled face forward into a puddle of water at the bottom of the boat. With lightning reflexes, she jumped backward against his boot, with a series of tiny sneezes. She disappeared in his huge hand as he scooped her up. He held her at eye level and looked at her approvingly.

  “The last cat I took to the island howled the whole way across. Shame it’s dead, Calum gets so attached to his cats.” His voice trailed off, a sadness dimming the sparkle in his eye.

  “I remember Mr. Douglas keeping the light for many years. Tell me about your brother—has he been keeper long?”

  I didn’t want to seem overly interested, but I was so desperate to know what had happened to him these past years.

  “Calum—not a finer man to be found,” he said warmly. “We were close as boys and fished together as young men from our village. I miss those days. But the island is the right place for him. Safe from wagging tongues, and cold whispers. Wears his heart on his sleeve that one, and sees only the good in folk. Folk who smile at him and then speak out the side of their mouths when his back is turned. They called him odd because he was quiet and kept to himself. Never married. Oh and the cats, that made it worse. After he moved to the island they joked that if he wasn’t mad already, the quicksilver from the fresnel lens would finish the job.”

  I loved the thought of Calum as a lighthouse keeper. You would be hard-pressed to find a truer symbol for the man who steered me so calmly forward in love and happiness.

  “Why is he so concerned about cats?” I asked.

  Angus paused, seemingly lost for words. “I don’t know where it came from exactly. I thought perhaps it was just a matter of companionship. We always had cats growing up. He was fond of them, but not to excess. He went away for several years, to fish off the far isles. When he came back, he was more withdrawn. Still kind, still warm, but something was missing. Shortly after he returned, the keeper position came open when Mr. Douglas moved to the mainland, and Calum took it straight away. He took a kitten with him, looked at that cat like it was the sun itself. It didn’t make it to the island, it was so scared by the trip it died on the boat. Cats are strange like that, sensitive. A storm came up on that trip over—Calum swears it was because of the cat.

  ‘I need a cat.’ I remember he kept saying that. So desperate, so sad, like a lost bairn. It was a side of him I had never seen. I promised I would bring him one, and my heart ached pushing off from that rock, leaving him in that state. It took me two weeks to find a cat, and he radioed every day.

  ‘When are you coming Angus?’ Calum’s voice was more fearful on cloudy days. ‘Its bad luck out here without a cat you know. Please bring me a cat.’

  I told him I was looking for a strong cat, one that wasn’t frightened easily. I found a weathered old male out on the south end of the island at my Uncle’s croft. Nothing to look at, and not the most affectionate but it was tough as nails, and mellow as can be. He managed the trip just fine, and Calum was so relieved to have a cat he didn’t care the state of it. It was old, only lived a year, and when it died I got the call over the radio.

  ‘The cat’s dead.' He said. ‘I’d like a female this time, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  So I brought him a female, cute as a button she was. They got on splendidly, and she really took to island life. Every time I went out for a resupply, there she was bounding along behind him. His wee shadow. An eagle caught her one day. Devastated him.”

  Angus looked away. His love for his brother was evident, my heart hurt for him and the sadness he felt from retelling the story. After a long pause, he spoke again.

  “I got the radio call again. ‘The cat’s dead.’ I knew he loved that cat, but he didn’t go on about it. He never did. He’d always listen, but he never complained about his own problems. You know I think that’s the hardest thing about it all. Knowing he’s bottled up inside, only these daft cats bring him happiness. So I found him another one, made sure it didn’t look like the last. Sentimental old fool I am, I didn’t want him to have any reminder of the other cat. That next one was easy to find, actually. It was all black, yellow eyes. Bonnie it was, but the villagers didn’t take to black cats, being superstitious folk. Calum didn’t care, he welcomed her. She’s lasted the longest, but seems she got into some poison. He found her a few days ago.”

  I couldn’t bear to tell Angus the truth, for fear he wouldn’t take me to the island. It had become clear as the boat crossed over the sea, that he was devoted to his brother, and fiercely protective. We were both quiet. Poor Calum. So
much loss. More loss than Angus knew. Before all those cats, Calum had lost me.

  I was 22 when those fishing trips to the far isles brought Calum to our island. I was a plain lass with no special skill, no outstanding beauty, no family wealth, none of the things that earned other lassies a young marriage. My two sisters married young. One was beautiful, with a tiny waist and silky hair. The other had inherited my grandmother’s skill for knitting delicate lace, which earned her renown and a steady income. Meanwhile, I was a clumsy dreamer, diligent with chores but always with my head in the clouds. I dreamed of going out to sea, and would literally drop everything when ships passed by. Once I dropped a newborn lamb. He was fine but I received a branch sharply across my backside for my absentmindedness. I didn’t like my sisters, and my parents weren’t affectionate. But I had a brother, Iain, whom I adored. He rolled his eyes at me when I’d get in trouble for dreaming. He called me Captain Catherine, his good-natured way of poking fun of me.

  It was customary for fishermen from other islands to gather on ours to embark on trips to fishing spots further west. They were generally groups of smelly old men and I didn’t pay them any mind. My father would send me to the docks to sell them wool jumpers and other goods they might need at sea. My mother would mend torn clothing. One cool summer day, a quiet fisherman, younger than the rest, approached my mother with a torn jumper.

  “This is beyond mending,” she scolded him with a sharp click of her tongue against her teeth, “see my daughter about a new one.”

  He followed her gesturing hand and walked toward me. I had heard my mother and brought out a basket of jumpers to show him. As he looked through them, I was struck by his unassuming air. Something about him filled me with comfort, put me at ease. He spoke and his voice was gentle. His eyes were kind. I don’t remember much of our conversation as I was lost in his calm voice. I do know I didn’t make a giggly fool of myself, which I was prone to do around handsome men. He was only a little taller than me, not large in stature. He had bushy eyebrows, which is a funny thing to notice about a person, but I quite liked them. Hints of brown wavy hair peeked out from under his cap, framing his sun-kissed face.