I AM THE CAT

by William Stafford

  Or - and this is what gave me the shudders - was he with us now? Was he watching us? Perhaps he had hidden among the turnips just like I did. No; I would have smelled him. Or would I?

  I had to keep in mind the difference between us. I was a cat. He was only in the shape of a rat. He still retained his abilities. He wouldn’t have a scent.

  And he might have changed into something else.

  The idea that he could be anything or anyone was very disquieting. I glanced up at the carter. His grizzled face was set in a sort of passively malevolent grimace. Could he be...

  A long, low note sounded from the horse’s backside.

  That was more my brother’s style. Was he the horse?

  I realised I couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. This was a fresh layer of torment to my exile. How clever it all was! My brother needn’t lift a clawed (or hoofed) finger to make me suffer. My newly-engendered paranoia would do the job on his behalf.

  I pressed my spine against the Boy’s warm hand and he reciprocated with a few strokes. I began to feel a little safer.

  Of course, the Boy...

  No. I refused to believe it. My brother was not masquerading as the Boy. One sniff told me all I needed to convince me. There was the smell of the fire still. And there was my own scent, transferred to him at our first meeting. He was my Boy all right.

  I felt fiercely protective of this human and I have to confess, I rather liked the feeling. But the uneasiness persisted. Something was amiss, something other than my brother being up to who-knew-what. I couldn’t put my paw on it but something was up.

  I decided not to dwell on it or my rotten brother and permitted myself a little shuteye while the journey continued...

  It was almost like waking up, almost like this whole cat thing had been the dream. I was as I had always been. I was my old self, incorporeal and invisible. I was free. I circled the globe, dipping in and out of history, supervising the turnout of events. Free.

  A stone in the road jolted me out of this happy reverie reminding me all too harshly of my physical prison. I virtually had to swallow my kidneys back down. How do mortals bear it, the never-ending assault on the senses? Well, I say never-ending; I guess the end comes to all living things sooner or later.

  This macabre thinking kept me from returning to the bliss of my dream but I managed to nod off, with a cat’s amazing ability to have a snooze just about anywhere.

  The road became less jarring and my sleep a good deal smoother as we approached the market town. I don’t know what it was called or how many miles we had travelled from Pauntley but this place was no Pauntley, I can tell you that much.

  We passed through a pair of large gates in the town’s outer wall, joining a train of similar carts, all bearing wares to market. The noise and bustle made my ears twitch. The hubbub and busyness caused my eyes to dart in every direction. It was too much. I couldn’t take any of it in. So I closed my eyes and kept my head still - not for another nap, I’ll have you understand. I let my nose do all the sightseeing (sightsmelling!) for me.

  Horses, oxen, pigs, and chickens. Most of them alive but some of them not. Raw meat. Cooked meat. Fried. Boiled.

  The dung and blood of all these creatures filled my nostrils, combined with the sweat of hundreds of humans all jostling for position. The sweet smell of hay. The metallic tang of a smith at his labours.

  The Boy’s arm came around me, protectively. Our cart came to a halt.

  I heard the Boy thank the carter for the lift.

  “Not so fast!” I heard the carter snap. I opened my eyes to find he had clamped a hand on the Boy’s thigh. “There is the matter of payment still.”

  The Boy glanced at the grubby hand on his leg and then into the carter’s leering face. He managed to suppress a shudder. I didn’t.

  Then the carter gave the Boy’s leg a slap and withdrew his hand. “I’m talking about my turnips,” he cackled. “Give us a hand unloading them and we’ll call it even.”

  The Boy stammered something about ‘of course’ and ‘happy to’. I retracted my claws, relieved that I wasn’t called upon to use them for scratching out those lecherous eyes.

  The Boy sprang down from the planks and followed the carter to the rear of the waggon. I stayed put, gazing rather imperiously at passersby. A nearby stall caught my nose’s attention as effectively as if it had sent gaseous hands through the air to poke fingers in my nostrils like a bowling ball and pull me from the cart to the stall, floating as I used to float. I glanced back at the Boy. He was busy unloading turnips while the carter stood idly chatting with a stallholder. I supposed I could afford to slip away for a few minutes to investigate this olfactory onslaught and perhaps pick myself up a spot of luncheon.

  I dropped from the seat and landed with a squelch on the filth-strewn path between stalls. There are many messy creatures on this world and among them humans are some of the filthiest. The mess they make of things! (I’ve seen what happens across the ages; it only gets worse) The path was littered with debris. Cabbage leaves wilting and rotting. Runaway vegetables that had bounced from trays lay bruised and trampled underfoot. Passersby were mulching the discarded items into compost, heedless of the state their footwear was getting into. And as if the forgotten plant stuff was not enough, dung of all colours and textures coated everything in a miasma of stench. It was too much for my nose to take in all at once. Odorous information assaulted my tiny cat brain as if the creatures who had supplied the dung were rushing me in a stampede. It was like an ambush or an overly enthusiastic surprise party. I was instantly and completely intoxicated.

  Trying not to think about what I was stepping in, I trod as daintily as I could, dodging human legs, cartwheels and hooves, weaving my way towards the fishmonger’s. I focussed on the piquant aromas emanating from the display, like a beacon in a storm. My belly yelped eagerly. I picked up the pace.

  In one graceful move, I sprang onto the counter, depositing mucky paw prints on the pristine white cloth. Oops. Before me was an array of glinting silver, scales blinking in the sunlight. Where to begin? I dipped my head to sniff at the first fish. Its glassy eye stared up at me doleful and accusing.

  Damn it. It’s always the eyes that put me off.

  I padded across the tabletop seeking something beheaded and, frankly, something that wasn’t already on the turn.

  “You little -” came a harsh voice, accompanied by the swish of a large knife in my path. “Shoo! Go on!” Or words to that effect.

  The fishmonger - a wall-eyed, pike-faced man (perhaps the smells from his wares was colouring my perception) - waved me away, brandishing the knife. I backed up, putting my filthy foot into a fish’s rotting eye. Yuck. I was not looking forward to licking that off later. I sprang for the man’s chest causing him to stagger backwards. He collided with the strut that was supporting the awning of his stall. Down it all came in a cascade of canvas and trestle and fish. Trapped in all the confusion, I clung onto the nearest thing for safety, digging my claws in as deep as I could. Unfortunately this happened to be the fishmonger’s face.

  He screamed and swore, trying to pull me away. I hung on doggedly (if you’ll forgive the expression) and beneath the awning we rolled and wrestled together.

  The sudden influx of sunshine caused us both to freeze momentarily. Spectators had gathered. Finally, curiosity had got the better of some of the onlookers and they had lifted the veil to reveal the thrashing parties beneath. I came to my senses a split second before my combatant and I darted away into the crowd. A pair of hands snatched me up. I tensed before I realised the hands belonged to the Boy.

  He uttered soothing words in a soft voice and I snuggled into his shirt front. Around us, the crowd parted as the fishmonger approached. Half a trout sat on his head like a shiny toupee. More alarming was the knife. He’d managed to retrieve that from the destruction a
nd he was now levelling it in our direction.

  “That your cat?” he barked. The trout’s remaining eye dropped from its socket and slid down his face. It was beautifully horrific. I decided against patting it with a front paw.

  “It is indeed,” the Boy replied. His voice was a little shaky and I could tell his heart was racing.

  “Then you’re going to pay for all losses and damaged incurred by said moggy.” The fishmonger seized the Boy by the collar.

  “I have no money, sir,” the Boy stammered.

  “Then I’ll take the cat,” the fishmonger narrowed his eyes. (His own eyes; the trout one had slid into his shirt.) “Oh, I’m not unreasonable. I don’t want the whole thing.”

  Before negotiations could begin about which part or parts of me he would accept, I sank my teeth into the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. He screamed and swore again, dancing around like a bear on a chain. I was determined not to release him until he let go of the Boy’s throat. This took quite a while. Humans can be more stupid than usual when up against it. Cornered animals get a bum rap.

  Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t judge humans too harshly. After all, I’m assuming you are one yourself. Also, the assembled throng wasn’t entirely comprised of bad apples. There was a growing sense of disappointment from among the spectators when it became apparent that this was not going to be a proper punch-up. When they saw it was big stinking fish man against cute little kitty cat, the tide of popular opinion turned in my favour. Jeers were mooed. Aspersions were cast against the fishmonger’s parentage and breeding. Clods of muck were hurled through the air to hit his fish gut smeared apron or rebound off his forehead.

  Ah, good old British concern for animal welfare. Again I felt fortunate to have been cast into a moggy and not some ill-favoured and unfortunate creature like a veal calf or a snake.

  The fishmonger realised that to continue his harassment of poor little me would constitute a public relations disaster. He still harboured aspirations to sell his wares to these people after all. Affecting a smile, he thrust me, as best as he could, towards the Boy.

  “There, there, nice kitty,” he cooed, through gritted teeth.

  The Boy accepted me and I snuggled up against him - after I had had one last swipe of my claws in the fishmonger’s general direction.

  The crowd muttered. It had been a pretty poor show, leaving all participants intact. Grumbling, the onlookers began to disperse. The fishmonger tried to re-erect his awning.

  “I’m sorry, sire -” the Boy took a tentative step towards the debris, as though offering to help. The fishmonger shot him a warning look - you’ve heard of daggers in the eyes? Well, he could have harpooned a pod of whales with that look (not that I would ever advocate such a course of action!).

  We didn’t need looking at twice.

  We made a sharp exit. We left the marketplace. We left the town - and I never had the chance to see the sights - if there were any; I don’t know, I didn’t get to see.

  We moved against the tide of people still flooding in through the main gates. We didn’t stop until we had reached the far end of an expanse of greensward and the Boy needed to catch his breath. I was fine, of course; he’d carried me all the way.

  He set me down and I immediately set to giving myself a wash. All that disgusting marketplace filth - it was best not to think about it. Best just to get on with the task and enjoy the sensation of tongue raking through fur.

  The Boy sat on the grass. He took a cloth bundle from under his shirt and opened it on the ground. I gave it a cursory glance and a sniff. The bundle contained a hunk of cheese, a couple of maggoty and bruised apples and several of the carter’s turnips. No wonder the Boy was so winded, carrying that little lot.

  Not exactly my cup of tea.

  The Boy seemed to read my thoughts. “I’m sorry, Puss,” he sighed. You will be, I thought, if you keep calling me that. “I sort of hoped you’d be able to catch your own.”

  I made sure I kept my gaze averted. I couldn’t let on that I understood him. Good job cats are notoriously aloof.

  “And it’s not as though I was planning on taking you with me.”

  Oh, so now it’s my fault? I turned my back on him and raised my tail. Let that indicate my mood.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he continued, as though he couldn’t tell the difference between my face and my other end - how insulting! “But I’m glad you got away. I felt terrible for leaving you there but you were all I could use as currency.”

  Huh!

  “Something else, Puss,” the Boy went on, sounding almost guilty. “You see, I can’t carry you and all this food at the same time. It will only slow me - I mean, us - down. I’m afraid you’re going to have to walk.”

  I kept my back turned so he wouldn’t see my scornful expression. Walk? Bugger that.

  I scampered away towards the thick trunk of an oak. There was a terrible twinge in my abdomen. I thought I could run it off but it showed no sign of letting up. As my instincts took the driving seat and set my paws to scrabbling in the soft earth around the base of the tree, it dawned on me what was amiss.

  I was about to have my first poo.

  Much as I’m up for new sensations and all the rest of it, it hadn’t occurred to me that this particular activity would be part of the deal. I’m with the cats on this one. I share their apparent distaste of the whole process. If it has to be done, then it were best done quickly and in private. And then covered over as fast as my paws could go. And never spoken of again.

  I had carved out a shallow depression in the dirt like an archaeology student on work experience and was just about to lower my haunches over it, when the Boy strolled up. I was mortified with embarrassment.

  “Clever Puss!” he declared. I could have swung for him. How dare he patronise me like I was a potty-training baby human!

  He crouched beside me and for one horrible second I thought he was going to join in. Instead he picked up a fallen branch and stood up, examining its length and girth as though considering a purchase.

  “Excellent work, Puss!” he gave my head a scratch. I closed my eyes, hoping it would make me disappear. When I opened them again, the Boy had returned to his food supplies and I was able to conduct my business.

  With the whole sordid enterprise concluded and concealed from prying eyes, I spent a couple of minutes in the tree before returning to the Boy, as though some other activity had called me away.

  “Look, Puss!” the Boy enthused. He was modelling his new invention. He had retied the cloth into a bundle and rendered that bundle more portable by pushing one end of the branch through the knot. The other end rested on his shoulder. “What do you think?”

  Naturally, I showed no interest. Inside I was delighted. Now he’d be able to carry me too and, furthermore, he seemed happy to give me the credit for this innovation.

  He patted his shirt and I understood. With a chirrup that was almost as embarrassing as being caught with my haunches down, I sprang to his chest and the makeshift papoose of his clothing.

  It occurred to me that I was hungry again. My innards rumbled. I tried to mask this racket with a purr but I found I couldn’t make that peculiar sound voluntarily. How do you mortals manage? Slaves to your intestines! How do you stand it?

  “Come on, Puss!” the Boy clicked his tongue - altogether redundantly seeing how I was already in his arms. I cringed at the moniker. Then I got distracted by the heat and the aroma of his armpit and I settled into a doze with his fragrance filling my head.

  He was prone to whistling as he walked along the country road but I found I could shut that out. I could also tamp down my feelings of guilt - perhaps I should stay awake and provide some kind of company for him as he walked?

  And where the hell were we going anyway?

  I could not
have been all that concerned; sleep soon conquered all my thoughts.

  ***

  The Boy came to a halt. The sudden cessation of movement stirred me from my slumbers. The sky was getting dark and there was a definite chill in the air. I stretched a couple of my legs and snuggled deeper into his shirt.

  “Just a minute, Puss.” The Boy fished me out and planted me on the ground. We had stopped at a signpost, a wormy, faded column with cracked and splintered arms. One arm pointed back towards Gloucester. The other told us that London was ahead. Many, many miles ahead.

  “London!” the Boy gasped, starry-eyed. I shook my head. I wanted to explain to him he’d be better off finding us a farmstead where there would be plenty of mice and so on for me to catch. Oh, and his previous experience as a farmhand might make him useful too. Best not to mention the whole farm-burning-down thing, though.

  Even at the tail end of the fourteenth century, London was regarded as the place to be. It was a long way off from the teeming metropolis and centre of culture it grew into but, to be frank, it had very little in the way of competition. The city has always had a particular glamour but like all glamour, it was largely a thin veil concealing an unpleasant reality. That’s still true today - I mean, at the time you’re reading this - but there is an inexhaustible supply of teenagers who flee to the capital in search of fame and fortune.

  “Do you know, Puss,” the Boy was grinning up at the mouldy, moss-coated post as though it was Heaven’s gate, “they say in London the streets are paved with gold?”

  Yes, I do know, actually. That hackneyed line is one of the modern age’s first big lies.

  What could I do to dissuade him?

  I bumped my head against his shin to get his attention, and then I trotted pertly in the direction of Gloucester. The Boy shook his head and laughed.

  “Not that way, silly,” he chased after me and scooped me up. “We’re going to London.”