Oh, brother.
That’s a point: where was my brother? There had been no evidence of him since he got the Boy chucked off the ale cart. Had he become bored and gone away? Had he shed his rat skin and resumed his life as an ethereal? Was that too much to hope for?
“But first,” the Boy looked up at the sky just as the first heavy raindrops, forerunners of an approaching storm began to fall like pennies, “we need to find a bed for the night.”
I glanced around at our surroundings. Good luck with that, I thought. Apart from the ancient and neglected post, there was no other sign (hah!) of civilisation. Wild, open countryside stretched in all directions as far as my eyes could see and my sense of smell could detect. It was all right for me; I had a fur coat. Humans are not so readily equipped.
“Um...” the Boy was clearly at a loss. He leaned one hand against the post. It snapped like a twig and he ended up on his face in the dirt. It was enough to make a cat laugh. I knew I shouldn’t but I did. With the rain pelting down like a barrage of arrows, he looked so forlorn and pathetic, all drenched and miserable, it was either laugh or cry.
I don’t think he heard me.
Not that time.
A sheet of lightning threw the landscape into stark relief. I would have bet my tail my brother was behind this sudden inclemency. It would be just like him.
I slunk over to the Boy and he did his best to shelter me with his upper body. I felt bad about laughing.
“Come on, Puss,” he said, tucking me into his shirt and standing up. He retrieved his sodden bundle, slung it across his shoulder and away we trudged. With every wretched step, I became more and more convinced my rotten rat-faced brother was at the bottom of this storm.
***
We spent the night in a thicket. You know me; I can sleep anywhere but I’m afraid the Boy didn’t get a wink. I am not accustomed to being so up close and personal with humans, despite having observed them from afar since they dropped from the trees, but I could tell something was amiss. The Boy was fretting about something. Perhaps he was mourning his vanished life in his former home. Perhaps he was harbouring apprehension about his future and what that might bring. Or perhaps he was just feeling sorry for himself for having being stuck in a thicket in the pouring rain with only a cat for company and not even a proper cat at that.
I snuggled my head under his jaw, reclaiming him with my scent. That would bring him comfort, wouldn’t it? To share my scent, to belong to me! I keep forgetting the human sense of smell is vastly inferior to the feline. Poor bugger.
Tickling my head seemed to give him a boost. It made me feel sleepier but he insisted on talking to me, holding my face turned towards his.
“Of course, there’s a chance that the streets aren’t really paved with gold,” he said. I gave him a “no kidding” stare. “It’s just something the old wives say. Perhaps it’s a whatsit, a metaphor. Perhaps the streets are lined with metaphors.”
Oh, brother.
From what I know of streets and other places where humans conduct their business, they’re liable to be paved with - well - paving stones. And litter. And those smelly, squidgy things dogs leave behind.
Perhaps that’s where the Boy’s opportunity lies. Metropolitan street-sweeper and poop-scooper!
This thought amused me a little. My eyes closed to slits and my consciousness was just about to slip away when the Boy sat up suddenly, jolting me back to reality.
“Who am I kidding?” he asked. I took it as a rhetorical question. “City of opportunity! Hah! If I spend just one day there the whole place will fall down, not just the bridge! You know what I’m like, Puss. I’m a jinx.”
All my crossness at not being left to sleep evaporated. I felt a tug of pain, pulling me towards the Boy. Is that what he thought? That he was to blame for the farm fire?
“Listen, buggerlugs,” I told him. “Enough with the low self-esteem. I can’t stand it.”
I became aware that he was staring at me.
“What?” I raised a paw to my nose, “Have I got a smudge or something?”
“You’re - you’re...” the Boy pointed at me with a shaky hand, “you’re talking!”
Oh. Oh plop.
My sleepiness had left me off guard. Oh well, the cat was out of the bag now. Or do I mean the cat got his tongue? Either way, there was no going back.
“Yes, and while I’m at it,” I showed him my claws, “quit calling me Puss. It’s not dignified.”
“Stars in heaven above!” the Boy gasped. He threw himself to the ground so he could be face-to-face with me.
I didn’t blink. I focussed on the air just above his shoulder. I felt so stupid but I was determined I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
After several minutes of this, the Boy got to his feet and grunted in exasperation.
“What am I doing?” he cried, thumping the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I must be overtired,” he reasoned. “Walked too far.”
“Yeah, yeah, tell me about it.” I was annoyed. Let me sleep, damn it.
Oops. He was staring at me again.
“If I’m not dreaming already, I think I’d better get to sleep right away,” he muttered, settling back onto the ground. “Before I really go crazy. Goodnight, Puss.”
He waited, expecting me to respond. I licked my front paw. Shaking his head and cursing his own stupidity, the Boy curled up and went to sleep. The wonderful human ability to rationalise things! By the morning, this would be forgotten. I certainly wasn’t going to mention it again.
Only when his breathing became regular did I feel safe enough to sigh in relief. I think I got away with it. The poor lad thinks he’s going off his cake.
And he thinks he’s bad news.
Well, I can’t have that, can I? Let my rat brother chuck everything he can in my direction but he should leave my Boy out of it.
There it was again: my Boy.
I tried to shrug it off. Then I arched my elastic back and stretched out my legs. That felt good. It is good to be a cat.
But I questioned my apparent attachment to the Boy. Was that part of the deal? Was that feeling feline?
Troubled by these thoughts, I was glad when I finally sank back into sleep.
***
The Boy awoke in good spirits. He stood and stretched, popping his vertebrae into place and shedding the stones and twigs that had embedded themselves in his back for the night. Huh, I could show him a thing or two about stretching! But I didn’t want to be seen to responding. I was determined to bend over backwards to make sure I didn’t let anything else slip out.
“Hey, Puss,” the Boy said softly. “Can you hear that?”
It was not going to be easy if he kept asking me direct questions like that.
“Listen!” he instructed. Anyone who has ever met a cat knows that you don’t give it instructions. If a cat appears to be doing what you asked, it’s because your wishes coincide with its. I had to keep this in mind. I forced myself not to trot to his side. Instead I made a big show of giving myself a morning wash but I kept my ears cocked.
In the distance, the sound of church bells.
“Bells, Puss!” the Boy was in rapture. That he was still bloody calling me Puss indicated he had consigned last night’s little chat to the dustbin of his subconscious - that was good even if it meant I had to put up with that bloody name for a while longer. “The bells of London will sound like that.”
Oh. Here we go.
“I could believe they’re ringing just for me! Calling me! Come to London, Richard Whittington! Come to London! Make your fortune!”
It sounded more like ding-ding-a-dong to my untrained ears.
I don’t know which was worse: the miserable, self-doubting Boy of the night before or this morning’s overly optimistic pranci
ng Dick. Clearly, the Boy had issues. Good or bad, he seemed to believe events centred on him. A human conceit. I wanted to shake him and tell him there is no destiny, there is no fate.
But of course, I couldn’t. So I didn’t.
“No more sleeping by the roadside for us!” he announced, although I didn’t share his confidence. “Tonight we will be in London, the most wonderful place in all the world. Do you know, the streets are p-“
“Paved with gold. Yeah, I heard it. Honestly, kiddo, I think you’ve got a gilt complex.” Heh.
Damn it! I put a paw to my mouth. If he glanced at me, he would think I was about to have yet another wash. I was really trying to keep my stupid mouth shut.
The Boy carried on. Either he hadn’t heard me or he was choosing to ignore this evidence of his deteriorating mental state. Presenting, ladies and gentlemen, the amazing human mind and its ability to shut out things that do not compute.
“We have many miles to go,” he said. “But first a little something to eat is in order.”
My stomach somersaulted. It liked the sound of that.
The Boy pulled his stick from the thicket and was about to untie the knot in the bundle when the whole thing skipped away before his fingers could close on it. The Boy reached for it again but it skittered out of reach again. After a minute of this, the Boy was chasing the bundle in rather an ungainly manner along the road that led back towards Gloucestershire and Pauntley.
“Hey!” the Boy cried. “What’s going on? Come back here!”
I knew at once what was happening. While the Boy was stumbling along, I darted through the grass, cutting off a corner. I pounced on the cloth and pinned it to the ground.
The Boy rushed to catch up.
“Well done, Puss!” he panted, a little out of breath. His fingers fumbled with the knot. He unfastened the cloth and revealed the arrogant grin of - you guessed it - my brother.
The Boy recoiled in horror as the Rat wiggled its whiskery eyebrows and then, with a cheeky wave of a little pink paw, tore off into the hedgerow. I gave chase. When we were out of view of the road, the Rat stopped. He stuck out his tongue and vanished into thin air.
Cheating, I call it.
“Is that the best you can do?” I called out to the sky. “Coward! Lousy, rotten coward!”
I went back to the Boy who was examining his supplies. They all had a decidedly gnawed appearance and there was the unmistakable (to me) whiff of rat pee. Sadly, the Boy heaved the remains of his cheese and apples onto the sward.
“Perhaps some birds or wild things might enjoy them,” he explained. He rubbed his fingers and clicked his tongue. I always find that irresistible. I approached him with a spring in my step and yet again, I was disappointed to find his hand devoid of any little bird or mouse. Why do I always fall for it? The stroking he gave my head and back went some way to compensate for this wicked little trick.
“Thanks, Kitty. For a moment there, I thought I was losing my bundle.”
“I think that ship has already sailed, kid.” It was out before I knew it. Seeing my brother must have unsettled me.
“Kitty!” the Boy gasped. “Did you just speak to me?” He tried to stare into my unreadable eyes. Oh, plop. Here we go.
“Haven’t you been listening?” I asked. “And stop calling me Kitty.”
“You did! You are!” the Boy’s eyes were wide with amazement. “I knew I didn’t dream it. A talking cat!” he exclaimed - well, he would. Anyone would.
And this is the point where you came in.
“Say it again!” he urged me. “Say something else! Say my name! I can’t believe it; my own talking cat!”
“Ssh!” I urged him, anxiously glancing around. “Everybody will want one.”
“This is awesome!”
“It’s not that big a deal really,” I showed him the pads on a front paw. “I mean, you go around translating messages from church bells, for pity’s sake.”
I wondered if I should try to tell him everything. But what good would it do? If he learned what I really am, what then? His entire understanding of the universe would be changed forever and then where would he be?
Even more isolated and alone in his world, that’s where.
For now he would have to continue to believe I was a marvel of nature, a talking cat. Or a symptom of advancing mental illness.
Besides, he was so full of wonder at my talking, he was not disposed to listen to anything I said.
It wasn’t long before the Boy recalculated his overly optimistic guess that we would be in the capital by nightfall. He had underestimated the distance still to travel. On foot, we were weeks away. I decided not to mention this and spare his feelings. I even opted to walk alongside him, sometimes a little behind, sometimes a little ahead.
We set off in the direction of the bells. Reason dictated that there we would find some kind of shelter. Bells are not a naturally occurring phenomenon after all and required a building to house them. Bells also require other people to hear them and so it is logical to assume there would be other buildings within earshot. The prospect of kipping under an actual roof that night buoyed the Boy’s spirits and put a spring in his step. At first he chattered on and on as we progressed along the rutted road but his monologue eventually petered out and we settled into a companionable silence, enjoying the walk in sunshine leavened with a pleasant breeze.
Without the Boy’s words to focus on not responding to (if you catch my meaning), I found myself continually distracted by the world around us. The swoop of a sparrow might instil in a human observer the longing to take to the air. The feline noggin only wishes to bring that sucker down. In another incarnation I could have been an anti-aircraft missile launcher - operator - driver - thing - oh, I don’t know what they’re called. I’m a cat; I’m not supposed to know.
Time was I knew everything because I had seen everything. My current physical prison was clearly not large enough to accommodate the database of knowledge and memories I accrued over the aeons. It’s another bloody reason to slough off this skin as soon as possible.
If it wasn’t the birdies, it was the scurrying creatures in the long grass. Field mice and voles were puzzled to encounter my scent borne on the traitorous breeze to their twitchy noses and they were diverted from the normal course of their daily business to give me the widest berth possible as I passed through their stomping ground. Not that they do much stomping, I suppose, poor little things. Poor, little, delicious morsels...
I glanced back at the Boy who was looking more and more like a walking pork chop to my ravenous imagination. He was still carrying that bundle even though there was nothing worth the effort inside it - thanks to my brother’s ratty bladder. There was nothing in it for me to munch on, that was certain. I needed to find something soon.
“Mew,” I said and then followed this up by actually mewing, which is what I should have done in the first place.
“All right, Puss.” He picked me up and tucked me inside his shirt. “Your poor paws.”
He cradled me against his chest the rest of the way towards the bells. I forced myself not to listen to the complaining in my belly and took the opportunity to catch a little nap. Well, why not?
***
Of course, the bells hadn’t been ringing for the duration of our walk. That would have been medieval noise pollution of the highest order. The thing about this era in human endeavour is that it was, by and large, very quiet. There weren’t so many people around for one thing and nothing motorised, of course, so when someone did make a bit of a racket, the sound carried across the open countryside. Once the pealing had stopped, the Boy had to rely on the acuity of his vision. Buildings appeared in the far distance and, as we approached, the shapes became distinct as a small hamlet, a huddle of habitations around a bell tower.
The Boy woke me gently a
s we approached this settlement by placing me on the ground and whispering, “Puss, Puss!” It was all I could do to refrain from scratching his eyes out.
Unusually for a period when most people would be out toiling in the soil, the local populace seemed to be assembled in the central quad. No fields were being tended today, it appeared. There was a buzz in the air as the residents swarmed around the bell tower like bees: huge, stinky bees that were an affront to my sensitive snout.
The atmosphere seemed to be convivial - if you like that kind of thing - as the assembled humans clapped and laughed at something I couldn’t see from my disadvantage point at shin level.
“What’s going on?” the Boy asked but I couldn’t answer - not least because I didn’t know. I wormed my way through several pairs of legs to get to the heart of the matter.
A gruesome visage with enormous fangs and curling horns just about startled me out of my skin. The owner of this distressing countenance cackled as I tried to back away. My front legs stumbled on my hind legs as my spine collided with the shin of some man.
“Here, kitty, kitty!” the horror squawked. I recoiled as a clawed hand coated with black feathers reached down and seized me by the scruff of the neck. I tried to squirm out of the monster’s grasp, beating my back legs against it and twisting my neck in a bid to sink my teeth into its paw.
The thing held me aloft for the crowd to see. This elicited a cheer and a round of applause.
“A gatecrasher!” the monster roared. “Trying to see the show without paying.”
The humans roared with laughter. I hung in the air, dangling from the strange creature’s clutches.
I could see the Boy, elbowing his way to the front of the crowd.
Or audience, I should say, as it dawned on me what was happening.
We had happened upon a performance by a troupe of travelling actors. The fellow holding me up for ridicule was playing a demon. This was something along the lines of The Harrowing of Hell. Their waggon was decked out with painted flames and a gaping hell mouth like a dragon’s maw. Atop a ladder, a figure in white smiled down benevolently, while a smaller demon, an imp, I suppose you’d call it, cavorted around, performing cartwheels and dashing smoke bombs to the ground with unnecessary frequency.
I AM THE CAT Page 5
