“Oh, thank you, thank you!” the Boy panted, catching up. “Any chance of a lift?”
The driver glanced up and down and seeing the Boy was decently if strangely attired, pursed his lips. “Where you headed?”
“To London!” the Boy enthused. I didn’t need to see his face to know that his eyes had lit up. With my hind legs, I quickly flicked some dirt over my leavings and trotted over to the Boy. This afforded me a look at the painted covers of the waggon. I’ve been observing human affairs for a long time. I’ve watched as they daubed on cave walls, or carved hieroglyphs into pyramids. I’ve seen the development of the written word, the printing press, the typewriter and the e-reader. So a few words on the side of a cart weren’t going to present any problems.
Fitzwarren’s Fabrics and Finery.
For the benefit of the illiterate, the words were surrounded by pictures of men and women posing in expensive clothes. It all looked very grand. In a mud-spattered, faded by sunlight kind of way. But our recent experience with the actors was giving me qualms about accepting a ride from anyone else. The Boy didn’t appear to share my reservations. It wasn’t that the driver had a hint of unkindness to his countenance - quite the contrary, in fact. Perhaps I didn’t want to share the Boy with anyone having only just got him all to myself.
The driver looked the Boy up and down, taking in his exotic and feminine attire.
“Going to a party?”
“What? Oh! Oh, no!” The Boy blushed.
“Then you always dress that way?” The driver’s eyes crinkled around the edges.
“No, not really -”
But before the Boy could explain, a gruff voice sounded and a grizzled head appeared from the back of the covered waggon. “What’s the hold up?” this man snapped in a voice as rough as gravel. “Is it a hold-up?” He glanced around for robbers and bandits; his eyes widened when he saw the figure of Salome standing by the roadside. He laughed. A horny hand gripped the driver’s shoulder. “Careful, Geoffrey; it might be a ruse!”
“You mean...” Geoffrey the driver clutched at his chest.
“I don’t think it’s a real girl.” The grizzled man clambered from the back and dropped down to the road. He was a brute of a fellow, well over six feet in height and almost as broad across the shoulders. He walked around the Boy as though appraising a newly-installed work of art.
“It won’t do,” he mused, stroking his chin. “The bumps are in the wrong places. Boy, you should try considerably harder. You have a name, son?”
“Dick,” said the Boy, dutifully.
“I know; I saw!” laughed Geoffrey. The Boy’s blushes returned, redoubled.
A look of consultation passed between the two men. Something tacit was decided. The big man offered a hand like a serving platter to the Boy.
“You may ride with us if you agree to work. You’ll make a fifth and that will suit all of us.”
“A fifth?” the Boy was staring at the huge hand as though trying to read his own fortune in it.
And so, Geoffrey and the other man, who introduced himself as Big Michel, explained they were four in number. They shared driving duties during daylight and at night, when it became too dark and dangerous to navigate the roads, they would take turns to watch over the waggon and protect the valuable goods they were transporting to the capital.
With the Boy forming a fifth member of the party, the work could be divided, lightening their load, so to speak. The Boy wouldn’t be permitted to tackle any of the driving duties - he was too young and inexperienced, it was deemed, but his contribution to the nightly watching would mean the rest of them could enjoy more sleep.
It seemed like a reasonable arrangement. The Boy sent me a look of consultation, much as Big Michel had shared with Geoffrey, but I was wary of expressing any kind of sentience with the men so near. So I did what I’ve taken to doing in these situations. I licked my paw.
“But first!” Big Michel announced, steering the Boy around to the rear of the waggon. “Some new clobber! You’re more likely to attract outlaws in your pretty get-up than deter them.”
“Michel!” Geoffrey warned from the driving seat but Big Michel swatted away his concern as though it was a gnat. He reached inside the painted canvas and withdrew a new pair of leggings and a tunic, both of which he thrust at the Boy’s chest.
“Michel!” Geoffrey hissed, more intensely this time.
“Relax!” Big Michel looked around the waggon. “What the boss doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides young Dick here’ll work to pay for his new outfit, won’t you, Dick? Or, we can put them back when we get to town and no one’s the wiser. So, chill your boots!” This reminded him. “Boots!” he declared and withdrew a pair in new leather. The Boy struggled not to drop them as they were pushed into his arms. “And finally...”
Big Michel took out a thick leather breastplate, a belt from which a dagger hung in a sheath, and a pair of wristbands studded with metal.
“Put that little lot on and you’ll look like the rest of us. Well, go on!”
The Boy hesitated. Big Michel’s eyes rolled skywards.
“Don’t worry; I won’t watch. Although I gather you’ve already given old Geoffrey a show.”
He climbed into the waggon, which looked as though it might tip over and crush us as he pulled his bulk on board. Murmuring voices could be heard from within. The other two members of the party had been disturbed from their afternoon nap and they were not happy. As Big Michel filled them in on developments they grew less happy still. I was glad, and so was the Boy, when the suggestion came from Geoffrey that he (we) should ride up front for a while until the others got used to the idea.
The Boy looked rather spiffy I have to say in his armoured livery. The clothes and other accoutrements were a little too large for him, it has to be said, intended for a more muscular fellow than he, but the general effect was impressive. He picked me up and carried me to the front seat. I took a good sniff of the new leather. I approved.
At least, I thought, if these men turn out to be bad guys, they have foolishly provided the Boy the means with which to defend himself.
“They’re worried about the money,” Geoffrey jerked his head towards the back of the waggon. “They don’t want it split five ways.”
“But I don’t want paying,” said the Boy. “The ride alone is payment enough.”
Geoffrey nodded. He clicked his tongue and the horses began to walk.
***
We met the other two at dusk when Geoffrey began to look for a suitable spot in which to park the waggon for the night. They emerged from their slumbers in the back, stretching their limbs and rubbing their eyes. Like Big Michel they were large men and they moved with a grace I can only describe and admire as cat-like. They were like panthers in human form and I began to suspect they were changelings like me.
There was Reynald, bearded and lugubrious but you wouldn’t want to encounter him in a dark alley - or even one that was fully illuminated. He glanced at the Boy and nodded a greeting that was both dismissive and accepting. He went behind a nearby tree to pass water.
Red-faced and permanently sniffing, Alfred took one lingering look at us both then his mouth contorted into a sneer and he spat noisily and copiously on the ground. He turned to Geoffrey and complained about us as though we were not within earshot. Geoffrey explained patiently that the Boy’s presence was nothing but beneficial to the group.
Alfred wiggled a fingertip in his ear hole and then inspected his digit dispassionately.
“Yeah, well,” he shrugged. “As long as he don’t fall asleep on the job. And that walking fleabag keeps from under my feet.”
“I won’t!” the Boy piped up. “And he won’t; will you, Puss?”
I deemed it prudent to hold my tongue at that juncture. Why everyone kept referring to me as a
fleabag, I couldn’t say. I am meticulous about cleanliness as you well know and I certainly don’t carry passengers.
Alfred seemed unconvinced. He scowled and pointed his dagger at the Boy’s throat. Then he laughed and turned the knife around, inviting the Boy to take the handle. “Can you cook? There’s turnips on the waggon.”
If I was the Boy I would have protested that skivvying for unsavoury types wasn’t part of the agreement - and I would probably have ended up headfirst in the cooking pot. The Boy drew his own dagger, newer and cleaner than Alfred’s.
“I’ll use my own,” he nodded. Alfred smiled - well, perhaps that’s a bit much; his scowl disappeared. He approved. He clapped the Boy on the shoulder and laughed, his face reddening to a deeper shade.
Geoffrey laughed too, more from relief than anything. Reynald returned from his urinating and asked what he’d missed.
“Just making young Dick feel welcome.” Geoffrey steered the Boy towards the cooking pot, beneath which a fire had been lit to boil the water within. Reynald grunted sadly, with the air of someone accustomed to missing out on the fun.
While the Boy peeled and cut vegetables I went on a prowl of the immediate area. I found there was always part of me on the lookout for food but I wanted to be able to observe our new companions from a distance - and away from Alfred’s big feet. I scaled a tree - a different one to the one that now reeked of Reynald’s pee - and perched on a branch. From this high vantage point I could see the lie of the land but also keep an eye on the four strangers.
Geoffrey appeared to be the mother hen of the group. He fussed around the others, handing them drinks and generally keeping the chitchat going. He seemed a kindly soul but I could see how quickly his fussing around would become annoying. The others, having travelled with him for who-knows-how-long barely tolerated him.
Reynald sat a little way off, lost in his own contemplations. Occasionally his shoulders would heave in a sigh and he would look even more downcast and shake his head sadly. I wondered if there was something in his past that made him so downhearted. Or whether he was just a miserable bleeder.
Alfred seemed more convivial having fully woken up and got some food inside him. While he waited for the Boy to cook the turnip broth, he sank his teeth into a round loaf of bread. He devoured the whole thing to himself, laughing and speaking loudly while he chewed. He complained about Reynald’s personal habits and hygiene and of having to bunk with such an inveterate and prodigious farter. The others were familiar with this litany of complaints and laughed along in good humour - except Reynald, of course, who didn’t seem to realise he was the subject of such derision.
Big Michel - now, I liked Big Michel best of all. He checked on the Boy a couple of times, not to cajole him into speeding things up, but to ask if he could be of any assistance.
He seemed the unadorned leader of the pack and it wasn’t because he was the biggest. He wasn’t. In terms of taking up space in the universe, it was Reynald that displaced the most air. There was just something about him that suggested he was in charge. He was the king of this particular pride and I reckoned as long as he treated the Boy favourably, the others would follow suit. I began to relax at last.
“Soup’s on!” the Boy banged a wooden spoon on the side of the cooking pot. He filled bowls with steaming liquid and Geoffrey passed them around to the others. Alfred tucked in right away, burning his mouth. He swore unintelligibly and hopped around, breathing and blowing heavily.
“There is danger in all things,” opined Reynald, sagely.
The silence of people enjoying their food fell across the camp. It was agreed, begrudgingly by some, that the Boy was a more than adequate cook.
While Geoffrey busied around, tidying up and Reynald looked deep into the fire, lost in reflection, Alfred sharpened his dagger and Big Michel treated everyone to a song. Such a mellifluous voice from so unlikely a source! His song was of lost love and mortality and brought a tear to my eye. Every once in a while, humans can surprise you with their beauty.
After that, there was nothing more to be said. The night was well and truly upon us and it was time for Big Michel and Geoffrey to get some sleep while Reynald and Alfred took first watch. Big Michel decided the Boy had better get some shuteye and join him in the wee small hours for his shift. The cat, Big Michel decreed, could shift for itself.
I remained where I was, happy in my tree while the men sorted themselves out below. I dozed off, vowing to wake up and sit with the Boy when it was his turn to be on watch.
***
I slept right through the night. I was so ashamed! I felt as though I had let the Boy down terribly but a quick headcount as the group assembled for breakfast revealed that all of them were present and correct with all of their limbs still attached. It must have been an uneventful night.
I consoled myself with the thought that had there been any trouble with bandits or outlaws or what-have-you I would have sprung (sprang? sprong?) into action.
Of course I would.
I walked down the tree trunk, dropping the last couple of feet and trotted, tail in the up position, towards the Boy who was rekindling the fire. I trilled a greeting and his face cracked into a grin when he saw me approach.
“There you are, Puss!” He was not shy of stating the obvious.
“Someone wants feeding,” Big Michel laughed. I kept my objections to this vile slur on my character to myself. Couldn’t I merely be saying Hello for the sake of it? Oh, who am I kidding? Not Big Michel, that was for certain.
The Boy tickled between my ears. I arched my back to press against his hand, encouraging him to stroke me all along my spine. It felt good, of course, but I wanted no one to be in doubt that he still belonged to me. I have noticed a distinct lack of mutual sniffing among humans. They are missing out. They change their females’ names and make them wear rings to indicate ownership. It seems an unwieldy practice to me.
“Give him some of this,” said a low, quiet voice like a very distant landslide. It was Reynald. He had finished cleaning the results of an early-morning fishing trip. He skewered an unfortunate resident of the local stream on a stick and held it over the flames.
The smell was extraordinary. Forgetting the Boy momentarily I watched the corpse of the fish slowly browning and crisping in the fire. I hoped I wasn’t drooling like an unsophisticated canine. After what seemed an eternity (and I should know) Reynald deemed the fish to be cooked and withdrew it. He broke off a piece, wincing and blowing, and held it out towards me in the palm of his hand. I drank in a massive draught of its heavenly aroma before opening my mouth and sinking my teeth into the crumbling -
Hot! Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot!
I dropped the morsel and batted it around on the ground. The men thought this was the most amusing thing in history. I ignored them. I gave the piece of fish an angry swipe and found I could not leave it alone; the smell was too enticing.
When, at last, it was cool enough for me to eat, I devoured it so hungrily I barely gave myself opportunity to taste it. I opened my mouth wide and ran my tongue around it.
De. Lish. Us.
The Boy fed me a few pieces from his portion and I was just settling into his lap for an early morning snooze when Geoffrey announced it was time to get moving. The breakfast pans and platters were packed away. Reynald and Alfred saw to the horses. They were to take the first leg of the day’s drive, while the Boy and I caught some zeds in the back of the waggon.
That suited me fine.
The next couple of days followed a pattern. The hours were spent pleasantly either sleeping or watching the road pass by. The men were an amiable bunch and I felt secure enough to allow them to pet and tickle me as the mood took them. They were all mine now; I had rubbed my scent on them all.
The third night was when we ran into trouble.
***
“Who�
��s there?” the Boy hissed in an ill-advised outbreak of cliché. He was suddenly alert on the driving seat, his eyes darting around although we were in almost total darkness. My superior vision was able to make out shapes in the darkness, some of which were swaying boughs. Some of them were not.
Among the foliage and cover provided by trees and shrubs, I caught sight of moving shadows and of glints - of metal, of eyeballs... I leapt to the roof of the waggon for a better look. Within seconds I ascertained we were surrounded.
My instinct was to flee, to spring into the trees and get away. But I couldn’t leave the Boy, could I?
He drew his dagger. His hands were shaking so much he was in danger of doing himself some damage. He puckered his lips and tried to make the pre-arranged signal for danger, a two-note whistle, but he was unable to produce anything more than a noiseless puffing. The scent of him changed as he broke out in a fearful sweat.
“Puss?” he whispered and it sounded not unlike his attempts at whistling. “Get undercover.”
My insides swelled. He was thinking of my safety! I let out an involuntary purr.
“I’m serious!” he hissed - a little harshly, I thought. “Hide!”
Well, I thought I was all right where I was, on the waggon roof and out of sight. I was wrong. A foul-smelling fellow in a hood dropped down beside me from an overhanging branch. I shrank away, hoping he wouldn’t see me.
“Huzzah!” the stinky beggar cried, holding an axe aloft. It was the rallying cry for his confederates. Men swarmed from the undergrowth. An unfriendly boot trampled my tail, causing me to yowl. The man on the roof was startled but only temporarily. He swung his axe in my direction but I dove from the roof and darted beneath the waggon.
I AM THE CAT Page 11
