Thomasina - The Cat Who Thought She Was God

by Paul Gallico

  Bellowing like a bull, an arm about Lori, the other wielding the heavy whipstock, he half cleared a way for them before Lori was torn from his grasp and he was staggered by a blow on the head. The whipstock broke as he got his back up against a wagon, but he wrenched an iron bar from an attacker and flailed with it. Yet he knew that his moments were numbered, for the killing lust had seized the mob and they were getting to him like dogs about a beast brought to bay from the side and even above, where some boy climbed the canvas roof of the wagon and rained blows of a stick upon his head, while another sought to stab at his legs from between the wheels.

  Winded and gasping, his chest afire from his exertions, his strength draining from him, MacDhui’s sight began to dim, when a new cry, wild and eerie, rose up out of the hurly-burly of shouts, grunts, and the whistling of battle-drawn breath.

  “A MacDhui! A MacDhui!”

  It was Lori. Somehow she had freed herself and from the nearest of the wagons had plucked a flaming petrol torch with which she advanced, bringing the attack upon the veterinary momentarily to a halt.

  The flame revealed her cloak, half rent, spilling from her shoulders, her dark red hair a loose, disheveled aureole about her face. But it was the expression and the light in her eyes that MacDhui was never to forget to the end of his days. Gone was the gentleness. Mouth twisted, eyes ablaze, she was as battle-drunk as any Celtic queen of old, pressing to the side of her beleaguered chieftain.

  “A MacDhui! A MacDhui!” She came on, flailing her torch, scattering blazing petrol, opening a path to where the spent man stood wavering and near to collapse. She held him erect with an arm about his waist, keeping his attackers at bay. But as they rallied and again closed in, she shouted her battle cry once more, “A MacDhui!” and then adding, “This for ye,” plunged the torch into the side of the canvas wagon.

  In an instant the creeping orange flames were eating into cloth and wooden hoop—the dry material went up like tinder erupting into floating bits of burning material that fired the next wagon and yet another—

  The fight was over. The quarry was forgotten in the fire panic. Screaming, cursing, some tried to pull the burning wagons from the circle, others scrambled to withdraw possessions from the flaming caravans, a few formed a bucket brigade from the river.

  Unnoticed, MacDhui and Lori moved off behind the wagons until they came to the cages, where the weary man sank to his knees for a moment and the woman knelt beside him.

  “Andrew,” she cried, “are ye all richt?” She herself was smudged and smoke-grimed and there was a bruise on her cheek.

  “Aye,” he said, “I am but spent.” He knew that he had a nasty crack on the top of his head, which was buzzing as though filled with bees, as well as bruises and welts on arms, legs and body, but nought more serious. “Thanks to you, Lori, or I would not be here.”

  She did not see the blood matting the top of his head, for she was looking deeply into his eyes, and the wildness had not yet all gone from hers. “Andrew!” she cried and yet again, “Andrew!” Then she seized his battered face in her hands and kissed his mouth. Thereafter she arose and, turning, ran off like a young deer in the direction of the glen.

  He called after her, “Lori! Lori! Come back to me!”

  But she was gone, leaving him on his hands and knees, shaking his head to loose the dizziness from it. Behind him the orange glow and the crackling diminished, as the gypsies began to bring the flames under control— MacDhui wondered whether he was dead or alive or dreaming. But as his breath returned, his head cleared somewhat and he grinned foolishly to himself. “Time to be getting out of here,” he said half aloud.

  But first there was something to be done. Terrified by the fire, the caged beasts were barking, whimpering, chittering, scolding. Methodically MacDhui removed the staples from the hasps of the cages, opened the doors, and freed them. If they perished, it would at least be in freedom. Then he staggered off in the direction of his jeep.

  At the wooden platform at the end of the field where the tragedy had begun, he came upon a small, dark heap. It was the bear and it was dead. He looked down upon the deflated heap of fur and thought how sorry Geordie would be to hear that his bear had lain down for the last time and would bleed no more. He thought, too, that the tears that Geordie had let fall for this poor beast whose plight had touched his heart had been well shed. He wondered whether Lori had passed this way, too, in her flight and had paused to weep. He found himself wishing that he himself could cry. After a moment he turned away and got into his jeep.

  At any rate, he thought, as he passed the gypsies still pouring buckets upon the smoking ruins of three of their caravans, the bear had been avenged. A mile down he stopped by the river and bathed his face and bruises and washed the blood from his face and head, noting that it was not a serious scalp wound. Then wearily he climbed back into his jeep and drove toward the town.

  Just before he reached the saddlebacked bridge, a car coming in the opposite direction blinked its lights at him and MacDhui noted the third light atop the roof, indicative of the police car. He pulled to the side of the road, as did the other, and Constable MacQuarrie came over to him, swinging a torch. He said, “Ah good. It’s you, sir!”

  MacDhui said, “The fire’s out. But I shall have a charge for you against a man named King Targu, and a fat, greasy bear trainer—inhuman cruelty to animals—”

  “Och aye,” said the constable. “In good time. But it is upon another errand we have come. ’Tis you we were sent to fetch.”

  “Ah, ah—” MacDhui breathed, and felt the dreadful grip of a different kind of fear upon his heart, squeezing that organ as though trying to halt its beat.

  The constable looked down and shuffled his feet. “You’re wanted at home at once, sir. Dr. Strathsay— Well, he said to find you and bring you as quickly as ever.”

  “Ah—” breathed MacDhui again and then asked the question that took more courage than he had displayed all through the wild night. “Is the child alive or dead?”

  The constable could look up again. “Alive, sor! But Dr. Strathsay said we were to find you—”

  “Lead me—” MacDhui begged. “Lead me—and in mercy’s name, drive quickly.”

  The police car roared about and drove off, wailing its siren. Mr. MacDhui followed, concentrating with all the strength that was left him upon the red eye of the taillight that was leading him to sorrow.

  2 5

  Ah! What have I done? Have I then played God who am not one? Are all of the old gods dead and magic no more? Is Sekhmet-Bast-Ra but a dream? Am I then no more than Talitha, a stray found in the forest by a red-haired weaver woman who lives by herself and ministers to small things that are sick or helpless?

  And who is Talitha, and whence came I? In which world am I to live?

  The doom I prepared has failed. Long after the fire in the valley died down that night Lori returned and passed by the rock where I lay watching. She walked unseeing. By the light of the lantern she carried, I saw that her clothes were torn and stained with blood and burned by fire and that her face was wet with tears.

  When she had passed I crept down from my rock and trotted softly in her footsteps until we reached the clearing. It seemed as though a spell was on the others. Peter did not bark, but crept on his belly, whining and moaning. Wullie and McMurdock were back on the ground, but as nervous as witches, and spat at me when I appeared out of the darkness until they saw who it was.

  Wullie said, “What has happened? Is Lori injured? I saw blood!”

  McMurdock, who in spite of his denials always had a lingering suspicion that I was perhaps a god, growled at me, “Is this some of your doing? You’ve been acting very strangely lately, my girl. If you’ve been trying any of your so-called Egyptian tricks, you’ll have me to deal with.”

  I did not deign to reply, but went inside.

  Lori sat on a bench by the hearth, as she was, smoke-grimed, disheveled, her clothing bloodstained, a bruise mark upon her face, and
wept. Her face was buried in her hands and she wept quietly and endlessly. I wished to comfort her, if this might be. I rose to my hind legs beside her and, with the pad of my paw, twice touched the hand that covered her face.

  She looked then and gathered me into her arms and held me. Did ever any woman weep so? She did not sob or cry out, but only let fall the warm and ceaseless tears from her eyes.

  Once she spoke to me, holding me hard, pressed to herself, her wet cheek next to mine. “Talitha! Talitha! What shall I do? What is to become of me now?”

  Ah, had she but prayed to Sekhmet-Bast-Ra, lady of Sept and of the star Sothis, fertile Isis, chaste Artemis, in all of whom I am embodied, I would have emptied the skies to join her tears and importuned my father Ra to dry them—the blessings of heaven and earth would I have showered upon her—

  After a time she let me go, arose, took off her torn and soiled garments and washed herself, and never once did the tears leave off from her eyes. Then she did a strange thing. She took from the hearth mantel an oil lamp and with it went to her mirror and there regarding herself long and with a kind of bewilderment, as though the image of herself was one that she had never seen before.

  She fingered the bruise upon her cheek again and again, almost as though it were something she cherished. And she looked long and deeply into her own eyes, from which the tears were still falling, then touched her hair and her mouth as though she were not quite sure they were hers. Then she spoke to the image in the mirror as she had spoken to me. “What am I now? What has become of Lori? What am I to do? What am I to do?” Then she prepared for bed, and I, as usual, retired to the hearth.

  But that night she called to me from the head of the half flight of stairs that led to the loft where she lived and slept, “Talitha—Talitha—don’t leave me. Come, puss, bide with me tonight—”

  I had never been allowed abovestairs before. I went to the foot of the steps and called up to her to make sure that she really meant it.

  “Ah yes, puss,” she said, “come to me. I would not be alone.”

  I gave the happiness croon and ran up the stairs and jumped into her arms and purred and she rubbed her cheek against my flank.

  A bed, a chair, and a chest of drawers stood in the plain, whitewashed room, and a lamp by the bedside. Lori held me in her lap for a moment and looked long and deep into my eyes. She no longer wept. She said, “Tell me, Talitha; you who were once dead. What is it like? Is there peace?”

  I did not understand what she meant, for I have been dead a thousand times and a thousand times more and will die yet more thousands, and still my ka will sail in its bark along the River of Darkness between heaven and earth through eternity.

  She let me go and I curled up at the foot of her bed. Lori said, “Thank you for staying, my puss. Good night to ye,” and blew out the lamp.

  From somewhere in the darkened room there came the most delicious fragrance, and then was gone. What was it? Whence had I known it before? In what age; in what incarnation? What was it that it reminded me of, to set me purring? Was it a memory of temple incense, or some wild herb encountered in a bygone forest hunt?

  I raised my head and sniffed. Again I caught it—a faint hint and it was gone again. But it loosed such a turmoil of dreams and longing in me. In the darkness, with the now quiet breathing of Lori deep in sleep, my lost ka seemed suddenly very near to me, almost as though I could grasp and hold it and, holding it, be lost no more.

  Once more this sweet scent came to me out of the night, just as I was dropping off to sleep. They would be good dreams that night at the foot of Lori’s bed and I hurried on to sleep to meet them.

  But I remember, just before, making up my mind that now that I had become Lori’s upstairs cat I would make it my business to investigate the source of this wonderful and exciting odor at the very earliest opportunity.

  2 6

  The house was ablaze with light as Mr. MacDhui hurried up the footpath, and Mrs. McKenzie stood behind the open front doorway, peering out. As he entered she said, “Och, ’tis me that is glad ye have come. I sent for the doctor, sir. When I went to make her comfortable for the night after reading tae her I saw that she was failing—her eyes seem tae have sunk in so—”

  He nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes. You did quite right,” and went in and hurried to Mary Ruadh’s room, where he came upon the doctor by her cot looking down upon her, his face grave with concern. And it struck him as odd that in that moment of panic and crisis, he should notice how beautiful and compassionate was the face of the old man.

  Dr. Strathsay looked up as MacDhui came into the room, saying, “Ah, good. I am glad they found you.”

  “Is she dying?” MacDhui asked.

  The sad-eyed general practitioner considered for a moment. “She has lost the will to live,” he replied. “She is no longer fighting. Unless this process can be reversed—”

  MacDhui asked then, “How long, Doctor?” He felt almost an avidity to hear the worst, to hear the full extent of this catastrophe, to see it at its darkest.

  Strathsay shrugged. “I cannot say—” He had his opinion—the morrow, a few days at the most, but he would not deny a man hope while there was yet the breath of life. “The child had great vitality, but it is burning low. She has all but succeeded in extinguishing it.”

  MacDhui nodded, went to the cot, and looked down at his daughter. He noted the bluish tinge of the skin, the lusterless eyes, and the all too faint rising of the bedclothes at her breast.

  “Man!” Dr. Strathsay burst out with a sudden explosion of energy and drive akin to exasperation, “You must do something! You must arouse her interest; restore her desire to live. You are her father. You should know your child. You love her and surely she must love you. Wake up! A life is hanging in the balance. Surely you can think of something, some way of awakening her to fight.”

  MacDhui looked at Dr. Strathsay heavily and his reply led the doctor to fear for a moment that fear, grief, and worry had momentarily driven the veterinary out of his mind, for his bitter reply was, “Aye. If a dead cat could be brought to life again and placed in her arms, she would smile again and will to live.”

  “I do not understand you,” the doctor said.

  “Medicine—” MacDhui began, but Dr. Strathsay shook his head. For the first time he noted the disheveled condition of the veterinary, his torn coat and slit sleeve and the bruises on his face. “Man,” he cried, “have you been brawling in a tavern at a time like this? When medicine fails there is only one appeal left—to a higher power.”

  MacDhui turned upon the doctor, filling his huge chest with breath, his face purpling with choler and outrage. “You! You! YOU!” he shouted, unheeding of others present. “How can YOU believe in a God who permits so much suffering, injustice, and misery as you encounter daily on your rounds? What does your God want with the life of this child here when—it is everything to me?”

  The room was silent after his tirade. He had not done yet. “I would crawl upon my hands and knees, begging for her life, if I thought there was any mercy, justice, or design to any of it,” he cried, glaring at Strathsay.

  In his loneliness, in his isolation, the memory returned to the animal doctor of a cry he had heard that night, when all seemed lost, including life itself. “A MacDhui! A MacDhui!” And for the first time he lifted himself from the depths of despair. “Ah, wait,” he said, “I have thought of something. If she lives until tomorrow, there is hope—”

  Dr. Strathsay sighed and picked up his bag. “There is always hope. I will look in in the morning,” he said, and went out.

  MacDhui remained standing in the center of the room, lost in thought. There was Lori—Lori—Lori no longer daft—Lori who could fight like the very devil of a Scotswoman at the side of her man—Lori would pull Mary Ruadh back from the brink of the grave, and perhaps himself too. His spirits began to lift. His whole being sang with the name of Lori. In the morning he would go to her—

  Dr. Strathsay came the nex
t day, looked at the child, gave the verdict that there had been little change during the night, and left. Mr. MacDhui made his dispositions at his own surgery with Willie Bannock, left Mrs. McKenzie in charge again with instructions, climbed into his jeep and departed.

  He had not gone to bed that night, but had remained awake with Mary Ruadh, sitting at her bedside as she slept, holding her hand, stroking her forehead when she stirred, trying to communicate his love to her, feeling himself almost a battery stored with love, a life-giving charge to flow from him to her. Thus he kept vigil until the dawn broke and the new day showed her to be still living. He then made ready to go upon the errand he hoped would bring Lori to his aid.

  On his way to the foot of the glen he passed the scene of the battleground of the night before and paused there for a moment in astonishment. Except for trampled grass and wheel ruts, some ashes and bits of burned wood and canvas, the field was as deserted as though the gypsies had never been. They had decamped, bag and baggage, during the night, taking their burned wagons with them. There was no sign of the carcass of the bear, nor any indication of what had become of the animals MacDhui had liberated. They had undoubtedly taken to the hills. He smiled suddenly at a picture that came to him: the monkeys eventually turning up at the cottage, tugging upon the rope of the Mercy Bell, and Lori coming forth to take in these lost children from the fauna of a distant land.

  The urgency of his own need set him upon the road again quickly. He drove up to the entrance to Glen Shira, parked the vehicle, and hurried on foot up the now familiar path that led to the place where Lori lived.

  He climbed so quickly that his heart was pounding violently when he reached the covin-tree and he had to pause for breath as well as to collect the words he would speak when Lori appeared. “Help me, Lori. Come to me. My child is dying. Only you can save her.”