A Cat for Christmas: A Cat Among Dragons Short Story
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A Cat For Christmas:
A Cat Among Dragons Short Story
By
Alma T.C. Boykin
© 2014 Alma T.C. Boykin
Cover art ©Swkunst|Dreamstime – Christmas tree on blue background photo
Major Rahoul Khan itched. Not physically, but something felt off, almost a mental irritation, and he could not decide what it was. He’d been keeping his shields up unless he needed to do something, and he’d passed his physical without anything more than the usual warning about minding his blood pressure. Major “Doc” McGregor had given him a half stern, half-sympathetic smile as he’d warned, “You need to manage your stress levels better.” Rahoul didn’t bother mentioning the most recent causes of stress in his life: Christmas, and the xenologist scaring the almost-literal piss out of a class of soldiers.
They’d finished testing the newest batch of troopers transferred into the 58th Regiment of Foot, and of the fifty newcomers, twenty had psionic abilities ranging from weak passive telepathy to an animal telepath almost as strong as Rahoul himself, and a mechanic with a hint of telekinesis. As usual, Commander Rachel Na Gael led the identification phase, while Rahoul, Regimental Sergeant Major Richard Chan, and Sergeant Morgan St. John helped train the newbies on shielding and basic talent use.
One of the corporals from China had protested about the extra class. “If our abilities are so weak, why do we have to worry about blocking and shielding?” He added “Sir,” as a curt afterthought.
Major Khan turned to Rachel. She gave a fang-baring smile. “Three reasons,” she began, leaving her spot by the table and walking between the chairs, tail swishing with each step. “First, exposure to other psionic talents tends to strengthen what abilities you do have. Second, you need to be able to protect yourself if someone tries to use your skills against you, and I assure you, they will.” She stopped beside the corporal, who glared up at her, unimpressed. Rahoul wondered what trick she planned to pull.
She began fiddling with one of the silver hair sticks holding her elaborate bun in place. “Third, which is more dangerous? A broadsword in plain sight or—“
Rahoul jumped and the troopers gasped as a tiny dagger appeared in her hand, pressed against the corporal’s throat. He froze, face gone pale, eyes wide. Rahoul blinked. Is there anything she owns that isn’t a weapon or armored?
Rachel, hand rock steady as she looked around the classroom, continued, “A small talent, properly applied, can have an effect out of proportion to its strength. As the Americans call it, the golden bee-bee.” As the soldiers gulped and whispered, she lifted the slender blade off the man’s throat and slid it into the sheath still tucked in her hair.
At least no one got sick or wet themselves like they did during that presentation about nasty creatures and why the Geneva and Hague rules don’t apply to aliens. Rahoul tried to be philosophical about the xenologist’s bloodthirsty streak, even as he rubbed his forehead and wondered why he was so twitchy.
He found part of his answer that night, when he ventured into the so-called library, actually an Edwardian-style officers’ lounge. Apparently the annual calls to have the lights upgraded and interior remodeled had fallen on deaf ears. Or overstuffed, dark, and shabby had gained such a weight of tradition that no one dared do more than dust the morose moose head drooping over the window, a joke gift from the North American Branch that had yet to be returned. Rahoul pulled the door open and blinked at the spill of white light and laughter that flowed out of the room. Instead of a coatrack and the requisite aspidistra languishing in the corner, a live fir tree sprawled out, endangering the commanding officer’s reading chair. Someone had already strung white lights over the three-meter-tall fir, and Cdr. Na Gael, Capt. Kwame Ngobo, and a few others seemed to be throwing colored balls and other things at the tree.
Rahoul stared, caught between anger and fear. That’s not allowed. We can’t display any Christian or non-Moslem religious symbols; it will cause an international incident. Or someone will use it as an excuse to go jihad on us in the mess. Again.
<
The last time he’d decorated a tree was . . . he couldn’t recall. “Ah, is there a theme?” He asked.
“The wonders of creation,” Ngobo intoned. “And a celebration of chaos theory. Here, sir,” he held out a box. “We’re trying not to be matchy-matchy.”
Rahoul took the box, found the hangers, and set to work. From behind the tree he heard, “All right, who is responsible for the cat-head garland?”
Deadpan, Fr. Mikael Farudi intoned from the other side of the tree, “They are an Edwardian tradition; in fact these are reproductions of an actual set currently on the tree at the V&A.” He also winked at Rahoul.
“Grumpf.”
Apparently the teasing continued, Rahoul sighed as he found a place for a glass alligator sporting a Santa cap. He wondered if anyone else had seen her in her true form and recognized her. If they had, they would stop give her cat-themed grief.
“John, are the Americans going to insist on hurling that shiny stuff on the tree again this year?” Ngobo asked.
Marsh stopped fussing with the star on top of the tree for a moment. “If they do, they’ll be locked out of the lounge. It took four months to get that garbage out of the carpet and everything else, and it meant we couldn’t burn the tree as the Yule Log.”
“Good.”
Rahoul blinked. “Yule Log?”
The chaplain nodded. “Yes, sir. It seems someone started lighting a large log jut before Christmas Even vespers and it goes until Christmas Morning, or better until Boxing Day. There’s a little fudging by making a very large log out of smaller ones, since it has to fit into the hearth.”
Rahoul tried to imagine a Yule log in the lounge fireplace and failed utterly. “Ah, I see. And Health and Safety has approved this?”
Five identically bland, innocent, and ignorant faces met his gaze.
“Understood.” Should I worry? Only if Rachel’s involved. Then I’ll worry, he decided, putting the top on the now empty box of ornaments. The others packed their boxes into larger plastic containers and stepped back to admire their handiwork.
“It’ll do,” Marsh decided, arms folded.
“Agreed.”
“For the moment.”
“Don’t forget to water it.”
Four voices chorused, “We won’t,” then laughed.
That’s what it is! The laughter! Rahoul almost staggered. Christmas in Afghanistan had been furtive, in part because the Islamists loved to stage attacks timed to interrupt other religions’ prayers and services. The past year he’d been out on a patrol, up in the hills looking for an especially nasty pack of Taliban, and had missed Christmas, Boxing Day, and New Years. He began to see the rocks again in his mind’s eye, smelling the cold dirt on the icy wind that snarled down from the mountains around Tora Bora.
<
He blinked and found Rachel’s hand on his arm. He nodded and pushed the memory down where it belonged.
Over the next week signs of Christmas appeared in corners and tucked over office doors. Nothing gaudy or over-the-top, but garland and bits of holly in ivy, greenery and more candles in the chapel and violet paraments on the altar, an advent wreath (“more Ame
rican foolishness,” Fr. Farudi explained. “But they donated it and it’s solid brass, so I’m not going to complain over much.”) At breakfast Rahoul overheard two of the junior officers giggling about the idea of Rachel dressing up as “Santa Paws.” He considered going over and telling them to knock it off, but decided he’d let Rachel deal with it. He ate the rest of his porridge, seasoned with a large lump of the mopes, and retreated to his office to finish dealing with some unexpected transfers and two disciplinary problems. A week before Christmas and already some of the younger troopers had gotten into a bit too much holiday cheer and ended up guests of the local constabulary. RSM Chan, with Rahoul’s blessing, had let them languish for two days before fetching them home to return to disciplinary confinement. “Bah, humbug.”
Rahoul’s family did not recognize Christmas, and he tended to ignore it. This year, however, it seemed determined to intrude. “Tap, tap,” someone knocked on his door.
“Yes?”
The door eased open and Major John Rolfe poked his head in, followed by the rest of him. “Ah, sir, sorry to bother, but I need some help quashing a junior officer who’s been visited by the good idea fairy.”
Oh gawd. “What brilliant idea emerged this time, John?”
“He wants to take up a collection to get Commander Na Gael a meter-long catnip mouse.” The Australian could barely contain his glee, or so it sounded to Rahoul.
“A meter-long catnip mouse.” He leaned back and rubbed both temples with his fingertips. “Does this enterprising young officer have any idea what that much catnip costs?”
“Probably not, sir. And the bloke’s clueless when it comes to the Commander,” Rolfe confirmed. “Thinks it would be a great little joke.”
“It would be, except for what might happen if she reacts to catnip overdoses like earth cats do. Some of them hallucinate and start chasing things that aren’t there.”
Rolfe’s eyes narrowed, then widened. “Oh fuck. I don’t want to be on this island if that happens with Commander Na Gael.”
“Neither does anyone with half a bit of sanity, John. No. No catnip mice, no flea collars, nothing ‘pet cat’ related in any way.” Rahoul sat forward again. “And make it stick. I’ll have a word with Gen. Jones if need be.”
“Shouldn’t be necessary. I’ll scare them back to sense, sir.”
“Do that.”
The door shut with a little ‘click’ of the latch and Rahoul stared down at his computer keyboard, torn between laughter and fury. Laughter at the thought of Rachel’s expression when she saw a giant catnip rat, and fury for the disrespect the juniors had for their xenologist. A little teasing and a few jokes were one thing, but to treat her as if she really were nothing more than a giant house-pet? His bad mood lingered for the rest of the day.
Rachel grew scarce, taking meals in her quarters and only appearing for meetings. But the sentries reported seeing her out in the grounds at night, as if on patrol. Sergeant Morgan St. John and General Evelyn Jones had a brief meeting, after which the general left orders that no one was to bother the xenologist after “office hours” unless it was an emergency.
Things quieted down during Christmas Week. Rahoul opted not to apply for holiday leave since he had nowhere to go. Instead he signed up for two of the Christmas Eve vigils. He’d also observed the Hanukkah festivities with some of the soldiers and found them a refreshing change from the hidden, hurried practices in Afghanistan. At least in England Jews could worship in the open, more or less, outside of some parts of London. He didn’t like the rumors he’d heard from his family during the brief time he’d visited them. The old neighborhood . . . well, it wasn’t home. The Regiment’s headquarters was home. He paused at the chapel door, genuflected to the Presence, and took a seat in the rear. Someone played Advent music on the piano tucked into the corner, and he let his thoughts drift as the chapel filled. The last of the afternoon sun caught the windows and danced on the glass of St. Michael-Archangel in the original Global Defense Force uniform descending to slay a bilious-looking dragon.
The piano fell silent, and a pure, boy-like soprano voice began, “Once in royal David’s city stood a lonely cattle shed.” Rahoul got to his feet as Rachel Na Gael, hair loose and wearing a civilian dress, led the procession of altar “boys,” readers, priest, and choir to the front of the chapel. About a hundred and fifty troopers had crowded in for this service, lining the sides and back of the room. As worship continued, Rahoul’s itch grew more intense. He wanted to glance over his shoulder, to check on the sentries and guards posted outside the chapel, to make certain that no armed civilians or unauthorized strangers might be coming within bomb-throwing distance. The walls felt too close, the room too crowded, too many things hid in the deepening shadows. He started trying to plan a way out, fighting the desire to stay and the need to take cover.
When Rachel tapped on his shields, he almost bolted. <
He reached out, too well trained to refuse. She “caught” his mental reach and locked onto it, sliding a shield between his mind and his feelings, pushing a space between them. By the time for the Eucharist came, he’d returned to here-and-now, calmer. No one would throw a grenade into the chapel; no one would shout those words he dreaded to hear before opening fire on the gathered Christians. Rahoul tried to drop the link but Rachel refused, grounding him without thought or effort. In fact, when he filed forward to partake of the elements, he realized that she all but glowed with pent-up energy. Completely focused on Communion, he ignored the observation. Instead he took the bread and wine, the Body and Blood, and felt peace he’d been missing for some time wash over him.
At some point later in the service Rachel dropped the link. She’d vanished by the time he made his way out of the chapel. He shrugged and changed out of his semi-dress uniform and returned to the chapel to take his place in the vigils. His second turn ended just after midnight. Still energized, too twitchy to sleep, Rahoul decided to walk. If I stay close to the buildings and carry my passes, I should be fine. He got his heavy coat and on a whim walked through the dark building to the laboratory, cut through, and went out the back door into the garden. The silent cold took his breath away and he hurried to button the coat and pull his hat on over his ears. Gloved-hands jammed into pockets, he set out across the gravel path through the rose garden, past the big tree that loomed at the end of the walk, and out into the ankle-high grass.
He froze. He’d walked off the path, off pavement. What lay under the ground? Mines, IEDs, traps lying in wait since the Soviet invasion? No, this is England. Take a step. Heart pounding, hands shaking, he stepped. Nothing happened except for frost-tipped grass crunching under his boot sole. He took another step, then another. Rahoul ventured to lower his shields and felt for animals. He sensed a few, all asleep save for an owl, and he relaxed even more. He dared to look up.
He didn’t have Rachel’s night vision, but didn’t need it either, not as bright as the stars shone down. The night reminded him again of Afghanistan, hard and cold, with stars close enough to touch, very different from the usual English December. But instead of dust, he smelled clean cold. His breath steamed in the air. He almost thought he heard the stars singing.
“Behold a star from Jacob shining, and a scepter from Israel rising,” a wild voice sang through the night.
Rachel? But it doesn’t feel like . . . He turned, and caught sight not of Rachel Na Gael, but of Rada Ni Drako, her real persona, striding toward him. The itch in his mind grew almost unbearable, like the static before lightning struck.
“Don’t bother her,” he heard Sgt. St. John warning in his mind’s ear. “She’s not one of us, but Midwinter’s her time. Do not try to attract the attention of what’s riding her. Don’t do it.” And the Power of the Most High shall overshadow you, he quoted. Because that’s what it looked like – something uncanny looking through Rada/Rachel’s eye, something very old and strong. She extended her hand. Did he dare?
Tre
mbling, Rahoul crossed himself and took her hand. The itch exploded into ferocious joy as the world spun outside of time, older than he could grasp yet as new as the stars igniting in their dusty cradles a thousand light-years away. He tightened his grip as he heard, almost, a sound wild and sweet, wordless voices that he almost understood. He wanted to understand, but drew back, afraid. Rachel/Rada let the link fade and released his hand.
They stood in silence as he gathered swirling thoughts. “Do they talk at midnight? The animals?” He blurted at last.
She turned, smiling, more Rachel than she’d been. “Do they? That’s your gift, Rahoul, not mine.”
After another while he exhaled a long breath that steamed in the starlight. “That’s what you meant by large gifts and small.”
She nodded. If that’s what sensing time included, he wanted no part of it. He leaned back, pulling away from her. A shadow flickered over Rachel’s face before she looked down. She pulled her coat’s hood up and walked away, disappearing into the night.
Oh, no. My shields are down and she . . . Rahoul started to call after her, then stopped. No, I’ll apologize later today.
She acted subdued at dinner later that day. “Just tired, stayed up too late trying to get end-of-year paperwork tidied up,” she told Capt. Ngobo. Rahoul, at the foot of the table, and Gen. Evelyn Jones both raised eyebrows of mild disbelief, although Rahoul suspected his reason and the general’s were quite different.
He managed to catch Rachel later that evening. “Rachel,” he began. “Ah, I apologize.”
She tipped her head to the side, eyebrows drawn into a lop-sided, puzzled V.
“For rejecting your gift last night, this morning,” he tried. The V deepened. Blast it, I never know how to talk to women.
“You didn’t Rahoul, you reacted like a normal, healthy human should.” She straightened up and wagged a finger. “And I am not responsible for anything that happens to the person who gave me the gift copy of the Royal Cat Fancy’s confirmation standards book and obedience training guide, either.” With that she stalked off, tail swinging, head high, the perfect picture of feline dignity.