As Dark As My Fur

by Clea Simon

  The sleeve is jerked away as the girl grabs it up, turns and digs in her own pocket. I sit back and watch as she searches in a frenzy. I did not expect a flea, though both those men were verminous enough. But, no, her pawing ceases as she pulls a small thing from a pocket. The scrap – the label, she called it – that she had found. That she had shown the woman. She holds it now up to the collar and nods, her mouth set in a firm line.

  ‘This is why he gave it me,’ she says, her eyes meeting mine. ‘This is what he wanted me to see.’

  She squats beside me, as if to show me the similarity. I see the label, of course, but the writing on it is just so much scrawl. Still, the girl has made the effort and so I approach. The warmth of the girl is on the garment, although it is dissipating quickly from the slick and tawdry yarn. Her fingers frame the tag and I move toward those, the wet leather of my nose brushing the back of her hand. And then it is my turn to freeze – my whiskers and all my fur going on the alert.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ The girl looks down at me, her young face serious and sad. ‘I don’t know how, but you do – you know this is the same label we found in the garbage. It’s one of Gravitch’s products, isn’t it?’

  I look up at her, mute as any animal and nearly mad with it. My mouth hangs open, and I know she can see my fangs, see the heaving of my furry body as I begin to pant. No, I did not know this cheap thing was of Gravitch’s making, nor how it came to be within those prison walls.

  What I do know is that this garment has another marker on it beyond the script she reads. There is blood on this cloth, fresher blood than that which stained the scrap we found in the bin. And some sweet remnant of it does recall the boy.

  She cannot know this, I am sure. She is clever, quick and purposeful at reading that which the world places before her. But although they are sharp, her senses are but of her kind, incapable of catching that sharp tang, the iron bite of blood still new and raw.

  No, something other than the scent I have discerned now drives her. Makes her bite her lip and mumble, turning the torn garment in her hand. Some knowledge of the world, perhaps, some intelligence I have forgotten in my current state, must drive her.

  ‘T.G. Fashions,’ she says, and nods her head. Her face is grim, the bead of blood upon her lip no more regarded than the beetles underfoot. ‘Tick,’ she says, and that is all.

  At moments such as this, I know despair. Not for myself, but for my purpose. For the girl. I would turn her from this path. The boy is gone, beyond her reach. Mayhap beyond this life by now. And although I now well know that what remains may continue on, I do not believe her duty is to follow, nor must she take it on herself to resolve or to avenge. The boy was trouble, always, perhaps condemned from birth. No, I would shield her. Lead her away from the source of this blood, of the unclean tang of the cloth. I would have her leave the boy and client both and seek a safer berth.

  But I cannot. This city is all I know, and perhaps the girl as well. And so as she starts out, a resolve fueled by anger driving her steps, I am forced again to face my limits. I call and call once more, suffering the futility. When my best, most piteous mewl does nothing more than cause her to grab me up into her arms, I still myself at last. Content myself with silence. She thinks me tired, I perceive, and believes my protest born of fatigue or pain. It is kind of her to think so, if misguided, and so I let that concern comfort me. She stows me in her bag with gentle hands, despite her mood, and once again begins to stride, albeit at a slower and more thoughtful pace. Inside the swinging carryall, I wait and think and ready myself for whatever yet may come.

  While Care walks, she talks to herself – I hear her invoking the father who is long gone, the mother she still misses – and worries, fretting over events of the past. I would comfort her, if I could, but tucked away as I am, I must assume that my warm bulk will do as well. Instead, I conserve my energy, trusting that instinct and habits of long use will serve whatever purpose we may meet. I have gathered what clues I may. The hunt will be joined when it is time.

  Besides, the bag is dark and warm, the worn cloth a soft hammock beneath me. There is something to being enveloped so, the sides pressing against my fur as we sway and move. It stands to reason that I too was a kitten once, as young as Care – as Tick – although I have no memory of such. Perhaps my dam once carried me, helpless, from place to place. To safety or to shelter. It is a pleasant thought, although an odd one. It is not in my nature to dwell on the past. Only where threat exists – that man, that shadow – do I return in thought, much as I would seek out a trail when hunting, searching for a trace where once I had a lead.

  So, I realize, is the girl doing now. I sit up and shift, my weight throwing me momentarily on my back. I have till now dismissed the purport of her murmurings, believing them the last weak cries of a youngster newly weaned. In truth, they unsettle me. The girl is nearly an adult, I have thought. Plus, I must confess, my inability to comfort her – to supply the loss – has mortified me in ways I find difficult to comprehend. Combined, these factors have led me to dismiss her soft vocalizations as so much self-comfort, a private matter and one in which I have no role. Only now I have begun to catch a repeated refrain. The girl is not simply salving sore wounds, she is seeking to remedy – or, if not remedy then understand – that which has taken her too young from her own.

  SEVENTEEN

  As a cat, I am a predator, albeit a small one, I know certain things. To start with, I must hunt to live, and that this hunt is neither fair nor foul. It is necessity, the law of life. I know as well that others may hunt me. Larger predators. The feral dogs, for example, that prowl some precincts. Other cats, especially as I weaken with infirmity and age. And humans too, of the more desperate variety – those driven beyond their kind by starvation and despair.

  I know as well that there are other dangers in this world. Violence born of anger and of madness, the quest for dominance even of a lesser kind or for satisfaction of cruel appetites. I take nothing for granted, in this life, and still I have survived only due to kindness. Due to the actions of this girl, who pulled me, drowning, from the flood.

  For this reason, as well as others, I would teach her what I know. I would have her be alert to the signs of fear or aggression that I have noticed, and I would share what my superior senses have ascertained. It is not easy. Although I know that my bond with this girl transcends that of many between our species, transcends our very nature, I am limited by my current form. I cannot communicate all I would, nor share that which I have found. It is a pain akin to hunger, a longing that will never be satisfied.

  I work with a limited palette – sounds and gestures that fail to convey the complexity of my thoughts. And although the girl has an adult’s command of language, indeed she reads and speaks better than many full-grown of her kind, she does not speak to me, beyond the offhand thoughts and endearments one shares with a pet. It is frustrating, to be considered such. But it is secondary to my loyalty, and my fear for her, and that is why when she stops, I make my move. I leap from the sack the moment she lifts the flap, with such alacrity that she steps back.

  ‘Blackie!’ she calls. But I have already caught myself. I have not been paying attention as I ought. Have not monitored the scents and sounds along the way. And I am taken by surprise, as much as she was by my jump. We are not, as I had surmised, heading toward Gravitch’s office. Instead, we have ventured into the center of this blighted city. To a place I thought she would never dare again.

  ‘Watch out!’

  I freeze, as alarmed by her voice as by the truck that rumbles past, and then retreat, to stand beside her legs. Our eyes meet as she glances down, and once again I am struck by the strangest thought. A suspicion, almost, of recognition. But then she is off, striding with a swagger I do not associate with the girl I know, as she heads down the concrete walk.

  I stick close in this area of commerce and of traffic, recognizing belatedly her strategy – her gait makes her seem purposeful, one of t
he throngs who crowd this busy thoroughfare – and trot on the hard pavement to keep up. I am winded by the time she slows, having turned into a rundown and shadowed passage, its gutters still full of last night’s rain. It is a place we have been before, an alley where once we hunted and shared our spoils. She pauses by the alley’s mouth, regarding the traffic beyond. I progress to sniff one puddle and catch the stink of the city: oil and human waste, soot rinsed from the air.

  ‘This is no place for a cat,’ she says, as I look up from the befouled water to find myself in her regard.

  I stare back, wishing once again that she could comprehend my choice. My duty. Instead, she smiles, seeing, if anything, only the injured dignity of a creature too small to be a threat. Another truck passes, but she hesitates. ‘I wish you really could understand me,’ she says.

  I would go to her then. Would comfort her with the softness of my fur. Only as I step toward the mouth of the alley, I sense oncoming footfall. By instinct, I draw back, and I am pleased to see the girl does, too. The passersby are men, their clothes are worn but clean. We have left behind the immediate threat of the prison district and the harbor as well, but still they reek of the cage, their skin permeated with the smoke of cheap tobacco. Their pace a jittery tightrope between exhaustion and caffeine. They are too distracted to notice the girl they pass, steps away, and I join her as she leans into the street. As she watches and they turn.

  It is a building that she surveils, I realize as I scan her face. A familiar place fronted by worn steps. We have been here before, together, and she before me, drawn through concern for the boy. He is not housed here; I get no scent of him on the damp spring air. I do, however, remember a calming voice and the taste of cream. Indeed, I begin to salivate as I see a large, familiar figure step from the door and descend down to the street.

  ‘Miss Adele,’ Care calls, her voice soft but urgent. The woman cranes her head and holds her bulky beige purse close. ‘It’s me,’ the girl calls again, ‘Care.’

  ‘Carrie Wright!’ The woman hurries over, her steps delicate despite her worn heels. ‘How are you?’ She pauses, but gets no answer. ‘Would you like to – come to lunch?’

  Her voice had caught, had changed course, and I look from her to Care, gauging the reaction. A quick nod. Care trusts this woman. ‘Thanks, yeah,’ she says. But even as she does so, she holds one hand out flat. A signal, too low for the woman to see. A sign that I should wait and not attempt to follow. I am warmed by it. The gesture means connection, that she believes me capable of rational thought or at least direction. I wait as they walk off. Then, of course, I follow.

  They don’t go far. Either through economy or an astute appraisal of what the girl will tolerate, the woman leads her to a cart. A fragrant steam rises from it, full of meat and so intoxicating that I miss the interaction, and almost as well their exit, as they carry their food to a protected corner.

  ‘I wish I could have you visit him, dear,’ says the woman. She holds her food but does not eat. ‘I know you care for him.’

  Care looks up, chewing. She has learned not to linger, and her stare is as eloquent as any comment.

  ‘He’s in a better place,’ the woman says.

  Care chokes and coughs, before swallowing. The woman, meanwhile, has heard her own words.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean— He’s in the country, that’s all.’

  I look to the girl, unsure of what will follow.

  ‘He’s on a work detail, isn’t he?’ Care’s voice has an edge I do not understand. ‘You’ve hired him out to work. Just like a convict.’

  A sigh makes the woman deflate as she faces Care’s stare. ‘It’s the system, the way it functions. He’s run away too often for a family placement, even if … But it’s a good place. Right for children. It’s a farm. He’ll work hard but he’s getting fresh air and milk and butter.’ She retreats into herself a little and rallies. ‘It’s better for him than life was here. You know that.’

  Care opens her mouth. She is about to argue, I can tell. About to reveal something of the papers, of what she has deduced, but she catches herself. ‘You sure?’ she says, and I feel a flush of pride. She has learned, this girl, that information is a currency not to be squandered without surety of compensation. ‘You sure he’s not in town?’ Her voice is low and questing.

  The woman nods, and when she speaks, I perceive no hesitation. No sign of doubt or subterfuge. ‘There are safeguards now. Check-ups. It’s a good system, Carrie,’ she says. ‘Why, your own father—’

  ‘What about my father?’ The girl cuts the woman off, a sudden urgency to her query.

  ‘He would have been clear of debt in only a few more years.’ The woman’s voice grows careful. Lowers as she picks and chooses words. ‘It was a good job for him, Carrie. A clean job, in an office. Considering what he’d been through.’

  ‘If you people had left him …’ The girl shakes her head, foregoing both caution and training.

  ‘He wasn’t supposed to be out that night.’ The careful voice – the soothing of an animal – becomes a gentle chiding. ‘We’ve been over this. He didn’t have a pass yet. He hadn’t earned one. If he had stayed in the dorm, instead of running off to visit your mother.’

  She stops. Sees at last that the girl is trembling. That she is blinking back the tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, Carrie,’ she says at last. ‘And I understand why you don’t want to – why you don’t trust the system. But it is the best we can do, and Thomas is safe now.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Anger has replaced the sorrow. She looks down at her sandwich. Folds the foil over the portion that remains and tucks it in her bag. ‘Thanks for lunch,’ she says, and turns and walks away.

  EIGHTEEN

  I dash back to the alley and assume a pose of sleep. She does not notice that my sides are heaving from the run, too distracted is she by her sorrow, but she seems grateful for my company, slumping down against the wall and putting one warm hand on my side. We are at peace for several minutes, until the intoxicating aroma of the meat in her bag proves irresistible. I nuzzle the flap, rousing the girl from her thoughts.

  ‘I almost forgot.’ She retrieves the package and peels back its covering, releasing the meaty steam. My eyes close and my purr deepens as she places several slices on the foil and sets them before me. A vague sense of shame – I am the hunter and I should have provided for this child, not vice versa – gives way to satisfaction. We make quick work of it, and after, as the girl sucks the last of the juices from her fingers, I regard her anew. She does not, cannot, comprehend what I know. She cannot benefit from even the most basic of my skills, and yet she shares her takings with me. It is odd to be treated thus, as if I were a creature of a pack or den. But it has its benefits. The drowsiness that follows a good meal soon sets upon us both, and the steady rise and fall of her breathing lulls the same from me.

  The darkness lifts, enough to make out the silhouettes above me. Three men, dark against the light, peer down at me. I cannot see their faces, but I know them. Know their eyes to be cold, their expressions cruel.

  They have taken me here, a bloody bundle, and now they stare at me. I am still alive, which perplexes two of them. The man in the middle, though? He is merely amused.

  ‘Did you really think you could defeat me, old man? Did you honestly believe you could stand in my way? Don’t you know that others have tried before, and failed?’

  In response, I struggle, my limbs constrained by bonds, and at his signal, his two henchman step toward me, arms outstretched—

  ‘Ow, Blackie!’ The voice – a cry of pain – wakes me. But the pain is not my own. Indeed, I am unharmed, although the twinge in my left hindquarter reminds me of injuries past. No, it is the girl who draws back, her eyes wide with shock and sorrow. Her hand is in her mouth, and when she withdraws it, I see the red as blood wells up. I have lashed out at her, my benefactor and my friend. In the panic of the dream, I have hurt her, she who once saved me from those
too well remembered foes.

  I hang my head, ashamed, my tail lies flat. The ground has grown cold, but I wait as she nurses her hand, still and sorrowful in my regret. When I dare look up again, I am confused. The girl no longer has the unblinking stare of one taken unawares. Instead, there is great sadness in her face. She holds her injured hand out to me but turns the palm up. It is an invitation, albeit a silent one, and I take it, leaning in to rub my face against her soft, warm flesh.

  ‘Poor Blackie.’ Her voice is quiet, as gentle as that hand. ‘You’ve had some bad times too. Haven’t you? I wonder what you’d tell me, if you could?’

  I feel once more my muteness. The limitations of this form, this time. I would share my knowledge and experience. The skills I have honed over one lifetime and the next. The dream is a memory, I know that now. A remembrance of those who hunted me then, and those who hunt her now, and I would share that knowledge. Warn this girl away from such cold-eyed men.

  But I cannot. The day is growing dim. The damp is chilling. But we have eaten and have shelter of a sort, and in each other’s company both comfort and warmth. She does not flinch as I press against her hand, and so once more I come close and lean on her. This time, I stay alert. My eyes wide open for any movement in the growing dusk. What I fear are not simply the phantoms of my dreams, and I would defend this girl, if I could do naught else.

  She sleeps, at last, curled in this alley, back against a wall. Her injured hand lies warm against my fur, her breath soft on my back. I would give much to be able to warn her. Give all I have to save her from those who seek her harm, but I cannot. Instead, I sit and wait, my green eyes guard against the world – one small watcher in the night.

  Perhaps it is the food, the stress of running. Perhaps my own small warmth served to give her ease. She sleeps till dawn and wakes slowly, stretching out her youthful limbs.