How to Catch a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  RUPERT RODE IN his person’s arms as the passengers and crew of the San Carlos returned to the ship for a postfuneral brunch.

  It had been an entertaining morning, Rupert thought, glancing over at the tall priest in the gold robe. That Father Monty was a funny fellow, what with all of his tripping, falling, and dunking. Highly amusing stuff.

  Rupert hadn’t paid much attention to the actual funeral ceremony. He’d quickly tired of listening to Monty’s incomprehensible Latin phrases. In his view, the burial ritual could have done with someone tumbling into that big hole before they filled it in—a little excitement to jazz things up. And he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been allowed to dig in that tempting pile of fresh dirt.

  After Monty nearly splashed holy water in his face, Rupert had wandered off a short distance to a bluff overlooking the bay.

  Several flocks of birds had swooped past the location, some of them directly over his head. He’d taken a few running leaps into the air, but the targets had easily eluded his attempts at capture.

  He hadn’t realized he looked like a plump bunny rabbit with pointed orange ears until his person rushed over and scooped him up, shooing off the hawk that was diving toward him, talons extended.

  Birds, Rupert thought with a frustrated sigh. They always got the best of him.

  But as the niece climbed up the ship’s gangplank, Rupert caught sight of a huge plate of leftover fried chicken on the deck dinner table.

  The sigh transformed into a delighted squeal.

  He could always depend on Uncle Oscar’s cooking to save the day.

  • • •

  SOON RUPERT AND Isabella were seated on the floor beneath their person’s chair, munching on their servings of chicken. Given his loud smacks and slurping, Rupert could barely hear the voices of the humans seated at the table above.

  Isabella, however, listened closely to the conversation, even while eating her portion of the leftovers—and making sure her brother didn’t steal any food from her plate.

  With the somber business of the burial completed, Captain Ayala was eager to organize teams for the day’s surveys and reconnaissance.

  As the crew sat down to eat, he began barking out orders.

  “Humphretto, you’ll be in charge of the ship while I lead a launch party to the bay’s south shore.”

  Isabella stared thoughtfully at the captain’s wounded foot, which he had propped on a short block beneath the table. Ayala had been limping on the walk back to the ship. The injury was far worse than he let on. Perhaps the captain was in denial about the extent of his incapacitation.

  Regardless, he had no business tromping across the wetlands that afternoon.

  Plus, she needed him to stay on board and guard his ship.

  No offense to Humphretto, but he was no match for the Knitting Needle Ninja.

  Isabella’s eyes narrowed as she devised a plan.

  • • •

  A FEW MINUTES later, Rupert licked the last greasy residue from his dish and, with a contented sigh, lifted his head from his plate.

  He blinked drowsily, contemplating a nap—but then suddenly returned to full wakefulness at the sight of his sister’s abandoned plate about a yard away. She’d pushed it to the other side of their person’s chair, but he could see a few chicken morsels had been left unattended.

  Odd for Isabella to be so careless, he thought, stealthily sneaking around the chair. But he didn’t hesitate to gobble up the remaining bits.

  His sister’s plate was centered beneath the end of the table. As Rupert swallowed the stolen bites, he heard a familiar rustling above his head: the distinctive sound of parrot claws gripping the wooden table.

  I’m ignoring you, Rupert resolved with determination.

  A shiny red head with a green collar peeked over the table’s edge. Petey blinked a teasing yellow eye at the plump feline.

  Nope. Rupert kept his face firmly planted in the plate. There wasn’t much left other than a greasy film, but the parrot didn’t need to know that. He wasn’t going to get drawn into another one of the bird’s pranks. Not this time.

  No matter. Petey knew how to provoke his furry friend.

  The parrot dipped under the table, pinched his beak around a clump of fluff from Rupert’s tail, and yanked. Carrying off his prize, the bird disappeared into the sky over the ship.

  Rupert jumped into the air and spun around, upending the now-empty dish. Where is that parrot? That’s it. I’m eating him for dessert!

  Emitting a loud squawk, Petey swooped down from the heavens, a feather-coated missile. He aimed his trajectory at a narrow opening between two chairs. With fighter pilot precision, the parrot dove through the gap and glided beneath the length of the table.

  Rupert charged after the bird, slamming into table legs and human shins in his effort to catch his feathered tormentor.

  A chain reaction registered in the startled faces of the seated crew members. Knees banged against chair legs and the table’s bottom surface, generating a rolling wave of clinking plates and glasses.

  Halfway down the table’s length, Rupert knocked over the wooden block supporting the captain’s tender foot.

  The wounded appendage hit the ground with a thud—immediately followed by a deafening roar of pain.

  —

  ONCE THE COMMOTION died down and Captain Ayala’s foot pain subsided, the crew members regrouped for the afternoon’s mission. It was clear Ayala was in no condition to lead the exploratory team to the bay’s south shore. Reluctantly, he switched assignments with Humphretto.

  Retrieving Rupert from the mêlée, the niece discreetly wrapped him in a blanket, hoping against hope that the captain hadn’t realized the cause of the ruckus that led to his intense foot pain.

  As the canoes for the launch party were lowered down the sides of the ship, Ayala monitored the preparations from a comfortable chair that had been set up on the top deck. A pillow-topped stool propped up his foot, a steadier and more comfortable brace than the wooden block he’d tried to hide beneath the table.

  Petey perched on the pillow next to the captain’s swollen foot. The parrot preened his feathers, diligently running his beak through the quills, not looking the least bit guilty for his role in the earlier caper.

  Father Monty sidled up to Ayala’s chair.

  “I’d like to do a little exploring myself, Captain.” He coughed into his fist. “If you don’t mind.”

  Ayala raised a weary eyebrow.

  The priest pointed at the island where they’d buried the deckhand. “Here, on Angel Island.”

  With a grunt, Ayala shrugged his shoulders. “Why not. Let me know what you find.”

  The niece watched this interchange, wondering what Monty aimed to accomplish. Was he just hoping to spend a few hours on land or did he have an alternative agenda?

  She recalled her earlier pledge to keep an eye on the suspicious priest.

  From the ground beneath the table, Isabella nudged the niece’s hand, encouraging her person to act on the impulse.

  “I’ll come along. I could use a walk.”

  Ayala grimaced his response. He glared at the orange and white bundle curled up in the woman’s lap.

  “Fine. Take that thing with you.”

  Affronted, the niece stood and turned toward the stairwell leading to the kitchen and her lower-level quarters. Isabella followed as her person stomped down the steps to prepare for the outing.

  Maybe Ayala wasn’t a secret cat sympathizer after all.

  He had just moved up a notch on her suspect list.

  Chapter 34

  WELCOME WARRIORS

  WARY OF THE hawk she’d seen earlier, the niece secured Rupert and Isabella inside a wicker stroller that her uncle Oscar had crafted for cat transport. Typically, she used it to maneuver the cats when they were changing ships or taking a shopping day in port (in addition to the cat compartment, the contraption had plenty of cargo storage).

  Rupert spent most of his car
riage time curled up asleep in a pile of blankets, but Isabella insisted on being able to see out so she could issue navigational instructions. This was a problem with the carriage’s initial design. The cat compartment was vented for air flow, but had no clear viewing portal.

  After the first usage—when the stroller’s interior cavity was almost destroyed by Isabella’s irate protest—Oscar made the cat-suggested modifications.

  The stroller now featured a visor-like view hole that encircled the cat compartment’s top rim. The gap provided just enough space for Isabella to see out. Other than the spots blocked by intermittent connecting bands of wicker, she had an almost three-hundred-sixty-degree vantage of the stroller’s surroundings.

  And so, when the niece pulled out the carriage from its kitchen storage closet and unlatched the lid, Isabella hopped readily inside.

  The niece scooped up Rupert and dropped him in beside his sister. Tuckered out from the morning’s parrot chase, he quickly fell into a deep slumber, even as the niece bumped the wooden wheels up the stairs to the main deck.

  Father Monty slapped his hands together, as if he welcomed their addition to his walk.

  “I’m so glad you decided to join me.”

  The niece smiled her response, but internally, she found the priest’s actions highly suspicious.

  From the stroller, Isabella issued a forward command.

  “Mrao!”

  —

  THE UNLIKELY EXPLORERS set out from the San Carlos with Father Monty in the lead. The priest paraded down the gangplank and onto the beach, chattering like a tour guide as the niece and the cat-laden carriage followed several wary steps behind.

  Trying to recover his gravitas from the earlier mishaps during the burial ceremony, Monty strode confidently across the beach. His flat-soled shoes left narrow exclamation point–shaped imprints on the sand.

  “I believe I hear the song of a whipper-willowed warbling wren,” he announced, cupping a hand to his ear.

  It was but the first of many dubious birdcall identifications. The niece suspected he was just making up names, but she let him continue the charade.

  She was far more concerned about the non-avian creatures that might be lurking nearby.

  So far, theirs were the only markings on the beach. But as the niece maneuvered the stroller around a clump of seaweed, she glanced nervously at the scrubby bushes that crowded their inland flank. Out of sight of the boat and without any defensive weapons, they were ill prepared for an ambush.

  The breeze changed direction, cutting across the beach from the island’s interior, pushing away the sounds of the lapping water.

  In the subsequent lull, the niece thought she heard a twig snap in the trees to her right.

  Her hand gripped the stroller’s wooden handle as she stopped and scanned the dense greenery.

  The niece checked the carriage for a cat reading on the noise. If Isabella had sensed any movement in the forest, she didn’t show it. Her blue eyes were trained on Monty’s brown robe. His tinny voice floated back to the stroller, this time commenting on a purple-throated mocking jay.

  The niece pushed the stroller forward, but she remained on alert.

  She had the distinct impression that they were being watched—and that the unseen observers weren’t yellow-chested woodpeckers.

  —

  AS THE GROUP proceeded around the next bend, the niece noticed an object on a bluff about a hundred yards ahead. At first, she thought it was an odd-shaped tree. It wasn’t until they were almost directly underneath the bluff that she realized the landmark was man-made.

  A piece of driftwood had been upended and planted into the dirt so that its roots stuck up into the air. The trunk’s upper portion had been decorated with a thick red paste, a few seashells, and several feathers.

  Father Monty blew out a derisive sfft.

  “Looks like some sort of pagan ritual,” he said, peering up at the roots. He pointed at a curved arc painted on one of the roots. “Likely done by the local heathens . . .”

  The niece returned her gaze to the woods.

  They weren’t the only ones who had been performing a ceremony that morning, she realized uneasily.

  And they definitely weren’t alone on Angel Island.

  Just then Isabella trilled out a warning.

  The niece jumped. There on the beach, she saw the danger that had triggered the cat’s alarm.

  Gulping, she pointed at Monty. He looked briefly puzzled—and then turned to find himself face-to-face with the aforementioned “heathen.”

  Monty let out a high-pitched screech, which he immediately stifled, in spite of his fear.

  The Indian’s muscled body was decked out in leather hides, a feather headdress, and a number of sheathed knives. Dabs of paint decorated his cheekbones and forehead.

  The niece drew in her breath, freezing in place, afraid that any sudden movement might be misinterpreted by their new acquaintance—and his similarly clad colleagues who had now encircled their location.

  Only Rupert remained oblivious to the danger.

  Brow furrowed, the Indian strode around Monty—who had fallen into a catatonic state—and cautiously approached the wicker stroller.

  The niece gulped as the man bent to the cat compartment, unlatched the lid, and peered curiously inside.

  Isabella sat stiffly in place. Her blue eyes glittered as she stared regally up at the stranger.

  Rupert simply rolled over and exposed his furry round stomach for a belly rub.

  Chapter 35

  A WARNING

  THE EXPLORATION PARTY from the San Carlos stood on Angel Island’s south shore, surrounded by local inhabitants.

  The niece was unsure how best to proceed—or whether they were about to be sacrificed on the driftwood altar Father Monty had derided a few minutes earlier.

  The priest’s skin had blanched to a sickly shade of green. His pale lips quivered, perhaps reciting a prayer—or perhaps cursing the curiosity that had spurred the day’s venture—the niece couldn’t tell which.

  The tribe conferred in a language she couldn’t understand. The words seemed to replicate a low threatening rumble. She felt her palms sweat as she gripped the stroller’s wooden handle.

  Isabella sat protectively next to her brother, tensely watching the Indian who looked down into the cat carriage. She wasn’t growling—yet.

  Only Rupert offered a welcoming gesture. True to his nature, he always expected the best from everyone he met. He was forever hopeful that a newcomer might be carrying a container of freshly cooked fried chicken.

  And so, when the Indian reached his hand into the cat compartment, Rupert rolled onto his back to expose his fluffy white stomach. The cat wiggled, and his front feet playfully prodded the air.

  As the Indian leaned forward, the afternoon sun flashed on a hunting knife hanging from a belt secured around his waist.

  Father Monty managed a feeble whisper. “We’re all going to die.”

  Then his legs crumpled beneath him. There was a light thud as his body hit the sand.

  “No!” the niece cried out, lunging forward to protect her cat.

  But before she could intervene, the Indian’s face broke into a broad smile.

  His weatherworn fingers tickled Rupert’s belly, generating a friendly feline coo.

  —

  IT TOOK SEVERAL splashes of cold water to revive Father Monty.

  Once the wet chill kicked in, his lips sputtered and the color returned to his cheeks.

  Then, as if suddenly remembering the previous danger, he tried to scramble to his feet. The niece clamped her hands down on his shoulders, restraining him until he processed her whispered message that the Indians had decided to treat the group from the San Carlos as guests.

  The Indians had been wary of Monty’s flapping robe and his strange chattering voice, but the cats had won them over.

  The tribe built a campfire on the beach and began to assemble the fixings for a meal of roast
ed fowl and fish.

  It wasn’t exactly fried chicken, Rupert noted with a critical twitch of his whiskers. But when the Indian chief dished out cat-sized portions of both entrees into carved wooden bowls and offered them to the cats, Rupert immediately dove in. Even Isabella, who had eaten a full meal just an hour earlier, gobbled down her serving.

  With stomachs sated and Father Monty momentarily quiet, the chief motioned for the niece to join him by the water’s edge. Isabella accompanied her person, her tail stretched up with interest as she walked across the beach.

  The chief picked up a pointed stick and began to draw figures in the sand.

  The niece soon recognized the San Carlos, depicted with its sails billowing in the moonlight as it passed through the mouth of the bay. The Indians had been watching their progress for some time, she realized.

  Isabella pawed the air, as if communicating her understanding.

  Nodding, the chief shifted to a clean spot of sand and started on a new image. This sketch, too, was of the San Carlos, but this time, the ship was shown in a magnified perspective, with its hull filling the entire cleared area.

  This version contained far more detail of the boat and its occupants. The niece watched as the chief drew Captain Ayala and Lieutenant Humphretto standing on the ship’s top deck, the latter wearing his favorite horsehair coat. On the center mast, far above the deck, he drew a tiny parrot representing Petey. Then, in the galley, one level below, he positioned her uncle, cooking at his stove.

  The chief looked up from the sketch, checking that the niece had followed his meaning.

  “Yes,” she said, hoping the tone of her voice conveyed confirmation.

  The chief returned to the drawing, this time focusing on the bottom of the ship’s hull. It was a dank rank-smelling area, a place she had visited only once during her few days on board.

  Here, the chief drew yet another stick figure, a human with a bent back and wild, scraggly hair.

  The niece shook her head, unable to make the correlation.

  Seeing her confusion, the chief marked a symbol next to the mysterious ship member.