The Book of Story Beginnings

by Kladstrup, Kristin

  “Not a very pretty situation up there at the Martin house,” Ada had said.

  “My goodness, did you ever!” Fanny had replied.

  Then the two of them had seen Oscar walking toward them, and their faces had smoothed out like cream in a saucer.

  “Ada and Fanny Hansen are a pair of old cats!” That had been Pa’s response when Oscar told him about it later. He had gone up to Uncle Ned’s to try and persuade Pa to come home.

  “I think you ought to come home, Pa.”

  “Did your Ma send you up here to tell me that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “But, Pa . . .”

  Pa had put down the newspaper. “Son, if I am to believe your ma, she considers me an ignorant fool incapable of understanding anything more than the need to put food on our table. Your ma, on the other hand, is occupied with a far less worldly and far more important endeavor. I believe she calls it expressing herself musically. She seems to believe that people so vastly different from each other cannot live peacefully under one roof.”

  Oscar had known Ma didn’t think any such thing. She had been in one of her dark and dismal moods (as she called them) ever since Pa left. And when she had seen Uncle Ned at church that morning, she had looked hopeful — until Uncle Ned shook his head over the pew.

  “She doesn’t think that, Pa!”

  But Pa had just rattled his newspaper and disappeared behind it.

  Shaking off his thoughts, Oscar realized that the King was still talking. His voice was angrier now. “As far as Her Majesty is concerned, those who love birds and those who love cats can never get along!”

  “Maybe the Queen is just stubborn,” said Oscar. He was thinking of Ma, who had been too stubborn to ask Pa to come home.

  “Of course she’s stubborn!” The King snorted.

  Wary of upsetting him even more, Oscar lapsed into silence. In the distance, he could hear the unearthly sound of a cat fight. Closer, a machinelike noise rumbled, the sound of hundreds of cats purring. Hundreds of eyes blinked in the darkness, reflecting back the dwindling firelight. He watched Tom push his head against the King’s knee, then leap to his lap. The black cat stretched upward to nudge the King’s face with his nose.

  The King looked down. “We are tired,” he said wearily. He stood up and Tom leaped gracefully to the ground. “Come this way, sir!” the King commanded. He led Oscar to one of the cottages. “There’s the bed, sir,” he said, throwing open a wooden door.

  In the dim light coming through the windows, Oscar saw what looked like a storage shelf built against the curved wall of the cottage. There was another shelf directly above it, leaving a space so small and cramped that Oscar found it hard to believe anyone ever could have slept there. On the other hand, he saw the remains of a mattress on the floor nearby, its cloth cover torn open and its feather stuffing strewn about like snow.

  “Cats have ripped apart the bedding, but you’ll find a way around that, no doubt. Nothing like a little magic, eh? We’ve managed to make our cottage next door quite livable,” said the King. “Good night, then,” he added abruptly, closing the door behind him.

  Left in darkness, Oscar hesitated. The King was right. He could use the magic potion to make himself more comfortable. Goodness knows, he’d like a nice, soft bed. He was tired of sleeping in hard, cramped places. And he could make a lantern like the one Lucy had made — a flashlight. He could picture it in his mind.

  He had just pulled the bottle of potion from his pocket when he thought of Lucy. Should he sneak out of the cottage to look for her? Oscar peered out one of the broken windows. It was so dark outside he couldn’t even see to the edge of the clearing. How could he find her in the middle of the night?

  It might be better to sleep for a few hours. He was exhausted. And it seemed to Oscar that he had better not use the potion after all. What if he used the last drop of it making himself a comfortable bed? He crossed the room and set the bottle on the lower storage shelf, at what he imagined might once have been the head of the bed. He lay down next to it so that it filled his vision.

  Oscar didn’t know he had fallen asleep, so he felt only joy when he heard his mother calling his name. Then he saw her. She was in the attic at home, her long yellow hair hanging down her back as she kneeled in front of an open brass trunk. “Where is The Book of Story Beginnings?” she cried, and Oscar’s heart tightened up. Then she turned around, and suddenly it was Lucy’s mother gazing at him instead, saying in a terrible voice, “Where is Lucy?”

  Only then did Oscar know he had been asleep, because he woke up trembling. It took him a moment to get his bearings, to understand that the dark about him was the cottage, and that the even darker shape moving across the floor was a black cat. It was Tom.

  Oscar sat up, bumping his head on the underside of the shelf above. “Ouch!” he cried. As he probed his throbbing head, he saw Tom creep closer. The cat’s nose pushed at the bottle of potion standing near the edge of the storage-shelf bed. Tom pulled back on his haunches. His paw inched upward and tipped the bottle onto its side.

  “Hey!” Oscar reached for the bottle, but Tom’s paw came across his arm like a hand. His yellow eyes gleamed. Oscar righted the bottle and drew his hand away.

  But Tom’s paw came up and tipped the bottle on its side again. Very carefully, the paw pushed and rolled the bottle toward Oscar. Tom laid his paw on Oscar’s hand and looked up expectantly.

  Oscar sat very still, watching the dark stripe of Tom’s paw across his hand. He watched and he wondered, but it wasn’t until his eyes met the black cat’s clear gaze that Oscar pulled his hand away, opened the bottle of potion, and tilted it over Tom’s head.

  Though Oscar would have sworn he hadn’t, he must have blinked as the drop fell. For all at once, exactly where Tom had been, there was a boy crouching — a boy not much older than Oscar himself, with a thin, bony face faintly drawn in moonlight and shadow. Oscar was close enough to see a spattering of freckles across the boy’s nose. His wavy dark hair, greasy and unkempt and curling at the ends, fell almost to his shoulders. The boy’s eyes, the color of tea, gazed at him with quiet, catlike authority.

  Then, as quick as a match striking, the boy jumped up. He felt down the length of his arms, grasped his hair, and touched his nose, his ears, and his mouth. “Oh, sir! You’ve done it! You’ve gone and made me a boy again!” he said. “And I know what you’re thinkin’, sir. You’re thinkin’ I’ve disobeyed His Majesty. Oh — he’ll be so mad at me. But I couldn’t help it, sir.” The boy tiptoed to the window to peer out. “His Majesty was asleep when I left him, sir. And he sleeps sound. That’s why I took the chance. I don’t mean to disobey. I only want to explain.”

  “What do you mean, you only want to explain? Who are you?”

  “Oh, sir! It’s all my fault, really. Please don’t punish King Bertram!”

  Bertram, thought Oscar. Was that the King’s name? “How would I punish him?” he said.

  “You’re a sorcerer, sir!” said the boy.

  “I’m not . . .” Oscar began, but he caught himself. He had better be careful.

  “Please, sir! It looks like abuse of power, I know. But I can explain,” said the boy.

  “Abuse of power?”

  “It ain’t right. His Majesty shouldn’t never have changed everyone into a cat the way he did — but he was driven to it. It’s my fault, sir! Oh, please don’t punish him!”

  “All right! I promise not to punish him,” said Oscar. “Not yet, anyway,” he embellished for effect. “Just answer my questions, and everything will be fine. Tell me who you are.”

  “Why, I’m the King’s familiar — Tom, sir!”

  Oscar remembered that witches had familiars. Did sorcerers have them as well? “Did the King turn you into a cat?” he asked.

  “No, sir!”

  “But you’re a boy, aren’t you?”

  “I was a boy once, sir. Just as you see. But now I’m the King�
�s familiar. And it’s my fault, sir! Mine!” Tom’s panicked voice rose so high it cracked.

  Feeling sorry for him, Oscar opened his mouth to set Tom straight — to explain that he had nothing to fear.

  But Tom spoke first. “Oh, sir — may I tell you the whole story?” he pleaded. “From start to finish — then you’ll see how I’m to blame, and not His Majesty.”

  “Go ahead, then. And really, Tom, you don’t need to call me sir.”

  Tom nodded. “Yes, sir! I’ll try, sir!”

  “Tell me how you came to be a cat,” said Oscar.

  “That’d be when I was the cook’s boy, sir,” said Tom. “That was my job at the palace — washin’ pots, carryin’ wood for the fire, turnin’ the spit for the roast — hard work, hot work, sir. And lucky I was to have it, for I’m an orphan — no father at all and my mother died practically before I was born. Never a day passed that I didn’t feel grateful to the royal family for takin’ me in. (The King was just a lad then. Prince Bertram he was, and it was his father and mother that was so kind to me.) Never a day passed I didn’t say how grateful I was, too, until Cook’d beat me about the head she was so sick of hearin’ it. But I was grateful, sir, and that’s the truth of it.”

  Tom paused to fill his lungs before continuing. “Then one day, Cook says I’m to wash my filthy self and go see the Queen Mother — which is what we was supposed to call Prince Bertram’s grandmother — and I says, ‘Why?’ Not to be insolent, sir, but just because I was that curious as to what the Queen Mother wanted with the likes of poor me. But Cook just gives me a wallop, so off I goes to get myself cleaned up as best I could, and I goes straightaway to see the Queen Mother. And she says, how would I like to serve His Royal Highness, Prince Bertram?

  “So, of course, I says yes. And then the Queen Mother tells me her plan, which is that I, Tom, will be Prince Bertram’s loyal servant. It’ll be my duty to watch him at all times, to protect him from harm, to make sure he’s always happy and cared for. And how I’ll be able to do this without anybody ever guessin’ is because she — the Queen Mother, that is — will change me into a cat. She says I’m to be what’s called a familiar. (As you well know, sir, all sorcerers has got to have familiars.) The Queen Mother herself had one, though I didn’t know it till that day. Hers was a fluffy white cat, very pretty, goin’ by the name of Cloud. And here old Cook was always complainin’ about Cloud bein’ so spoiled and useless!” Tom laughed gleefully.

  “Was Cloud also a person?” Oscar asked.

  “Yes, sir. Used to be a scullery maid named Tina. She was a present to the Queen Mother on her fourteenth birthday, just as I was to be a gift to Prince Bertram on his birthday. Sorcerers always get familiars when they’re fourteen years old. It’s the custom.”

  “It seems pretty unfair to me! Why do you have to be his familiar? Why can’t he just have a cat?”

  “But I am a cat,” said Tom, looking confused.

  “You’re a boy!” said Oscar. “Why does the King need you to be his familiar? Why can’t he just have one that’s never been anything but a cat?”

  “Well, I suppose he could. There’s sorcerers that do, of course. All sorts of animals is used as familiars — cats, birds, rats, mice. But the most powerful sorcerers has got ones like me — animals that once was people,” said Tom. “We help concentrate their powers,” he added proudly.

  “Well, I can’t believe you agreed to it!” said Oscar.

  Tom looked perplexed by this response. “What the Queen Mother was askin’ was the greatest of honors!” he said. “A familiar has many important responsibilities. It ain’t just a matter of keepin’ down the mice in the palace. I had to taste the Prince’s food before he ate it to make sure it wasn’t poisoned. And I saw to it that he was happy. Cats are a great comfort to people, you know. You just have to make your throat rumble, like this . . .” Tom tried unsuccessfully to purr. “Well, I can’t seem to do it now. But I’d purr, you see, and rub against Prince Bertram’s ankle, and he’d scratch my neck just here behind my ears. Oh, it is nice to be scratched there, sir! You can’t imagine!”

  Oscar didn’t have to imagine. He knew. Tom’s description was giving him odd, uncomfortable memories.

  Tom went on. “I was very happy for the next few years. His Highness was growin’ up into a fine young man. He was always learnin’ things. There was his kingship studies, which he didn’t much care for. Diplomacy, history, languages, mathematics, the correct use of sword and shield. Then other things, not so serious — dancin’, conversation, literature, and court etiquette. Prince Bertram liked them even less, I could tell.

  “Then there was Prince Bertram’s sorcery studies, which was taught to him by the Queen Mother herself. Very tricky thing, magic. I had to be sharp so I could help the Prince. And there was laws of magic — rules and regulations and such that has got to be learned inside and out. There wasn’t room in my brain for ’em all, but I did try to cram ’em in, sir, for I could see Prince Bertram didn’t have much interest.

  “One of those regulations concerned abuse of power, sir! Not usin’ your magic against others. It’s the worst punishment for that, ain’t it? I still remember what the regulation said. I’ve thought of it often these many years: Abuse of power shall be punished by loss of familiar and powers, said punishment to be administered as appropriate by the governin’ body. . . .” Tom broke off tearfully. “That’d be you, wouldn’t it, sir! The governin’ body — here to punish His Majesty.”

  Seeing Tom cry, Oscar felt embarrassed for him. “Tom — I’m not here to punish King Bertram. I’m not even a sorcerer — not really!” he confessed.

  “You’re not? But His Majesty said so. And you worried him, sir. I could see you did.”

  “I may have worried him, but I’m not a sorcerer,” Oscar said firmly. “Finish your story and I’ll tell you mine. You were telling about the King’s lessons,” he prodded. “Abuse of power and all that. Tell me more.”

  Tom sniffled and wiped his eyes with his dirty sleeve. “A great many things happened after that, you see. All bad, and all at once. First, the Queen Mother took ill and died. Oh, it was very sad, sir. And the next thing was even more tragical, if you can believe it! Prince Bertram’s father and mother was lost at sea! Died when the royal ship sank in a storm. On a voyage to Song Island they was, goin’ to arrange Prince Bertram’s marriage.”

  “His marriage to Queen Leona?”

  “No, sir! That was the next bad thing. It was Princess Ida was supposed to marry Prince Bertram. She was considered a fine match, diplomacy-wise. But with his parents lost at sea, Prince Bertram — King Bertram by then — had to go himself to Song Island to complete the nuptial arrangements, and I went along.

  “The trouble began almost as soon as we got there,” said Tom. “It ain’t my place to criticize, sir, but I think Princess Ida’s folk was partly to blame for what came next. They kept her hidden away, you see. All part of the marriage custom is what they said. But what I say is, maybe the King might’ve fallen in love with the Princess if he hadn’t had all that time to meet someone else first.”

  “Queen Leona?” said Oscar.

  Tom nodded. “She was one of Princess Ida’s ladies-in-waitin’. The loveliest woman you ever saw, sir. Even a cat like me couldn’t have missed that much. The King fell under her spell right away. She made him weak from happiness. That’s what confused me in my duties, sir. I ought to have remembered that the most important thing is diplomacy. Only — well, sir, happiness is easier for a cat to think about. That’s why I made sure to bring the King and the Lady Leona together as much as I could. Cats are good at that sort of thing. The next thing you know, the King takes her home with him, leavin’ a great stink behind at Song Island.”

  “So he eloped with her!” said Oscar.

  “Yes, sir,” said Tom. “And things was fine for a while. The King built a grand palace for the Queen. I don’t think she cared much for it, though she made out like she did. Oh, she was somethin�
� — always goin’ on about her paintin’ and poetry while His Majesty was busy tryin’ to be King. Between you and me, sir, I could see him was wishin’ he’d studied more in his youth.

  “So there he is, tryin’ so very hard, when one day, someone makes a gift to the Queen. A canary — a plump, juicy little thing that sang from sunup to sundown. The Queen was just crazy about that bird. Always after His Majesty to make up some little poem about the creature. The King’s good at makin’ up rhymes — for his magic, you know — and at first, he goes along, but at last even he gets tired of it. Then she starts makin’ up poetry herself. And she’s got to paint the bird’s portrait — not once, not twice, but over and over again. She loves that bird so much she’s got to redecorate her mornin’ room. Paints it all pink and orange and yellow, to look like the sun, she says, and she shows the King how the bird looks so pretty flyin’ about in there. Flittin’ up and down and around and every whichaway until . . .” The agitation in Tom’s voice had been steadily rising. Now he buried his face in his hands.

  When he looked up, his expression was bleak. “I just couldn’t take it no more, sir,” he said. “There’s only so much a cat can stand. There I was in that room, crouched near the King’s heel, sir. There I sat, watchin’ that canary dip and dive. I could feel my eyes glazin’ over, and my jaw twitchin’, and I just forgot myself and I pounced. I caught the little thing in midair and I chomped it! Chomped it right through the neck!” Tom licked his lips, as if recalling the taste of the bird. “The Queen screamed and carried on. Said I ought to be drowned, or hanged, and —”

  “Yes, I know!” Oscar interrupted. “The King and Queen quarreled, and she kicked him out of the palace, and then everyone laughed at him, and he turned them all into cats.”

  “That’s about the sum of it,” said Tom. “You can see I’m to blame.”