“This is unjustified! This is slander—I’m not a witch!”
“If you are not a witch, then how can you understand cat language?”
“I . . . I . . . ” The woman was at a loss for words.
“She just has a knack for languages!” said Black Tony.
“You two are in cahoots, that’s why you’re defending her—you’re a witch’s familiar!” said the white cat. “No ordinary humans can learn our language—only witches!”
Understands cat language, noted the man wearing the gray coat. Is in cahoots with the black cat.
“Moving on, the fourth, fifth and sixth charges,” continued the white cat. “Black Tony, you revealed mystical feline secrets to this witch. You told her about the great Catlantic Codex and about the Catlantic flowers. Then you gave her the last page of the Codex as well as a Catlantic flower. With these, she intends to brew a potion that will give the two of you unlimited power.”
Brewed a potion out of flowers and pages from a holy book, noted the man wearing the gray coat.
“I plead not guilty! This is slander!” said Black Tony. “I call the first witness to the stand,” announced the white cat. The gray member of the Council of Six stretched his hind legs and proudly walked forward.
“Witness, please state your name and titles.”
“I am the Cat King of France, a member of the Council of Six, a pure-bred gray. My name is Entrecât.”
Ah! Panna Catta’s father! thought Baguette.
The white cat placed a book in front of the gray cat.
“Your Majesty, Sir Entrecât. Do you swear by the Great Catlantic Codex that the evidence you shall give is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
“I do solemnly swear,” answered Entrecât, with his paw on the Codex.
“Your Majesty, Sir Entrecât, in the name of Catolicism, please answer the Council’s questions. Did Black Tony reveal the mystical feline secrets to this witch? Did he rip out the last page of the Catlantic Codex and give it to her? Did he give her a Catlantic flower from the catnip gardens?”
“Yes,” nodded the gray cat, “yes and yes.”
“How do you know this, Your Majesty?”
“I saw and heard it.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Lies!” screamed the defendant. “You gray liar! Last night you were in your castle hosting a ball. Everyone knows that!” The black cat turned to the crowd for support. The cats began whispering anxiously.
“It’s true,” conceded Entrecât. “Last night I hosted a ball. But, since I am a pure-bred gray cat, I am able to cross the frontiers of space in seconds: that is to say, I can be in two places at once. Last night I was at the ball and at the same time I peeked into the witch’s den.”
“There are no further questions,” said the white cat. “The Council has heard everything it needs to. It has reached a verdict. Woman with the raven hair, please stand. The Council of Six finds you guilty of witchcraft and pronounces you a witch. Since it is beneath our jurisdiction to try humans, we are turning you over to the human courts of the Holy Inquisition.” The white cat turned to the man in the gray coat. “Take her away!” he ordered.
The man in the gray coat tucked his notebook into one of his pockets and produced a pair of handcuffs from the other one. He walked up to the woman and handcuffed her.
“In the name of the Holy Inquisition,” he said in a flat monotone, “you, witch, are arrested.” He led her away from the square, looking back at the Council and repeating, “Always a pleasure to work with you! It has been a pleasure, my dear animals!”
“You’re the animal,” the white cat said quietly. “Let us continue with the verdict. Black Tony, former member of the Council of Six, please stand. The Council finds you guilty on all six charges. You will be replaced in the Council by a newly elected black cat. You are sentenced to death. This is your eighth life so you still have one left—your ninth. As you can see, we are merciful. In addition, the Council of Six has ruled that from now on all black cats shall lose the right to smell the Catlantic flowers that give nine lives. From now on, every black cat will live only one life. That is the punishment for abusing black magic.”
“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” said Black Tony. “You’re forbidding my entire breed the right to smell the Catlantic flowers? Then you’ve brought this upon yourselves!” His eyes gleamed menacingly and he shouted, “In the name of night darkness! In the name of underground gloom and oceanic murk! I command all cats to forget what the Catlantic flowers look like and where they grow. From now on no cat will ever live nine lives! Meowbra-catabra! Meowbra-catabra!” Upon hearing the terrifying curse the cats in the crowd began to howl in panic.
“What do the Catlantic flowers look like?” one cat whimpered. “I don’t know! I’ve forgotten! Excuse me, do you remember what color they are? Blue? Red? Yellow? Are they big? Are they small?”
“I don’t remember!” said a cat to her left.
“Me neither!” said a cat to her right.
“Do you know where they grow?”
“We don’t remember!” the cats yelled.
“Ay, ay, ay! Our memory! What’s happening to our memory?”
The Council members let out their sharp claws and their fur stood on end.
“What have you done, you filthy animal?” they cried. “You’ve taken away the knowledge we cherish most of all!”
“Glad to hear it,” said Black Tony. “You’ve brought this upon yourselves. Now I alone will rule over these wonderful red . . . wait, no, blue . . . I mean, pink . . . holy claw! I’ve forgotten too!”
Yes, Black Tony had forgotten too. As he uttered his terrible curse, he had mistakenly said, “I command all cats to forget . . .”
So that’s how all the cats forgot what the Catlantic flowers look like and where they grow! thought Baguette. The Council of Six condemned the black cat and in his wrath he put a curse on the flowers. Baguette got up, did some cat stretches—he arched his back, then rounded his back, arched, then rounded—and looked around. The square had almost emptied; the last few cats were leaving the site of the trial.
I guess it’s time for me to go home. I just have to grab my Catlantic flower, the one I hid in a safe spot . . . Hmm, where was that again? In that moment Baguette realized he had completely forgotten where he’d hidden the flower. And what it looked like.
“Oh, no! Me too!” exclaimed Baguette. “Ah, the poor, heroic, ginger cat! My beloved Purriana and her great-great-grandmother are waiting for me at home. They’re hoping I’ll bring back the flower, but I’m returning empty-handed!” Baguette sat down in front of the street clock and woefully began his purraby.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
I’m returning from afar.
Hear me purr my purraby,
As the tears pour from my eyes.
I can’t believe the time has come,
The time has come to swim back home.
The cats at home, everyone
Will call out in unison:
The Trial “The flower! The flower!
Where’s the flower? We want to smell its magic power!”
“Here I am, back from Catlantis,
But purrdon . . . I’m empty-handed.”
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Oh, my home is very far . . .
The cat looked at the clock and sang his purraby. The clock’s hands began spinning slower and slower and slower and slower, until they stopped completely.
CHAPTER 16
The Oracle’s Mistake
The Petrov family had almost lost hope. The signs Vadik had hung up had yellowed and withered away and still no one called. The tear-away strips of telephone numbers fluttered in the spring breeze. Sometimes a gust would come from around the corner, rip down one of the signs and carry it far, far away, to other towns and even to other countries. The wind would carry the signs to St. Petersburg and Novosibirsk, to Samara and Bishkek, to
India and Egypt, to Belarus and Thailand, to Spain and France. In place of the missing signs Vadik would diligently hang up new ones. But there were still no calls.
“Where’s our cat?” lamented Papa Petrov. “Where could he have gone?”
“Haven’t people seen the signs?” said Vadik. “I must’ve hung up at least a hundred thousand!”
“It’s unbelievable, really,” said Mama. “We’re offering a lot for this cat—a month’s salary, a ring with an imitation diamond, a gold medal and an eternally green cactus—and still no one has returned him to us.”
“It can mean only one thing: no one has found him yet,” said Papa.
“What if he got run over by a car?” cried Polina.
“What if he fell into a manhole?” said Vadik, turning pale.
“What if someone mean found him?” said Mama.
“What if he died of hunger?” said the grandfathers.
“What if he got sick?” said the grandmothers.
“What if a pack of dogs ate him?” whined Bonehead. “Some stray pit bulls or maybe bull terriers . . .”
The Petrovs weren’t the only ones who missed Baguette. Two cats were also waiting for him—his beloved Purriana and Purriana’s great-great-grandmother, the striped oracle. In fact, the oracle was most impatient for Baguette to return. She was the one who had predicted that Baguette would return with the Catlantic flower before she passed away, which she knew was going to happen in the middle of spring—and the middle of spring it was.
The bright spring sunshine poured into the attic; it seeped through every crack and coated the darkest, dustiest, coldest spots that winter had left behind with its warmth. The striped oracle lay in her rocking chair, warming herself in the sun’s rays. Her eyes were closed, her tail hung motionless, but she was not sleeping. She was deep in thought about the ginger cat. She knew her fate: she was going to pass away tonight at sunset—she hoped that the ginger cat would return before then. The ginger cat with the white flower.
Baguette was the oracle’s very last chance. The future of all the striped cats depended on him. Because one time the oracle had made a wrong prediction. It only happened once, but it was wrong all the same. And oracles cannot be wrong twice. After her mistake, the wise Council of Six determined that if she were ever wrong again—if the ginger cat did not bring back the flower by the middle of spring—it would mean that the descendants of the striped Catlanteans had lost their ability to see into the future. Which would mean that the entire breed of striped cats must disappear from the face of the earth. All the striped cats would marry black cats and give birth to black kittens. And there would be no more striped cats. Ever.
“Maybe you’d like some milk?” said Purriana. She had been taking care of the oracle for the past few days. “Please, Great-great-grandmother, you aren’t eating or drinking! You need strength—you have to be here when Baguette returns!”
“No, I don’t want any milk,” said the oracle, barely audibly. “I have all the strength I need to make it to sunset, and after that I won’t need strength anymore—I’ll be gone.”
“Don’t say that! Be careful what you wish for!”
“Striped cats don’t wish: they predict.”
“Well, then, don’t predict! Why do you have to die at sunset? Why don’t you predict something else?”
“That’s not in my powers, Great-great-granddaughter. I know what is in store for me—tonight’s sunset will be my last. I’m cold . . .” She shivered and wrapped her tail around her body. “Where is he? Where’s your ginger fiancé?”
“Don’t worry, Great-great-grandmother,” said Purriana as she rubbed against the rocking chair. “He’ll be here. He’ll definitely be here. I’m sure that Baguette will bring the flower before sunset. Just like you predicted.”
“I hope so. I truly hope so. I was wrong once before—I hope I’m not wrong again!” Purriana looked at her great-great-grandmother thoughtfully. “Great-great-grandmother, you’ve spoken so much about your wrong prediction,” said Purriana timidly, “but you never told me what it was.”
“It’s a very unfortunate memory, Purriana. It was such a stupid mistake.”
“But maybe . . .” Purriana rubbed against the chair once more, as a sign of utmost respect, “maybe you can tell me today? What was your wrong prediction?”
“All right,” said the oracle, “I suppose I can tell you today. About a year ago, I had a vision . . . Or, rather, I thought I had a vision. The vision told me where to find the Catlantic flower. I called a meeting of the wise Council of Six and said, ‘I, the striped oracle, saw without the use of my eyes where to find the flower that gives cats nine lives. A shipment of various plants was delivered to the neighborhood florist today and one of them is the Catlantic flower. It grows in a flowerpot—the third pot on the second shelf to the right of the entrance. It is for sale and it costs mere pennies.’ The wise Council of Six asked me, ‘Oracle, what does the flower look like?’ I told them I didn’t know—I couldn’t see the flower. But I could clearly see where it was in the shop. Someone was sent to the florist immediately to get the plant from the spot I had described. When they brought it back . . .” At this point the oracle sadly furrowed her brow. “When they brought it back, the plant was a . . . cactus.”
“A cactus?”
“Yes, a cactus. An ordinary cactus that had nothing in common with a flower. That was my wrong prediction. The one that shamed our entire breed of striped cats.”
“What happened to the cactus?” said Purriana.
“It was thrown away. It was taken to the alley and left near the dumpster. Noir circled the pot day after day in hopes of catching a whiff of the magical Catlantic aroma but only ended up with needles in his nose. Soon after, some humans took it away. Actually, it was the Petrovs—Polina convinced her father to take it home. Apparently they still have the cactus. Polina keeps it on her windowsill.”
“Oh, I see.” Purriana nodded. “On her windowsill . . . Wait a minute! On her windowsill? So it’s that very cactus? Holy claw!” Purriana dashed from the attic. “Holy moly claw!”
“Great-great-granddaughter,” yelled the oracle after her. “What’s a ‘holy claw’? And where are you going?”
“We need that cactus!” shouted Purriana from the stairs. “Great-great-grandmother, your prediction wasn’t wrong!”
“What do you mean, it wasn’t wrong?” But Purriana was already on her way to the Petrovs’ and didn’t hear the oracle’s question.
But someone else did—the Trash Man. He had heard their entire conversation. He was crouched down on all fours pretending to be a pile of trash near the attic door. His boss had ordered him to listen in on the two cats and report anything of interest back to him—to Noir.
CHAPTER 17
Monsieur de Tutu
Monsieur Jacques Saussure de Tutu was piping pastry cream into a batch of croissants when a crumpled piece of paper flew into his bakery through the open window. Monsieur de Tutu moved the croissants aside and flattened out the paper.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” said Jacques. “It’s some sort of document—perhaps a very important one—but it’s written in a foreign language!”
With these words, he hung a sign on his bakery door that said “back soon,” closed it with a big padlock and went to see his friend Simoux Lacroum—a translator who knew every language and was very smart.
“Interesting, very interesting indeed,” said Simoux Lacroum after reading the document. “Where did it come from?”
“The wind blew it into my bakery. What does it say?”
“It’s a sign for a lost cat. It says: ‘Lost Ginger Cat. He is meek and a mixed-breed, so he’s not much use to anyone. If found, please return him to us, the Petrovs. As a reward you will get Papa’s monthly salary, Mama’s ring with an imitation diamond, a gold medal and an eternally green cactus.’ ”
“A ginger cat . . .” repeated Jacques. “A ginger cat, a ginger cat . . . Sounds familiar . . . Wait! There was a
ginger cat hanging around my bakery just this morning. Is it the same cat?”
“It could be,” said Simoux. “It’s possible that the ginger cat you saw this morning and the ginger cat referred to in the sign are in fact the same animal. Thus, the animal in question encompasses both the signifier and the signified and so . . .”
“Quoi?” interrupted Jacques. “That’s very complicated— remember, I’m not as smart as you are.”
“My apologies, Jacques,” said Simoux, patting him on the back. “All I meant was that it’s probably the same cat.”
“Merci, Simoux!”
The two men shook hands and Monsieur de Tutu set off for his bakery.
A ginger cat was sitting in front of the bakery—it was Baguette. Earlier that morning he had successfully traveled from the past into the present, but he hadn’t gotten his destination quite right. He went from fourteenth-century France straight to present-day France instead of home—to present-day Moscow.
“Bonjour, toujours!” exclaimed Jacques when he saw the cat. “My ginger friend, if you’re the cat that the Petrov family has lost then I’ll take you home immediately. After all, I’m a decent man. But you must give me a sign that it is indeed you. For instance, meow loudly three times. Yes, exactly three times—not two, not four, but three meows. That’ll be the sign—an undeniable sign, a significant sign!”
I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous, thought Baguette, but he meowed exactly three times all the same.
“Sacré bleu! It is you! Please, come in!” said Jacques, excitedly opening the bakery door. “Please, have a croissant and then we’ll be off. I’m a decent man and we can’t waste another minute.” Monsieur de Tutu gave Baguette a croissant, then put him in a bag, locked up his bakery, bought two plane tickets—one for a human and one for an animal—and the two of them flew to Moscow.
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