The Nine Lives of Montezuma

by Michael Morpurgo

  He climbed the granite steps that led up the side of the granary to the attic door. It was dark inside, the only window being covered with a sack. He knew the floor was dangerous and went down on all fours testing the soundness of each board as he crawled round the wall towards the window. As he reached up and pulled away the sack, he heard the sound again, louder this time and more urgent. He peered across the small room and called out in that language that people seem to think cats understand better. ‘Puss, puss, puss, kitty, kitty, kitty. Where are you, kitty?’ There was no response and he could see nothing, so he began to feel his way forward across the middle of the floor. He felt the joists spring under him and there was an ominous cracking as the wood adjusted to his weight. He stopped, waiting for the floor to be still again, and then he inched his way forward. He found the kitten lying behind a pile of disintegrating corn sacks. There was no resistance when he picked him up, the kitten opened his mouth to voice his objection but was too feeble now to utter any sound. He lay limp in the boy’s hands.

  He could not be sure it was the same kitten until he had made the hazardous journey around the walls and back to the door. Once outside in the light it was clear that this was indeed the kitten he remembered, the ginger tom with a white patch on his throat that extended from the chin to his chest. The kitten had grown. Whereas before there had been no perceptible neck, his head seemed now to have distanced itself from the body; but the body itself was emaciated and wasted. Through the cold fur the boy could feel only the sharpness of bones. As if awakened by the light the kitten tensed himself and made to escape, his claws sinking into the boy’s wrist; but there was no stamina in the effort. ‘There’s life in you yet then, old son,’ said the boy as he cradled the kitten carefully in his hands and made his way back across the yard towards the house.

  ‘Best treat him like an orphan lamb,’ said his mother. ‘He’s half dead with cold and by the looks of him near starved to death. That Kitty has deserted him. I don’t know how she can do it. She’ll fight for her young, protect them, raise them and leave them half-weaned.’ She bent down and opened the bottom oven door of the stove. This was where they warmed the premature lambs born out in the cold of night and brought them back to life. ‘Best let it cool down a bit,’ she said.

  ‘How long do you think he’s been without food, Mum?’

  ‘Nothing of him, is there? Days I shouldn’t wonder. I doubt he’ll live, not now. Better your father should have drowned him along with those others – must be from the same litter.’

  The boy folded a towel in the bottom of the oven and then knelt to lay the kitten inside. The eyes were closed now. He was breathing slowly but this was the only sign of life.

  ‘Shouldn’t we try to feed him?’ the boy said, adjusting the towel around the kitten. ‘Shouldn’t we try something?’

  ‘Not just yet. Warmth is what he needs first and the food comes after when he has the strength to take it.’

  ‘What will Dad say when he finds a cat in the oven?’ said the boy, dreading the moment. He peered back into the depths of the oven. ‘He’s still not moving, Mum. D’you think he’ll make it?’

  ‘Lap of the gods,’ said his mother. ‘Let him warm up here for a few minutes and then we’ll try a bottle. We’ll know then right enough.’

  It took only a short time to wash out a bottle and teat, to water down some cow’s milk; but it became obvious before they started that the teat was going to be too big for the kitten, so the boy went in frantic search of an eye dropper and found one finally upstairs on the bathroom shelf.

  His mother held the kitten on her lap as she sat by the stove, and kneeling down the boy prised open the kitten’s mouth and let the milk dribble in slowly. The eyes flickered and opened, and then he struggled pulling his mouth away. All the remaining strength in his feeble body seemed to be concentrated in a huge effort to keep his jaws tight shut. But some of the warm milk had dribbled through the fur and seeped into his mouth. He swallowed because he had to swallow, and he liked what he tasted. He opened his mouth for more, and the boy took his chance and squeezed the dropper. The kitten coughed and spluttered as the milk rolled down his throat, but his tongue had found the end of the dropper and discovered that this was the source. He sucked and found that the milk came through. Four droppers he sucked dry before he lay back, replete. ‘Back in the oven, Monty,’ said the boy. ‘I think you’ve had enough.’

  ‘Monty? Why Monty?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Montezuma, the Aztec king. He was a survivor, a great fighter. I read about him last term in history.’

  ‘But he was killed, wasn’t he? By the Spanish. Didn’t they strangle him in the end?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the boy, putting the kitten in the oven. ‘Yes, they killed him, but it took them a long time. And we all have to die in the end, don’t we, cats and kings, it doesn’t make any difference. But it’ll take more than a case of starvation to kill Monty off. I know this cat, Mum.’

  ‘You like him, don’t you?’ His mother was surprised. The boy had never shown that much affection for animals, a farmer’s interest certainly but little involvement; and fourteen year old boys don’t usually fall for kittens.

  ‘He’s special, Mum,’ the boy said. ‘He’s not just an ordinary kitten. He’d be dead if he was, wouldn’t he? What would you say if I wanted to keep him?’

  His mother shook her head. ‘You know your Father’s views. Animals stay out on the farm. We live in here, they live out there. He won’t even have the dog inside the house and Sam is useful, part of the farm equipment you might say. If he won’t agree to Sam, he’s not likely to agree to a cat.’

  ‘But Monty deserves it,’ the boy pleaded.

  ‘You tell your father that, but don’t expect any help from me. I’m neutral in any arguments between you two.’ She put her arm around him and said warmly, ‘But just between you and me, I hope you win. There is something about that cat, like you say.’

  Mother and son were just preparing another dropper when they heard the tractor rumble into the yard outside. The whistling came nearer the door and they heard stamping boots on the step outside. The boy looked down at the open oven and there was the kitten peering out, ears pricked, eyes bright. The boy touched wood, crossed his fingers and said a quick prayer. Then the door opened.

  ‘Finished both fields on the other side of the brook, headlands as well. But ’tis still divilish wet out there.’ His father sounded content and satisfied with his day, and the boy decided that this was the time to make his case.

  ‘Dad,’ he said, wondering how best to begin. ‘Dad I found a kitten in the old granary this afternoon.’

  ‘Did you clear it out like I said?’ His father bent over the sink to scrub his hands.

  ‘Yes, Dad. It’s all done.’

  ‘And the milking? Are you sure that Iris hasn’t got mastitis? She felt hard enough to me last night, in the two front quarters. You sure she’s all right?’

  ‘Quite sure, Dad.’

  ‘And what about Emma? She looked as if she might calve early. Any sign?’

  ‘No, Dad. Dad, about the kitten ...’

  ‘Is there a cup of tea in the pot?’ His father wiped his hands and turned around to face the oven. ‘Gad, what the divil’s that in the oven?’ He stooped for a closer look, hands on his knees. ‘It’s a perishing kitten. What the divil’s a perishing kitten doing in here? Will someone tell me what the divil he’s doing in that oven?’

  ‘Dad, I’ve been trying to tell you. That’s the kitten I found in the granary. He’s been deserted by that Kitty.’

  ‘But I drowned her last lot.’

  ‘Not all of them, Dad. You must have missed this one, and I found him all starved and nearly dead. Mum and me, we’ve been feeding him up; and Dad, I wanted to ask you if . . .’

  ‘Gad,’ said his father, and he reached in the oven and pulled the kitten out, holding him up by the scruff of the neck.

  ‘Too old to drown now, dear,’ said the boy�
��s mother. ‘What’ll we do with him?’

  ‘What’ll we do with him? You can’t just throw him out, wouldn’t be right. You’ll have to keep him, won’t you? Just take care you keep him out of the sitting room, that’s all.’ He looked the kitten straight in the face, nose to nose. ‘Never in the sitting room, you hear me?’ And he handed the kitten to the boy.

  ‘All yours, Matthew,’ he said. ‘What’ll you call him?’

  ‘Monty,’ said Matthew. ‘Short for Montezuma.’

  ‘Divilish silly name, but there you are, Matthew’s not much better. Monty meet Matthew, Matthew meet Monty.’

  ‘D’you mean I can keep him here, Dad? He can stay?’

  ‘Nothing else to be done, is there? Now what were you going to ask me, Matthew? You said there was something . . .’

  ‘Nothing, Dad, it was nothing. Can’t have been important. I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Where’s my tea then? Gad, can’t a man have a cup of tea when he gets back home at night. What are you both staring at?’

  And so Montezuma came to live in the farm-house. After a few days he was moved away from the oven and into a box on the far side of the kitchen under the ironing board. But that was a long way from the stove, and he very soon found a corner of the stove by the wall where he could sleep warm and undisturbed whilst he grew slowly into adolescence.

  THE THIRD LIFE

  IT WAS NOT TO BE AN EASY TRANSITION from the farmyard to the house. Growing up, it seemed, imposed certain restrictions that Montezuma found difficult to accept. He had to learn, for instance, not to jump up on the kitchen table to lick the plates, not to yowl around the table and not to be inside when he should have been outside. Every night he was obliged to go out whatever the weather. When it was raining hard he would hide in amongst the chair legs or crawl inside the kitchen cupboard under the sink in an attempt to avoid eviction, but it did him no good. His expulsion might be postponed for a few moments but when it came it was all the more abrupt and uncomfortable. On several occasions the kitten stole away to explore the bedrooms upstairs, and once he squeezed into the pantry where all the good smells came from. But he found the rule of law was consistent and merciless. Each time he transgressed the punishment was swift and sharp; he was chased out and banished until time healed the offence and he was forgiven – again.

  Gradually he was learning. He was learning all the rules and regulations, the boundaries and codes; and more and more he found it expedient to keep inside the law, ostensibly at any rate. The family all agreed that Montezuma was beginning to conform to their idea of an acceptable cat and Matthew congratulated himself upon this miraculous conversion. Even Matthew’s father was beginning to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that the kitten was losing his farmyard manners. This was just the impression Montezuma wished to convey. He had merely learnt the wisdom of cunning, of guerrilla warfare as opposed to open battle. He was developing a secret weapon that would ensure the good life, and that weapon was guile. Now he would wait until the coast was quite clear before he committed his crimes. He recognised that previously his crimes of passion and greed had led to early detection and dire punishment, so now he turned to premeditated crime, meticulously planned and executed. Now he would sleep under beds and not on top of them; now he stole from the kitchen table only when the house was deserted and the door wide open for a quick escape. The efficient criminal must understand the law and then learn how best to avoid being caught. Montezuma might have continued all his life as a habitual outlaw had he not tangled that fateful afternoon with the tin of baked beans left behind on the kitchen table.

  He would never even have seen the tin if the great white cockerel had not chased him away from the flower beds where he had been playing quite innocently among the snapdragons. The cockerel, a vicious Light Sussex, with a predatory break and a flaming comb, had clearly decided that the kitten was a threat to his cackle of hens that were mining for worms in the shrubbery behind the flower-bed. He crowed noisily but the kitten paid him no attention, so he strutted purposefully towards him, wings flapping and neck feathers fluffed out. Still the kitten appeared not to notice him, and so the cockerel ran the last few feet, his neck outstretched and pecked the kitten just above his tail. Montezuma knew better than to mix it with an angry cockerel, so he beat a retreat, hissing and spitting back at the cockerel from a safe distance. By the back door he turned again to arch his back in a final gesture of indignation, but the cockerel had forgotten him and was feeding with his hens in the flower-bed. It was then that Montezuma spied the green tin standing like a beckoning beacon on the kitchen table. Tins, he knew from delving into dustbins, were always worth further investigation. Everyone was out of the house, that much he was sure of; because he had watched all three of them setting off down the farm track towards the sheep fields. They were gone and someone had left the door wide open. It was an invitation not to be refused. With a final look around he stole into the kitchen, jumped onto the chair by the stove and then from the chair onto the table. He was alone with the green tin and one look told him that the tin was far from empty.

  Montezuma licked the sides clean first before pushing his head further in so that he could eat his way down towards the bottom of the tin. It was a delectable feast and he did not hurry it.

  Several times he came up for air to lick his whiskers and to listen out for footsteps, before plunging his head in once again. There was one layer of beans covered in sauce on the bottom that he still could not reach, just a few, but Montezuma had to have them. Determined not to waste anything he forced his head down, until the tin felt tight around his neck; then he wrapped his tongue around the last of the beans and licked the tin clean. He was searching in every corner now for the last traces of the tomato sauce and was licking around for the last time in case he had left any behind. Satisfied, yet disappointed that the baked bean orgy was over, Montezuma called it a day and pulled his head out. It might be better to say that he tried to pull his head out, because try as he might his head would not be pulled free. Each time he tried to jerk his head away the tin stayed with it. He used his front paws in an attempt to anchor the tin on the table, but he could not grip sufficiently for the tin to hold as he pulled his head once again in an attempt to break free.

  Panic was setting in by now. Each attempt that failed only increased his terror. It was becoming hot inside the tin and he found the air more and more difficult to breathe. There didn’t seem to be enough of it, and he sensed that time was running out. He whipped over onto his back and with his front paws tried to prise the tin off his head. He twisted this way and that in a frantic effort scrabbling at the rim of the tin with his claws; but the tin was stuck fast. Within a few minutes he had lost the notion of his position on the table, and stepped out into mid-air falling heavily on the corner of the chair before hitting the floor. He landed badly on his side and when he finally found his feet again he was totally disorientated. Like a blind man he staggered around the kitchen into cupboards and chair legs, tripping over bowls and brooms until he fell down the back doorstep and found himself in the cobbled yard outside.

  Montezuma came out into the sun by the water tank, the tin can riveted over his face. He called out in his fear as loudly as he could and this attracted the attention of the white cockerel and his hens. With an hysterical squawking they scattered in all directions leaving Montezuma alone on the cobbles wandering in aimless circles and yowling pitifully. Every few moments he stopped and tried again to loosen the tin, but he had tried every way he could think of and it was all to no avail. He was weakening all the time, and each effort to free himself was more feeble than the one before.

  Matthew and his parents had left the house in a hurry to pick out one of the ewes that looked unwell. Matthew had thought it might be Black Udder and it needed the three of them to catch her to be sure. He had been proved right and they had treated the ewe before returning home. As they came into the yard all three saw the kitten at the same time walking drunkenly towards them lik
e some feline Ned Kelly. Matthew reached him first and held him fast while his father pulled on the tin.

  ‘Mind his neck,’ Matthew shouted. ‘You’ll break his neck.’

  ‘He’ll suffocate if he stays like this,’ his father said. ‘Suffocated, broken neck, it’s all the same. You hold him tight. Mum, you run and fetch some of that liquid soap. Might help to loosen it.’

  Montezuma was only semi-conscious now and so fought instinctively against the hands that held him. His eyes felt as if they would burst in his head and he was totally consumed by his terror.

  ‘Easy, Monty,’ said Matthew, releasing a hand to stroke the kitten. ‘Easy, you’ll be all right. We’ll have it off in no time. You’ll see.’ The kitten relaxed, momentarily calmed, only to start up again slashing his claws wildly with renewed viciousness.

  The soap arrived and within seconds Matthew’s mother had dribbled in enough so that the tin could be turned. Matthew clutched the kitten firmly gathering all the legs securely together, while his father tried now to unscrew the tin from the head. This time it came away easily in his hand.

  For just a second Montezuma remained still in Matthew’s hands, his eyes screwed up against the light, taking the fresh air deep into his lungs. Then he dug his claws in and sprang free. He ran as he had never run, going nowhere in particular, just away. He sprinted under the iron gate that led to the farmyard, squeezed through the sheep netting and out into the meadow beyond. There the trunk of the old beech tree loomed up in front of him and he climbed it because it was there and because to go up was to get away. He climbed until he could climb no longer, until he ran out of tree.

  Matthew followed and came through into the farmyard only just in time to catch sight of the kitten scaling the sheer straight trunk of the tree. He watched, shielding his eyes against the sun as Montezuma crawled out onto an upper branch and finally came to rest some thirty feet above the duck pond.