The Voyage: Edited by Chandani Lokuge & David Morley
Page 19
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“The streets are narrow,” I said.
“That’s where the best stories are made. Places where the wanton king reigns in his palace, a couple of old crones grumbling in the basement. Or where the youngest daughter of a merchant spins fine thread and next door, an ogre grows his peonies,” the Cat said. She pointed a paw toward a shop front. Over the door hung an old boot, weathered and wearied and losing its sole. The sign beneath proclaimed the presence of the finest cobbler in all the seven leagues. “And here,” she announced, “where if you buy me some boots, I will make your fortune.”
I turned and peered through the cheap glass window, streaked and smeared with grime. The shop’s display featured tiny slippers in rainbow shades of silk. They hung from a stolen tree branch by their ribbons. Arranged below the slippers, high heeled shoes of delicately tinted leather and shiny stiletto boots with laces and folded cuffs. Such amazing shoes for such a shabby shop, I thought. The Cat rose to her hind legs and rested her forepaws upon the window, leaving more smudges, and her excited breath misted the glass.
“Such shoes would surely cost a fortune,” I said.
“They are cheaper than you think,” said the Cat. She tore her attention briefly from a particular pair of velvet boots – the colour of Cabernet Sauvignon and embroidered with pearls – to look at me. I don’t know what she saw in my expression. Her bright amber eyes snapped back without further ado. “Did you bring a cow?”
Where was I going to get a cow? I lived in a proper cottage with Victorian gingerbread trim. The roses grew abundantly in its garden, their pure white buds blossoming a rich and vibrant scarlet.
“Even if I had a cow, bring a cow to the city? Do I look like a rude peasant?”
“Such a beast would be difficult to get down the alleys unless you had a bull,” said the Cat. “I suppose the same could be said of an ass.”
I knew of an ass my cousin had. He was told it would defecate gold, rubies and sapphires, but once he got it in the stable, he only ever got manure. He put it in hessian bags for me and I spread it on the rose beds.
“The boots might not even fit,” I said. “They weren’t designed for cat’s paws.” The Cat rubbed her cheeks and whiskers against the glass separating her from her heart’s desire. She purred enthusiastically. I glanced up and down the street, but the bakers’ wives and seamstresses were gathered around a young piper who played sweet music and collected their coins, a few buttons and a scone in his multicoloured hat. “You’re embarrassing,” I said in a harsh whisper.
The Cat fell onto all fours, her tail raised, gently swishing in hauteur. I thought for a moment she might stalk away, but she merely padded to the shop’s door and meowed impatiently, claws lightly grazing the wood.
The bell over the door jingled as we entered. I immediately smelled champagne shoe polish and leather dust. An old man with gold rimmed spectacles, wearing a green apron fashioned to carry chisels and hammers, sat near the counter, idly tapping the edges of a sole he was fixing to a pair of work boots. He peered up at us through the gloom, continuing to tap.
“If you want custom fit shoes, you’ll need to wait till the elves are up.”
“Elves often sleep till dusk. They are dreadfully slack,” the Cat told me. She leapt up onto the counter in one fluid motion. “I need boots. This third child of a disguised and disinherited queen will pay.”
The old man stopped tapping to scratch behind his ear with the implement. “And what will you pay with, third child?”
The Cat curled lazily, her left paws hanging over the edge of the counter and swinging. “Pay him with your destiny.”
“That’s okay for you to say,” I said. I felt grumpy. Cats don’t need boots. She simply wanted them.
“I told you I’d make your fortune.”
“And you’re selling it to him for your boots. Which you want me to buy in return for my fortune.” I grunted. “It’s a scam you’re trying to pull.”
She yawned extravagantly. “Typical third child. No trust.”
“What about your first born?” inquired the old man helpfully.
“Now you’re talking,” said the Cat, deigning to stretch.
“What would you do with my first born?” I asked, merely curious. I wasn’t planning on children.
“I know a little man,” he said.
“I want those boots,” repeated the Cat.
“Oh, all right,” I said, feeling exasperated. From the pockets of my great coat, I took out a diadem set with turquoise and pearls. I buffed it briefly on my sleeve and, tilting it slightly to ensure it gleamed, handed it to the old man. He took it greedily, biting down on the soft silver.
It was an old family heirloom.
The old man agreed to the bargain and the Cat moved with astonishing speed to carry the boots from the window, as though afraid they might be sold from under her. She poked inside their velvet creases.
“I will need some socks,” she announced. The old man, practically jigging with delight over his acquisition, tossed her some grey, dirty worn things and these she stuffed into the toes and padded about her paws till the boots fit snug. Satisfied, she strode out of the shop, moving like a ballerina executing pas de bourrée en couru.
“Well, I hope you’re happy now,” I said.
She purred. I didn’t tell her she looked silly just wearing a pair of boots. Undoubtedly if I had, she’d have asked for a silk turban next. We walked passed the piper and into the square, where old women gathered about their coffee cups and told wicked stories to young girls. One particularly withered crone was half way through a tale about a girl who had fallen asleep for a hundred years and the playboy prince who came upon her in all sorts of naughty ways. The coffee smelt warm and rich.
“No,” said the Cat, seeing that I was turning towards one of the cafes. “We’ll miss our boat.”
“I had no idea we were catching a boat.”
“I said I’d make your fortune. There is a boat at the harbour now, groaning with spices. It will sink. That is our boat.”
I shrugged and followed. The boat was a grand merchant vessel and its captain looked both commanding and unremarkable and wore a patch over his left eye. Later I would learn that he had sought a white narwhale in his youth. His remaining eye was bright green, like a tumultuous sea.
We climbed onto the deck and the Cat performed a reverence for the captain. “As soon as we hit a wave, you’ll fall overboard if you keep wearing those boots,” I said in her ear. It flicked in annoyance.
“Captain Stormeye, we seek passage on your fine boat,” she announced.
The Captain’s eye swirled as it fell upon us. His voice barked. “You look like landlubbers in your fancy dress. Do you know a bobstay or boomkin or deadeye?”
“We need only a cabin and none of that, thank you,” said the Cat.
“We are not taking on passengers.” His bark was worse than his bite. I saw with amazement that he had only every second tooth left in his gums, but this was already more teeth than most of his crew between them.
“We have enough to pay our way.” The Cat persisted, gesturing to me. I looked blankly at her. “Pay the nice Captain here.”
“With what?”
“Do I have to think of everything?”
I fumbled in my pockets. After a few swear words, I found a golden walnut stuck in the seams. I held it up between two fingers. “I can offer this walnut.”
The Captain practically split his sides. I’d once seen a hob do just that at a Christening. It was an awful sight and left such a mess.
Once his guffaws had slowed, the Captain managed to wheeze, “I’d be a nut to accept such a remittance.”
I sighed at the pun and lowered my hand. “You see it is golden. It is a gift from a fairy. Within is a cloth spun so fine that although it could be tied about the earth, it can be contained within this cunning receptacle. Surely such a wonder is worth carrying two passengers aboard your boat?”
�
��Frigate,” the Captain corrected, his eye now contemplative as it gazed upon the walnut. “Why don’t you show me the cloth?”
“Why, I’d never fold it back within its shell, Captain.” I held the tiny object out again to him. “But if you believe in fairies, you will have faith in its worth.”
The Captain thought hard, but eventually he grabbed the walnut. We were escorted to a small cabin, in which I could not stand upright. There was the one hammock and the little space that was left in the room was filled with sacks of peppercorns that made me sneeze. The Cat did a pas de chat right up into the hammock, quickly kicking off the boots that were her heart’s desire. They landed with two separate thumps upon the floor, followed by a sleet of grey socks.
I picked the boots up and placed them on a peppercorn sack, sneezing afterward into my handkerchief. “There, I knew it. You’re already bored with them.”
She had closed her eyes, but opened her lashes just a fraction to reveal the amber glow sliding beneath. “You should get some sleep. You’ll be busy soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is a Prince on board. He has been betrayed and impersonated by his lazy valet and has since had to make his own way in the world. Thus he is employed here as a humble deck hand. But when the wind and waves rise and the boat is scuppered, he will start to drown. You should fish him out and drag him to a little island that we will come across. It is ruled by a boar who dines upon lost sailors. He roasts them upon spits in his castle’s kitchens. You will have to trick him.”
Worn out with her prophecy, she went to sleep for the rest of our journey aboard the boat. For a while, I tried to sleep on top of the sacks, but the peppercorns were very uncomfortable. I am a light sleeper. I was once kept up all night by a dried pea left under my mattress. As the sea began to roll and tumble, I staggered toward the deck, curious to see if I could identify the Prince.
It actually wasn’t difficult. The sailors, as I had noted, all had teeth missing – not to mention a number of eyes, legs, hands and even noses. One among them, however, stood by the mainstay, his white shirt billowing and open to his waist, a pair of striped breeches clinging to his muscular legs. His teeth were even and white and he had all his appendages. The hair upon his head, attractively tied at the neck with a length of silk, was golden and there was a star upon his brow that shone like a beacon against the black and stormy sky. He looked just like the heroes I’d seen sketched in the Cat’s collection of penny dreadfuls.
I wasn’t able to stare long. The decks were repeatedly washed with green foamy waves and I slipped and slid back to the cabin to find the Cat awake. She had emptied the contents of a peppercorn sack and placed her boots inside. The hard little fruits rolled about carelessly. She yawned, showing her pink tongue, and bounded towards the deck, telling me that the sinking was imminent. I followed, nearly falling several times upon the pepper and cracking enough beneath my shoes that I could have seasoned all the dishes prepared for the Shah of Persia.
The deck was a flurry of activity as the masts leaned in toward the sea like sticks you might use to stir your coffee and the waves sucked out the tar that kept her seaworthy. The Cat nimbly shouldered two empty barrels, smelling strongly of pickled pork, and threw them into the raging waters. Leaping after them, she beckoned me to join her.
We bobbed for a while as the torrent died and the boat sank, but as the morning came, we were quite alone. Except for the Prince. He was easily identified by the star upon his brow and lay, stretched out and insensible, upon a few planks of decking, his feet trailing in the sea. The Cat took a piece of rope she had cleverly thought to commandeer and wrapped it around the Prince, dragging him with us towards the horizon.
It was some time before we saw the island. It appeared white and green, rising from the rippling crests of the tides. “At last,” said the Cat. “If I’d known it would take this long, I would have sent you alone.”
A few times, despite our care, the Prince was dunked in the sea, so that by the time we pulled him up onto the white sand, he had ceased to breathe and was turning blue. I leaned over him and blew air between his lips, as I had been taught by a wise wizard who said not everything could be cured by magic. His eyelashes fluttered briefly as he coughed up sea water and his lungs filled once more with oxygen.
Quickly, I felt in my coat and pulled out a golden thimble, so intricately wrought that it would fit only one finger in all the world. I tucked this into his breeches pocket and then collapsed on the sand beside him. I fell asleep, exhausted by my trials.
I was startled awake again as I was hefted above the ground by a gang of grizzled boars. They wore belts hung with sharp and dastardly blades and axes. My wrists and ankles were strapped to a long pole that they held aloft upon their shoulders. Their trotters marched in time as they sang, “Oh me oh my, tonight the Boar King will dine,” over and over again. It was a very monotonous song and was often sung out of key.
“Cat!” I cried. “Oh, Cat! Where have you gone?”
One of my captors turned and bade me be silent. His tusks laced with spittle, daring me to use my tongue again at my own peril. There was no sign of the Cat and I would never see her again. We travelled to a handsome castle, decorated richly in flotsam and jetsam that was, I assumed, the treasure of a hundred or more sunken ships. The boars carried me down into the kitchens, which were humid and sticky and busily attended by other boars who wore white caps and aprons. They stirred boiling pots and flipped pancakes. The fire was stoked ready in the range. As I looked around, seeking any handy knife or kebab skewer, I saw that the Prince had also been carried from the beach and was about to be set upon a spit. He wiggled and squirmed and cried hot tears that dashed upon the bloodied stone floors.
“I demand to see the King!” I said abruptly.
The boars stopped stirring and flipping and looked at me with irritation. The Head Cook, identifiable by his large hat and silver spoon, put his trotters upon his hips.
“The fires are just right,” he said, as though I cared for that.
“I demand to see the King!” I repeated emphatically.
“You’d better get His Majesty,” said the Head Cook. “I don’t like cookin’ ‘em while they complain.”
The Boar King consequently swept down into the kitchens. He was dressed magnificently in a purple cloak and wore a large crown of rubies upon his ears. His tusks had been polished to shine like ivory and each had been studded with a solitaire diamond.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded. His voice was unexpectedly high pitched and squeaky.
I thought quickly, recalling the Cat’s prophecy. “Your cooks say the fires are just right, but look. I have goose bumps!” Indeed, my skin had prickled from fear, not cold. “The fire barely tickles my skin and will never roast me. You’d best come here and see for yourself how lazy your cooks have become.”
The Boar King leaned towards the fire.
“But Your Majesty, we’ve stoked the flames all day!” the cooks chorused, afraid of their king’s wrath.
“I would not take their word. If I were you,” I continued, “I’d show them how lazy they’ve been in stoking the fire by standing in the middle of it. That would be an impressive gesture worthy of so exalted a majesty as yourself.”
The Boar King grew annoyed by the piteous pleas and begging of his cooks and, gathering up his royal robes, stepped into the midst of the flames and began, straightaway, to cook. Fortunately, he hadn’t even had the sense of a boar, but I’d often found royalty to be quite stupid. I reflected upon this as I listened to his fat render, sizzling and popping in the range.
The other boars all turned back into sailors, for the Boar King had not eaten all castaways, but had transformed a number to serve him in his castle. The sailors were overjoyed to return to their human state and quickly untied myself and the Prince, who was still snivelling and needed badly to wipe his nostrils. They proposed a grand celebration, for which the Boar King would be a fitting feast.
I would be made Queen, they said, and then they winked and nudged, trying to push me towards the Prince.
I looked at the Prince, who stood discombobulated and wet-eyed. Sailors who had only recently been boars were enthusiastically rubbing his wrists to remove the red slashes from where the rope had bitten into the flesh. I stepped over to him and leaned close.
“Look in your breeches pocket,” I whispered in his ear, “and you will know of the beautiful girl who rescued you.”
His sapphire blue eyes widened as he fumbled in his breeches pockets. I slipped away, negligently stuffing an apple into the Boar King’s mouth and laughing at my own jest.
I suppose the Prince ended up ruling the island. And I suppose he never married. He will swear that he will only marry the girl whose finger fits the intricately wrought thimble. Of course, my great, great grandmother has been dead these two centuries, so I wish him luck with that.
I walked along the white sand and eventually found a small boat that didn’t leak too much. I hopped in and cast off. For sometimes, you may decline the fortune a cat offers.
Great Big Baby
Will Eaves