Catfantastic II

by Andre Norton

  Silently, Mother thanked the combination of their hard work, good fortune, and good planning that meant they could buy a house here. Halloween should be fun, not awful, not for little kids. Not, really, for anyone. Never having been that kind of child, she didn’t have much understanding or sympathy for teenagers whose idea of fun was making malicious mischief. It occurred to her to make certain that their cats were locked safely indoors when they got home. Recently, the news had been full of the stomach-turning animal mutilations of Satanists.

  Because it was Friday, Christine and Ian got to stay up late enough that they could see the costumes of the elementary school contingent who came by after the Carnival closed. But nine o’clock arrived, and the porch light was turned out, and the costumes had to be taken off and hung up. Ian was asleep before Daddy pulled the covers over him, which was all for the best. He’d come to expect Punkin, his soft, warm, living pillow, to purr him to sleep. But despite the intent and efforts of Mother and Daddy, neither of the cats was indoors. Exactly where they were was not clear, as they weren’t on the lanterns, on the porch, or, for that matter, anywhere in the immediate neighborhood.

  To her parents’ ill-concealed astonishment, Christine was not at all concerned. Where else would Bat be but guarding the house from a hidden vantage point? He’d come in through the cat door after he was sure everything was all right. Mother, who’d been sure she would have a hysterical youngster to deal with, tucked her confusing daughter into bed and kissed her good night. She hoped Christine was correct.

  No other sitter would do on Halloween night than Grandmother, and Daddy picked her up, as scheduled, at nine-thirty.

  “Both asleep,” Mother said. “They’re really tired.”

  “We won’t be too late,” Daddy told her. “About two.”

  “Run along, dears. Have a good time. I’ll watch TV, then go to sleep on the couch. Don’t wake me when you come in.”

  “Please keep an eye out for the cats. Neither of them is in, and it’s no night for a black cat, particularly, to be out.”

  “Bat can take care of himself,” Grandmother said. “But I’ll watch for them.”

  Grandmother was awake when Mother and Daddy got home, and she told a tale of noises and nastiness up and down the street. “Both children slept through it, I’m glad to say. And the cats came in soon after it got quiet outside.”

  All seemed well.

  In the morning, when every other jack-o-lantern on the street had been thrown, with much high-strung, overloud laughter, into the middle of the street, smashed, and jumped upon, Christine’s and Ian’s lanterns stood unharmed, if not in the same positions as they had the night before. “Of course,” Christine said. “Bat and Pun-kin wouldn’t let those bad boys hurt our friends.”

  Fortunately, Daddy was taking Grandmother home, for, thoughtlessly, he might have tried to convince his daughter that no such situation could have occurred. Mother, who got her mouth shut in time, found herself wondering if Christine’s belief might not, possibly, have some truth in it, though she couldn’t figure out either how or how much.

  The next night, she was even more perplexed when Daddy told her that, during her evening out, a very angry man with a pimply-faced teenager in tow had banged on their door and demanded that they get rid of the puma and the panther and pay for all the damage the dangerous beasts had done or he’d call the cops. Introduced to Bat and to the sleeping Punkin and shown the damage and destruction caused by the boy and his friends the night before, the man transferred his irritation to his offspring.

  “Good thing,” Daddy said. “I’d have called out all the neighbors whose kids had their jack-o-lanterns wrecked.” He grinned.

  “But how did the boy get the idea we had a puma and a panther?” Mother asked.

  “Great story,” Daddy said. He sat down and, to both people’s slack-jawed astonishment, Bat leaped onto his lap, stretched out, and purred. Daddy stroked, rather as if afraid that if he didn’t, he’d regret it. He got his story back into line.

  “The guys were taking turns running up onto the porches and grabbing the lanterns, heaving them out into the street, then kicking what was left into slop with their boots. When this kid came onto our porch with a friend, the other guy got Punkin’s lantern. He insists that it closed its jaws on his hand, dug in with its teeth, and wouldn’t let go. He screamed bloody murder and clubbed with his other fist, but nothing helped. Pimple-puss tried to pull the pumpkin off the other kid’s hand, and he couldn’t. He swears it growled at him and he could feel hair and hot breath. He turned around and grabbed up Bat’s pumpkin-I gather to use as a weapon-and nearly lost his whole arm. Or so he says. I don’t know where he got the marks, but they sure do look like cat bites. Five times too big to have been made by our cats, of course. But you have to credit him with a lot of imagination.”

  “Yes,” Mother agreed weakly, “I guess you do.”

  “Anyway, once the two jerks were really caught, the other guys came over to see what was going on. They are all absolutely positive-according to the one who came here with his dad-that we had a puma and a panther on our front porch.”

  “Oh, sure,” Mother said.

  “Well, I guess somebody up there must like us. None of the punks was really a hard case: no guns or knives or bicycle chains. They all ran like rabbits.”

  “Leaving their friends to be eaten?” Mother asked.

  “I guess. They’re sure they would have been, too, if they hadn’t tried putting the lanterns down and backing off. No problem. Once the pumpkins were safe, the teeth let go. The other kid lashed out with a boot-and I understand he has slashes six inches long right through the leather.”

  Mother grinned. “Couldn’t be our cats, then.”

  Father stopped petting. He regarded Bat very soberly. Then he shook his head.

  Mother was not normally telepathic, but she was almost sure her husband was thinking, “Not now, anyway.” But, of course, he couldn’t be, and if he was, never, never would he admit to having had such a ridiculous thought.

  Bat yawned. He’d had more fun last night than he’d had in his three whole lives and one part-life put together. But he was so sleepy he felt melted. Shape changing took energy. Guess he ought to follow Punkin’s good example and get some shuteye. He purred.

  He’d convince them all, even if it did take solving the problem of a teen gang on Halloween to set the adults on the right track. Christine already knew he was here to take care of her-and the things she cared about, like those silly vegetables with holes in them. Ian talked silently to Punkin all the time, and to Bat, sometimes. He’d soon start speaking aloud in complete sentences. His grown-ups would faint from shock. Even if they convinced him that he really hadn’t had conversations with cats, he’d always believe anything Christine told him. Mother was another of the odd ones-left-handed, red-haired, green-eyed, too smart for her own good, and one step to the reft (or lown or some other direction normal people couldn’t enter). Hmm. Perhaps he should see to a “pet” for her, too. And Father? Well, Bat was mildly embarrassed at how long it had taken him to realize that Daddy was a wizard unaware: who else could so easily convince the ordinary populace of this continuum that everything was ascribable to ordinary, reasonable causes? Even a puma and a panther on the porch.

  The Last Gift by Elizabeth H. Boyer

  Upon the day of her sixteenth birthday, Isolf was presented to the jotun as an offering, along with three sheep, five geese, some chickens, two goats, and a cow.

  “Will I be killed and eaten outright?” she asked her father the night before. “Or will I be held captive?”

  “Skrymir is an old friend to this clan,” said her father, Alborg. “You are my firstborn child, the most precious thing I can think of, so he won’t destroy such a gift. Sixteen years ago I promised him my firstborn in exchange for a drink of his honey mead. Because of that drink and my promise, I was given the secret of making steel. Our people turned back the savage Utlanders, and we have lived in
peace ever since. But a promise is a promise, especially when you make it to a jotun. A jotun’s gift always has a price, and you, my precious daughter, are the price I must pay for the freedom of our people.”

  Isolf took a firm grip on the cow’s halter and knocked on the great door leading into the jotun’s mountain hall. The earth quivered as heavy steps approached, then the door abruptly fell open with a rusty grating and grumbling.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” rumbled the mighty voice of the jotun.

  Isolf stepped over the threshold of the jotun’s cave, making the appropriate protective sign, and gazed up into the craggy countenance of the jotun, lurking far above in the shadows of the cave. His eyes blazed down at her, casting a faint smoldering sort of light over his massive form and unkempt mane of shaggy beard and hair.

  “My name is Isolf, firstborn daughter of the wizard Alborg. Sixteen years ago you gave him the gift of steel, and he promised to give you his firstborn child.”

  The great and terrible jotun chuckled a dire chuckle.

  “Firstborn children! Beautiful maids! Livestock cluttering my doorstep! What a nuisance you mortals are!”

  “Well, you’ve given us so much, we want to give something in return. Do you mind if we come in?” She gathered up a goose under one arm, a bundle of bound chickens under the other.

  “Are you not afraid of the mighty jotun, mortal maid?”

  “Not in particular,” said Isolf.

  “Indeed. Men nowadays fear nothing. Some even make a mock of the jotuns, with masks and costumes.” The jotun sighed, a gusty sound made hollow with ancient wisdom and intolerable burdens. “Come in, then. I must make a memorandum about making rash promises with mortals. Sometimes they actually stick to them.”

  Skrymir diminished himself to a size more appropriate. Standing before Isolf was a craggy-shouldered old man who reminded her of her own grandfather, with white hair and beard streaming over his shoulders in a forgotten tangle.

  “Many have not forgotten your gifts,” said Isolf, glancing about the dust and gloom of the jotun’s hall. “If not for the Elder Race, men would still be wearing skins and throwing rocks. With jotun knowledge we have tamed the metals of the earth, learned to bake and brew and weave and make cheese and husband the earth and its creatures. It is true, many have forgotten, and the Elder Race is derided. I think that is the cause for the rising Chaos around us. Fields are no longer fertile. Our flocks are not as plentiful. Our walls and houses no longer stand as firm and true. If I can do anything to drive back the Chaos by coming here as an offering, then here am I to serve.”

  The great Skrymir chuckled again. For several centuries, he had watched over the New People, benignly assisting their progress from skin-clad, warfaring scraelings to civilized, warfaring vikings. Their busy antics amused him, as might a disturbed anthill, with their trials, tragedies, and heroic endeavors. Even their epithet for him-jotun-he found amusing. In stature he was not so much a giant to them; their scalds and legends and folktales served to increase their expectations to a fearful extent, so when they came to him begging favors, as was their wont, he shifted his shape to a larger one, so as not to disappoint them. But of late, their respect was sadly lacking. So many of them came as thieves and tricksters, instead of earnest supplicants for wisdom.

  Skrymir gazed down upon the slight figure of Isolf, clad in a blue cloak for health and protection, with a red hood for courage.

  “What can you do against the rising tide of Chaos? What use have I for such a tiny thing as you? My needs are not human needs. Everything I require is here.” He let a handful of dust sift through his fingers. “I have lived here alone since the dawn of time, and I don’t need any looking after by a human creature.”

  “And no one seems to do much cleaning up,” said Isolf, darting a shocked glance around the great hall in the mountain. “My mother and the wise women of the clan taught me that disorder is an affront to nature. It is my duty to put nature back into harmony wherever I find it disordered, so I shall stay where I may do some good against Chaos.”

  “I shall ponder the matter,” said Skrymir. “After I ponder the rise of Chaos and the future of the New People. Wisdom makes thinking such an ordeal.” He settled himself in his chair in a pondering pose, with his chin resting upon his fist and his eyes drawn nearly shut in a baggy scowl.

  Lost in his weighty ponderings, Skrymir either forgot or simply did not notice the presence of Isolf for at least a fortnight. In that time, she shoveled away the heaps of ash from the hearth, she discovered the scullery under layers of soot and grease, and she discovered smooth and shining floors beneath years of dirt and rubble. Gradually Isolf spread the sphere of her power throughout the underground halls of Skrymir until order prevailed, pushing back the boundaries of encroaching Chaos, rendering the dusty, cluttered halls of Skrymir pleasant and serene.

  When Skrymir returned from his contemplation, he remembered the small female creature Alborg had sent him.

  “All your work is splendid and orderly,” he greeted her. “But still you are not happy. You are lonely here.” With one crabbed finger he lifted a telltale tear from her cheek.

  Isolf shook her head. “I was promised, and nothing binds like a promise freely given and a vow freely taken.” Skrymir beckoned her to follow him to the brewery, the only room to which she was denied access. He illumined it with a gesture of his hand. Another gesture summoned an elegant cushioned seat for Isolf, drawn from nothing but the dust on the floor and Skrymir’s imagination.

  “You are lonely.” There was no denying the truth to one who knew all things as Skrymir knew, from the thoughts in her head to the doings of her father far away in Holm. Skrymir never asked questions that required an answer. A question was a signal for silence and deep scouring thought.

  “So I have decided to create a companion for you and all lonely persons of mortalkind. It has been long since any new creatures were created on the face of the earth. All the greater spirits have been taken for the bears and wolves and horses and a host of other fantastical creatures who would astonish you if you saw them. Fortunately they live far away from here, in a hot and dry place, so you’ll never see an elephant or a lion or a gazelle. The limitations of mortal flesh are often a nuisance to you, but what a protection.”

  As he talked, he searched through the impressive clutter of his chamber, choosing pots and kettles in his careful, bumbling way, scratching runes upon them and the floor and in the air, and mumbling over names of elementals.

  “It has been a long time since I brewed anything,” he said, pressing his finger upon his forehead thoughtfully. “My supply of honey mead is down to one small cask. The day of the jotun and his wisdom is nearly done, my child.”

  “Could you not brew more mead and more knowledge?”

  “I am too weary and your people too disbelieving.”

  As he worked over his brew in the kettle, he invoked names and elementals, all without benefit of the protective runes Isolf had seen her father use. Nor did Skrymir defend himself with guardian rings and pentacles scratched about him on the floor or in the air. She saw the faces of demons and elementals swirling in the air about Skrymir’s head, and all were orderly and obedient.

  The wizards of her own clan summoned fires and thunders and furies that wreaked terrible havoc before a way was found to banish them once again into the ether from whence they had been brought. Magic for mortals was a perilous business; plenty of aspiring wizards had been destroyed by their own spellcasting, carried away by the elementals they had rashly summoned, shapes shifted and souls cast out without knowing how to bring them back. Watching Skrymir, Isolf knew that they were an amateur, arrogant lot, grasping for dazzling truths with their eyes tight shut and their minds clouded with ignorance.

  “A spirit guide, companion, and protector,” mused Skrymir through a cloud of vapor rising from the kettle. “A boon to all mankind, a comfort to womankind in her lonely and difficult walks, an augment to her powers.
A companion in grace and beauty and mystery and curiosity.”

  He searched about, examining and discarding several skins of animals. A bag spilled out small scraps of fur of all colors. The jotun studied them and sighed, shaking his head and furrowing up his forehead in consternation.

  “None of these are big enough. The guardian of women must be somewhat bigger than the palm of my hand. I wish I could have had the supervision of the lion or the tiger. I would not have summoned such ferocious spirits into them. In the old days, we had limitless materials. Now there’s scarcely anything left.”

  “If I had nothing but scraps to make a thing from, I would sew the scraps together to make a larger piece,” said Isolf. “Perhaps I am presuming, but it seems a thrifty way to get rid of scraps.”

  “So be it.” With a shrug Skrymir tossed the scraps of fur into the kettle. “Now for a spirit. It isn’t easy to take the same piecemeal approach to fitting a spirit into a creation. I have many small spirits, friendly spirits, malicious spirits, playful spirits, fierce little spirits left over from weasels, foxes, martins, ferrets, and other little hunting creatures, affectionate spirits, sleepy spirits-all are very good spirits, for the most part, but nothing large enough for a creature such as I want to make. So the only thing to do is to lump them all together and hope for the best.”

  The moment Skrymir added the spirits and their Names, the brew in the kettle gained a voice. Or voices-Isolf heard a chorus of squeaking and mewing and yowling and squalling, as well as some fiery hissing and spitting.

  “Nothing of this sort has ever been done before,” said Skrymir dubiously, venturing to reach into the smoking kettle, resulting in a flurry of spitting and hissing and growling. When he withdrew his great hand, three small, multicolored furry creatures were clinging to it and glaring around with wild beady eyes.

  “Claws! I don’t remember adding claws! Or teeth!” said Skrymir in surprise as he attempted to dislodge the small growling creatures from his hand and sleeve. The little brutes climbed up to his shoulders with amazing speed and agility, still hissing and sputtering ferociously.