by RABE, JEAN
The creature swept down his hood and bowed at the door, appropriately respectful and gracious. Darcia could not help smiling. His stripy silver head looked so adorable she wanted to pet it, tickling between the triangular ears and down the gentle slope of his snout to his velvety, black nose. His fur looked as touchably soft as a fine silk blanket.
Darcia could hear little of the exchange that followed, except that the creature called himself “Puss” and had brought the pheasants and fish as gifts from the young Duke of Corlwin. At least, it sounded like Corlwin; the princess had never heard of such a place, nor of its duke. She could not help imagining a handsome corsair near her own seventeen years. She pictured him tall and blond, exotic-looking compared with her own family’s black hair, swarthy skin, and dark eyes. Anyone who employed such elegant and odd-looking servants had to be striking and mysterious. One thing was certain; she had to meet this Puss.
In a swirl of gowns and lace, Princess Darcia swung away from the window, dashed across her room, and threw open the door, startling the guards and ladies-in-waiting stationed outside. Without a word, she charged past them and down the broad, purple-carpeted staircase.
“Princess! Princess!”
Darcia ignored the calls from behind her. She had long tired of servants trailing her wherever she went. As young children, they had played together like equals: wrestling, giggling, sharing their aversions and desires. But, as they had grown, their deference toward her had become a growing hindrance. They fawned over her like sycophants, refusing to “burden her” with the details of their petty lives.
Darcia’s mother, the queen, had died several years ago. Her father, though doting, carried the responsibilities of an entire kingdom, which left him no time to talk of girlish matters.
So, Darcia did not bother with the men and women who trailed her down the steps and into the great entryway. The massive double doors stood closed, their pair of inner guards at brisk attention.
“Where did he go?” Princess Darcia wondered aloud.
One of the entryway guards bowed low. “About whom, your highness, do you inquire?”
Darcia spun in a full circle, glancing through empty rooms and hallways for a glimpse of the new arrival. “The . . . the . . .” She could not find the proper word.
To call him a man seemed inappropriate, but to name him animal impolite. “. . . one who called himself Puss.”
“Ah.” The guard fidgeted, clearly wondering how the princess had already come to know of their visitor. “Meeting with His Majesty in the Great Hall. Puss has promised to rid us of our . . . our rodent problem.”
Darcia remained in place, surprised by the revelation. When King Harold had first promised a pile of gold to the one who rid the palace of its rats and mice, strangers had come in such droves they had become more a pestilence than the hairy little creatures they vowed, unsuccessfully, to eradicate. At last, her father had had to make a reluctant decree. The man who achieved this miracle would get his pile of gold, and a chance to woo Princess Darcia as well. But, should he fail at the task, he would spend the rest of his natural life in the dungeon. That greatly reduced the number of men attempting the feat. The king had hoped to limit the pool to only those of greatest competence. Instead, they had, so far, gotten only those overconfident of skills they did not possess.
Princess Darcia was assured that by “woo,” the king meant only that the successful man would be given the opportunity to win her love and respect. She would never be forced marry against her will. And, though she claimed to go along only to help the kingdom, Darcia secretly enjoyed the arrangement. It opened so many possibilities she would not otherwise have. So far, her only eligible suitors were older, stuffy nobility, spoiled beyond redemption. At least, she might get to meet a man with an actual talent, a good man with a great skill, and she always imagined him young and handsome as well.
Apparently guessing the reason for her interest in Puss, the guard continued, “Don’t worry, your Highness. He states that if he succeeds, all rewards go to his master, the Duke of Corlwin. If he fails, he suffers the punishment himself.”
Darcia’s brows arched upward in surprise. “This duke must be a special man to attract servants so loyal.” She could imagine many nobles ordering their men on such an assignment. However, once at the castle entryway, unwatched by their masters, nearly all servants in Puss’ position would become instant free agents. No one needed a subservient job once he had a huge pile of gold and the attention of a princess. To clearly announce such unselfish intentions meant Puss had no personal designs at all on the fortune or her hand. Only a fool, or a truly steadfast minion, would agree with such a bargain. Puss did not appear stupid, and Darcia wanted to meet any lord who could inspire such allegiance.
“Indeed,” the guard responded, retaking his position at the door.
Ignoring her own entourage, Darcia crept down the hallway toward the Great Hall. Though she made little noise, the mass of footsteps at her heels did. The guards at the door of the Great Hall looked up nervously, until they apparently recognized the group headed toward them and fell back into their usual stiff positions.
At that moment, the door burst open. Darcia’s guards and ladies fell back, and even the princess stepped aside to allow whoever exited some space. A page scurried out, Puss’ hooded cape and tunic thrown neatly over one arm, the boots clutched in his hand. He managed an awkward bow toward Darcia as he raced toward the downstairs guest suite. Through the open doors, Darcia caught sight of her father, a hand clapped to Puss’ shoulder, while guards hovered around him. A pile of dead mice lay heaped in the far corner of the room.
Darcia looked longest at Puss. Without his clothing, he seemed even more animal, if possible, his body covered with the same striped fur as his face. Blood flecked his whiskers and stained the furry white mask across his cheeks and his paws. Then, the door banged shut behind the retreating page, and the scene cut off before the princess could take it all in. One thing was certain: Puss had captured more rodents in the moments it had taken her to get from her room to the Great Hall than any of the others had in days. She had not noticed her father’s expression but imagined his bearded face wreathed in an ecstatic grin.
Darcia spent most of the day pretending to adhere to the normal routines of a princess. Therefore, it took her nearly until dinner to deliberately stumble upon Puss. She found him in the library, stalking. He worked on all fours, a lithe, agile bundle of animal muscle frozen in position. Only the tip of his tail twitched in anticipation. Then, abruptly, he pounced, neatly trapping a mouse in a sudden net of knife-like claws. With a single movement, he snapped its spine and tossed it onto a growing pile of carcasses. His nails receded, his tail lashed, and he did not look up as he spoke. “Good evening, Princess.”
Darcia knew she had opened the door soundlessly. Either Puss had exquisite hearing or her entourage had given her away. In any case, his guess was spectacular given that they had never met. She curtsied respectfully. “Good evening, Puss. Will you be joining us for supper?” It was not her question to ask; the servants had surely already taken care of the matter. However, she wanted very much to speak with this odd creature, especially about his master.
“No, your Highness.” Puss finally glanced in her direction, his pupils slitted and his irises a strange shade of yellow. They were demon’s eyes; and, for a moment, Darcia sucked in a breath of fear. Puss did not, or pretended not to, notice. “I’ll need to work straight through till morning. The rats won’t come out until after nightfall.”
Though not crazy about rats, Darcia had grown accustomed to them. “Perhaps, then, you could save my room for last?” She hoped the invitation sounded as innocent as she intended. “I’d like to talk to you about your master.” She added emphatically, more for her servants than for him, “In private.” She looked at his paws, smeared with blood but otherwise small and plushy. She saw no sign of the long, deadly nails that had ended the mouse’s existence. Where did they go?
Puss finally bowed. “As you wish, your Highness.” He licked blood from his whiskers.
Darcia closed the library door, heart pounding. There was something stunningly attractive about this Puss, and also much that seemed clandestine, sneaky, and evil. Curiosity assailed her, tempered with a hint of fear. There was nothing sexual about her interest in him; she knew without the need to ask that their anatomy was not compatible. He was to her neither male nor female, only animal. She saw him as no more suitable as a suitor than the horses in the stable. Yet, she found herself fascinated in so many other ways. She wanted to brush his fur until the mats and stains disappeared and each stripe lay in perfect alignment, to find where he hid those dagger claws, and to understand his devotion to his master. It was a desire she could not fully understand, yet it had driven her every action since she had seen him from the window.
Supper seemed to drag on forever. As soon as she could, Princess Darcia crawled into her bed under the pretense of exhaustion. She simply wanted the night to go more swiftly, but her thoughts kept sleep at bay. Surely, some worried guard or servant would mention her plans to her father and insist that someone oversee her liaison with Puss.
Fitfully, Darcia dozed, awaiting Puss’ interruption that never came. At last, she went to her window and brushed aside the silken curtains. The three-quarters moon hung high, the stars numerous and awash with light. A hint of pink touched the eastern horizon, the only indication of an approaching dawn, still at least an hour away. Guards stood attentively at the front gates, watchful and waiting.
Darcia moved to the side window, which overlooked the courtyard. The garden below appeared to sleep, the flowers that left the area awash in color during the day seemed gray and damp, closed to buds for the night. Curled on her favorite alabaster bench, Puss appeared to be sleeping.
Poor thing’s exhausted. A sudden idea struck Darcia, and she smiled. Quietly snatching the blanket from her bed, she twisted it into a thick rope. Tying one end securely around a bedpost, she tossed the other out the window. It fell near enough to the ground that she could drop safely. Though not the first time she had climbed from her window to escape her constant flurry of attendants, she had not dared to do it in many years, not since her father had chastised her as a child, worried she might place herself in danger or break a leg.
Years of dance training kept Darcia fit and graceful, and she shinnied down her makeshift rope without difficulty, dropping lightly to the ground. At first, she approached Puss quietly so as not to awaken him. Then she remembered the claws and deliberately shuffled her feet through the gravel. She did not want to startle him and find those daggers jabbed instinctively, deeply into her chest.
Puss did not move.
When Darcia took a seat beside him on the bench, she could see one eye, at least, was open. “Puss?” she whispered.
The beast rolled his head backward, just far enough to fix his stare on the princess.
Darcia wriggled closer to him and pinched bits of clotted blood and dirt from his whiskers.
Puss licked his lips. “I’m sorry, your Highness,” he said. “I finished all the rooms, but it was too late to bother you so I thought I’d—”
Darcia silenced him with a gesture and a soft shushing noise. She lifted his head and placed it on her lap.
Apparently surprised, he rolled to his stomach; but he did not try to escape.
“Poor Puss. Poor poor, Puss.” Darcia stroked his head, dislodging old fur, flakes, and bits of dirt. “Just rest.”
His head went heavy in her lap.
Darcia scratched behind the pert ears, and then ran her hand along the dark, heavy stripe that ran directly down his spine.
Puss closed his eyes and began to rumble. It was a strange, new sound, barely resembling a hunting dog’s growl, but much friendlier. It seemed beyond Puss’ control. It did not matter if he inhaled or exhaled, the sound accompanied every aspect of his breathing. Darcia could feel as well as hear it. It rattled throughout his body, and he snuggled against her as he made it.
Darcia quickened her touch, and the sound increased in volume.
Puss opened his eyes, and Darcia read a combination of confusion and contentment. “Is that me?”
“It’s you,” Darcia confirmed. “Am I hurting you?”
“No, I like it.” Puss looked down the length of his body. “I think it’s a sound of liking, of happiness. But I’ve never made it before.” The rumbling died as he spoke. He lay back, stretching his legs as far as they would go.
Darcia resumed her petting, and the purring began again in perfect response. “I like it, too. It’s soothing.” She had many questions she wanted to ask him. She had never met anything like him, and she wished to know more of his master as well. But she felt so comfortable just stroking him and listening to the musical rhythm he created, that she did not wish to disturb the moment. She did, however, take a paw and study it. It was white, surprisingly clean; apparently, he had washed it. She saw no evidence of the claws she had previously noticed. Tentatively, she squeezed a toe, feeling something hard as bone inside it. The sharp point of a claw emerged. She pushed harder, and a curved blade popped from the toe in all its wicked glory.
Darcia had to focus to keep from recoiling. Amazing. It seemed impossible that Puss could hide a dagger inside each plushy toe, but he managed to do it. More surprising still, he cut neither himself nor those around him when he used the paw to touch others or manipulate objects. Meeting up with him, Darcia had hoped to answer some questions but had only raised many more. He was an enigma of great complexity, a one-of-a-kind creature with deep mysteries wrapped in an animal body. She wanted to know so much more and yet had a disturbing feeling much of it was better left secret.
Jack lounged on the riverbank beneath the covered bridge, watching the cool, clear water for approaching fish. He had not realized just how dependent he had become on his companion in the few weeks before Puss left to visit the king. Jack never went hungry; but fish, and the vegetation he recognized as edible, had become a bore. He craved the fowl and conies Puss had provided, as well as the mintier, headier plants and spices the cat had added to their diet.
“So, let me understand this,” Jack said, running a toe through the river. “The king offered you a pile of gold, and you . . . you . . . refused it?”
Puss recoiled from Jack’s simple action. In their short association, the cat had made it absolutely clear that he despised water. The lightest rain sent him scurrying for shelter. “Yes. I refused King Harold’s gold.”
Jack looked at Puss as if he had gone entirely mad. “Wasn’t the gold the purpose of going in the first place?”
“No.”
“No?” The question was startled from Jack.
“No.” The expression Puss returned held an air of amusement, and a twinkle filled his amber eyes.
Jack had clearly misunderstood. He pulled up his ragged pants and tightened the rope belt. “You promised me happiness. A roof over our heads, a decent set of clothing, some food other than fish. Any of those would go a long way toward our goal, and gold could certainly buy them.”
Puss smacked his lips at the mention of fish. Clearly, he had missed them every bit as much as Jack did the creatures Puss caught. “Be patient, Master. You will have all of those things.”
Without thinking, Jack grabbed a small rock and tossed it into the river. Puss retreated from the splash, though the farthest reaching droplets came nowhere near him. The stone spiraled to the riverbed, leaving a familiar pattern of widening rings on the surface. It was a phenomenon Jack had seen a million times since childhood, but it never seemed to grow old. His brothers and he had spent many hours composing games that involved throwing or skipping stones on water. “I don’t mean to sound greedy, but if you refuse piles of gold—”
“I know what I’m doing,” Puss insisted, brushing off his clothes as if to free them from nonexistent sprinkles. “Haven’t you ever noticed it while fishing? When you’re desperate, the f
ish seem to know it and avoid you. But if you act aloof . . .”
Jack found himself finishing the sentence, “. . . they swim right up to you.”
“Exactly.” Puss nodded vigorously. “And if you’re going to marry the princess,—”
“Marry the princess?!” Jack could scarcely believe what he was hearing.
Puss talked over him “—we must convince the king you don’t need his money. That you have plenty of your own.”
A snicker broke through Jack’s irritation. Once breached, the dam burst, and laughter flooded out of him until he could barely breathe. For several moments, he found himself utterly incapable of speech. Every time he tried, waves of mirth overtook him again.
Apparently misunderstanding the source of Jack’s amusement, Puss pled his case, “She’s very sweet, young, quite pretty.”
“Of course she’s pretty. She’s a princess.” Jack outlined his ragged, scrawny self with a broad gesture. “And I’m . . . not exactly . . . prince material.”
“No,” Puss admitted. “You’re only a duke.”
“A duke?” That sounded no less ludicrous. “I’m a duke?”
“That’s what they believe at the castle.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed in confusion and suspicion. “And where would they get a silly idea like that?”
“From me. It’s what I told them.”
Jack stared at his companion, taking in the bipedal, but still bestial, shape. No human clothing, no use of human speech, not even his humanlike mannerisms could change the obvious fact that Puss was an animal. The warning blossomed in Jack’s mind, in his father’s voice: “For though it can save a man in his time of utmost desperation, it holds a dangerous aura of evil.” For all his apparent kindness, for all his cleverness, for all he called Jack “Master,” Puss still held title to Jack’s very soul. So far, he had proven a benign and friendly owner, but even the sweetest of hounds had, in rare circumstances, been known to turn on its master.