Greta and Boris

by Sian Norris

  Greta and Boris

  A Daring Rescue

  Siân Norris

  Illustrated by Robert Griggs

  Winchester, UK

  Washington, USA

  First published by Our Street Books, 2013

  Our Street Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach, Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK

  office1@jhpbooks.net

  www.johnhuntpublishing.com

  www.ourstreet-books.com

  For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.

  Text copyright: Siân Norris 2012

  ISBN: 978 1 78099 623 3

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

  The rights of Siân Norris as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Design: Stuart Davies

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.

  CONTENTS

  IN WHICH THE NIGHT IS FATEFUL

  IN WHICH WE MEET GRETA

  IN WHICH THE CATS WAKE UP

  IN WHICH GRETA'S WORRIES ARE GREATLY INCREASED

  IN WHICH THE KING MAKES A SPEECH

  IN WHICH GRETA FACES HER FIRST CHALLENGE

  IN WHICH GRETA TRAVELS THROUGH CLOUD-TOP LAND

  IN WHICH GRETA VISITS THE PORT OF THE MILKY SEA

  IN WHICH KYRIE TELLS MANY STORIES

  IN WHICH A WAR IS FOUGHT AND ENDED

  IN WHICH GRETA FACES THE MILLPOND

  IN WHICH THE BORDER IS CROSSED AND THEY ENTER THE RAT KINGDOM

  IN WHICH THEY MEET THE RAT KING

  IN WHICH THE CHALLENGE TAKES PLACE

  IN WHICH THEY HEAD BACK, TOGETHER AGAIN

  IN WHICH WE CELEBRATE!

  EPILOGUE

  For Bram, Kaelen, Evan, Oscar and Bella. I hope you grow up to love books as much as I do.

  In which the night is fateful

  The time of the night had arrived when all was silent in the Kingdom of Cats. In the little villages where the tabbies and mogs slept, everything was quiet. The only sounds were the soft breathing that made their furry chests rise and fall; and the curious hum of the trees and the plants. If you listened very carefully, you could hear the sound of the moon in the sky circling the earth; filling the dark night sky over the dark night land.

  In many ways it was a shame that the whole population was asleep, as most believe the Kingdom of Cats was never as beautiful as when it was bathed in the silver light of the moon, reflected against the deep ocean blue of the clear and starry sky. The darkness gave it the air of mystery and aloofness so often associated with its inhabitants. The silver illuminated the dark forests and mossy banks, brightened the blue and red of the fruits and flowers, and made the lakes and rivers shimmer and glow. In fact, it turned the whole kingdom into the dusky grey blue color of the fur coat of their Prince, his Majesty Marmaduke Nikolai Boris Blue. He was the heir to the Kingdom and would eventually succeed his father, the King Marmaduke Nikolai Whiskers Blue, ruler of the Kingdom of Cats, Terror of Mice, Menace of Birds and Nemesis of Hounds, Surveyor of the Peace, Emperor of the Feline Race and Lord of the surrounding lands. It was a very fancy title, and although officially the correct way to address the King was as ‘His Excellency and Most Magnificent Liege, His Royal Highness, the King!’, his family generally called him ‘Whiskers’.

  The Blue family had a simple system of names. ‘Marmaduke’ was the name of the founding father of the family, followed by ‘Nikolai’, the name of the human whom Marmaduke was responsible for, followed by the name that the human gave each cat. In Whiskers’ case, this was indeed Whiskers, whilst Boris had been named Boris by his human. The final part, ‘Blue’, was the equivalent of our human surname, and came from the fact that the current royal family was of that most graceful and beautiful breed, the Russian Blue.

  The moonlight glowed over the sleeping kingdom. In the small villages where the working cats lived happily together all that could be heard was the sound of sleep. In the tall and imposing palace decorated with a shimmering rainbow of fish scales, the royal family and their courtiers slept. In China Town and Egypt Town where the aristocracy of cats resided in smart town houses or their country mansions, everyone was asleep. The kingdom was tranquil and peaceful.

  But something was wrong. Over the soft noise of the night, the silent hum we hear without realizing it, another sound was reaching the ears of the plants and of the moon. The cats, deep in their slumber, didn’t notice it; even the palace guards had succumbed to the heaviness of their eyelids. But the trees heard it, and rustled their leaves as they desperately tried to alert someone, anyone who might be awake. For the sound travelling across the land was not the kind and playful noises normally heard in the Kingdom of Cats. Rather, it was a fearful din.

  Swish, swish, was the sound that broke into the stillness of the night. Swish, swish, accompanied with scampering and scratching of claws and paws, rushing forward through grass and fallen leaves towards the palace. And if anyone had been awake to hear it, they would have heard that each scurrying paw-step was landing in time, in the rhythm of a march. A soft thud, thud, swish, swish, echoed through the sleepy kingdom, as only the moon looked down on the onward journey of an army that didn’t want to be seen.

  The cats slept on, oblivious to the menace that was slowly surrounding them.

  The pack of marching creatures started to head up the hill where the palace stood, imposing and magnificent. In the moonlight, the towering building looked even more beautiful and impressive. The rainbow-colored tiles glistened like tiny fairy lights, a blinding spectacle that illuminated the hills and villages below it. The army continued to advance. As the moonlight reflected off their furry backs, it became increasingly obvious which creatures of the animal kingdom were threatening the peaceful palace of the cats. And there could be no doubt at all, when one of the marching many kicked a stone and let loose a wild and pained ‘SQUEAK!’ before hastily being seen to and told off by the leader of the procession.

  The moon could see the horrible truth below her now, yet from her lofty place in the sky was powerless to stop it. It was an army of rats. The rats had invaded the Kingdom of Cats. Under the cover of darkness, safe in the knowledge that every kitten, tom and queen would be sleeping soundly, they had made their cowardly advance, confident that no-one would be able to stop them.

  The rats circled the palace, ensuring that in the highly unlikely event that any wandering cat should approach, they would be able to quickly and ruthlessly fend them off. The leader of the march, the General Melchior of the Rat Army, gathered around him ten of the biggest, strongest, most flea-bitten, war-worn rats who served under his command. The eleven entered the palace gates, stealthily, silently, and made their way up the stairs.

  In which we meet Greta

  The light streamed through the crack in the curtains to illuminate Greta’s room. It was a fairly unusual room, but that was ok, because Greta was a fairly unusual girl. It ran in her family. Her father and mother were both highly eccentric, one worked as a museum curator and the other was a poet and writer. The room reflected the chosen careers of both her parents, as it was full of books, art prints, ornaments and artifacts; all from her father ’s abiding interest in ancient art and archaeology and her mother ’s interest in literature. But despite the influence of
her parents’ tastes on Greta’s room, the feel of it was decidedly hers. The old-fashioned wooden furniture on which her possessions balanced; the wide window seat covered in cushions; the brightly patterned materials hanging from her sloping ceiling; the oversized Chinese dressing gown hanging from her door – it all worked in harmony alongside the piles of clothes, magazines, stereo and small TV of many young girls’ rooms.

  There was something very special about Greta’s setting. She felt it to be entirely hers, the place where she always felt at home. Often, Greta felt it was the sole place where she could return to in order to be herself, where she was purely her own person.

  Greta was a sweet girl. She had a happy outlook and loved to laugh. But she had a feeling that she never quite fitted in with the real world. She had lots of friends and did well at school – in fact she was one of the brightest students in her class – but something held her apart from the people around her. She often wandered off into her daydreams and fantasy worlds, preferring the life she lived in her head to the one she faced every day. One day she was an explorer, sailing the high seas and adventuring across jungles and deserts. The next she was an investigative journalist, travelling the world in search of the next big story. Other adventures saw her in the role of a dancing and singing film star from the Twenties, who led a mystery double life as a secret agent. In her imagination, every day brought new experiences and new promises. And Greta was sure that one day, these adventures would not just exist in her mind.

  She was twelve, and although each day she went to school, studied hard and joined in half-heartedly with conversations over who was the cutest boy on TV, her mind was mainly flying elsewhere. Off into the world where she was a brave and daring hero of the French Revolution, fighting for freedom with the aid of a sympathetic, handsome peasant, a donkey and her white horse.

  She was decidedly not in the world where her hair was never as glossy and her skirts never as short as the popular girls’. The girls who would giggle at her behind her back and laugh at her wavy bobbed hair or her clothes. Where the boys teased her for her brains and the teachers told her off for her dreamy attitude. At school Greta was happy with her friends, doing her work, walking to lessons, eating her lunch. But deep down, she was really flying away on the breeze of her imagination, and when she returned to her little and quirky room she could be fully content.

  As the sun shone onto her bed, Greta yawned lazily and began to stretch. It was the first day of the summer holidays, and she had the whole house to herself. Her parents had gone on an expedition to Botswana, in order for her father to conduct research for the Museum on African Culture. Her mother had accompanied him to find inspiration for her latest novel, which she planned to set in ancient Africa. There had been much deliberation over what to do with Greta, but eventually the decision was reached that Greta’s aunt would come and stay. Luckily for Greta, her Aunt Annie was rather absent-minded, and was happy to spend all day reading romantic novels in her room. She pretty much let Greta be, so she was free to make her own adventures.

  Greta was not like some children who hated being on her own. She was rather a solitary girl, and lapped up the opportunity to spend the six weeks alone in her big rambling house. And with her cat to keep her company, she didn’t mind the fact that Aunt Annie was barely around.

  Slowly she opened her eyes and took in the brightness of her bedroom. She yawned again, and reached down to the side of her bed for her book. Now was the time to be lazy, she thought, lying back with the book in her hands until she felt suitably ready to get out of bed.

  Oh! But it was so gorgeous to lie back on her rumpled sheets and enjoy the steady sunlight and know that she had nowhere to go, no-one to see, no school, no annoying people, no parents for over a month! No more having to rush around on the cue of the alarm clock. It would be a summer of long and lazy mornings in bed with a book and wherever she wanted to be in her head, followed by lazy afternoons in the garden.

  After enjoying this warm freedom for long enough, Greta decided it was, at last, time to get out of her bed. She sat up and swung her legs round, slid her feet into her slippers and pulled her Chinese dressing gown around her body. She stood up and gave herself a quick inspection in the mirror. It was a beautifully ornate Victorian one that her mum had picked up at some antique sale. Greta grimaced, she didn’t think her reflection justified the prettiness of the frame.

  She was wrong of course. Greta had a quirky and intelligent face. She had high and distinct cheekbones, and bright green-grey eyes. Her hair was thick and dark brown, cut in a bob with a natural wave. However, when Greta looked in the mirror she saw an irregular face that wasn’t as beautiful as the popular girls in her class. In short, Greta was an undiscovered beauty and would always remain so until she discovered for herself that it is inner beauty that shines through in the face that counts.

  Standing up, she surveyed her domain in the dappled sunlight. ‘Boris,’ she called out gently. ‘Come on lazy, it’s time to get up.’

  Normally at the sound of Greta’s voice, Boris the cat would jump up from his bed and onto hers, nuzzling his human with a good morning hug. Yet Greta received no response. She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then decided that maybe Boris had stayed out, or was already awake. Still, it was most unlike him to not be in his normal place. After a pause to think, Greta reasoned that she had stayed asleep later than normal, so Boris was probably already up and about, seeing to the house and his duties.

  She opened the door to her bedroom and stepped out onto the wide hallway. Greta adored her house. It was an old and homely cottage, full of nooks and crannies, staircases and big rooms with low ceilings and wooden floors. She wandered down the stairs to the kitchen, put on the kettle and put some toast in the toaster, before pouring out some milk and spooning out some chicken bits for Boris. She smeared some honey on her toast and finished making her tea, and then walked out into the garden. ‘Boris wasn’t in the kitchen either,’ she thought. ‘I wonder if he’s sunbathing outside.’

  Like the house, the garden was large and rambling, roses growing here, vegetables growing there. In the middle was a big apple tree that blossomed in the summer and gave fruit in the autumn, as well as providing welcome relief from the mid-morning sun with its shady boughs. She flopped herself down under its branches with her honeyed toast, tea and book, and once more called out Boris’ name. But the familiar ‘pad-pad’ across the yard was absent, as was his inquisitive miaow, the push of his wet nose against her arm or book, his demand for more milk.

  Greta and Boris had been best friends since the day that Boris had chosen Greta and come to live with her. It was impossible not to fall in love with Boris on sight. Like all Russian Blue cats, his coat was an exquisite smoky grey, whilst his eyes glowed amber and gold. He was rather aloof with everyone except Greta who he adored, and did his best to look after her as befitted his duty (contrary to popular belief, humans don’t own their cats – the cats are assigned to look after the humans. It was Boris’ duty to look after Greta). Meanwhile, Greta took him straight to her heart. She recognized the highborn nature of his manner, but knew he would always be loyal. To Boris she told all her dreams and fantasies, the adventures of her daydreams, her hopes and wishes. Sometimes, when the world got too much, she would dry her crying eyes in his fur; other days when the sun shone they played together for hours, and he would tickle her face with his long and regal whiskers. They were inseparable.

  She tried to put any worry out of her mind. Like herself, Boris was an independent soul, and even though it was unusual for him not to accompany her in the mornings, she recognized that Boris had a busy life. He knew, she reasoned, that she was practically alone in the house now (Aunt Annie, after all, was a trifle absent-minded), so he was probably checking things out, making sure everything was in order and safe so that she didn’t feel frightened in the old and near-empty house.

  It came to teatime, and Greta dragged herself away from the now cooling garden. Picking up
her books and cups and the flowing folds of her skirt, she wandered dreamily into the house. ‘Boris?’ she called out. ‘Don’t you want your dinner?’ But still there was no reply. ‘Where is that cat?’

  She laid out some cat food in Boris’ bowl, in the hope it would tempt him over. But there was still no sight or sound of him. She and Aunt Annie ate their meal, but Boris still didn’t come downstairs.

  Leaving the kitchen, Greta strolled lazily into the large but cluttered living room, crowded as it was with collections from her father ’s travels, her mother ’s own titles and the other thrilling and fascinating books she had accumulated over the years. She turned on the TV and curled up in her favorite armchair. But when she put out her hand to rest on where Boris’ softly breathing stomach would normally be, he still wasn’t there.

  Having been calm all day, Greta was now beginning to get frightened. Life could be a bit scary without Boris. And she just couldn’t think what had happened to him! It was so unlike him to leave her alone for this amount of time. He was a creature of routine, and to break it like this was out of character.

  She felt a bit sleepy, and with a quick last look around the house for Boris, she returned to her bedroom, pulled back her eiderdown and even without him there to watch over her, she fell back to sleep.

  In which the cats wake up

  The moon had ended her futile vigil over the night sky, seeing but unable to do anything to prevent the fearful invasion that had happened beneath her eyes. She waved goodbye to the earth beneath her, and in her place the sun rose, mighty and bright. As his rays penetrated through the fading night gloom, the cats sleeping in the kingdom stretched their floppy limbs and opened their yellow-green eyes. The adult cats started cooking mice or kippers and heating the milk, as the kittens yawned and scampered around; whilst in the royal palace the cooks and chefs were frantically preparing the breakfast banquet.