Cat's Quill

by Anne Barwell

  Heidi had been right about writers often putting something of themselves into their characters, but he had not been about to tell her that. It had taken him long enough to admit to himself the reason why Alan Blackthorn had been so good at infiltration. It was bad enough that his friend Ethan had read the first draft of Red Sunset, figured it out, and called him on it, noting the similarities between Tomas and a character able to blend in to his surroundings and become anyone he wanted but the one person he needed to be--himself. Ethan was a little too observant at times and one of the few people Tomas had allowed to get close, only to find that he now couldn't be convinced to back off.

  Stepping off the front porch, Tomas scanned the grounds for a suitable place to sit and read his book. The old oak stood before him, demanding his attention as it had upon his arrival. It was alone, standing guard in the middle of the field, a good five-minute walk from any buildings. The ground was still damp underfoot, but Tomas had his jacket to sit on and use as a makeshift blanket. Above, the sun peeked through what was left of the earlier storm clouds, bringing with it a welcome warmth in contrast to the persistent breeze.

  Ambling across the field, he stopped midway, turning to look at the old building behind him. The cat had her nose pressed to one of the upstairs windows, watching him, reminding him of a small child who had been chastised. Tomas felt a moment's guilt for leaving her behind, but he needed to be alone. He would make it up to Blackthorn later. Sighing, he rolled his eyes. It had been no surprise to learn that Heidi was responsible for the name. She really was a fan of his books, and he had been rude to her over breakfast, even if he'd attempted to deny it.

  He was here to find peace and quiet. A good rest would help him write again. If he ignored this particular muse long enough, another would take its place, and that stupid story idea would disappear into the ether where it belonged. A voice in his mind whispered to him about being true to himself, and how it would be so much easier if he just gave in now as he would have to eventually anyway.

  "Go away," Tomas muttered, picking up his pace again. "You're not prepared to help me, so why the hell should I even listen to you." He stopped again, his face turned up toward the sky. "I'm arguing with myself. Happy now? Are you?"

  As he expected, there was no answer. There never was. Tomas wasn't sure what he expected, but a voice from the heavens wasn't high on the list. He was going crazy. Yes, that was it. He could live with that. It was better than the truth. Fantasy often was. It was one of the reasons he had turned to writing in the first place; it provided a safe outlet for everything the world could not be allowed to see.

  Unfortunately it was also not real.

  Some days he wished it was. Tomas had spent hours lying on his bed, imagining what it must be like to truly fly in space, to pilot the machines his imagination had created. To fight for an important cause. To find someone to love and have that love returned in kind.

  He frowned. Where the fuck had that come from? His books were about a war, about friendships, not romantic relationships. The pilots did not have time for that kind of thing and could not afford to risk becoming close in that way, however many hints there were that those friendships could have led to more.

  Reaching the tree, he sat down, leaning back against it, trying to find a comfortable spot. He placed his book on the ground, his reading mood gone. Above him the sun peeked through the foliage, giving the leaves closest to him an almost unearthly glow. He hadn't been in the village twenty-four hours and he was already wondering if coming here was such a great idea. A bee flew around him, watching him, then continued on its way.

  Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the breeze, the feel of it through his hair, against his skin. It was gentle, warm, and inviting. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to his cheek, wondering what it would be like to have real fingers caressing him, wanting him.

  A twig snapped on the ground beside him, and he opened his eyes. A man was standing watching him. Tomas swallowed, returning the man's smile with a shy one of his own before he had even thought about what he had done.

  The man had long legs, enclosed in tight, form-fitting brown trousers and black boots to mid-calf. Tomas opened his mouth to speak and closed it again.

  "I'm sorry, did I disturb you?" The man's voice was soft, a light tenor. His hand came up to brush blond hair from eyes that were the color of the ocean, or was it the sky? The white shirt he wore was loose and untucked, the top laces undone to expose a well-muscled yet lean chest. Tomas shifted back against the tree, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about his own very scruffy jeans and T-shirt. He ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth down the ends, which always insisted on spiking up at awkward angles.

  "No." Tomas glanced around the field, not sure what he was expecting to see. It was empty apart from the two of them. Surely he had only closed his eyes for a few minutes. It wasn't enough time for someone to cross the distance between the tree and the inn. On the other side of the field was some kind of shed, but it was too far away. "I didn't see you before. Where did you come from?"

  The blond chuckled. "It's nice to meet you too." He sat down next to Tomas without waiting for permission, propping himself against the tree. Holding out his hand, he smiled again. "My name is Cathal."

  "I'm Tomas." Tomas shook Cathal's hand. The blond's handshake was firm, the skin-to-skin contact sending heat through Tomas's body. He licked his lips; they were dry.

  Cathal let go of Tomas's hand, it seemed to Tomas almost reluctantly, but he put that down to wishful thinking. "I know. I saw you arrive yesterday."

  "Oh." Donovan or Heidi hadn't mentioned Cathal, even though they had talked about all their neighbors, giving Tomas a heads-up on whomever he might come across while out walking, with a warning to be polite, as though they expected that he would not be. "I didn't see you."

  "Very few do." Cathal picked up Tomas's book, turned it over, and began reading the blurb, frowning. "Is this good? The cover illustrations look interesting. I don't see new books very often, and I love exploring ideas."

  "Yes, it is." Tomas watched Cathal run his fingers over the dustcover of the book; his touch seemed almost reverent. "Would you like to borrow it? I have other books to read."

  "I would like that a lot, thank you." The wind pulled at the pages of the book in Cathal's hand, flipping them back and forth. He laughed. "I may have it a while. I think my sister would like to read it, too, if that is all right with you."

  "That's fine with me." Tomas frowned. "Do you live near here? Do you come here often?" He wasn't sure how long Cathal was going to stay but wanted to make sure they could meet again. It wasn't a reaction he usually had to people he'd just met, but something about Cathal intrigued him. If Cathal had the book, it gave him good reason to want to see Tomas again.

  "I can come here as often as you would like," Cathal said, looking up from the book. He cradled it against his chest. "I enjoy talking to people, especially those who listen." A slow blush colored his cheeks, his pale complexion dusting a faint pink. He glanced around, suddenly nervous, his voice dropping to a half whisper. "I like talking to you, Tomas. I was hoping we might be friends, if you would allow it."

  Tomas frowned at the turn of phrase, wondering how anyone in their right mind could turn down the opportunity to spend time with Cathal. Meeting his eyes, Tomas risked another smile. "I like talking to you too, and I would like to get to know you better." He paused. "If you would allow it."

  Tilting his head as though listening for something, Cathal's smile faded to a frown. "I need to go," he announced, pulling himself up to stand. "Will you be here tomorrow? I might be able to return this evening, but I can't promise it for certain." Again, he glanced around nervously. "Evening might be better, or early morning." Cathal nodded firmly. "Yes, morning. That would be safer."

  "Safer?" Tomas didn't like the conclusions he was drawing. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Cathal?"

  Cathal smiled again, bu
t it didn't reach his eyes. "No, of course not." He bent over and, without giving Tomas the chance to move, brushed his lips against Tomas's. "My friends call me Cat."

  "Cat," Tomas whispered. "I...." God, this wasn't like him at all. Something tugged at a corner of his mind, telling him that he knew Cathal from somewhere, but that was impossible. "I'll be here this evening, in case. Can't you stay longer?"

  "No." Cathal shook his head. "I will be here when I can. I'm sorry I can't promise more than that."

  "I'll wait for you, Cat," Tomas promised, knowing that he would. However long it took, he would wait. He reached out his hand for Cathal's. Cathal smiled sadly and shook his head again. The sun winked at them, the brightness making Tomas's eyes water. He brought up his hand to shade his face, closing his eyes temporarily against the light.

  When he opened them again, Cathal was gone.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, Tomas was up at dawn, ignoring his instincts to bury himself under the covers after being woken by the alarm. He pulled back the curtains, blinked against the light, and closed them again, deciding that he would deal with the thought of being out of bed at this ungodly hour later. Still bleary-eyed and groggy from lack of sleep, even after his shower, he grabbed his messenger bag, the laptop hidden safely in the bottom of the wardrobe, and stumbled downstairs, nearly tripping over the cat. Mumbling an apology, he followed the coffee aroma toward the kitchen, searching for his fix.

  He had come home the previous afternoon after meeting Cathal and written for the first time in months, the words flowing like they used to, better than they used to, so quickly that he struggled to write fast enough to keep up, quite an accomplishment considering he hadn't handwritten anything in a very long time. He didn't know why the muse had suddenly decided to cooperate, but it had never been one for logic. Perhaps it had taken a liking to the leather-bound journal he'd found sitting on his laptop? His sister had written him a note on the first page:

  Dear Tomas,

  On the journey through life, there are different ways of traveling. I hope this helps,

  Kathleen.

  Kathleen had always worried about her younger brother, ignoring his attempts to withdraw from her. She had told him in no uncertain terms that she was his sister and that families stuck together through thick and thin, even when certain members of them needed a swift kick up the arse. Protests that he wasn't withdrawing but merely busy, after attempts to ignore her failed, earned him more glares and a reminder that she still loved him, though at times she did wonder why. He was not about to tell her the real reason for his slow decline into apathy and cynicism; it was difficult to explain and a subject he wished to avoid. He wanted to work things out for himself rather than be subjected to her sympathy and risk her rejection. It would be better this way.

  Too many people argued that talking about problems helped, that sharing lightened the load, but Tomas disagreed. This was his life to live alone, his choices, whether they were the right ones or not. There might be different ways of traveling through life, but at the moment it felt as though his lack of options was closing in around him. Yes, he knew part of this was his current state of mind, but for now he would focus on today and the possibility of spending time with Cathal.

  Entering the kitchen, Tomas dumped his bag on the floor just inside the door. Donovan was sitting at the table, finishing off a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and drinking coffee out of a large pottery mug inscribed with the words "so what if I do mornings, deal with it." He looked up at Tomas and grinned. "Cat steal your bed?"

  "No." Tomas poured himself a mug of coffee. Despite him tripping over her, Blackthorn had followed him into the kitchen and was now watching him carefully. Gulping the hot coffee, he ignored the heat scalding his mouth and throat and instead focused on the aroma and taste. "Is she yours?"

  "Nah." Donovan shook his head. "She showed up during a storm right after we moved in and has been hanging around ever since. Heidi insists on feeding the thing even though I told her we'd be stuck with it if she did. She named her too." The grin grew wider. "Blackthorn. I told you she was a fan of your books."

  "I know her name," Tomas said, sitting down at the table. "Heidi already told me but was evasive when I asked whose she was." As though on cue, the cat jumped onto the table, her little pink tongue edging toward Donovan's plate and the smattering of leftover egg. Heidi hadn't appreciated the comment that she'd named a female cat after a male character, either. Some things, it appeared, were better left unsaid.

  "Get off there!" Donovan grabbed the cat and dropped her onto the floor. She glared and blinked at him, washed her paws very slowly one at a time, and then curled up around Tomas's feet.

  Tomas put his mug on the table and stretched, but the cat didn't move. His neck and shoulders were still stiff and sore. Spending several hours last night with the trunk of the tree rough against his back was something he would pay for over the next few days. Although it had been more than obvious as the evening had progressed that Cathal was not coming for whatever reason, Tomas had waited anyway, just in case. It was just as easy to write there as in his room, and this way if Cathal showed, at least Tomas had kept his promise to be there.

  "Late night?" Donovan drained his coffee. "I didn't hear you come in, but I figured that you had a key and you'd show when you were ready. Heidi stays up watching some late-night thing, but I'm not one for TV. I prefer a good book. Early to bed and early to rise, and all that."

  "I need a Thermos," Tomas said, ignoring the question. "Is there one I can borrow?" He paused. "Please."

  Donovan stared at him, raising an eyebrow. "It has manners!" He leaned over, lowering his voice, his eyes narrowing. "What happened out there last night? You've even been making conversation this morning. Come on, something must have happened. It's the end of the world, right? And no one bothered to let me in on it. Figures."

  "If I see the four motorcyclists of the Apocalypse, I'll be sure to let you know," Tomas replied dryly, unable to resist the reference and doubting that Donovan would recognize it for what it was. "In the meantime I would appreciate the loan of a Thermos and a supply of strong coffee." He yawned, not used to starting an early morning on less than four hours' sleep.

  "You've read Good Omens?" Donovan didn't seem to be able to decide whether he should be amused or impressed. It was not the reaction Tomas had been expecting, and it shot holes in the reasoning he had been carefully building as to why bothering to make any conversation with Donovan, apart from what was required, would be a waste of time and energy.

  "I find it amusing," Tomas said, using the tone that implied that this line of conversation was not one he wished to pursue. Most people shrugged and walked away.

  Donovan just grinned, pushed back his seat, and walked over to the pantry. Opening it, he peered inside, shifting several packets before pulling out two Thermoses, one large, the other somewhat smaller. "Yes!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "I knew Heidi kept them in here somewhere." He strode back to the table and put them down in front of Tomas. "For you we have an extra-special offer. You get to choose which one you want for the day." He pointed to the larger one. "Six cups for the day tripper who gets really thirsty or--" Donovan's finger went up into the air, then down again to rest on the other Thermos. "--two cups so you don't need to come home so often to pee." Lowering his voice, the grin changed to a smirk. "Of course you could just use the tree, depending on how shy a guy you are. The hedge does block most of the view, at least from the kitchen windows, even though Heidi keeps threatening to trim it back so she can see what exactly you writer types get up to over there."

  "Hedge?" Tomas looked at Donovan blankly. All he could remember was the tree and the surrounding grass.

  "It's green and made up of bushes growing closely together," Donovan said helpfully.

  "I know what a hedge is, Donovan." Tomas stopped, a smartarse remark paused on the tip of his tongue,
his brain backtracking to what else Donovan had said. "What makes you think I'm going anywhere near that tree?"

  "That tree, huh?" Donovan looked smug. "Not just any tree, but that tree." Although Tomas hadn't answered his question about the Thermoses, Donovan walked back over to the pantry and put the smaller one away. He turned to face Tomas again, smirking. "Let's see. You're a writer. For some weird reason that tree seems to inspire writers; we've had some staying before and they used to sit out there all odd hours scribbling whatever it is you guys scribble in notebooks or the like. So, what's the attraction? I'm missing something. I must be."

  A slow flush crept across Tomas's cheeks. The tree was merely a peaceful place in which to write. He was going to sit under it again today because of that, nothing more. If he met Cathal again, so be it. After all, Cathal had borrowed Tomas's book and had promised to meet so that he could return it and maybe read another. Tomas's imagination was merely bridging the gap between fantasy and a reality he craved. He needed to keep the two separate, even if meeting Cathal had made that part of himself he had refused to listen to difficult to deny.

  He stood, grabbed the Thermos off the table, and walked quickly over to the kitchen counter, intending to rinse it and then fill it with hot coffee. He was not in the mood for breakfast; there was no point eating just for the sake of it. The emotions playing tag across his mind could go to hell. Tomas lunged for what was left of his rationality, with the intention of dragging it back kicking and screaming as it spotted the open kitchen window and dived through it. A streak of black leapt from the floor to the counter, meowing loudly as it, too, disappeared through the gap between the window ledge and the bottom of the lacy, sheer curtains.

  "Fuck!" Tomas exclaimed as the coffeepot fell from the counter to land at his feet, splinters of glass spreading across stained wood, hot coffee barely missing him as he jumped back out of the way.