The Cat Master

by Bonnie Pemberton

  “Don’t really know. Bored, maybe. I haven’t done this since I retired from the search-and-rescue team, and besides” her eyes narrowed “Jett’s become a real nuisance.” Buddy stiffened. “You know him?”

  “Sure, we all know Jett around here. Showed up about a month ago, been hanging around, disturbing some younger dogs in the neighborhood, fighting with the local cats. You know the type.” Raising her head, she looked squarely at the tom. “But I don’t have to tell you about him, do I? I have a feeling you know him well.”

  The two animals looked for a long moment into one another’s eyes.

  “Yes,” Buddy said quietly. “He’s my brother.”

  N I N E

  Sun shone on the dining room table, and Shan Dara stretched her long, taupe body against its gleaming surface and yawned. Ceiling fans whirred through the house, and the warm mahogany felt good on her belly despite the oppressive heat of the day. Squirming into a more comfortable position, her periwinkle eyes began to close . . . then suddenly opened wide.

  Two forms glided across the street.

  Raising her head, she squinted against the glare. A lanky yellow tom slunk among the bushes, and behind him, nose to the ground, was a German shepherd.

  Could the cat be in danger? Shan Dara looked closer. The dog didn’t seem aggressive; in fact, it appeared they were together in some way. There was something familiar about the feline, but what? An image floated in her mind; golden eyes, subtle tabby stripes on flaxen fur and something else; a warm, heady feeling she couldn’t articulate. Suddenly, she remembered! The tom at the veterinarian’s office! His name was . . . what? Her tail twitched with frustration, the answer blocked. Leaping to the floor, she crept to the picture window, watching with fascination as the unlikely duo continued on their way.

  “What are you doing?”

  The Siamese jumped at the question, feeling strangely violated. “Frank! Stop creeping up on me! I’m just standing here.”

  “No you’re not.” The Dachshund moved closer, muscular body alert. “You’re looking at something, what is it?”

  “Nothing.” She groomed her shoulder with forced disinterest. “Go away.”

  Strutting to the window, Frank jammed his pointed nose against the pane.

  Across the street, the German shepherd rolled in the grass, while the cat stood in the shadows scratching his ear.

  The hair on the little dog’s back bristled, and his tail was straight and still. “A female,” he mumbled.

  “Frank,” Shan Dara said, “you know what happened last time. The stitches? The blood?”

  “I love German shepherds.”

  “But they’re too big!” she wailed.

  “I love them big,” Frank said, beginning to pant. “And more importantly—” he pawed the floor like a bull—“they love me!” With a lusty yelp, he shot into the kitchen, stubby legs scrambling on the linoleum, and hurled toward the screen door like a rocket. His compact body hit the panel with a thump, and the wires pushed outward. Eyes glittering, he prepared for a second try. “I can’t help myself. Those big, Teutonic types just kill me!” He slammed the sagging screen once more. This time a small corner pulled away from the wooden frame. With a grunt, he clamped his teeth around the wire, pulling with a frenzied strength that belied his size.

  Bowing in the opposite direction, the frame suddenly separated from the door, and Frank sailed across the linoleum, crashing into the stove.

  Jumping to his feet he stared at the ragged hole. “Hang on, Fräulein, here comes Daddy!” With a burst of speed he streaked through the opening and almost cleared the steps before a large hand snagged his hind leg, yanking him back into the kitchen.

  “Frank, you get in here right now, you bad dog! Bad, bad dog! Connie! Frank just tried to get outside again!”

  A rolled-up newspaper thwacked the Dachshund’s pointed nose, and the little dog twisted onto his back, paws tucked against his ribs in submission, silky ears framing either side of his head like a fan.

  The man was unmoved. “You are a bad dog!” he shouted again, bringing the paper down against the animal’s shiny flank.

  Instantly, Frank’s demeanor changed. Springing from his supine position, he lunged at the newspaper and, with a carefully aimed snap, shredded not only the headlines but his owner’s thumb as well.

  “Ouch! Why, you little . . . Connie! He bit me!” The big hand grabbed the dog by the collar, dragging him across the glossy floor. “That’s it. I’m locking him in the bedroom!”

  Frank’s choking snarls of protest faded into the distance.

  “Ow! Damn it! He bit me again!” A door slammed.

  An odd silence descended.

  Shan Dara crept from beneath the dining room table and scurried to the kitchen where tiny bits of newspaper lay scattered on the floor.

  With practiced daintiness, she stepped over the debris, paused briefly at the ruined door, then slipped through the ragged edges into the smoldering afternoon.

  Shan Dara had never been outside before, and the concrete kitchen steps felt rough and hot on her paws. Shadows danced on the sidewalks as elm saplings bent and waved in the breeze. She slunk toward the front of the house and almost to the porch, just as a lawn mover roared from a neighboring yard. Terrified, she darted behind a hibiscus, crouching beneath its vermilion blooms, her sides heaving with panic.

  Across the street Buddy and the dog seemed unconcerned and stopped beneath an oak tree.

  Tilting her head, Shan Dara sniffed the humid air. Dark clouds gathered to the east, but the sun still beat in fiery waves against her back, and she longed for shade. Inhaling deeply, she gave a silent thanks to Mother and nodded with satisfaction. It was definitely the tom; his scent was strong and unmistakable. Creeping into a flower bed, Shan Dara settled beneath a cluster of wilting gardenias, prepared to wait.

  T E N

  The humidity of an impending storm wrapped the shed in heat. Unlike the other three cats, Soot hadn’t slept. Instead he sat quietly outside the structure, staring at the house next door.

  It was small and dirty, with buckled siding and a haildamaged roof. Brown grass poked up through clumps of dirt, with only weeds adding greenery to the scraggly landscape. It wasn’t the house that interested him, however, but the old woman who lived there. He’d first seen her sitting by the window, one frail, blue-veined hand holding a cup, the other clutching the neck of her gown. Fascinated, Soot crept closer, watching throughout the night as her small frame shuffled from room to room.

  Sometimes the old woman moved with purpose, rinsing dishes or folding clothes, but mostly she sat in the dark, massaging her knee and listening to a radio. Around dawn, she pulled on a tattered blue robe, made a sandwich, and limped onto the porch.

  That’s when she saw him.

  “Well, look at you.” Carefully, she lowered herself into the rocker, patted her thigh, and made a little whistling noise. “Come on. Come on over here, you skinny little thing.”

  Alarmed, Soot darted beneath a bush, but he was amazed. She hadn’t yelled, thrown rocks, or done any of the things he associated with humans. He felt a powerful urge to walk up on the porch and lay by her feet.

  She called again, this time putting a small bit of sandwich by her foot and inching it toward him with her toe.

  Soot responded with a shy meow, and she chortled with delight.

  “You smell that tuna, don’t ya?”

  They continued this way for some time; the old woman rocking and talking, and Soot hunkered in the shadows, frightened she might approach him and equally afraid she wouldn’t.

  Finally the old woman stood, placed the rest of her sandwich on the top step of the porch, and hobbled inside.

  Soot panicked, fearing she wouldn’t come back, but his stomach ached from hunger, and the smell of fish overrode his anxiety. Darting to the steps, he consumed the food in three bites. It was too rich for his empty stomach, and suddenly nauseated, he vomited on the steps. Thoughts that the other cats mig
ht be awake and ready to leave seemed unimportant. He sat motionless beneath the overcast sky, eyes focused on the screen door, mosquitoes buzzing around his head.

  Unbelievably, the old woman reappeared, this time with a bowl of milk. “Look what I’ve got, Blackie,” she crooned, placing it in the same spot as before. “Poor little crookedtailed boy. Granny’s got you some breakfast.”

  With a squeak of relief, Soot jumped to his feet, then stopped. He had misjudged humans before.

  “Nobody’s gonna hurt you,” the old woman said as though reading his mind.

  He meowed softly, moving an inch closer.

  “Yes you are, you’re just a skinny little thing.” She sank into the rocker and patted her lap. “Come on up here to Granny.”

  Memories of the alley, its bitter winter winds and parched summer days, swept through Soot’s brain. How many nights had he skulked through neighborhoods, watching from shadows as Indoors lounged plump and serene behind brightly lit windows? A lifetime of longing gripped his heart, and he crept up the first step.

  “Come on, come on,” she encouraged, leaning forward, hand extended.

  He moved onto the second step, head craning toward her fingertips, and was almost to the third, when a crack of thunder boomed from above. Startled, Soot scrambled to the ground, bolting through the weeds and brambles to the safety of the shed next door. He sat in despair, eyes focused on the porch . . . and empty rocker.

  “What do you suppose that delicious smell could be?” A smooth voice drifted from the shadows.

  Soot turned with a start. “I—I don’t know,” he stammered.

  A stab of lightning flashed, illuminating Jett as he slunk from the darkness. “Oh, but surely you smell it, too.”

  Thunder exploded again, and Soot jumped and cringed.

  “Could it be some kind of fish?” Jett continued, tilting his huge head toward the black cat’s face and sniffing. “Tuna, perhaps?”

  Soot backed away. “No—I mean, yes. I found some food . . . over . . . there.” His voice trailed off as he looked toward the old woman’s house.

  Jett gazed at the threatening sky, sniffing the thick, wet air with distaste. “You say you found it over there?” Casually, he inspected his tail.

  Soot nodded, as a giant paw caught him behind the ear. “And you ate it?” Jett roared, pinning him to the ground. “You took food offered by a human and ate it?”

  Soot screeched with fear.

  Pris and Zekki started to their feet, staggering to the door of the shed.

  “What’s wrong?” Zekki shouted. “What’s happening?”

  Eye bright with fury, Jett swiveled his head to the right. “He’s broken The Law of the Feral! Never trust humans! Never be touched by humans!” Releasing Soot, who scurried away, he stared at Pris. “You would never make that mistake, would you?” He growled. “You would never do anything that stupid?”

  Terrified, Pris cringed into the shadows.

  Zekki pushed forward. “But he was probably just hungry, sir. We haven’t eaten in a long time, and human food is good. It’s—it’s . . . we eat it every day, sir.”

  “Every day,” Pris repeated.

  “Not anymore,” Jett hissed. “You’re in the Outs now, my dear, and things have changed.”

  Lightning jagged through boiling clouds, and a drop of rain splattered in the dust.

  “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Jett crept toward the cats with serpentlike stealth. “To be out at last, free and feral?”

  A crack of thunder belched from the heavens.

  “Well, you got your wish,” he whispered. “Now obey The Law!” Rain pelted his eyeless socket, streaming down his face in darkening rivulets. “Get inside the garage and stay there until I come back. You’ll eat what I tell you and when I tell you.”

  Abruptly he turned, disappearing behind the torrent of water that now poured from the sky.

  Zekki and Pris scrambled into the shed, huddling be-neath a wheelbarrow for comfort. Soot staggered behind, a thin smear of blood streaking his neck. With effort, he clamored to the ledge of a small window overlooking the old woman’s house.

  Another streak of lightning illuminated the landscape, and he started, staring through the dingy glass at the scene below.

  Jett strode through the old woman’s yard, water dripping from his thick coat and gathering on his whiskers. Reaching the porch, he glided up the steps and walked deliberately to where the bowl of milk still sat. He began to drink.

  Wind blew gusts of rain onto the deck, and the old woman stood behind the screen door stamping her feet and clapping her hands in a feeble attempt to chase him away.

  Ignoring her, Jett continued his meal, as Soot watched, incredulous, stomach churning with hunger.

  Finishing the last of the milk, Jett licked his whiskers, then glared at the shed window. In one easy motion he turned his back on Soot, gave a comfortable stretch, and proceeded to spray the empty bowl with a hard stream of urine.

  • • •

  Rain peppered the tin roof like bullets, and Pris and Zekki crept from their hiding place.

  “I’m hungry,” Pris whimpered, “and thirsty.”

  “Me too,” Zekki said.

  “What if Jett never comes back and just leaves us here to starve?” Pris’s voice shook. “We don’t know where we are or how to get back, and he was . . . so mean.” Ducking her head, she started to cry.

  Zekki shifted from one paw to the other. “Everything’s all right. He probably just acted that way to make us understand The Law so we’d be safe.” Something flickered at the back of his mind. What had Buddy said about The Law? Hunger clouded his memory, and he shook his head in confusion. “Look,” he said, trying to appear confident despite the dread knotting his gut. “Jett promised we’d get out of here tonight, and I’m sure we’ll eat something then.” Scanning the murky interior for Soot, Zekki finally saw the black cat hunched in the shadows. “Won’t we, Soot? He wouldn’t let us starve, would he? I mean, even Jett has to eat sometime, right?”

  “Yes,” Soot’s voice drifted quietly from the darkness. “Even Jett has to eat . . . sometime.”

  E L E V E N

  Tenba stood in the grass, face upturned to the swirling rain. Shaking herself, she turned to Buddy who crouched in a miserable clump beneath the oak tree.

  “The woman should be home about now, so . . . much as I hate to, I need to go.” Water glistened in tiny droplets on her thick coat, and the dog shook again. “She doesn’t know I can get out, and it might be sort of a shock. Frankly”—her huge paw carefully rubbed a cloudy eye—“I’ve got these darn cataracts and can’t see too great when it gets dark.”

  The yellow cat nodded, but his demeanor seemed distant and sad.

  Flattening her ears against the steady downpour, the dog watched him closely. “You’re worrying about The Boy, aren’t you?”

  Buddy blinked and suddenly felt like crying. “Yes.”

  “Don’t,” she said. “He’ll be fine.”

  “But he depends on me. I don’t know what he’ll do without me.”

  “Why?” her voice was calm and even. “Is he stupid?”

  “Absolutely not!” Buddy felt a rush of anger. “He’s extremely smart, does great in school, has lots of friends—”

  “Then maybe,” she said gently, “you’re the one that’s afraid to be withouthim.”

  Buddy stood motionless, rain trailing down his shoulders and puddling around his paws. Could it be true? Was he afraid? He had to admit there’d never been danger or responsibility on Sixth Avenue, only safety, acceptance, and love. And now that was all gone, and he was back where he had started. “It’s hard to leave. He saved my life.”

  “And after his father left, you saved his.” Tenba blinked, dim eyes wise and kind. “But ultimately, we all walk alone, and there are many paths to Sho-valla.”

  A hum of thunder rolled in the distance, and the rain slowed to a drizzle.

  Her words were soothing, an
d though still confused, the cat felt a momentary sense of peace. “I guess I’d never thought about it like that.”

  “I have the feeling there are lots of things you haven’t thought about.” The shepherd cocked her head.

  Buddy frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for instance, The Cat Master.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s dead.” Tenba gave the yellow tom a penetrating look. “What do you think about that?”

  The ground seemed to slant beneath his paws, and Buddy fought for equilibrium. “Dead?” he finally managed to murmur. “When?”

  The shepherd groaned and stretched her back legs. “Couple of nights ago. There’s been lots of mind-talk going on right now. Sometimes I eavesdrop a little.” She casually licked a puddle. “Wonder who the old cat chose as his successor?”

  Rise from the alley . . . rise from the alley . . .

  Snippets from the dream drifted back, and Buddy shook them away. He felt strangely off balance and muddled. “I—I don’t know. Do you?”

  “No. There was some type of disturbance that blurred the connection . . . something very unfriendly. Mind-talk is delicate. It can’t handle dark thoughts.” Tenba watched the cat’s face carefully. “Are you sure you didn’t hear anything?”

  Buddy’s heart banged like a timpani. “No. But . . . I mean, thanks for telling me.”

  “Glad to help.” The old shepherd sniffed the air. “Unfortunately, the rain is going to wash most of their scents away.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Buddy said, glad the subject had changed. “Mother will help me.”

  “Have any idea where they are?”

  An unexpected vision of trees, water, and lush greens jolted his mind. It felt both familiar and frightening, and he furrowed his brow, perplexed. “Not exactly where they are, but maybe . . . where they’regoing.”

  The dog moved closer, graying head inches from Buddy’s face. “Just make sure you know whereyou’re going.” With a last shake, she trotted down the street, turned a corner, and was gone.

  Buddy drew a shaky breath and sank to his haunches.

  The Cat Master was dead! He’d always heard Indoors were telepathically impaired, but he was a Feral and had been proficient at mind-talk since kittenhood. Why hadn’t he heard the news along with everyone else, and more importantly, why hadn’t Jett mentioned it? Wariness prickled the hairs along his spine. Tenba said that the connection had been broken. She’d been right. Only the darkest of thoughts could have interfered with The Cat Master’s powers of communication. Who would have done that, and why? Fatigue numbed his mind, and he sighed. He’d think about this later, when he wasn’t so tired. Rising to his feet, he cut through a yard and onto a side street.