Why?
Carac’s broad brow appeared. He looked at me with a scowl and then barked at Johan. “You’ll be all right to keep an eye on the kitty,” he barked. “I mean the furry one not the one we keep the takings in, of course.” He gave one short bitter laugh at this joke then turned to the Boy.
“And you, you ready?”
The Boy nodded but didn’t speak. He looked terrified. The dwarf took this for stage fright but I think it was more to do with fear of his coercers.
As for me, I was afraid for the Boy. I had still to learn to fear for my own safety having formerly existed as an invulnerable being of thought and consciousness. I felt pretty useless, trapped in a cage. I couldn’t even run away as all my cat instincts were telling me. Even without the bars, I wouldn’t run. Because of the Boy. My attachment to him would override my finer feline feelings - well, it was all moot. I was trapped behind bars, which was where our kidnappers should have been.
Carac stood on the tabletop on stage and blew a discordant fanfare from a bent and battered bugle. This cacophony heralded the commencement of the performance. People surged towards the stage, vying for the best positions. Salome’s dance was a huge drawer, apparently. Or perhaps it was her huge drawers.
Satisfied that enough people (well, men) had gathered, Carac leapt from the table and performed a few cartwheels and back flips around the stage. The crowd oohed and aahed appropriately. They’d never seen a John the Baptist so agile. The dwarf came to a halt and launched into a monologue of such excruciating doggerel, he should have been incarcerated for that alone.
He backed away in a low bow, stumbling against the backdrop before finding his exit.
Johan crashed his knees together and Brom as King Herod made his entrance, leading the Boy by the hand, their noses regally aloft. The King greeted the crowd with royal waves and solemn nods. He took his seat on a ramshackle throne behind the table and clapped his hands twice.
“Dance for me, my lovely Salome,” he commanded.
The Boy froze. The King repeated his instruction. I held my breath.
The Boy sank low in an extravagant curtsey. Johan struck up a steady rhythm of drum and finger cymbals. All eyes were on the Boy about to make his debut.
The Boy raised his arms, crossing his wrists over his head. Swinging his hips, he turned around on one foot, hands twisting in the air. Then he reached down to the veil tied to the ponytail of his wig and unfastened it. He held it in front of his chest, coyly peering over it. He approached Brom on the throne as King Herod and teased him with the veil. Herod snatched it from his grasp and so the Boy skipped away to make his bare belly undulate downstage. The men in the audience whistled and cheered, enjoying Herod’s frustration almost as much as the dancing girl’s seductive routine.
They knew - they all knew - it wasn’t really a girl. They knew that even if she got shot of all seven veils, she would retain enough costume to conceal her true gender. But they were all willing to overlook this and enjoy the moment, their imaginations taking precedence over their eyes.
They counted off the veils as they were discarded. The Boy was under strict instruction not to let the punters grab them. They were expensive items and would have to be reused.
Johan increased the tempo. He and Carac exchanged a glance and a nod of satisfaction. The Boy was doing well. My own sense of pride (That’s my boy out there!) was disturbed by the realisation that my cage was bouncing in time with the beat. Not only that, it was bouncing towards the edge of the platform. I sent the men a panicked look but they were paying no attention to me. They were happily making music. I knew then that they would never let the Boy go. I also knew that within seconds I would be dashed to the ground and confined as I was, I wouldn’t be able to contort my body around so I could land on my feet.
I braced myself as the edge of the cage reached the edge of the platform.
I was about to experience my first real dose of pain as a physical entity.
Johan increased the tempo yet again and the volume too, expediting my tumble from the platform. Down I crashed believing I would land as a fusion of cat and cage. And it was going to hurt.
I landed on my bum. The impact jarred my entire body and one of the more robust swearwords escaped my mouth. The impact also popped the lock on the cage door. It sprang open with a muted twang. I didn’t need a written invitation. My whiskers barely touched the sides as I thrust my head out into freedom. I knew instinctively that the rest of me would be able to follow, bruised bum and all.
I poured myself from the misshapen cage and slid under the platform. In a second I could be lost among the legs of the audience. The likes of Brom and Carac would never see me again. But, of course, I couldn’t leave the Boy to what was tantamount to slavery.
I crept beneath the stage. The boards were moving with the beat. I came to the small stepladder below a trapdoor. This was how Carac would make his entrance as the severed head of John the Baptist.
An idea came to me. I was going to bring the house down.
Sitting through all those rehearsals was about to pay off. I could judge from the music how long I had before the big reveal. I leapt to the top of the stepladder. The trapdoor was open in readiness but concealed from the audience by the table and its cloth. It was no trouble at all for me to spring to the platter and I did so, just as the dwarf arrived at the foot of the ladder.
I heard King Herod ask Salome what was her heart’s desire.
I heard the Boy, breathless from his exertions, utter his line, the immortal line: “Bring me the head of John the Baptist!” His voice was a little cracked and not nearly loud enough. Herod tried to dissuade with offers of enough jewels to sink a boat, his hand in marriage, cuddly toy, fondue set and blah blah blah, but the Boy, finding his voice along with his breath, boomed out his line again.
“Very well!” As the King approached the table, as I’d seen him do countless times, Johan played an ominous drum roll. “Behold!” said Brom and yanked the cover from the platter. The crowd gasped.
Instead of a severed head they saw a blur of fur and claws hurl itself from the platter and onto the King’s head. This forced his crown over his eyes and Brom flailed about cussing and stumbling around the scene, trying to free himself. I leapt to the Boy’s arms as Carac’s head appeared in the hole, totally unremarked by the crowd, who were laughing and cheering at this unexpected turn in the drama.
It was my turn to utter an immortal line.
“Let’s get out of here!” I urged. The Boy dithered in place for a bit. “Now, kid!” I dug my claws into his arm as incentive. He leapt into the air and then threw himself off the stage into the crowd who, believing it to be part of the spectacle, carried him aloft, passing him overhead and away from the stage. Johan stopped playing and stormed out from behind the curtain, colliding with the still sightless Herod. I watched as both men landed on their backsides. Carac, meanwhile, was struggling with the table. It moved with him across the stage, knocking his co-stars down again just as they had scrambled to their feet. Johan’s angel wig was knocked off, eliciting an outraged cry. He tried in vain to cover himself but it was too late. Men clambered onto the platform and seized him.
What happened to them after that, I didn’t see. All I know is the Boy and I were away from them at last.
Free of the crowd we loitered in the shadows of the cathedral’s buttresses. While the Boy composed himself, I tried to think of our next move but not until we had both had a right good laugh.
***
Fearing pursuit from Carac and Brom - my guess was Johan was out of the picture - we ducked inside the cathedral, an impressive Gothic structure already three hundred years old. The air inside was cool and slightly musty but we had the place to ourselves while public attention was focused on the cycle of plays outside.
It was dark too, which served our purposes.
Apart from a table crowded with votive candles, the only light source was the stained glass windows. As cloud cover shifted, the dappled colours danced on the flagstone floor. It was all I could do to keep focussed and not pounce on the moving patches. I knew they weren’t living things; I’d have to be an idiot to think otherwise but there was something so captivating -
“Well, Puss,” the detested nickname brought me back to the conversation, “what now?”
“I don’t know,” I had to admit. “Food would be good.”
“Yes,” the Boy agreed. He took off the wig and scratched his flattened hair. “But I’m thinking longer term. How are we going to get to London from here?”
“Oh, kid, you’re not still thinking about London!”
“Yes!” the Boy seemed affronted. Then a dreamy, faraway look came to his eyes. “It’s kind of like my destiny.”
“Huh,” I scoffed. “Density, more like. Now, come on; let’s find something to snack on before I eat my own legs off.”
“Do you know, I’m kind of used to hearing you speak!” the Boy tickled my throat. “Perhaps I’ve gone completely mad.”
“No, not completely,” I assured him. “Although in that clobber you raise a few concerns.”
The Boy glanced down at his Salome costume and mourned the loss of his own clothes and his precious bundle on a stick back at the waggon.
“Do you think we should go back for my things?” he asked. “Back to the waggon, I mean. It’s the last place they’d look.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said, strolling up and down the length of a pew. “Better to keep your distance from that lot. Better we move on.”
“To London!”
I sighed. His little heart was set on it.
“To London,” I agreed, wondering how long it would be before I regretted it.
***
While the Boy dozed and we waited for the shows to finish and the crowds to disperse, I explored the cathedral. There were plenty of items worth the taking, if we had been in the slightest criminally minded. There was enough gold there to afford us good living for many years to come. Along with outlaw status and possible charges of blasphemy. I didn’t want to end up burned at the stake. In this day and age they subject animals to the same laws and punishments as humans. It’s quite bizarre. Hang the horse as well as the rider. Humans have some funny ideas sometimes, and I don’t mean funny ha-ha.
It did not escape my notice that I was thinking in terms of spending years with this boy. None of us mortals knows how many years we have. Equally, none of us knows what, if anything, happens when this life is over. I’ve had immortality and I have to say I still don’t know what becomes of mortals when they die. One tends not to hear from them again.
Valuables aside, there was little to catch my eye. I clawed at some damp and mildewed cassocks. I startled a couple of pigeons into flapping noisily up to the rafters. I licked my bum on the altar - a bold statement of what I thought of human religion? Perhaps. Or perhaps my obsessive cleaning got the better of me and I lost all sense of respect and propriety.
“Holy Mother!” a human male gasped. I glanced at him, my back legs splayed in the air. The man was chubby and wearing clerical robes, but these were drab and threadbare. He made that crossing gesture that humans do as if waving their hands about will protect them. “The devil’s come!”
I glanced over my shoulder in case he meant someone other than me.
The man dropped to his knees. He crossed himself again then clasped his hands tight enough to choke something and cast his eyes to the vaulted ceiling. His flabby lips moved rapidly but he was muttering incoherently so I cannot record any detail of his fervent prayer. My guess is he was saying uncomplimentary things about yours truly.
The prayer seemed to invigorate the man. He crossed himself a third time and got to his feet. He held out the wooden cross that hung from a chain around his neck, clutching a battered leather-bound book in his other hand. He bore down on me, murmuring imprecations in a tongue I just about recognised as Latin. Why humans think one language - especially one no longer in common usage - has more supernatural power than another, is something else I don’t get. Come to that, I don’t know why they ascribe supernatural power to anything at all. There is what is - that’s all I know.
My cat instincts caused me to shrink back. My ears flattened without me telling them to. This was to make them less of a target in any attack but unfortunately made them seem even more pointed and demonic in the flabby man’s eyes.
I opened my mouth and showed him my teeth. I considered swearing at him in English and Latin for good measure but contented myself with hissing and rasping. The man’s bushy eyebrows flew upwards, almost to the rafters like the pigeons had before them.
“Serpent!” he accused, somewhat incongruously.
He raised his hands. I wondered which one he was going to try to bash me with, the cross or the book. when a hand on his shoulder gave him pause.
“Excuse me, Father?” The Boy spoke in the voice he’d learned to use in rehearsals, clear and commanding. I decided against correcting his mistake at that point. There was no way this fat old bugger was the Boy’s dad.
The cleric turned and his eyes grew wider still as he took in the sight of the young person before him. The Boy’s exotic costume and the wig (which he had put back on) caused the man to gape. He opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish found in a compromising position.
“Is there a problem?” The Boy arched an eyebrow that had been augmented by paint.
With the man’s eyes off me, I dropped from the altar and entwined myself between the Boy’s shins and the ballooning fabric of his baggy pantaloons.
A shaft of sunlight streaming in projected the image of some well-respected figure from scripture onto the Boy’s face and lent him an unearthly glow. The fat man rubbed his eyes and gasped.
“Holy mother!” he repeated, bowing his head and stooping low. The Boy shot me a startled glance. I did my best to form my feline forelegs into a shrug.
“Arise!” the Boy commanded, in a tone I recognised from Brom’s Herod. The fat man lifted his gaze from the floor. At the same time, a cloud swam across the sky, blocking the sunbeam like a spotlight switching off. The cleric found himself facing a somewhat nervous young person of indeterminate gender - but evidently foreign if the attire was anything to go by.
Harrumphing and clearing his throat, he straightened his back and took charge of the situation.
“Young....lady?” he indicated the Boy’s costume. “You cannot be in here at this time. And you must remove your.....animal at once. This is the Lord’s House not a Cat Sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary!” I called out.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Sanctuary,” the Boy took his cue. “I’m here to claim sanctuary.” He nodded and offered a sad, little smile.
“Um,” the man seemed unconvinced.
“Um, yes, that’s right,” the Boy improvised. “Some terrible men are after me. They wouldn’t dare come in here.”
“Men! What kind of men?” The cleric cast a worried glance towards the main entrance.
The Boy lowered his voice to a whisper. The acoustics of the place created a satisfyingly dramatic effect.
“Actors,” he said.
The cleric paled visibly.
“You poor child!” He patted the Boy’s hand. His eyes darted around the cathedral as though the next step might be embroidered on a banner or stained in a window. “But you cannot claim sanctuary unless you have broken the law. That’s the rules.”
“Oh.”
“And have you broken the law?”
“Um. No. I don’t think so.”
“Pity.”
“Couldn’t wrongfully claiming sanctuary be seen as breaking the law?”
“Er - that’s a technicality. I would have to consult the Archbishop.”
Humans and their rules! Ridiculous! You only need one: Be good to each other. Then everyone would be happy. Humans seem unable to realise this.
The man was biting into the knuckle of one of his fingers as an aid to the thinking process. He was troubled; clearly he wanted to help this vulnerable, young, possibly female stranger. To help him along, I sprang to the Boy’s arms and emitted a pitiable mew.
The Boy shushed me, nuzzling my head. “There, there, Puss. Everything’s going to be all right.”
The cleric looked stricken. The Boy was relentless.
“I’m sure those nasty men won’t find us in here, Puss. And I’m sure this kindly gentleman will fight them off if they do.”
The cleric whimpered. He dashed to the front doors and locked them. He returned to us with his hands together and the tips of his fingertips against his lips. He was either about to pray or was trying to work out where his hands had been through the sense of smell.
“I repeat you cannot remain here but -” He paused for effect. “But I shall do my utmost to get you out of and away from here. You are not...local, I venture to surmise?”
“No, sir.”
“Father.”
“From Gloucestershire, sir.”
“No, I mean, call me Father.”
“Yes, sir. Father.”
It was the cleric’s turn to be illuminated by stained glass patterns as though divinely inspired. “There is a party...” he began.
“I’m not in the mood,” said the Boy. I couldn’t tell if he was making a quip. I batted his chin with a paw.
“Stay in character,” I urged.
“Not that kind of party, my child. I mean, there is a group heading southwards as soon as the festivities here have finished. Decent, god-fearing people all: pilgrims making their way to Canterbury. I am sure they will find room for you in their convoy.”
“And is Canterbury near to London, Father?”
The cleric grimaced as though the Boy had sworn in that hallowed place. “My child, London is on the way to Canterbury- from this direction at any rate. But you were better advised to shun that sinful place.”
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