“But, Father, my mother...” The Boy turned his head as though hiding his anguish.
“Your mother is in London?” the cleric gasped. “Then you must go to her. Forget this fiddle-faddle about Canterbury.”
Hah! I wanted to pointed out it was he who was fiddling and faddling. But he was trying his best, that kind old soul.
“Wait here!” he patted the Boy’s hand again. “Only keep your” he nodded to me, “off the,” he nodded to the altar. “Lock the door behind me.”
He swept from the cathedral in a flurry of gown and sandals.
Only when the Boy had slid the bolt back home did we relax. And laugh.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “Perhaps you should be an actor after all.”
The Boy gasped and crossed himself. This got us both laughing again. Perhaps this was inappropriate, given the setting but we didn’t care.
“You are real, aren’t you, Puss?” He held me in front of him, his eyes searching mine. “I’m not losing my mind, am I, Puss?”
“Listen; about this Puss thing...”
Knocking at the door behind us cut me short.
“It’s me,” the cleric’s voice was muffled by the thick wood. The Boy slid the bolt back and opened the door just wide enough to confirm the speaker was who he claimed to be.
“Father,” the Boy said. “What news?”
He opened the door wide - very wide - to admit the portly fellow.
“Success!” the cleric exclaimed. “I have spoken with Silas, the leader of the group. He is willing to admit you to their happy band but...”
His voice trailed off. He looked genuinely pained.
“But?” I prompted. The Boy gave me an unnecessarily hefty pat. The cleric didn’t suspect.
“There is the question of payment for your transport.”
“I have no money, Father.”
“And neither, alas, do I,” the cleric sighed. “But Silas is willing for you to work your passage.”
“And what does that mean?”
“You will perform simple duties. Help prepare food. Tend the horses. That kind of thing.”
“And they will take me as far as London?”
“If that is where you wish to go. It is entirely your decision.”
The Boy walked away and down the aisle, as though in thought. He whispered to ask me my view.
“Well, we can’t remain here,” I said in fair imitation of the cleric.
“That’s true,” said the Boy.
“My child? Is there some difficulty?”
The cleric was still by the main entrance and I realised, with a sinking sensation, that our voices must have carried. Damn these perfect acoustics!
I underestimated the Boy’s quick-thinking. Yet again he stepped up to the mark and surpassed it.
“Forgive me, Father,” he blushed and cast his eyes downwards. “An infirmity of mine. I’m afraid sometimes I talk to myself in times of duress.”
“My poor child! Be not ashamed! I am sure most of us talk to ourselves more than we would care to admit. I’m just not sure we answer ourselves back, that’s all.”
“It soothes me to imagine my cat is my counsel at such times.”
“Of course, of course.” The cleric was shepherding us towards the door, suddenly keen to be shot of us. He was unwilling to accompany us but waved us off from the steps. He pointed out a line of carts, waggons and coaches further down the road.
“Silas is a tall man with a hook nose and a broken hand,” the cleric called after us. “Or perhaps it’s the other way around!”
The cathedral door shut behind us. The choice was clear. We could approach the caravan and introduce ourselves to this Silas fellow or we could take off in the other direction and see where our feet could take us.
I was in favour of this second option and said so. I leapt from the Boy’s arms and headed a few feet away. He didn’t move. I looked back.
“It’s London, Puss,” he said. His eyes sought mine but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. I looked away and gave my front paw a nonchalant lick.
“London!” the Boy repeated.
I trotted back to him.
“You have an unhealthy fixation on a place you’ve never been to,” I told him. He stooped to pick me up.
“You’ll see,” he said.
We approached the head of the line. The sun was going down but I could still see well enough to know that I didn’t like it. I had a presentiment our journey was not going to be uneventful.
“You the girl?” said a nasal voice. The speaker was indeed a tall man. As the cleric had described his nose was broken - or rather flattened across the middle of his face as though he had long ago lost some dispute with a wall. He reached out a glinting curve of metal towards my head. I shrank from it lest he have my eye out. “Here, Kitty-kitty,” he grinned a black-toothed grin. I answered with a hiss. Impolite of me, I know.
He withdrew the hook that had replaced his right hand. “I don’t get on with cats,” he explained, with a philosophical pout. “But keep it out of my hair and all will be well.”
“Thank you, thank you, sire,” the Boy bobbed in a curtsey. His wig wobbled a bit but this Silas fellow didn’t seem to notice or care.
“You’re riding in the hay cart, I’m afraid, my dear,” he pointed along the long, long line of conveyances to the rear. “Roads are long and stopping-off places are few and far between. Got to keep the gee-gees happy. Got an hour or so before it becomes too dark for travelling in safety,” Silas looked at the sky. “We should make this inn I know afore then.”
I questioned the logic of this but the flat-faced man seemed to anticipate my query.
“Why don’t we stay in the city and set off on the morrow? Well, it’s a cost-cutting exercise, isn’t it? Place as full as it is with the plays and all, prices have shot through the roof. These pilgrims ain’t exactly what you might call burdened with cash.”
The Boy nodded. He said his thank-yous, made a promise to keep me under control (as if!) then, cradling me against his padded brassiere, made his way to the hay cart.
We passed a motley assortment of carriages and people from all walks of life, united only by their purpose to visit the shrine at Canterbury. Few marked our passing but of those that did, some looked away with sniffs of disapproval and some, the grubbier men folk, leered and whistled and made improper propositions.
“Stop wiggling your hips so much, Salome,” I told him.
“Oops, still in character,” the Boy pulled a face. He adopted a more flat-footed and heavier gait from that point but the wolf whistles and catcalls (hah!) did not diminish.
The driver of the hay cart had been forewarned of our arrival. He jerked his thumb backwards to the fresh load of fodder. The Boy placed me over the side and then clambered on board. The hay was soft beneath us and smelled sweet and clean.
Ahead of us, the caravan moved off. Our driver clicked his tongue when the time came and we too were on our way. We made slow but steady progress through the streets of Coventry, which had quietened and emptied considerably now the play cycle was over. At one turn we met with jeers and commotion. We sat up to peer out and ascertain the cause of the disturbance.
We had come to a wide intersection at the centre of which was a circular area. At the centre of this circular area a wretched figure stood in a wooden pillory. People were taking advantage of his immobility to pelt him with whatever they could find. Stones and filth from the streets bounced off this pitiful fellow. The emptying of a piss pot temporarily washed the muck from his bowed head, revealing a bald pate I recognised.
“It’s Johan!” gasped the Boy.
“Get down!” I urged him. “In case he sees you.”
But the Boy remained in plain sight as th
e caravan circled the pillory on its way out of town.
“I wonder what he did,” the Boy said, finally sitting down when we were away from that barbaric spectacle.
I was wondering the same thing too as well as reflecting on the cruelty enshrined within some human institutions.
Within minutes we had passed through the great city gates. We were on our way to London - this excited the Boy - but more importantly, we were putting distance between us and those thieving actors. That pleased me.
We lay back, watching the darkening sky, enjoying the comfort and the hay-scented air. But the sight of our former acquaintance, surely of the three the one nearest to being our friend, had disturbed us both.
The Boy tickled me absently while I considered we would undoubtedly be better off keeping away from humans as much as we could.
In London there would be no chance of that.
***
Because we weren’t paying customers, there was no room for us at the Old Cross Inn. We were to stay with the hay cart and the horses in the stables. That suited me fine, in my misanthropic state of mind. The Boy performed his appointed tasks dutifully: feeding the huge snorting beasts, combing them, and then shovelling up their droppings. Disgusting. I would be mortified.
Naturally, the hay didn’t suit my palate. The Boy was rather apologetic about it although it wasn’t his fault. I tried to reassure him there’d be mice or something, bound to be, with all that hay and straw around.
So.
It looked like I was going to go hunting.
Hmm.
I tried to buck myself up. Come on! I said. It’s the way you evolved. Sharp claws, keen eyes, and springy legs. The perfect tools for the job. Just relax and let instinct take over.
I began with a tour of inspection although this was not perhaps the wisest course of action. I realised halfway around the stalls, I would be better placed, lying in wait, than parading around as if I owned the place. No self-respecting rodent would venture forth while I was so much in evidence. I scanned around, looking for a shadowy spot in which to conceal myself.
I found one where the partition of the last stall met the outside wall, behind a couple of barrels. A pitchfork leaned against the partition and I was about to duck through this triangular space when a pair of glinting eyes stopped me as suddenly as a slammed door. I froze, one front paw raised like I was pointing at something. My tail, which up to this point had been in its happy, upright position, slowly lowered like a wilting flower. It occurred to me that it was doing this in order to present less of a target. Similarly, my ears flattened back. Fascinating as it was to analyse my body’s instinctive responses, my attention would be better applied to the situation at hand.
The glint from the darkness was unwavering. My eyes, once I’d got over the initial shock, could discern a shape. A feline shape. A lean, short-haired cat was glaring back at me, pinning me with his amber eyes. I could hear him breathing. Steady and controlled while my own was irregular and noisy. The stench of him assaulted me like a weapon. He reeked of the stables, the straw and the horses.
Oh, why didn’t I think of this before?
Whether he belonged to the innkeeper or not, as an official employee or adopted member of the family, he was clearly the stables’ cat-in-residence. It stood to reason but I, with the unreasonable mind of a moggy, had neglected to consider it.
And I was an intruder. I was encroaching on his territory and in cat society (such as it is) that’s the most expeditious way to start a fight.
I stood my ground, for want of another idea, while the stable cat emerged from the shadows. He wasn’t looking at me but I knew, I just knew, he was giving me a full appraisal, sizing me up and finding me wanting.
He walked around me in a wide circle. Every part of me tensed, expecting an attack at any second. As he went by, I gave him a good eyeballing in return. He was long and thin and his mottled brown fur was patchy and matted. His face was slashed with pink scars, mementoes of previous battles and his tail was oddly shaped. I realised it had lost half of its natural length to another animal or an accident or an implement or - the point is, this cat had a history of violence whereas I was a complete novice. Arriving in cat shape fully grown, I had missed out on the play fights with my kitten siblings that would have provided a training ground.
I felt like an impostor more than anything.
Now, if you’re expecting a good old kitty cat chitchat at this point, like you’d get in storybooks, you’re going to be disappointed. We shared no common language. We weren’t going to burst into dialogue because the human’s back was turned. It’s not like that at all.
It’s not about words or thoughts. It’s not about negotiations and courtesies. It’s not about threats and taunts.
It’s all about signals. Body language mainly but also sounds and smells. Yes; smells!
As a complete newbie I was like a traveller fumbling through a phrase book. He was effortlessly intimidating merely by dint of affecting a casual manner. Either that or he had already decided I wasn’t worth bothering with.
Meanwhile I was still standing with one paw raised like some kind of artistic representation. I had two choices. I could put it on the ground or - and this is what I did - I could raise it to my mouth and give it a casual lick.
This turned out to be a bit of a faux paw.
My raised foot was interpreted as a threat, as though I was preparing to strike. The other cat shrank but did not recoil. His ears rotated so their backs were facing forwards - I suppose to defend them against my claws going inside. His mouth opened wide showing what teeth he had left and he uttered a rasping hiss that was altogether unpleasant - and unnecessary in my view.
“My dear fellow,” I said as softly as I could manage. “I’m not here to encroach on your territory.”
The other cat paused mid-hiss. His eyes darted around quickly to find the source of this human-sounding voice but he was careful not to take them from me for long. Who knew what I might do?
I decided to put aside cat etiquette and benefit from my unnatural advantage.
“Here, Puss-puss,” I called and made a ‘chh-chh’ sound. This confused the poor bugger entirely. He didn’t know whether to approach me or run away. He froze in a conflicted pose, half-poised to flee, half-prepared to pounce. He was like two halves of two different cats stuck together.
“Go on, scram!” I bellowed. The cat flinched a little but didn’t budge.
Reader, I barked at him.
I began with a guttural growl that exploded in a volley of loud, staccato barks. It did the trick. He shot off like a rocket, almost colliding with the door post on his way out.
“Puss?” The Boy was standing over me. “There you are. You want to be careful. There’s a dog about.”
I proceeded to wash myself all over, feeling more than a little smug. Had I betrayed my catness, my feline sensibilities? I’d much rather that than have an eye gouged out or my belly scored. I resolved to be more myself from that point on. I wasn’t a cat at all. I was merely living in one. I was no longer in possession of all of my abilities but I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to use those that were left me.
“Did you find anything to eat?”
The mere mention of food was enough to get my stomach rumbling. I entwined myself between his calves, pressing my cheeks against his borrowed pantaloons. Such behaviour, every cat knows, often evinces a morsel or two. The Boy stooped to pick me up but it wasn’t a stroking or a tickling I wanted. In one hand the Boy held a heel of cheese. I stretched towards it and gave it an experimental sniff. Its pungent aroma filled my head, stunning me momentarily.
My body shook as the Boy laughed. “Oh, Puss! That’s not for you.”
But I would not be dissuaded. After all, if a cat could have a saucer of milk or the proverbial cream, why not other kinds
of dairy produce?
I pawed at the cheese and the Boy, greatly amused, broke off a piece and held it to my nose. I took a tentative nibble.
Mmm, here was cream! Here was the grass that made the cream! Here was the cow that ate the grass that made the cream! I could see the brute! I could hear the dull clang of her bell as she was led into the milking shed.
I paused. What was happening? Was I hallucinating?
I stretched up towards the cheese that was disappearing into the Boy’s selfish maw.
“No, no, Puss. No more! You’ll be ill.” He put me down, unceremoniously, and finished the remainder of the cheese all to himself. I decided not to speak to him for the rest of the night. The selfish tyke.
We settled to sleep in the back of our hay cart - the Boy was anxious that the caravan might leave without us the next morning.
I was soon asleep - it’s quite the facility cats have. I was even able to ignore the churning in my guts as the cheese rebelled and tried to make its escape.
***
I was my old self again. Unconfined by physical form I was free to travel through the air at will, buoyed by currents, borne on the wind. I could see the world far below me. I could see the curve of the Earth. I could see it turning, revolving, spinning, faster and faster as I raced through time. I was filled with such joy to have my powers restored.
I sought others of my kind. We are few; the universe cannot hold many of us.
I found my twin. His laughter ran through me like a chill wind from the Arctic.
What are you doing here? You don’t belong here anymore.
I tried to tell him the past did not matter, that I forgave him. Now that I was restored, none of that mattered anymore.
He laughed again and it was hailstones dropping through me.
You don’t even know when you’re dreaming, you bloody stupid cat.
***
I awoke with a jerk - perhaps that’s uncharitable towards the Boy. It took me a while to realise where I was and what I was as sensory input assaulted me. The warmth of the hay, the smell of the barn, and the sounds of the environs all required processing. I let the Cat handle that automatically while I - the real me - dealt with the crushing disappointment of returning to reality.
I AM THE CAT Page 9