I AM THE CAT

by William Stafford

  I jumped from his lap and headed for the archway that led to the street. He didn’t move. From the way his hand was stroking empty air, I could see he hadn’t realised I had gone.

  I swore.

  The spell was broken by the return of Alfred. He took the Boy by the hand I’d vacated and, more importantly, stood between the Boy and his view of the window.

  “Dick!” Alfred exclaimed with laughter in his voice. “The Old Man - I told him what you did - how you saved the waggon - and - and - he wants to meet you.”

  “Oh?” I said, a little too loudly. Alfred looked around. All he could see was me licking a paw.

  “Mew,” I said.

  “That’s - that’s...” the Boy was too dazed to speak.

  “It’s incredible!” said Alfred, “That’s what it is.”

  As though half asleep, the Boy climbed from the seat and stumbled across the yard.

  “Where are you going?” Alfred called after him. He caught up with the Boy and steered him back towards the waggon. “In the morning! You’re to meet the Old Man in the morning.”

  “Um,” said the Boy. He looked up at the window again. The Girl blew out her candle and withdrew.

  Alfred, assessing the stripped-down nature of the waggon - even the cots had been taken inside - rubbed his chin in thought.

  “To the stables!” he announced. “You can bed down in there.”

  The Boy nodded, still in a daze. I headed towards them before remembering I wasn’t meant to understand human speech. I zigzagged around the courtyard, well aware that Alfred was watching me.

  “Crazy cat,” he muttered. He led the Boy to the shelter of the stables, where the smell of fresh straw and the heat from the horses assaults you on entry. I held back for a couple of minutes, resolving to be more careful around other humans.

  When Alfred had left to wherever it was he had lodgings and, alas, from our narrative forever, I trotted into the stable and found the Boy already bedded down among some hay.

  “A regular home from home,” I told him, jumping onto his chest. He tickled my head.

  “Who is she, do you think?” he asked. As if I would know. Time was, I would have done.

  All I knew was she was trouble. But I didn’t say so out loud.

  ***

  I left the Boy sleeping and went on the prowl. I scaled the perimeter wall and took a tour of the courtyard. From this high point I could also see the surrounding streets, quieter now the taverns were closed with only the occasional shout or scream rending the night air from some distance.

  My misgivings were niggling me like mad - no, scratch that! They were beating me about the head and shoulders with a broom.

  I was certain we should not linger here a moment longer than necessary. The Boy was of the opinion that this Fitzwarren character would offer some form of reward for the safe delivery of his goods. “We’ll have a much better start with a few coins in our purse,” he assured me. I might have found him more convincing if that Girl wasn’t in the picture.

  What irked me so much? Jealousy? I examined my feelings. I don’t think so, whatever you may think. Rather I was cautious - apprehensive, even.

  We didn’t need strangers complicating matters.

  You took your time.

  My stomach lurched; my brother!

  “Show yourself!” I bared my teeth and bent my back like a horseshoe. I scanned the shadows, seeking the source of the voice.

  I was beginning to think you’d never get here.

  I jumped around - the voice had come from somewhere else.

  I suppose I should thank you for the head start.

  “What do you mean?” Try as I might, I couldn’t see him. Perhaps if I could keep him talking, I could locate the bugger and - and what? My feline instincts conjured visions of me snapping his rodent neck with my teeth. Hmm. Yes, please.

  I forced those images out of my mind and focussed on trying to spot him.

  I’ve been busy while I waited. You may live to regret allowing me so much time to prepare.

  “What are you blithering on about?” I affected boredom and gave my paw a lick for good measure, although on the inside I was a knot of anxiety.

  You think I’m going to show my hand at this early stage? He laughed like a violin being tortured. You really did spend the 20th century watching bad movies. You’re going to have to wait and see, brother. Your little friend is going to find life isn’t all glamour in the big city after all.

  It was the threat to the Boy that boiled my blood.

  “Why? Why are you doing this?” I roared, losing my cool.

  The grating laughter burst out again and then faded away. I froze, listening. My innards were pounding.

  “Why?” I cried out at the night sky.

  A boot from an upstairs window knocked me off the wall.

  “Bloody cats,” said a thick London accent.

  ***

  I got over the embarrassment and, after a perfunctory survey of my surroundings, I rejoined the Boy in the barn, curled up in the heat emanating from his sleeping body. If we were to stay in this place - against my better judgment - I would feel more at ease knowing the lie of the land. Territorial instincts were colouring my thinking. I felt compelled to find out if there were other cats in the vicinity although what precisely I’d do about it if there were, I didn’t know.

  My brother’s words replayed in my mind. Perhaps I had nodded off and dreamt them.

  No. I couldn’t be that lucky.

  ***

  When morning came, ostlers in F livery came to, well, ostle, I suppose. By which I mean tend to the horses. In the early sunlight, I was able to appreciate the scale of the place. The stables alone were the largest I had seen. You could equip a regiment of cavalry with this lot.

  Their hustle and bustle woke the Boy where my licking his cheek could not. Rubbing his eyes, he scooped me up and stumbled out into the courtyard, which was already teeming with Fitzwarren’s people, loading carts, fetching and carrying. Their movements appeared almost choreographed, their efficiency impressive. I bet the figures on the town hall clock did not move with such fluid regularity.

  The Boy too was affected by the view. He whistled in a deep breath. We found we had to dodge the workers; they certainly weren’t going to alter their course to avoid us. In fits and starts we made our way across the yard and reached the doorway we had seen Alfred use the night before.

  The stout fellow was there, overseeing the activity in the yard from a safe distance.

  “Good morrow, friend!” the Boy’s sincere greeting was met with cold indifference. “The Old Man - I mean, Mister Fitzwarren wishes to see me.”

  This remark caused the raising of an eyebrow but the fat man still didn’t look at the Boy directly. “Does he now?”

  “He does indeed, sire.” The Boy was adopting his form of address to comply with the man’s expectations. It worked. Clever Boy!

  The man deigned to glance at us. His expression suggested he found us deficient but he turned towards the building’s interior. “Follow,” he intoned. The Boy and I shared a look of surprise and amusement and hurried after the man before we could lose him around a corner.

  We passed storeroom after storeroom: cloth in one, jars of spice in another, and so on. Everywhere we glanced goods were coming in or going out.

  We were led up a wooden staircase, flight after flight, until we reached a heavyset door, studded with iron.

  “Wait here,” the man instructed without looking back. He rapped lightly on the door with his knuckles and, without waiting for a response, went in.

  “This is it, Puss” the Boy was grinning like a Halloween pumpkin.

  “This is what?” I asked but before he could explain, the door reopened and the portly chap was
ushering us inside.

  My hackles rose instantly and I bared my fangs with a hiss. The Boy’s grip around me tightened, heedless of the danger from my exposed claws. In front of us was a huge, furry creature, taller than a human male. Its front paws were raised lifting a giant bird onto its head.

  “Richard Whittington, sire.” The fat man intoned. He withdrew, leaving us in the room with this beast.

  The creature froze. Then it removed the bird from its head and placed it on a table. It turned to face us.

  It wasn’t a beast at all. It was a man, a man in a voluminous fur coat. How many conies had lost their lives in the fabrication of such a garment, I couldn’t begin to estimate. And I say conies only to assuage my fear that kittens had fallen foul of this man’s vanity.

  And the bird wasn’t a bird. Rather it was the remnants of several birds, fashioned in the shape of a grand and showy hat. I was beginning to get the measure of this man and he had yet to open his gob.

  Fitzwarren shed his fur coat like a very poor quality bear strip tease and we saw him in shirt and pantaloons for the spindly figure he really was. A belly strained against his shirt front, like a bubble in boiling custard but the rest of him was little more than an aggregation of skin-covered sticks. There was a sense of indulgence in his jowls but the rest of his features were sharp like rudimentary carvings hacked out of a block. His hair was the colour of flax - if you don’t know what colour that is, in your modern age of manmade fibres, it was like snow that has been lying around for a couple of days. (I should have just gone with that comparison first off.) It sat on his head as though he was already wearing a hat beneath it. Had it been a bird’s nest it would have been condemned. His eyes glinted, blue as the flowers on the flax plant (Ha! I knew there was a reason why flax had sprung to mind).

  With his spindly humanity revealed, I was able to relax a little bit. I put my teeth and claws away and the Boy, sensing I was still tense, stroked me gently. I think this action also served to calm him down.

  “Dick,” Fitzwarren stretched the word to an inordinate length. His voice was high and reedy. He sighted the Boy along his long and narrow nose as though he was lining up to shoot him with a sneeze. “So, I have you to thank for the safe delivery of my goods from the North?”

  “Well,” the Boy met the man’s gaze but not for too long, “I did what I could. It was Alfred -”

  Fitzwarren raised a hand that was heavy with a velvet gauntlet. He was wearing rings with carbuncles on top of the glove. He seemed to realise he was still in his finery and pulled it off, dropping it onto the dead aviary that passed for headwear.

  “Alfred is a good man,” he conceded, “but his report paints you as some kind of hero.”

  “I -”

  “Something about putting the fear of all that’s ungodly into those bandits. Some kind of voice-throwing talent you have. Oh! Is this your puppet?”

  The blue eyes bore into my green ones. I didn’t look away - he wasn’t going to intimidate me. I yawned - it was a handy way to remind him I have teeth. His bushy white eyebrows leapt upwards like startled sheep.

  “It’s alive!” he gasped. He backed away even though there was a broad table between us. His face began to twitch and wrinkle. He covered his mouth and nose with a decorated handkerchief. “I can’t abide cats,” he whimpered in between sneezes. He let off a hooting barrage of nasal explosions.

  “Funny,” I murmured to the Boy, “his allergy only kicked in when he noticed I was here.”

  Hiding his face, Fitzwarren waved with his free hand towards the door. “Go!” he wheezed. “You will be given a purse of gold at the door.”

  “Th- thank you, sire.” The Boy dipped his head out of courtesy but the sneezing man had turned his back.

  We turned to the door only to find it opened before we got there and in came a figure, a bustling mass of apron and skirts. She skirted around us (hah!), rounded the table and steered Fitzwarren to a high-backed chair. She snatched the handkerchief from him and thrust the lip of a small phial into his mouth. Fitzwarren suckled on the tiny bottle like a newborn kitten at the teat. It seemed to restore him within seconds. While he was getting his breath back, the girl turned to us.

  It was the Girl.

  “You must be Dick,” she smiled, a steadying hand on Fitzwarren’s shoulder. “My father has much to be grateful for. But as he appears unable to express his gratitude without a violent physical reaction, please accept my thanks.”

  She extended a slim, unblemished pink hand across the table. The Boy sprang forwards and took it. He almost dropped me in the process.

  “And who’s this cute little darling?” She dropped the Boy’s hand and tried to scratch me between the ears. I recoiled and batted at her hand with my paw.

  “It’s my cat,” said the Boy, stupidly. I let out a quick purr at the ‘my’.

  “Does he have a name?”

  “He’s never said.”

  The Girl laughed, a trilling sound like the ghost of a bird on Fitzwarren’s hat.

  “When do you start?” she met the Boy’s wondering gaze.

  “When do I start what?”

  She gave her father’s shoulder a whack. “Oh, Daddy!” she complained. “Were you just going to pay him off and let him go? Silly Daddy. You know the shop needs good workers. Good, reliable, resourceful and trustworthy workers.”

  I could feel the Boy’s chest swell with each passing adjective and the Girl’s eyes never left his.

  In his chair, the deflated Fitzwarren began to harrumph but the Girl interrupted him before he could really get going.

  “You will work for us, won’t you, Dick? I’m sure we can find something suited to your, um, talents. And Puss, well...”

  I groaned. Oh, don’t you start calling me Puss!

  “I’m sure we can find a place for him too. Keeping mice out of the flour store, for example.”

  I shifted in the Boy’s arms and let my claws sink into his sleeve. I didn’t want to work in a shop. We should take the purse of gold and get out of there. But clearly, I wasn’t going to be consulted.

  “Then it’s settled.” She held out her hand again for a more businesslike shake.

  Fitzwarren grumbled. “Just keep that moggy away from me.”

  That clinched the deal. The Boy and the Girl shook hands and it looked like that moment was going to last forever but the sudden return of the portly chap broke the spell.

  He took in the ongoing scene before approaching Fitzwarren and whispered. He seemed agitated and cast nervous glances towards the Boy - No! To me! I correctly surmised I was the cause of this interruption.

  When Chubby Chappie had finished making his unheard allegations (I’d almost strained my ears trying to decipher his whispers) he stepped away. Fitzwarren stood up, drawing himself to his full height.

  “Daddy?” the Girl seemed nervous. She had recognised the stance as a sign of trouble coming.

  “It appears,” he addressed his daughter rather than the Boy or me directly, “that several bolts of fine cloth have been sullied.”

  “Daddy?” the Girl repeated.

  “In brief, cat’s hairs have been found all over them. They are ruined.”

  All eyes were upon me. It was all I could do to make believe I didn’t understand what was going on. My stomach sank. I’d had to sleep somewhere! I didn’t know snuggling among the silks and satins would get the Boy into trouble.

  “Now, Daddy, I’m sure they can be cleaned! I’ll clean them!”

  Fitzwarren silenced her with a raised hand as effectively as putting a cork in a bottle.

  “It incurs extra expense,” Fitzwarren snapped. His eyes bore into the Boy’s - he was pointedly not looking at me. “You are to leave and never return. Is that understood?”

  “With your purse, of course!” th
e Girl snatched a leather pouch from the fat guy’s belt and held it out towards the Boy. Fitzwarren snatched it back, his hand like a striking cobra.

  “Oh no, you don’t!” he blustered. “This should just about cover the costs.”

  “Daddy!” the Girl stamped her foot in protest. “Give Dick his due.”

  The cold blue eyes turned to the Girl’s upturned grey ones. Fitzwarren seemed to melt a little. He dug a finger into the pouch and withdrew a solitary coin, which he tossed at the Boy. The Boy failed to catch it and it hit the floor and rolled under the table.

  “A hot meal and a bed for the night lie within that coin if you care to pick it up,” Fitzwarren sneered.

  The Boy looked from Fitzwarren to the Girl to the fat man and to the Girl again. I felt his chest rise as he took in a deep breath.

  “Thank you, but no. We can manage. Good day to you, sire. Miss.”

  He nodded sharply and we were out of there. I heard the Girl cry, “Daddy, stop him!” before the door closed behind us.

  The Boy breathed out, crestfallen.

  “Oops?” I offered.

  “Not your fault, Puss,” he said sadly.

  “I think you’ll find that it is.” Tactfully, I let the ‘Puss’ go that time. “Anyway, bright side: you get to see London at last!”

  “Hmm.” He wasn’t as enthusiastic as I’d hoped. He was gazing at the door to Fitzwarren’s office as though he could see through it to the Girl beyond.

  When it became apparent that she was not going to chase after us, the Boy said, “Come on, Puss,” even though it was he who was carrying me and not the other way around, and we made our way down the stairs and towards the nearest exit.

  I felt terrible. Guilt was like the weighted sack and the pond as well. It dragged me down and clogged my insides. I was drowning in it - Oh, come off it! I scolded myself. It wasn’t the time to indulge myself or punish myself with this negativity. I jumped from the Boy’s embrace and led him across the courtyard to the archway.

  “This way, kid,” I called over my shoulder. “There’s a whole city out there for the taking!”

  The Boy hurried to catch up. A panicked look flashed across his face in case someone overheard me speaking. Every time I was within reach, I hurried away by a few more steps. Within minutes I had lured him through the archway and out in the street.