I AM THE CAT

by William Stafford

But I never -

  Give me the Boy!

  Piss off!

  It will restore the balance. It will prove you care more about us than them.

  What are you talking about? I never -

  “Hello, Puss!” An untimely tickle from the Boy roused me from my sleep before I could get an answer. I let out a grumbling yowl as I was brought back to Earth with a jolt.

  The Boy told me all about the paperwork and the terms and conditions of his contract but, frankly, I wasn’t listening. I was too busy replaying the ‘dream’ in my mind.

  What did my brother mean? What balance? What did I have to prove? I ransacked my tiny feline mind. It was so frustrating.

  How am I expected to make amends, to atone for my supposed transgression, if I’m not equipped with the memory of what I’m supposed to have done?

  “Sounds great, kiddo,” I muttered, suddenly aware that the Boy had said something that required a response.

  “It sounds great?” the Boy repeated.

  “Doesn’t it?” I realised I had perhaps said the wrong thing.

  “Perhaps for you, it’s great. Constant supply of fresh food. But I’m more than a little disturbed, to tell you the truth.”

  I jumped up to his chest. He caught me. I put a pink paw pad on his cheek and looked into his eyes.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” I confessed. “I was distracted. What’s disturbed you?”

  “Rats,” a shudder went through him. He still bore the scratches of his last encounter with my brother’s minions. “There’s rats on this ship.”

  ***

  My blood ran cold. Rats on a ship - that’s traditional, I suppose. But I knew with a sinking certainty that these rats would be the same rats from the shop, here to do my brother’s bidding.

  “I mean, rats on a ship - that’s traditional, I suppose,” the Boy continued.

  “That’s what I thought!” I interjected. “You’ll be all right, kiddo. I’ll protect you.”

  The Boy nuzzled his nose into the back of my neck. “I think I’d better find a way to protect you,” he said.

  “The Captain?”

  “The Captain!”

  “Cap’n indeed!” said a gruff voice from behind us. I felt an involuntary shiver run through the Boy. His grip tightened around me. “Turn an’ face me, you swab!”

  I could feel the heat and smell the rum of the captain’s breath and I flinched from the speckles of spittle that sprayed over us. Disgusting! I know, I know; I cover myself in my own saliva all the time but that’s different!

  The Boy turned slowly to face this human sprinkler system. I twisted around so I could get my first look at the man who was reputed to hate my kind with a passion:

  Captain Codd.

  I presume he had started life like most humans, equipped with two of almost everything. Now, before us, he was reduced and yet somehow augmented, more of a man by having less of a body. Limbs, appendages, organs and features had been lost or damaged along the way and had been replaced by rudimentary substitutes or covered up with leather patches. A corkscrew coiled from his coat sleeve, where his left hand used to be. A leg of intricately carved ebony kept his right knee in line with its companion. His right ear was gone; a streak of livid scar tissue marked its passing and coiled across his cheek. The left eye socket was covered by a patch that bore the cross of Saint George - as a good luck talisman, no doubt. His nose was flattened and twisted at an alarming angle: if he went out in a sharp shower, he might drown. What original features remained were adorned with smudges of fading tattoos but most striking of all was his unruly beard, bright ginger in hue, like an exploding bird’s nest.

  He was stooping in the hold, bent over a crutch fashioned from the same tree that had yielded his leg. He was enormous!

  I tried to scurry inside the Boy’s shirt but of course, the Captain’s one good eye had spotted me.

  “Is...that...your...CAT?” The beard chewed the words like a guinea pig in a waste disposal. Before the Boy could overcome the stammer that impeded his response, the Captain roared, “Get rid of it!”

  His stale breath gusted on us both. The Boy shrank back but the huge man leaned over us.

  “Get...rid...of...it.”

  “Uh...” the Boy was bent backwards, literally, over a barrel. “Captain,” he continued in suicidal folly, attempting to reason with this volcanic behemoth, “perhaps a cat could be useful, sir, what with all the rats -”

  “RATS!” the volcano erupted. The Captain reared up and a low beam knocked his hat askew. “RATS!” he stamped around in a circle of rage with his peg leg beating an irregular rhythm on the floor. “I hope you ain’t implyin’ there be rats aboard my beautiful ship.”

  “Um, no, sir, not implying, no.” Ah, that’s my Boy: the diplomat.

  Captain Codd growled. It was like watching a hedgehog having a nightmare. “Who...might...you...be...anyway?” He thrust the corkscrew dangerously close to the Boy’s gullet. I dropped to the floor and scaled a high stack of barrels before he could stick me with that thing.

  “I’m Dick, Cap’n,” the Boy managed to get out, his eyes intent on the curling tip of dark metal at his Adam’s apple. Codd’s single eyebrow dipped in a semi-frown. Clearly this meant nothing to him.

  “A - a- a- a- alderman Fitzwarren sent me to look after his merchandise.”

  I paused mid-lick. This was an out-and-out falsehood but my Boy is a smart one, you have to give him that. He had hit upon the one thing that would keep this half-man, half-kitchen drawer in place. Fitzwarren was indeed funding this voyage and was, therefore, Codd’s employer. Knowing what I did of the shopkeeper, he would not have paid up front.

  Codd straightened, banging his head on the ceiling as the words sank in. “Did he now?”

  The Boy nodded rapidly. The corkscrew coiled into his shirt front, lifting him from the floor and pulling him towards the captain’s frizzy maw.

  “Don’t trust ol’ Cap’n Codd, do he?”

  “Er- ” The Boy wriggled in the air, a fish on a hook - haha, that’s funny when you think about it - the cod was on the other end! No? Moving on...

  “To be frank, Dick lad,” Codd released him, in a sudden attack of calm, “I’m insulted. You waltz on board with a cat, of all things, complain about the rats, of which there ain’t none, and now you says the boss don’t trust me to look after his wares. Well, I’m hurt, Dick lad, and I don’t care who knows it.”

  The lone eye blinked repeatedly as if fighting back tears. The Boy was taken aback and ventured an apology. The twisted spike clutched at him again, lifting him several feet in the air, bringing him eyeballs to eyeball with the captain.

  “Listen here,” Codd’s voice rumbled low in his chest like a tremor underground. “You just keep yourself out of my way and you and me will get along swimmingly. If’n you don’t and you crosses me, you’ll be getting along swimmingly on your own, all the way home, is...that...understood?”

  “AYE AYE CAP’N CODD SIR!” the Boy couldn’t get the words out fast enough.

  The captain lowered him to the floor. The rolling eye fell on me. I froze - perhaps he wouldn’t mind an effigy, a statue of a cat.

  “What’s this scrawny bag o’ fur still doin’ here?”

  Charming! One-eyed bully. I decided to perform my impression of his face by showing him my backside.

  “It’s for luck, Cap’n,” the Boy stepped between us. “A ship’s cat is lucky.”

  “This one ain’t,” the Cyclops sneered. “He’s goin’ in the briny.”

  “Er- ” the Boy raised his hands in a placatory gesture, “he’s more of an insurance policy, really.”

  “In...sur...ance?” The concept was obviously foreign to Codd. Shame, really; a personal accident plan would have made him richer than Croesus.

 
“Er - yes,” the Boy continued. “Against rats. They’re not going to come aboard, are they, Cap’n, when they see this fine specimen on guard? Comes from a long line of rat catchers does Puss.”

  I did my best to look butch and leonine but calling me Puss sort of spoiled it.

  “Hmm,” the distant thunder rumbled, “rat catcher, says you...”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Codd thought about it. It was like watching a glacier make a snap decision.

  “Well, let me put it this way: you and yon pussycat can stay...but if I so much as glimpse one twitch of a rodent whisker, you’re both shark bait. Clear?”

  “Thank you, Cap’n. I knew you’d see reason.”

  Oops.

  “What...do...you...mean?”

  “Er - I just thought, someone like you might be, ah, one-eyed about things.” As soon as it was out, the Boy was a picture of regret. The captain’s eye burned into him like the tip of a poker. A minute passed like an afternoon.

  “Long as we understand each other,” the captain growled at last.

  “Aye, Cap’n.” The Boy attempted an unrehearsed salute.

  “Hmm...” The captain went away, tapping across the planks with his crutch and wooden leg.

  I couldn’t help it. It was more a release of the tension than genuine amusement but as soon as Codd was out of earshot, I burst out laughing. “Nice going, kiddo!” I managed to gasp between laughs. “You really stood up to him. Looked him right in the eye.”

  “Hah!” the Boy was not amused. “Saved you from a salt bath, didn’t I?”

  “I suppose. But now I’ve got to work my ticket. I’ll have to get shot of those rats - the ones the captain thinks don’t exist - before I can get a minute’s peace. So much for the luxury cruise!”

  “I’m sorry, Puss -”

  “I’m joking, kiddo. Those rats need to be dealt with, regardless of the captain’s opinions.”

  The Boy tried to conceal it but I saw him shudder. Reliving his ordeal in the shop, no doubt. That was my motivation, right there. I would get rid of every single rat - and those in committed relationships too - to give my Boy peace of mind.

  “Come on,” the Boy put me in his shirt and gripped the rope ladder. “Let’s go and wave goodbye to England.”

  ***

  Up on deck, the Boy leaned against the rail as the last of the provisions was brought on board and accounted for in his huge ledger by the little fellow who I presume was Master Bobbin, Mister Bottle’s junior. This little fellow slammed the ledger shut and tucked it under his arm, almost toppling over with the weight of it. He raised his free hand in a signal to someone unseen. A high-pitched pipe was sounded and a pair of sailors put their tanned and tattooed muscles to use by pulling in the gangplank. At another sequence of whistles, the anchor was raised.

  “With me,” Master Bobbin said to the Boy as he walked by.

  “Um,” the Boy hesitated. He’d wanted to wave goodbye to London and England but already the little man was disappearing below deck. The Boy took me from his shirt and placed me on a capstan. “You’ll be fine -”

  “Go!” I insisted.

  He went.

  So I was left to watch our departure alone. There were people - mainly women, the wives, girlfriends and convenient acquaintances of the crew - waving from the dockside. Mostly there was an air of celebration and excitement but some of those faces were not without sadness, and some of those bellies were not without a litter.

  My eye was drawn to a bustle of activity within the group. A young boy was pushing his way to the front, bearing a knotted bundle on a stick. He was calling out to the departing ship, bidding it to wait for him. Gradually some of the others took up his cry, imploring the sailors to hold on.

  The gangplank was halfway in by this point. The topman we had encountered earlier dropped from his station in the rigging. He balanced on the gangplank and held out his arm to the boy on the dock.

  “Jump, lad!” he urged.

  The boy was hesitant to say the least.

  “Jump!” urged the crowd, diverted from their emotional goodbyes by this chance to witness a stunt. I suspect some of them were hoping the boy would fall into the water - the ones who were shouting the loudest.

  The boy planted his feet firmly on the edge of the stone wall. People backed away as he swung his stick and hurled it at the ship. It fell short of the gangplank and dropped into the water, disappearing forever.

  “He throws like a girl!” jeered someone in the crowd.

  “Come on, lad!” urged the topman. The sails were filling. The ship was beginning to move. The boy turned his back and walked away. The crowd made sounds of disappointment until they saw the boy turn again and take a run-up to the water’s edge. He flew through the air and landed, belly first, on the edge of the gangplank. The topman stooped and pulled the boy all the way on board.

  The crowd released their collective breath. It had been neither the spectacular landing nor the tragic demise they had hoped. Some moved away; others remembered why they were there and resumed their waving.

  The topman helped the boy to his feet but the boy swatted him away.

  “I can manage,” the boy snapped, ungraciously. “But thanks.”

  “Welcome aboard, I’m sure,” said the topman, unimpressed. “Get you below and Mister Bottle will sort you out.” He climbed up into his rigging, muttering something about cabin boys these days.

  The boy looked around. No one minded him; everyone was busy. No one except me, that is. I stole closer to get a better look. The voice had confirmed what I’d suspected as soon as I’d caught a whiff of him on the breeze.

  The Girl!

  She had cropped her hair close to her scalp and was attired in male garments but she couldn’t disguise her true identity from me.

  She sensed she was being observed and her nervousness was briefly alleviated when she recognised the observer.

  “Puss!” she cried, giving me a pat. “It is you! Then this is the right ship!”

  I rubbed myself against her hand and purred a little.

  What on Earth was she doing there? And how could I find out?

  “Aw, you know me, don’t you, Puss?” she stroked me along the length of my spine. “You won’t tell, will you?” Then she laughed at the preposterousness of the idea. “What am I saying? Of course you won’t.”

  I jumped away and began to wash, affecting nonchalance.

  Just what this voyage needed: another bloody complication.

  At Sea

  The Bow Belle set sail without further incident. I followed the Girl below where Bottle and Bobbin were checking and double-checking the provisions in the hold. Where the Boy was, I couldn’t say.

  Eventually, the beady eye of Mister Bottle fell on the Girl. His square head stared at her blankly. Alice recognised this as a prompt.

  “Good day, masters,” she said, keeping her voice as deep as she could. However she forgot herself and performed a near-perfect curtsey, which she tried, as she rose from it, to turn into a succession of bows.

  The two men eyed each other. A light seemed to come on inside Master Bobbin’s head.

  “New cabin boy!” he exclaimed.

  Mister Bottle scowled, his angular face like a primitive carving coming to life. “Another youngster on board. I can’t be doing with training up youngsters all the livelong day.”

  “Begging your pardon, masters,” Alice cleared her throat and bowed again for good measure. “I don’t need much training. I looked after my poor invalid mother, Lord rest her, fetching and carrying all the livelong day - if’n I might borrow your phrase, sir. So I’d be a dab hand in the galley, masters, and a boon to your cook. And what’s more, I can sew - my poor mother taught me - so if there’s any repairs needs doing to the sails, or th
e men’s clothes, well, I can do that an’ all.”

  I fought down my surprise. The Girl was better prepared than I thought. Her facility with lying rivalled anything Brom, Carac and Johan could come up with. But then I suppose living with a father like hers, she’d soon develop an aptitude for concealing the truth and fashioning falsehoods.

  She had found an appreciative audience. Her curriculum vitae - and my guess is there was some truth in it - won them over.

  “Master Bobbin,” said Mister Bottle.

  “Mister Bottle,” said Master Bobbin. I suppose they thought they were cute.

  “Escort this youngster to the galley. I’m sure the cook’ll be glad of the extra pair of hands.”

  “Yes, sir, Mister Bottle sir.” The smaller man turned to the Girl. “This way, son,” he said before striding off into an adjoining compartment. The Girl nodded deferentially to Mister Bottle and hurried to catch up with the quickly disappearing Bobbin.

  “Here!” snapped Mister Bottle and I realised with horror he was looking directly at me, “What are you looking at?”

  I put all my energy into keeping my face perfectly still and my eyes fixed on one of his coat buttons. He awarded me a venomous scowl and left me there. I remained in that position for a while after he’d gone, reminding myself I need to appear less attentive around humans.

  The Boy arrived.

  “Where have you been?” I asked, trying to sound like I wasn’t bothered.

  “Up on deck,” he replied, apparently not sensing I was in a bit of a mood. Well, I was! This whole thing about being on a ship where I wasn’t wanted; the fact that it was a ship, was another worry - putting all our trust in some rotting planks of wood to keep us out of all that water; cats don’t particularly like water, remember. And now there was this thing with the Girl and her new identity and - well, you know all this. I was about to let rip and vent my concerns when I noticed that the Boy was not his usual optimistic self.

  I put my frustrations aside. “What’s up, kiddo?”

  He sat beside me and scratched my chest. “Have I made a mistake, Puss?” he began. (Calling me Puss is a mistake - but I refrained from pointing it out on this occasion.) “While I was up on deck just now and watching England shrink away, I couldn’t help feeling I was leaving something behind. I don’t just mean the country and everything and everyone I’ve ever known but, I don’t know, something. I want to do something with my life; I want to be somebody. Perhaps London is the best place I can do that in. Perhaps I shouldn’t have left it so readily.