I AM THE CAT

by William Stafford

  Some tried to join the party and follow along but the ponytails had only to glance at their scimitars to discourage all ideas of that nature. The people shrank back but the general atmosphere of friendly interest and polite enquiry did not diminish. I slunk along, not wishing to be spotted, but what I noticed of these natives was they were none of them dressed in rags. Their clothes, all shades of white, were clean and bright, protecting their arms and legs from the sun. They wore hats of varying designs - a means to differentiate social standing, maybe, just as the hairstyles of the soldiers appeared to denote rank.

  Unfortunately there was no time for in depth sociological or anthropological study. It was all I could do to escape their notice. As we progressed towards the heart of the city, I ransacked my mind to try to work out where we were. In all my eons of roaming this world, I had never been to this place before, in any age. It could be that the memory was denied to me, my little cat brain not having the capacity to house everything I had seen or knew.

  I guessed that at the palace all would become clear. The survivors were being taken there for a reason, or else why hadn’t the soldiers just slaughtered them on the beach?

  The residential quarter gave way to the central business district. Here the smells became more varied and more confused and there was a less-ordered sense to the buildings, but the overall cleanliness did not decrease. How very different from dirty old London! I imagined the Boy was having similar thoughts, recalling his work as a gong farmer. It all seemed so long ago now, and far away - which, of course, it was.

  The streets were increasingly crowded as the locals bustled from shop to shop, from souk to souk and stall to stall. Above the general hubbub, the cries of the merchants sang out like calls to prayer, offering the best prices for food, clothing, household goods, jewellery and other luxury items. I couldn’t see the Boy’s face but I could imagine his eyes were the widest of the bunch.

  Surely this was the place he had longed for, the place he had yearned to be! He thought London would be his Eldorado, his -what did he call it? - Cockaigne. And now, here it was: a land of plenty with people living harmoniously in good health and excellent weather. Surely the Boy was feeling he had arrived at last.

  The soldiers bunched together, forcing their captives into a tighter collection of jostling elbows and rubbing shoulders. This was to ease their transit through the busy marketplace. Shoppers stepped out of the way, pausing in their bargain-hunting to watch this impromptu and raggedy parade pass by.

  I got stepped on a couple of times, giving rise to great surprise and regret among the stepper-onners. They were unaccustomed to stepping in anything at all, their streets being spotless and devoid of all debris.

  The third time it happened was the last. One of the ponytails turned around to see what had caused the unearthly yowl. He found me in the clutches of a child, a girl who was pinning me to the ground.

  “What have you there, child?” he said.

  “Dunno,” squeaked the child. I tried to wriggle free, deeming it politic not to scratch the kid; I didn’t want to be seen as a hostile creature and have an encounter with the business end of a scimitar.

  The soldier snatched a sack from a nearby stall, exchanged nods with the shopkeeper and before I could do anything about it, the soldier had snatched me up by the tail (Ouch, by the way) dropped me into the bag and tied it shut, closing me off from the scene, the sunlight and those wonderful smells.

  I put up a belated struggle but soon abandoned the idea. The swaying of the sack as I was carried along with the others seemed an invitation to a catnap to me. I might as well conserve my energy. Again, the idea that the shipwreck survivors were all being taken to the palace for a reason gave me hope. I liked to think it was more than the wish to keep the streets clean that prevented me from being sliced in two in the marketplace.

  ***

  The next thing I knew I was being poured onto the cool marble tiles of the palace floor. Jarred from my slumber I of course landed on my feet. I would have bolted, hurling myself erratically around the room and out of a window but the points of three scimitars were at my neck, and there was also the matter of the Boy. He, like the rest of the prisoners, was on his knees before a throne large enough for even Fitzwarren’s ego. All heads were bowed, including those of the guards.

  Only I looked at the throne’s occupant. A cat may look at a king, as has been said before. Except I found I wasn’t looking at a king but a diminutive female figure. Had she not been clad in golden robes she would have been swamped by the plush crimson cushions. She was of indeterminate age - of all these happy people, she enjoyed the best living - and her eyes glinted like agates in the comparative paleness of her face. On her head was a massive turban of silk, decorated with jewels and enormous feathers. It doubled her height. From the tip of the tallest feather to the delicate curly-toed slippers on her tiny feet, she was every inch regal and aloof. She flicked a ringed finger in my direction.

  “And what have we here?” her voice, though not loud, echoed around the cavernous throne room. In her presence people hardly dared breathe let alone speak.

  The ponytail picked me up by the tail and held me out towards the throne. I coiled around his hand, sinking my claws in. The poor man grimaced, biting back the pain. I hissed and spat, writhing in the air before wrapping myself around his forearm and sinking my teeth in his thumb.

  “No!” It was the Boy. He scrambled to his feet to come to my rescue. The swish of scimitars kept him in check. “Puss!” he cried. He turned to the throne, dropped to one knee and lowered his head. “Majesty, I -”

  “Silence!” the regal voice cut him off. She held out her hands. Two guards scurried forwards to take them and help her from her magnificent but impractical chair. She waved them away and then made her way down the broad flight of steps to come among the cowering strangers on her palace floor. No one stirred; no one dared. “No one addresses the Sultana of Cockagnia without her say-so. As a result of your temerity, boy, you will all be taken to the dungeons while the Sultana decides your fate.”

  The Boy’s eyebrows had shot upwards at the mention of the name - I could guess what he was thinking. He had found it: the mythical land of Cockaigne!

  What a pity we were all going to be incarcerated and decapitated or something!

  The Sultana strode from the room. Guards opened the tall, wide doors for her, not daring to look at her directly. Others of their number gestured for the prisoners to get to their feet and file out via a side exit behind a decorative screen.

  “Wait!” said the Boy, breaking rank. He scooped me up and hugged me a little too tightly but I didn’t care in the slightest. I purred and nuzzled and for a moment felt nothing but bliss.

  “Nice going, Dick,” one of the sailors muttered, giving the Boy a shove.

  “Yeah, well done,” grumbled another, slapping the back of the Boy’s head.

  “Stop that!” cried Alice, before deepening her voice and repeating herself. “It’s not his fault; she was going to lock us up anyway.”

  The Boy sent the Girl a grateful look. “Thanks, Al - an,” he said carefully.

  “Hello, Puss,” the Girl ignored him, preferring to give me a tickle.

  Another shove, but this one was from a guard. We were the last to leave the throne room, following the others down a dank staircase lined with rough stone walls. Down we went, deeper and deeper below the palace. The air became mustier and fustier with almost every step.

  We were pushed through a wall of iron bars. A gate clanged shut behind us. Our party was being kept together while the Sultana deliberated. A few of the sailors cursed and spat when the Boy joined them. The Girl went to check on Captain Codd. The poor man was exhausted from having to hop for miles.

  The Boy sat with his back against the bars and with me on his knees. He looked me right in the eye. “We have to find a way ou
t of here, Puss. For everyone.”

  “Escape?” I glanced around. The thick stone that surrounded us presented no possibility of egress. Unless the Boy knew a spell to change us into vapour, we were stuck there until the man with the key came back.

  “Ssh!” the Boy put his finger to my mouth. “I’ll think of something.”

  I widened my eyes and hoped my expression was eloquent enough to let him know what I thought of that idea.

  After an hour of fruitless, bootless thinking, the Boy seemed on the verge of giving up. The sounds of guards approaching - boots on stone - and the keys jangling on their ring stirred all the prisoners from their private meditations. The turnkey opened the gate and a tall thin man like a pole wrapped in black silk stepped in. He took position in the centre of the cell and having struck a pose for dramatic effect, bowed low. When he straightened, his eyes turned directly to me.

  “Greetings, illustrious visitors,” he addressed everyone but he was looking only at me.

  “I am the Grand Vizier, right hand man to her highness the Sultana. You are to be released from this - this - unassuming accommodation and made welcome somewhere altogether more commodious.”

  The Girl translated this into plainer English for the Londoners, then plainer English still for the befuddled Captain Codd.

  “What’s that?” he wiggled a finger in his one good ear. “Be we prisoners still or no?”

  “Yes!” cried Alice. “I mean, No!”

  This only confused the poor man so he sat back and let his efficient cabin boy handle things.

  “There is however, one condition,” the Vizier looked pained to say so. “Well, um, two conditions.”

  “Name them,” said the Girl, squaring up to this maypole of a man as though she was going to dance rings round him any minute.

  “The first,” said the Vizier, holding up a finger like a pencil, “is that you,” the pencil pointed at the Girl’s chest, “assume more appropriate attire for one of your apparent gender. Here is the traditional outfit of a handmaiden.”

  He clicked his skinny finger against his thumb and it was the sound of a pencil breaking. One of the guards scurried forward, his arms laden with an outfit of diaphanous material. Even from where I was sitting I could see there wasn’t much of it.

  The Girl gave it the most cursory inspection before folding her arms in defiance. “I’m not wearing that,” she said petulantly.

  “My dear,” the Vizier leered, leaning closer to her averted face, “a creature of your beauty and refinement should not be concealing her... attributes in the rags of a lowly cabin boy.”

  A loud gasp escaped from Captain Codd. He gestured to a couple of the men to help him to his foot.

  “What’s this?” he looked his cabin boy up and down as though for the first time, “Alan’s not a lad anymore?”

  “No, Cap’n!” the men chorused, relieved the light had finally dawned.

  Codd looked wistfully at the empty cuff where his corkscrew used to be. “I thought I was the one who lost things.”

  “Wait a minute,” the Boy whispered in my ear. It tickled. “Everybody knew?”

  I gave him a wide-eyed “Well, duh!” kind of look.

  “I suppose it makes sense,” he conceded. “It wasn’t that much of a disguise - but I thought having females on board was considered bad luck...”

  I gestured at the stone walls and iron bars and burly men with curly swords. It wasn’t exactly what you might call the jackpot.

  “But if they all knew but didn’t say so, it wouldn’t be like they really had a female on board...” He was working it out for himself, quietly muttering, while over in the blue corner, the Girl was still refusing to put on the skimpy outfit.

  “You mentioned a second condition,” she tried to change the subject, “What is that?”

  The perilous pencil of providence pointed in my direction.

  “Yonder creature,” the Vizier slithered towards me, “is unlike any other in all Cockagnia. Her Great and Powerfulness wishes to have an audience with it and perhaps serve it up at the Royal Banquet tomorrow.”

  I found myself balking at the idea and realised my error.

  “Oho!” the Vizier laughed, “The beast understands me well enough.” He leaned his face, like the underside of a paper dart, closer towards me. I ached to scratch his nose off but I restrained myself.

  “Don’t be silly!” said the Boy, jumping to his feet and holding me in an unusual way. “He can’t understand a blind word anyone says.”

  Recognising an unspoken cue when I don’t hear one, I adopted a vacant expression and allowed the Boy to manipulate my neck. He went through a few lines of our old routine from our time with Brom and Carac, speaking my part from the side of his mouth. It was less effective than when I uttered my own lines, albeit in a stilted, comical manner, and the Vizier was far from impressed.

  The Girl stepped in. “Excuse him, Mister Visor; he’s not the full groat, if you catch my meaning. Now, you can’t expect me to change in front of all these, these men now, can you?”

  She snatched the clothing from the guard and smiled sweetly. She may have even batted her eyelashes but with my vacant stare I couldn’t really tell.

  “Very well,” the Vizier held up his hand as if to protect himself from the draught emanating from her eyelashes. “You will be accommodated. Bring the beast with you.”

  He swivelled on his heels and nodded for the gate to be open. Quick as a flash, the Boy jumped up to block his path.

  “Please! Don’t take my cat!” It was rather touching to see him plead on my behalf like that. Also a little bit embarrassing. I took refuge in the Girl’s embrace.

  “Listen, sonny,” the Vizier backed the Boy against the bars. “That ‘cat’ as you call it, is coming with me and Her Highness will do with it as she pleases.”

  “But -”

  The Vizier raised a finger and leaned in closer. He murmured into the Boy’s ears but of course, I heard every word. “Englishman, you have no idea what it’s like for me at that - that woman’s beck and call, satisfying her every whim no matter how ridiculous.”

  The Boy nodded sympathetically. He too had experience of an unreasonable employer.

  “If I don’t present her with something spectacular to mark Her Highness’s ten year jubilee, I’m - I’m -”

  “Cat food?” offered the Boy, helpfully. And then, even though his face was partially obscured by the Vizier’s angular shoulder, I could see the Boy’s face light up as it always did when he got one of his ideas. He clapped a hand on that very shoulder and told the Vizier to buck up and leave everything in the Boy’s capable hands. And did he have access to any more handmaidens’ outfits?

  The Vizier gave the hand on his shoulder a withering look before glancing back at the rest of us. The Girl raised her eyebrows and nodded encouragingly. The Vizier cleared his throat; he had come to a decision.

  “Very well, Boy, you have a chance. Serve me well and freedom is yours. All of you, of course. But,” and here he signalled almost imperceptibly to the guards, “Her Highness would still like to see the cat.”

  Rough hands tore me from the Girl’s arms. I tried hissing and spitting and clawing, to stay in character, but an anxious look from the Boy warned me to calm down. I could see his point: if I was too much trouble I’d be in a cooking pot or turned into a new hat or despatched to the Royal taxidermist or - well, you get the idea.

  I went quietly. But I gave the Boy a narrow-eyed glare as I did, a glare that said I didn’t appreciate this betrayal.

  ***

  I was carried, surprisingly gently, back up to the throne room where the Sultana was back on her cushioned chair, looking bored out of her mind. She was being fanned by a couple of servants who looked even more bored than she did, barely waving their enormous fro
nds. The Sultana hardly glanced as the Vizier went in, with the two men carrying me not far behind. (One was carrying me; the other was pointing his scimitar menacingly in my direction.)

  “WHAT?” the Sultana half-roared, half-yawned.

  “A thousand apologies for the interruption, Highness, but here is the ‘cat’ you requested.” He bowed low and made surreptitious gestures behind his backside. The men caught on and approached the throne. My carrier dropped to one knee and held me out to the Sultana. The other, pointed at me with his sword with his other arm raised elegantly to present me. At least he forbore from saying, “Ta-dah!”

  I hung there in the air, looking the Sultana in the eye. She perked up a little and looked at me with happy curiosity.

  “Well, aren’t you the cutest little fellow?” she cooed in the kind of voice humans usually reserve for talking to babies. “Yes, you are; yes, you are!”

  Oh, blimey.

  Her eyes flicked to the Vizier. “Does he, um, do anything?”

  “Do, Majesty?” the Vizier sounded nervous. “Why, Your Highness, this is a cat. An English cat. From England.”

  “And that’s good... why?”

  “Because - because -” I could smell the sweat breaking out all over the Vizier’s skinny body. He snatched me from the guard and held me up like a prize. “Because it speaks, Highness! It...speaks!”

  I shut my eyes.

  So.

  The cat was out of the bag.

  I opened my eyes to find the Sultana’s nose alarmingly close to mine. Her deep brown eyes searched mine for signs of intelligence. I could see myself reflected in them, two tiny chocolate-coloured twins gazing back at me.

  “So you speak, do you, Cat?” the Sultana’s breath smelled of dates and citrus fruit. “Come on then; say something!”

  I looked at her. I yawned a little. Her eagerness did not diminish.

  “Speak!” she commanded.

  “Me?” I said, flatly. “How?”

  This got a mixed reception. The Sultana sent a quizzical look to the Vizier. I could smell the perspiration on his upper lip. “Try again, Majesty,” he suggested. “Perhaps the creature is a little shy.”