I AM THE CAT

by William Stafford

  He cleared his throat. Unfortunately, so did I. Or at least, I tried to. I was suddenly seized by racking, wrenching convulsions from deep within me, accompanied by the most distasteful hawking and retching sounds I didn’t know I was able to make. The look of alarm that grew on the Sultana’s face was a pale imitation of the horror that was welling up inside me. Some kind of obstruction - a thing! - was working its way out of my body, from my stomach and up along my gullet. I honked and gasped, spluttering for air as the object teased its way forward. What was happening to me? I wondered. My mind raced through what I knew about feline physiology. I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight as the thing continued to force its way out. And I wanted it out, more than I had wanted anything since I began this physical existence. It couldn’t stay where it was; it would choke me to death.

  I don’t know what the humans were doing while I suffered this torment. If I could speak - and I couldn’t because my throat was blocked - I would have called out for a veterinarian or a midwife -

  Beneath my fur, I must have blenched.

  Was that what was happening?

  Was I giving birth?

  The prospect engendered such a frantic terror in me I was figuratively having kittens about it already.

  My mind was too panic-stricken to realise what was actually happening until it was over. A frighteningly huge and extremely disgusting cylindrical mass of fur, dander and mucus burst from my mouth like an organic cannonball. It described a parabola through the air; it was as though time slowed down as I watched, with a curious blend of relief and dismay, the hairball rocket along its inevitable trajectory to land with a soft splat directly in the Sultana’s bewildered face.

  Everything stopped. Even I held my breath and I was starved of air. All eyes were on the hairball. Most of it hung there but some of it dropped onto her robes. It was this latest affront that cracked the mask of her face. Disgust, outrage and shock vied for predominance. I think disgust won.

  “Get this off me!” she wailed, throwing back her head. This was not the wisest move she could have made. Some of my ‘offspring’ dropped into her mouth. The Sultana began to cough and choke in a reverse imitation of me bringing the abhorrent thing into the world.

  The frond wavers hesitated but then one of them sprang into action and began to swat the Sultana’s shoulder blades with his fan. The other, not to be outdone, proceeded to do the same. Under any other circumstance, such contact with the Royal Person was forbidden, punishable by death. It seemed to me that this pair, under the guise of attempting to save the Sultana’s life, was settling a few scores with their employer.

  The Vizier dithered around, still holding me in front of him. He handed me to one of the guards. I was received with reluctance; the man was fearful of a scratch or a bite. I was too drained from the hairball’s nativity to offer up any resistance of my own.

  “What in the world -”

  It was the Girl. She flashed past me in a blaze of coloured silks, assessed the situation and grabbed the Royal Person from behind. The fan wavers backed away. Alice leaned backwards, lifting the Sultana off her feet. The Girl’s hands were clasped beneath the Royal ribcage. She shook the Sultana up and down several times until the fur ball gave its encore. This time it landed on the tiles. The Vizier, having been useless up to now, stamped on it decisively. The hairball moved no more.

  The Girl helped the Sultana back to her throne, plumping the cushions and making sure the Royal Person was comfortable. The Sultana was soon restored to her haughty self and shooed Alice away with a flicker of her hands.

  She pointed a sharp and overly long fingernail in my direction. I could feel the guard who was holding me quail from the force of her glare. Her eyes flashed with indignation.

  “Bring me that accursed beast’s head on a platter!” she snarled. She was ugly when she snarled, but it probably wasn’t the best moment to point that out. I also kept my mouth shut about her mistaking me for John the Baptist from the Coventry mystery plays.

  The Vizier nodded gravely to the guards. I was carried towards the doors but before we could leave those doors burst open and a motley bunch of characters crowded in. Of all shapes and sizes, they were dressed similarly to the Girl in silks and translucent veils. The stench that flooded in with them was unmistakable. The survivors of the Bow Belle were all costumed as handmaidens of Cockagnia but for what reason I did not know.

  The guards recoiled as the ‘women’ advanced. The mob spread out to fill the room, fanning their arms almost elegantly. One of them produced a drum, and another a decorated cymbal. They struck up an insistent rhythm to which the others began to gyrate, some more ungainly than others, moving their pelvises in time to the beat. They attempted well-intentioned arabesques and then parted to reveal a lone figure in the centre of the floor. This was the most graceful of the lot - but that wasn’t saying much.

  I recognised him at once. He had somehow recreated his Salome costume and was now holding the posture that indicated he was about to perform her dance.

  I felt my mouth contort into a grin that could have swallowed the Cheshire Cat. Oh, wonderful Boy! Oh, clever Boy!

  That’s what he had been doing all of this time: he must have used his skills at persuasion to get the sailors to put on the clothes, and then he had rehearsed the big galoots as backing dancers to his star turn.

  The rhythm infected everyone in that room. There was not an individual there who wasn’t swaying, tapping or nodding in time with the beat. Boom chink a boom chink! Boom chink a boom chink! I found my own head was bobbing. All eyes were on the Boy; he was an oasis of stillness at the centre of the room.

  And then, slowly, the veiled figure began to turn. A leg extended from the diaphanous skirts. It curled in the air, like the shapely neck of an inquisitive swan before the foot gently touched the marble tiles. The Boy’s arms stretched out, winged in chiffon, and he ran lithely around the room. Every sailor swayed rhythmically as he passed, like wheat buffeted by a breeze. The Boy returned to the centre. He began to writhe. He peeled away one veil, baring one arm, and then the other. He performed the Salome dance as he had never performed it before. Everyone in that throne room was mesmerised: the guards, the fan-wavers, the gong-bongers, the courtiers, the officials, but above all the Sultana herself was transfixed.

  I had to shake my head to break the hypnotic spell. This would be an ideal opportunity to escape and keep my head attached to my neck so I could shake it another day.

  Keeping my head and tail low I slunk across to a window. I bounded to the sill, as agile as I’d ever been but there was a kind of heaviness in my heart. I took one last look at the Boy, trying to send him a telepathic thank you and goodbye, but he was completely focussed on his Salome.

  More and more people were slipping into the room, attracted by that persistent rhythm and becoming enthralled by the dance. Unless the Sultana was the most unreasonable creature in creation, the Boy had saved them all. Never underestimate the power of the theatre on the human heart. Surely he had passed this audition for the jubilee celebration!

  It was time for me to go.

  I gazed at the ground below - far, far below - and tried to calculate my route. I could launch myself towards that minaret there, from there to that awning and from there - my attention was arrested by movement. It seemed as though the path below was flooded. Dark water was flowing towards the building - uphill towards the building!

  I shook my head as though to clear my vision and looked again.

  It wasn’t dark water.

  It was a stream of rats, the sleek fur on their backs rippling and rolling like a fast-running rill. They rose up and overwhelmed the palace guards before surging like a tidal wave and forcing the doors open. I glanced back over my shoulder. Everyone was still caught up in the dance. There were only two veils to go.

  Sounds and screams from elsewhere in
the palace went unheeded by everyone except me, as the river of rodents made its way through the building. I was in no doubt about where they were headed.

  The Boy unhooked the penultimate veil and waved it in circles over his head like a lariat. He cast it towards a nearby sailor and pretended to reel him in like a landed fish. I glanced down at the path - empty. The rats were all indoors. It was only a matter of time -

  And in they came! Surging in as one mass, they forced the doors back against the walls, crushing the attendants. They swamped the room, washing the sailors off their feet and carrying them across the floor like flotsam on the tide. The musicians finally stopped playing the rhythm and the spell was broken. People, screaming and crying, all tried to get out of the room at the same time. It was a stampede. All was delirium and disorder, chaos and confusion; I tried to keep my eyes on the Boy. He was at the eye of this storm and appeared unharmed in the glimpses I got of him as people, rats and furnishings all came in and out of my line of sight.

  Every surface was awash with rats. They scaled the tapestries and other hangings, using them to swing across the space, or just tearing them down in tatters. People cowered, back to back, trying to keep the rodents at bay.

  The noise was terrific but the stench was worse: the over-riding smell of fear, not just from the humans but from the rats themselves.

  I knew exactly what - who! - they were afraid of. Where was he? I swiftly surveyed the scene. He was not here. Not yet. No doubt he was planning a big entrance. Surely we were entering the endgame now. He had destroyed the shop, wrecked the ship and was now ruining the Boy’s chances in the land of plenty.

  Yes. I decided: this is the endgame.

  I was going to end it.

  ***

  A memory dropped into my mind, vivid and complete: my brother and I when the world was young. We watched the origins of mortal life, the earliest creatures dragging themselves from the mud, gulping and gasping in the air. We watched them develop and change. And multiply! How those creatures multiplied! And my brother and I knew we were no longer alone. We no longer had to rely on each other for company now that the mortals were here.

  Despite their beauty and their brilliance, the limitations of the mortals became apparent very quickly and just as quickly became tiresome. My brother began to toy with their fates, rather than allowing the infinite power of chance to continue unhindered. It fell to me to try to redress the balance. For every misfortune my brother placed in a mortal’s way, I would contrive some corresponding boon. And so, every life has its share of good and bad, of sunshine and rain. The balance is not perfect. Individuals may feel the influence of either of us out of measure. Ironically, this is seen as good or bad luck - but we are the antithesis of luck. We are benevolence and malevolence, yin and yang, alive in the universe, affecting your lives.

  It is never personal.

  Except between ourselves.

  And what had I done to come to this position?

  The memory sparkled in my mind, a diamond hard and beautiful. And sharp:

  My brother was displeased with me. He said I was too much in the world, that I was making things too easy for too many mortals, that I was not allowing chance to do its work. I countered that his influence had always been more powerful than mine, for mortals feel the negative more deeply than the positive. Thirty years of happy marriage, for example, seem as nothing compared to the loss of the spouse. A harsh word spoken in anger leaves deep scars while the warm glow of praise quickly fades.

  I accused him of being similarly addicted to this meddling in mortal life and were it not for me, their world would be intolerable, the suffering and the grief insurmountable. He accused me of pride and over-estimating my influence.

  And that was when he had made his move. While I was trying to counter the devastation of the plague he sent across Europe by encouraging things like hope and faith and scientific endeavour, my figurative back was turned. He cast me down, trapping me in this physical form, like a genie in a bottle. I suppose he thought it was ironic: I could try to fight against the black death-bringing rats in the guise of a pussycat.

  The Black Death had abated but it seems my brother couldn’t leave his precious rats. The idiot! It wasn’t the rats; it was the fleas. How different this story would have been if he’d got his facts straight!

  So here we are.

  ***

  I hurled myself into the fray, bouncing from rat to rat, making my way towards the Boy. He had snatched up a scimitar from a fallen guard and was brandishing it in all directions.

  “Puss!” he gasped, but there was no time for other pleasantries. “I’ll get Alice; you save the Sultana!”

  He slashed his way up the steps, batting rodents out of his path. He was more than semi-naked, having removed most of his outfit in the dance. Scratch- and bite-marks covered his legs and arms. Rage swelled within me. This was happening to my Boy! I should be fighting alongside him, fending off all comers; but I had been given my instructions. I plunged into the relentless tide of rats and fought my way towards the throne, towards the woman who wanted my head on a plate.

  I found her upside down on her fancy chair. Her legs were wriggling in the air as she struggled to right herself. Her oversized turban had overbalanced her and now she was stuck. Her eyes rolled in terror as the river of rodents advanced and then she screamed when she saw me and redoubled her efforts to free herself of her headwear.

  “Permit me, Majesty,” I said with all deference. This stunned her into silence and stillness long enough for me to claw at the turban and unfasten the clasp that held it together. Instantly the fabric unravelled, spilling over the throne to the floor - and providing a convenient means of access for the rats. They scampered along the strips of material towards the very person I had been sent to protect!

  The Sultana clambered ungainly to her feet. She snatched up a cushion and hurled it at my head.

  “Majesty, I -”

  The cushion knocked me from the throne. For once I didn’t land on my feet. Instead I was carried on my back towards the centre of the room. I watched helplessly as the Sultana climbed the back of the throne, trying to find refuge there. Her hair, which had never been cut in her life, now released from its bonds, reached the floor, creating silken ropes for the rodents to climb.

  And where was the Boy? Had he reached the Girl? Had they managed to escape to safety?

  I couldn’t see. I was jarred and jolted, my only view the ceiling, as the rats carried me on their backs. And then I was thrown to the floor. I was just about able to twist around so my feet hit the marble first. I was at the pink claws and scaly tail of my brother. He towered over me - surely rats don’t grow to that size in nature?

  He barely glanced at me but his lips curled in a sneer, exposing yellow fangs.

  And he was still growing! Within a minute he was as tall as a horse. I had to back away to avoid being trampled. I thought the surrounding rats would force me back but they weren’t paying attention. They were hurling themselves at my brother in their dozens. Their bodies were absorbed into his, adding to his mass.

  He was taller than the doors now and still growing. Before long, his head was racing towards the high ceiling. His shoulder knocked a chandelier from its fixture, sending it crashing to the floor. His rodent minions continued to chuck themselves at him, fuelling this growth spurt.

  When the very last rat - a bedraggled, sorry-looking specimen, half lame and elderly - finally reached him, my brother raised his foot, larger than a rowing boat, and brought it down on this straggler, absorbing him as well.

  Plaster dust rained from the ceiling as my big brother (hah!) pushed himself against it.

  All around the throne room: devastation! Every piece of fabric was in shreds. Every item of furniture was matchwood. Every human was a terrified, scratched and bitten mess, in tatters. They clung t
o each other and scuttled towards the walls in a bid to keep out of the monster’s way.

  A shadow fell across them as my gigantic brother bent forwards. He reached out a pink paw the size of a carriage and scooped up the Sultana. He straightened, bringing down more ceiling plaster. The Sultana wriggled and screamed. The Rat pinched her between two claws, opened his mouth and looked ready to pop the writhing ruler into his mouth like an amuse-bouche. Or ‘rich food’ you might say.

  He paused and glanced around. He was waiting for someone to stop him.

  I raised myself onto my hind legs, toppled a bit, and cleared my throat (not the full hairball this time!) but before I could speak:

  “Put her down!”

  The Boy stepped from behind a pillar, his scimitar at the ready. Somehow his state of undress didn’t make him look ridiculous. He looked primal. He looked heroic. He looked ready.

  I bounded over and stood beside him. He glanced down and nodded.

  “What’s new, pussycat?” he said.

  “Thinking about going into pest control, my friend,” I said. Gasps broke out from the other humans. I figured a giant rat would have prepared them for a talking cat. Apparently not.

  Plaster rained down as the Rat’s shoulders shook the ceiling with his laughter.

  “Put me down!” roared the Sultana. The Rat dropped her into a chandelier. She clung on for dear life as it swung to and fro, like an ornate pendulum marking out the final moments of this confrontation.

  The Boy dropped to one knee, ostensibly to give me a reassuring tickle but really to whisper his game plan. I purred and pressed my head and spine into his hand as it passed over me. His confidence inspired me - he wasn’t entertaining the notion of failure for one second but I couldn’t help thinking about it. There was every chance the Boy could die.

  But not if I had anything to do with it.