I AM THE CAT

by William Stafford

  I trotted away towards Alice and the others and told her the kid wanted her to make sure everyone got out. To her credit, she overcame her surprise at hearing my voice and set to her appointed task at once, ushering the raggedy remnants of the Bow Belle crew around the edge of the room to the doorway. Captain Codd was loath to go.

  “Mighty fine eatin’ on yon rat,” he observed wistfully, as Alice enlisted a couple of sailors to bundle him towards the exit.

  The Rat’s tail flicked across the floor, a lazy anaconda, before it coiled around one of the pillars that flanked the exit and yanked it away. The doorway collapsed, blocking the way out with its own rubble. No one was to leave. My brother wanted his audience.

  “Let them go!” the Boy was standing his ground. He held his sword with both hands, ready to strike. The Rat lowered his upper body. He could have swallowed the Boy whole right there and then. I held my breath.

  The nose, broader than the Boy’s chest, twitched and sniffed. A pink paw flicked the Boy across the room. He landed, back first, halfway up a pillar and crashed to the floor.

  The Boy looked stunned and dazed but he got to his feet, set his jaw and took determined, if somewhat shaky, strides back towards the monster.

  Again, he was flicked aside like an annoying insect or a bogey on the fingertip.

  And he again he stood up and went back for more.

  It happened a third time. It took him longer to stand; he used his sword as a support.

  “I’m not going to toy with you forever, boy,” the Rat sounded bored. “Come at me again and I will kill you.”

  “Dick!” Alice cried from across the room.

  Slowly, the Boy raised his sword aloft and took a shuffling step towards the Rat.

  The Rat’s eyes flashed with pleasure. He was going to enjoy this.

  Or so he thought.

  At that moment, I pounced! While the Boy was providing a distraction, I had climbed a pillar. I launched myself onto my brother’s face, forming a feline blindfold. I dug my claws into the sides of his head. He screeched enough to shatter glass and tried to shake me off.

  The Boy made his move. He plunged his blade into the Rat’s soft underbelly. With a roar, the other sailors sprang to help, grabbing sticks of broken furniture for weapons. They assailed the monster, beating and pounding him into submission. It was not an easy task. The Rat flung himself about the room but I held on - doggedly (have I done that joke already?). He crashed into a pillar, sending it tumbling to the ground. His attackers withdrew but only for a moment. A second pillar was demolished. Aloft in the chandelier, the Sultana began to scream for her beautiful palace.

  As the assault continued, I became aware that my brother was shrinking. Before long, I was hugging his entire head. And then we were of a size, embracing like twins in a womb.

  And then he was rat-sized and I let instinct take over.

  The men formed a corral so the rat could not escape. I chased him around, batting him ahead of me like a ball, throwing him up into the air, letting him land and run a few steps before pouncing on him. Again and again this happened, until he was absolutely exhausted.

  People think cats are cruel to do this. They think we are playing with our food - not that I had the slightest intention of tucking into my brother. But, as I watched my cat self from a dispassionate distance, I saw there is more to it. The rat has sharp teeth and claws. He could easily catch my eye or tear my throat or claw my vitals. But if he’s too knackered to twitch a whisker, I can safely move in and -

  Wait! My brother’s voice rang out in my head. Don’t do it! It will change nothing.

  Oh, no? I replied in the same manner, delighted to have found my inner voice again. Then why ask me not to do it?

  He was pinned to the floor. His paws tried to scurry but I was pressing down too heavily. I bared my teeth and sank them into the sweet spot at the top of his spine.

  One quick bite and the rat was dead.

  I stepped back from the corpse and had a wash.

  “Well, if he’s not goin’ to eat it...” Captain Codd began, but Alice held him back; a good thing too because the rat began to glow. A pulsating, eyeball-searing light emanated from the body. We all had to look away but through our eyelids and the limbs that shielded them, we could tell the light was filling the room.

  And then suddenly, with a whoosh, the light went out.

  My brother had left the building.

  ***

  First there were the celebrations. The Sultana threw a city-wide party to mark their deliverance from the monster and it seemed a less arbitrary reason to celebrate than marking a decade of her bum on the throne. And, of course, my death sentence was withdrawn. I was treated the best of the lot, although the Boy as my owner and the Girl, as his girl (as she now undoubtedly was) didn’t fare at all badly.

  The sailors, in return for helping to rebuild the ruined palace, were given accommodation and also the materials and additional manpower to reconstruct the Bow Belle. Captain Codd oversaw the rebuild, barking orders and curses in equal measure from the jetty, newly accoutred with a corkscrew made of gold.

  All of a sudden, a year passed.

  Life was so good on the island of Cockagnia, the preoccupation with the passage of time and the inevitability of death just didn’t feature in our everyday lives.

  But the ship was finished and ready for the off. The Girl was keen to return to her father, although I didn’t know why. The Boy was eager to get back to London, and I knew exactly why. He told me he dreamed of bells, calling him back and dubbing him “thrice Mayor of London”. He had that faraway look in his eyes, that old yearning.

  The three of us approached the throne to inform the Sultana of our departure.

  She listened as the Boy and the Girl expressed their wishes and their gratitude, keeping her customarily haughty expression. She had eschewed the oversized turban in favour of a more demure fez with scarves arrangement.

  “We are sad to see you go,” she said. “And I wish the two of you a long and happy life together.”

  The Boy and the Girl bowed low and said thank you.

  “Hang about, ‘the two of you’?” I sat up straight.

  “That’s right,” said the Sultana, “Not only do you speak but you can count as well. You, my fine furry friend are to stay with me. I need protection in case the rodents return and I believe a fantastical creature such as you will fare much better here on this mystical island than back in that English dunghill.”

  “Majesty, I -”

  She silenced the Boy with a raised ringer.

  “Master Whittington,” she said, “you return to London a very rich man, with a brand new ship laden with treasures beyond imagination. You have this beautiful young woman to be your bride. I am certain you will make a name for yourself, a name that will endure as the centuries pass. The cat remains here.”

  “But-”

  This time it was the Girl who curtailed him. “Come on, Dick. Let’s go.”

  “Listen to Alice. Be ruled by her,” the Sultana’s eyes twinkled. “Your life will be the better for it.”

  She swept from the room, leaving the Vizier to make sure I did not abscond.

  The Boy dropped to his knees and cupped my face in his hands.

  “So this is goodbye, Puss,” he said, sadly.

  “How many times!” I complained but my heart wasn’t in it. In fact, my heart was on the verge of cracking. I jumped up to the Boy’s thighs and rubbed my head, neck and back all over him, trying to get as much of his scent on me as I could. And I would never wash it off, never, never.

  The Boy sank his face into my fur, shedding fat salty teardrops that sank through to my skin.

  “You’ll be better off here,” he said, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “I’ll neve
r forget you.”

  “Listen, kiddo,” I looked him in the eye, “Pets come and go. We’re not meant to last forever. At least you’re leaving me in this heavenly place and not chucking me in a shoebox and burying me in your garden.”

  “I guess...” And then he frowned, “What’s a shoebox?”

  “Forget I spoke,” I said.

  ***

  I watched the ship set sail. I watched from the ledge of the palace’s highest window so I could keep it in my sight for the longest possible time.

  ***

  You’re unhappy, brother.

  Go away.

  Why are you still here?

  I could ask you the same question. Go away!

  I mean why are you still here, in this mortal being? You could have dropped it long ago, when you killed me.

  Perhaps I preferred it.

  You couldn’t tear yourself away from the Boy, you mean? You couldn’t bear to be parted from him!

  Perhaps...

  And how’s that working out for you, eh?

  Piss off!

  You’re free! We can be as we were!

  No; things have changed. I have changed.

  And you can change again...

  What do you mean?

  Brother, brother! You have been limited by mortal restrictions for so long I think your imagination has stagnated.

  And whose fault’s that?

  Well, we can argue for the rest of eternity if you like or you can listen to my idea and let me make things up to you.

  ...I’m listening...

  ***

  And so, I watched as the Vizier tried to explain to the Sultana that the cat was no longer in residence and was nowhere to be found. And I watched as Captain Codd announced to the assembled crew that a stowaway had been found on board the Bow Belle and I heard their cheers as the cat was revealed to them. And I felt the warmth of the Boy’s embrace and the amazed laughter of the Girl as they welcomed the cat back into their arms and into their lives for the rest of his natural, speechless days. For the cat that I was could no longer speak and was no more than a cat.

  And that’s how it should be.

  I watched the happy reunion with old man Fitzwarren as he ran up the gangplank to throw his arms around his daughter. There were tears but joyful ones and apologies and forgiveness. A year without his daughter had taken its toll on the shopkeeper. When he saw the riches contained in the hold, he shook the Boy firmly and warmly by the hand and called him Son.

  That’s how it should have been.

  Your history books will tell you otherwise. They will tell you that the man known as Richard Whittington, although he did indeed become Mayor of London not thrice but four times, didn’t have a cat. He was a rich man who did great things: setting up some public toilets is not the least of them! He financed the King’s wars and other extravagances, paid for repairs to Westminster Abbey and Saint Bartholomew’s hospital, as well as setting up a library and homes for the poor. A bit of a philanthropist, all told.

  But he didn’t have a cat.

  My brother and I decided our meddling in human affairs and the course of events had got a little out of hand. Our place is to watch and not interfere. We had allowed mortal affairs to come between us. I never said as much but I guessed that jealousy was at the heart of my brother’s actions. He believed I cared more for the humans than I did for him, the silly sausage. We decided we would not stick our incorporeal spanners in the workings of human history again. But before we could withdraw and resume our role as mere observers, we had to do one last thing.

  And so we went back, we went right back to the barn at the beginning of this story.

  And a young boy, at the outset of his life’s adventure, called in for dinner. When he left, a pair of green eyes flashed among the hay. A pounce and a squeal and a rat lost its life. And things took a different, some might say less eventful, path

  Without my brother’s interference, there was no fire and so the farm was not destroyed. It would take the debt-ridden death of the father to prompt the Boy to seek his fortune in London, to look for his Cockaigne. He didn’t find it but he went some way towards creating it for his fellow man.

  ***

  I often go back and see the Boy at his happiest: on his wedding day to Alice Fitzwarren. I no longer have a heart but the heart I borrowed taught me what it’s like to have a heart, a heart swelling with the unutterable joy of seeing your loved ones happy.

  When he had made his money, a portrait was commissioned. Mrs Whittington frowned when she saw it.

  “Why is there a cat in it?” she asked. “Why are you holding a cat?”

  “I dunno,” the Boy, now a Man, shrugged, “it just seems right.”

  ***

  My Boy died, as all mortals must, in the year 1423, leaving his beloved London a much better place, not least in terms of sanitation. Leaving the world a better place for having lived in it is what all mortals should aspire to do.

  But there is one final twist to the story:

  The Boy’s grave was dug up - the outrage! - just because some idiot thought some treasure had been buried alongside the body. Humans cannot resist the idea of fabled treasure, as we know.

  No treasure was found but there were the mummified remains of a moggy!

  How did that get in there?

  I asked my brother but he merely smirked.

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