Timba Comes Home

by Sheila Jeffries

  I felt brilliant. I was Timba again. My play got more and more creative. I hid behind the stout oak trunks, and leaped out, wild-eyed, my back and tail arched as I sped across the glade. Charged by the magic, I ran into another dimension. The joy was re-creating me: I was a spirit cat being born again from the tatty remains of a tired black cat with burrs in his fur.

  I felt that Vati was there with me and my playing was drawing him out to the bright margins of his darkness.

  Liberated, I whirled and capered until I heard laughter. At home I loved to generate laughter. Nothing made me happier. So, who was laughing at me, here in this lonely forest?

  I paused, and found myself doing exactly what the Spirit Lion had told me to do: stretching out and touching the earth with the whole of my being. And listening.

  My eyes had closed from sheer exhaustion, but I was in a state of trance. The laughter was high-pitched and silvery, and it was coming from hundreds of exquisite beings of light. Their eyes flickered as they laughed, not at me, but with me. These were beings of pure joy. Clustered high up in the trees, they too were listening to some finer, higher song from the Universe beyond.

  I kept still and the tiny beings began to descend like glitter falling through the forest. They came closer and closer until I saw their colours, and felt their love cover me in a canopy of stars. And then I slept, like a dead cat sprawled across the forest floor, and I dreamed of a straight and secret path that would lead me to Vati. The path had the softest, most luminous green grass that healed my paws, and on either side of it rose tall plants with straight stems, growing densely and protectively together, like a guard of honour for me.

  Day after day I trotted through the trees, sometimes running and leaping over clumps of plants, sometimes following narrow paths which looked promising as they wound between ferns. There were plenty of mice and voles for me to catch, as well as starlings, who descended in twittering flocks to feed on the berries, stripping whole trees bare in one sitting. They were easy prey as they paraded around the forest floor, driving their beaks into the ground to find worms and grubs. Mysteriously they moved as one mind, their plumage glistening with rainbows, their wings whirring as they took off in unison, darkening the sky with their swirling clouds.

  The forest had hilltop places almost touching the sky, and I was drawn to them. Each time I expected to see the shining river, and the far-off land where Vati waited for me. I wanted to see the end of my journey. But each hilltop only gave me a view of another wooded hill, and another beyond. It was never-ending, and I started to feel downhearted. The nights were cold now and I chose to travel in the moonlight, sleeping in the daytime when the sun warmed my fur.

  One night the moon seemed to be bobbing alongside me, silver white behind the black trees. The night was a dark crystal, sharp with frost, and all I heard was the whisper of my paws trotting through the cold. Ahead of me was a hill without trees, and the sky above it was coppery and alive with moving lights. At the top, I sat, spellbound, my tail twitching with excitement. Far away the river shone white in the moonlight, and the long bridge sparkled orange, like a necklace of beads strung across the water. There was the taste of traffic fumes in the frosty air, the hum of cars and lorries, their lights reflected in the water as they crossed the long bridge.

  So far away . . . it both encouraged and frightened me. How could a little cat get safely across that busy bridge? I’d have to try.

  On the forest floor the air was still but the west wind roared in the high branches as I spent many days sheltering miserably from a storm. I lost all sense of direction, and began to wonder if I was wasting precious time while Vati was edging closer and closer to death.

  Utterly depressed, I curled up in the leaves, and tried to sleep, switch off, forget I was now a homeless, nameless cat on a mission. Rain glazed the surface of my fur, but I didn’t bother to move. Starlings flew down, but I didn’t bother to catch one.

  Why bother? I was seriously lost.

  My fur, which I’d been so proud of, was driving me mad. Itching, full of burrs, matted beyond belief, and, despite my efforts to groom myself, I ended up being sick from the hairballs I had somehow swallowed. There was even a piece of bramble caught in my tail.

  So intense was my anxiety about Vati that when I finally saw the bridge again I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t stop and try to work out how best to cross it. I thought, Go for it, Timba, and soon I was trotting along the grassy edge of the slip road that led onto it.

  I didn’t expect it to make me ill, but it did, right from the start, down there in the haze of pollution that hung over the tarmac. The winter afternoon was dove grey and still. A yellowish white mist drifted over the river, mixing with the traffic fumes.

  The slip road was easy, but once the grass disappeared there was nothing but iron and tarmac between me and the traffic. The lorries towered over me. The rush of air and the vibration threw me sideways. Each time it happened, I ended up crouching, pressing myself against the metal with my eyes closed. The noise was thunderous and relentless. It rang in my skull. The whoosh of each vehicle blasted gritty air through my fur, almost lifting me off the ground.

  I glanced up a few times at the drivers, hell bent on crossing that bridge as fast as possible. Didn’t anyone see me? Didn’t anyone care about a fluffy black cat, all alone, trying to survive? Surely someone would stop and pick me up, wouldn’t they? I was getting unbelievably tired. It needed every bit of my strength just to stay on the road and not be blown off balance, or knocked into the river far below.

  Nobody stopped for me. I thought about the love I had given to humans. Was I invisible? Did I actually look like a cat now, or like a piece of rubbish blown into a corner? I had a go at putting my tail up and trying to look like a successful cat, but it was impossible. The next thundering lorry sent me rolling sideways until I hit the iron and scrabbled desperately to get back on my feet. And then a man shouted at me from a speeding car.

  ‘Get off the bridge, you stupid cat! Go back. You’ll be killed!’

  The tone of his voice cut into my consciousness. I paused, realising I was not making progress. I was surviving, but only just, and for how long?

  Turning to face the oncoming traffic, I saw the pathetic little distance I had covered, and realised how ill it had made me. My eyes stung so much it was hard to keep them open. My paws shook. My tail dragged in the oily dirt. Even breathing was painful.

  In a moment of despair, I curled into a ball and pressed my face against the cool of the metal. What a place to die, I thought, here on this terrible bridge, alone, with no one to love me. I wanted to die on Angie’s lap, or in her beautiful garden. Not here. Not like this.

  That one thought made me decide to give up. I couldn’t cross the bridge, but I could try to go back. Even to live again in the green forest with my matted fur and lonely heart had to be better than this. So, as long as I breathed, I would drag myself to a quiet haven where I could die in peace.

  A blessed break in the traffic gave me a minute to recall a healing place. With absolute clarity I remembered the owl woman, Mrs Lanbrow, who had rescued me from the trolley. I saw her, and felt her, as if she was really with me, holding me in the glow of her hands. The memory encouraged me to try and save myself.

  I didn’t dare stand on my wobbly legs, for the rush of air from the rumbling lorries would have bowled me over. So I crawled on my belly, my fur dragging on the dirt. Long reaching steps, like a panther stalking, my mouth open now gasping for breath, tasting the acrid smoke from the vehicles. The owl woman seemed to be in front of me, guiding me with the power of her voice, teaching me to wait for gaps in the traffic when it was possible to run, low to the ground. Each time a lorry came I lay flat and clung to the road while the huge grey wheels trundled past.

  At last I reached the slip road and the welcome softness of the grass. Had it not been for the owl woman constantly telling me to move on, I would have collapsed and probably died. ‘You must get away from the road, Ti
mba,’ she kept saying. ‘Get back into the clean air of the forest. Find some water, and rest.’ I wondered how she knew I was in trouble.

  It was dark when I reached the soothing canopy of trees. The damp moss had never felt so beautiful. I licked the moisture from leaves and grass. I wanted to wash, but my fur tasted poisonous, so I drifted into a deep sleep, only vaguely aware that rain was falling, cleansing me.

  When I woke I remembered the owl woman helping me. She wasn’t there now, but she’d said, ‘Before long you will meet me again.’ Did she mean meet her in my memory, or for real?

  My fur was soaking wet. Cold, but clean! And I could breathe again. I stood up and stretched.

  The longing to go home overwhelmed me. To hear Angie’s voice and have her brushing me so caringly, to see Leroy’s bright smile and hear him say, ‘Hello, Timba.’ I loved my humans. What they did for me was awesome, and I enjoyed giving in return. It was an easy kind of giving . . . purring and entertaining and comforting.

  I seriously considered turning back, across the miles of fields and lanes, through that nightmare maze of streets. Could I find my way?

  Thoroughly miserable, I crawled into the solid arms of an ancient oak and found a dry place, protected by overhanging branches. I stayed there for most of the day, occasionally bothering to open my eyes and watch the sparkle of raindrops over the white sky.

  The creatures of the forest were disappearing from my life. Winter sent them deep into the earth to sleep, and my sensitive pads told me where they were. Hungry, I circled the mouse holes and waited, but only the odd one popped out at the zenith of the day. I became dependent on the starlings. If they didn’t come, I had nothing.

  I was getting thinner. My fur felt loose, and so did my bones. My whiskers drooped and I no longer had the energy to play.

  My telepathic ‘chat line’ to Vati seemed dead. Gloomily I speculated that Vati had actually died. Had he gone home to the spirit world, leaving me alone, the last of Solomon’s kittens? Was I too late?

  But there was a voice in my mind. Why did I keep ignoring it? It was insistent. ‘Timba. Timba. Where are you, Timba?’ Suddenly I came alive. I listened, not with my ears, but with my spirit.

  ‘Timba. Timba,’ the voice called huskily. Then it cried, and it prayed. Who was praying for me in that gruff voice? I sat up. My whiskers twitched, and my wet fur quivered as if an electric current had shot through me.

  Leroy!

  Was he searching in the forest? There was no smell of him, no running footsteps. He wasn’t there. Leroy was talking to me by telepathy. My heart leapt with hope.

  ‘I know you’re not dead, Timba,’ Leroy was saying. ‘Angie and I made posters and put them up everywhere. We are searching for you every day, and Angie taught me to meditate so I can talk to you. I’m talking to you now. Are you listening, Timba? I miss you, Timba.’

  I was listening. My spirits lifted, and I sent a message back. ‘I’ve gone to find Vati. It’s a long journey, but I will come home one day soon. Hang in there, Leroy.’

  I sensed that he was crying hard. Had he got my message? Momentarily the crying stopped, and he said, ‘Don’t forget the White Lion, Timba, and the lion in the sky. He’s made of stars and he’s in the south.’

  The lion in the sky! Something clicked in my mind, and I remembered a starry night in the garden when Angie had shown Leroy the constellation of Leo, and on his paw was one of the brightest stars in the universe. Leroy had nearly burst with excitement, and every starry night he’d carried me into the garden and we’d faced south to find the star lion in the sky.

  I yawned and stretched, and padded out into the glade. The rain had stopped. The magic was back. Between the bare trees I saw a blue-bright star. Was that the star on Leo’s paw?

  I walked towards that star, and my tail was up for the first time in weeks. The tiny beings of light glimmered in the wet grass, lighting the way for me, their eyes winking from the darkest places. I walked a different way out of the glade. I paused and felt the energy with my pads, the way the Spirit Lion had taught me. It was strong. A definite subterranean tingle. Mindfully I followed it between the trees, and came out on a long straight track, leading south towards the star.

  I had found a golden road.

  Chapter Fifteen

  CROSSING THE BRIDGE

  In the morning I was on the golden road, the easiest journey so far. I relaxed and followed its arrow-straight track which cut through the forest, uphill and downhill. It wasn’t visibly golden. The ‘gold’ was a kind of song, deep in the earth, a song that tickled my pads with its own particular frequency. It reminded me of the way Graham sang one note for a long time and the glass and china rang with it for an even longer time.

  Vati had told me certain notes were healing. So why wasn’t he being healed now, in Graham’s house? I knew the answer. Vati had closed down. He didn’t eat, he didn’t purr, he didn’t play. Vati was like a frozen cat. Dangerously close to the point of no return. The thought drove me on, even when I was tired.

  Rain had plumped domes of moss to springy softness under my paws. In places there were clear, shallow pools of water that tasted good and rinsed the dust from my pads. Altogether a paw-restoring experience. I began to feel kittenish and joyful again. The winter sun glinted on my whiskers, and warmed my back as I reached the top of the first hill where a group of deer were lying in the sun.

  In places the track plunged downhill steeply and became a sunken road with high banks and overhanging ferns. The magic was there, and the tiny beings of light watched me with eyes that gleamed like raindrops.

  On the third hill, my fur bushed out suddenly. I sensed danger, and couldn’t identify what it was. I sat close to an oak tree, ready to climb into the safety of its branches if I needed to escape.

  What spooked me was a change in the earth energy of the track. Something intrusive, a coarse thud-thudding vibration. Footsteps! Men, with heavy, stealthy boots, invading the forest. I could smell them, a leathery, fusty, smoky tang, and I could smell dogs too. Silent dogs, quivering with excitement.

  Two rabbits shot past me, closer than a rabbit would normally come to a cat, and fled up the track, their tails bobbing. Wood pigeons with their loud, flappy wings were flying out of the trees in a panic. The deer sped past, scudding as if blown by the wind, their dark eyes afraid. Bewildered, I stayed by the oak tree, watching more and more creatures fleeing.

  When I identified the smell of fear, I climbed the oak tree and crouched up there.

  The first gunshot was so close that I nearly fell out of the tree in fright. It was followed by a volley of shooting, the bangs so loud that the shock of them jolted the delicate bones of my skull. My ears hurt and hurt and I began to tremble all over. I wished I’d found a safe hole, not this very public oak tree.

  More shots, and more, and to my horror I saw a pheasant falling out of the sky, somersaulting horribly, its bright wings flailing. It crashed to the floor close to my tree, and then, even worse, a brown-and-white dog came leaping through the bracken, its tail wagging manically. With elaborate care it picked up the dying bird and carried it away.

  The shooting went on and on. Death had come to the wood; the wild creatures who had made it their home were being blown out of the sky. Terrified and upset, I clung to the oak tree and tried not to move. Two men came striding up the track, and I smelled blood. Hanging from their belts were dead pheasants and dead rabbits, swinging limp and upside down, their feet cruelly tied together.

  What if they did that to me? The dogs had smelled me. One of them ran round and round the tree, looking up at me and barking.

  ‘What’s up there?’ The two men stopped under the tree. They peered up at me. I saw the glint of their eyes and their auras were a grubby red.

  ‘It’s a cat!’ said the younger man, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Bloody feral cats. I hate ’em.’ He raised his gun and pointed it at me. I stared down at him. He clicked something and his eyes squinted along the shining metal at me.r />
  ‘No!’ cried the other man, and he raised his arm and knocked the gun sideways. ‘Don’t shoot the poor devil. He might be someone’s lost cat.’

  I heard kindness in the voice of this leathery man who had dead birds and rabbits hanging from his belt. I did what came naturally to me. I meowed at him. He looked pleased. ‘There you are, he’s friendly,’ he said. ‘Feral cats do not meow at people.’ I meowed again, louder. I wanted to tell him how frightened I was, and how I was a cat on a journey.

  ‘What are you doing so far from home, puss?’ he asked. ‘Are you lost?’

  His concern touched my heart and I did an extended-meow which echoed into the tree. At the same time I eyeballed the dog who whined and retreated behind his master’s legs. Once I’d done that, I wanted to make contact with this man who shot birds but had a heart. I worked my way down to a lower branch and walked along it, nicely, with my tail up.

  ‘My missus would love you,’ he said, and even though I was tatty and had burrs in my fur, he added, ‘Aren’t you beautiful?’

  My spirits soared. This man was going to help me, I knew it. The words of the Spirit Lion came back to me. Be smart, he’d said. We touched noses, and I had him.

  ‘You need a bit of TLC, old fella,’ he said, and turned to the younger man who’d been going to shoot me. ‘You take the dogs down and put them in the truck. I’ll bring the cat, if he’ll come.’

  ‘You’re not seriously going to catch a scruffy old thing like that, Alf,’ protested the younger man, clipping a lead onto Alf’s dog. ‘Look at him. He’s a flea bag.’

  Alf sighed. ‘It’s payback time,’ he said, patting the orange-red plumage of the dead pheasants that hung from his belt. ‘You should try it some time.’

  ‘You’re an old softie.’ The young man shrugged and set off, laden with his dead birds and his guns. ‘See ya.’