Anton and Cecil

by Lisa Martin

  “Mmmmph!” it exhaled in high-pitched surprise, opening its sparkling eyes wider, then turned to its companion. “Adrianna, look over here at the cat creature!” Its voice was squeaky and strange, like watery music. The second figure swam forward to see past the first, then let out a tuneful giggle and waved a flipper.

  “Hello, cat creature! You look like a wet rag, I’m afraid!” She laughed, like raindrops drumming on glass, and dived into the waves. Both dolphins had long noses and wide mouths that seemed to be perpetually smiling, or perhaps smirking, at Cecil.

  Cecil raised himself up. “Excuse me, who are you?” he shouted through the wind. “What are you doing here?”

  The first dolphin turned to him and blasted air from his head in amusement, all the while swimming strongly alongside the speeding ship without appearing to tire.

  “I am Leonardo,” he said, his liquid voice dropping to a lower pitch and slowing down, as if speaking to a young or dim-witted creature, “and we call ourselves the Maculato. We are without doubt the fastest dolphins in the ocean.” He glanced up at Cecil for effect, then continued. “We like to race the ships, you see, but it is only fair to race in a storm such as this. Otherwise we win much too easily.” He gestured backward with his great long snout, and Cecil looked down the side toward the stern. He spied eight or nine other similar creatures of different sizes and speckled patterns, veering and bounding crazily in the ship’s wake. Adrianna shot up out of the water nearby, executing a perfect backflip and sprinting through the waves to catch up.

  “Yes, of course,” Cecil called down, though he had never heard of any of this. “You look a bit like whales, you know,” he added.

  Leonardo let out a disdainful poof of air. “But we are not! No, the whales are much too serious. They are always busy working, never stopping to play. They only leap occasionally—”

  “And awkwardly,” Adrianna put in.

  “And they move so slowly that their skin grows barnacles, like a ship.” Leonardo shook his head, still smiling. “We prefer the fun life, excitement, seeing the world.”

  Adrianna lifted her eyes to the stormy sky and squeaked, “I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.” Cecil, surprised, began to ask about the mermaids, but Leonardo cut in.

  “Are you a prisoner?” he called to Cecil, tacking sharply away to avoid being sideswiped by the bucking ship.

  Cecil thought about this. “Not really,” he shouted. “I’m looking for my brother. Have you seen a gray cat, smaller than me, recently?” He struggled to stay on the ropes as an enormous wave crashed over the railing, drenching him further.

  Leonardo shook his long snout briskly. “We don’t often see cat creatures in the storms. You are unusual.”

  Adrianna chuckled again, and chirped to no one in particular, “This above all: to thine own self be true.”

  “Right you are! Most wise,” said Leonardo, nodding vigorously. He glanced up at Cecil. “She’s always got a saying for the occasion. It’s quite extraordinary.”

  Adrianna was surging ahead toward the bow wake when she pulled up as if remembering something. She slowed until she drew even with Leonardo again and smiled up at Cecil, trilling in a high key, like a prophecy, “Where the eye sees the eye.” She zigzagged in the waves and began pulling away.

  The words rolled around in Cecil’s mind like a whirling school of fish. “What does that one mean?” he shouted. He could see that Leonardo was losing interest in him and keen on catching up with his competitor.

  “It is where lost things are found. You must go where the eye sees the eye,” explained Leonardo. “But I cannot tell you where that is, precisely.”

  At that moment, a bolt of lightning stabbed the sea close by, flashing in the deep black eyes of the dolphins. They whistled a piercing cry and reared up, all together, then plunged under the waves. They were gone in an instant. Cecil was left, soaked and freezing, alone at the rail.

  As he tried to stand on his stiffened legs and unclench his petrified claws, Cecil marveled at the strange beauty of the dolphins, and pondered the saying, “Where the eye sees the eye.” Sure, he had heard the crazy phrase from some of the older cats back home but never thought it meant anything, at least not for him. Where could such a place be? he thought doubtfully. And if I found it, would Anton be there for me?

  Darkness was gathering about the ship. Cecil had never been out on the sea at night, though he had long dreamed of it. In his dreams the sky was bright with stars and a pale full moon, their reflections rippling in a tranquil ocean. This was much different; angry waves pitched the ship callously about and thick clouds crowded the night sky. For the first time, Cecil felt horribly alone. What am I doing? he asked himself bleakly. I’ll never find Anton in a sea so immense as this. He wondered how he would even find his way home again.

  As he struggled back to his meager shelter, Cecil looked over his shoulder once more, searching for the dolphins frolicking in the storm, but the light was failing and he strained to see through the driving rain. One last flash of bright lightning accompanied by a terrible thunderous boom illuminated the wide, boiling ocean for a long second. Cecil’s heart shivered in his chest as he glimpsed, far away but clearly outlined, the immense barnacled tail of a whale slowly disappearing into the deep.

  CHAPTER 7

  Teeth and Claws

  On board the Mary Anne, Anton slunk along the hall and into the storeroom, puzzling over the sudden change in his status. It had something to do with the rat. The sailors were as repelled by the creature as he was, and they seemed to hold him responsible. He recalled Billy’s story about the time he’d been so hungry he’d been forced to eat one. Never, Anton thought, would I take a bite of such a malodorous creature. He didn’t like sleeping on the same ship with a rat, but he had assumed it would stay out of sight. Why had that big fellow shown his ugly face? Anton sat looking at the flour sacks. He heard a soft scratching against the floor, but there were so many sacks and barrels and crates lining the walls he couldn’t see anything.

  Then a rasping voice floated up, poisoning the air. “I warned you, but you’re still here, you stupid cat. I’ll have to get rid of you myself”—a low chuckle—“when you least expect it.”

  Anton stood and paced in the small room, his brain working over the problem. He was determined to do something, to make his way in this confusing world of sailors and seas and rats. He sat down and gave his face a thorough cleaning. As he flattened his ears and smoothed his cheeks, a resolution came upon him: he would have to kill the rat.

  And he would do it at once. He lifted his head and sniffed the air, rotating his ears from front to back, slitting his eyes while he listened and listened, and then he knew exactly where his prey was and how to get to him. He pushed his way between two bags, leaped upon a crate, then walked across a barrel and another crate. At the far edge of the crate he stopped, stretched his neck out, and looked down. And there it was, the snout twitching ceaselessly and the beady eyes peering up into the darkness, where the rat could sense but not see the danger. It’s almost as big as I am, Anton thought. How am I going to do this? But then his shoulders lowered and his head pulled in and a listening stillness ran along his spine from his head to his tail. He could see into the darkness, and his eyes focused upon the rat until there was nothing else in the world but Anton, crouched, and the doomed rodent below. The rat moved its head from side to side.

  “I know you’re there,” it said, “and I’m ready for you.” It took a step backward, then nervously looked over its shoulder. “Do you think I’ve never killed a cat before?”

  Anton considered this. Was it possible? Or was this brute of a rat bluffing? Why not call its bluff. “Did you steal some poor kitten from its mother?” he said.

  “Come on then,” the rat said. “I’ll kill you, too.”

  Anton sprang. Sensing the darkness closing over it, the rat rose up on its hind legs and bared its teeth. Anton caught the rat’s snout in one set of claws, the meaty shou
lder in the other, and dug in with all his strength. He swung his hindquarters over the writhing back, sinking his back claws in just above the thrashing tail. The rat was strong and it struggled mightily, biting the air and shouting abuse.

  “This ship’s not big enough for the both of us!” it decreed.

  “Have it your way,” Anton said, and as he spoke, the rat wrested its head free and sunk its teeth into the soft pad of Anton’s paw, which made him yowl and pull away. Thus freed, the rat twisted in its captor’s grip.

  “You’re no match for me!” the rat cried. “You’re dead!” With a sudden lurch, it latched on to Anton’s throat.

  Without fear or anger or so much as a thought, Anton grasped the rodent at the back of its neck and tore it loose from his throat. He had a good grip now.

  “Not yet,” he informed his opponent. Recapturing the rear end of the rat with his hind paws, Anton flattened the front end with a full set of claws in each shoulder. Then, opening his jaws wide and baring all his sharp teeth, he brought his mouth down at the base of the rat’s skull and administered, with accuracy and speed, the killing bite. The sinewy body bucked once beneath him, the tail stood up straight then flopped to the floor. The rat was no more.

  Anton bore down for another moment or two as his sense of who and where he was, and what he had just accomplished, filled his brain. Then he withdrew his claws and released his jaws, gagging at the fur and blood that came away in his mouth. He staggered as he stepped back, and the pain in his throat and paw reminded him this victory had come at a cost. He sat back on his haunches and examined the injured pad, going over and around it with his rough tongue. Now what? he thought. How was he to let the sailors know what he’d done?

  The dead rat was still. Its shiny eyes had gone dull and flat; it was no longer a threat to anything. It was also, as far as Anton was concerned, not a fit meal either, and he was still groaningly hungry. The sailors were tucked in their cots, all but those on the deck for the night watch, and Cloudy wouldn’t make his appearance in the galley until just before dawn. There would be no way to lure him in to see Anton’s trophy; no, Anton would have to take the rat to the man and stick around long enough to make sure he got the connection—rat dead thanks to valiant effort of cat.

  It was a loathsome business, and it took all Anton’s energy to accomplish it. He took the rat’s neck in his mouth again and lifted the creature like a kitten, though this smelly and heavy burden was as unlike a kitten as anything could be. Limping from his wounded paw, he carried it out along the hallway to the galley floor. When he had the rat inside the doorway, he dropped it and resolved to go no farther. A few more licks of the paw, and a bit of face cleaning, and then it was time to wait. He looked about the room, feeling hungry and tired. What a battle! If only Cecil were there, Anton would have such a story to tell, and Cecil would know just how fine a feat it was for a cat of Anton’s sensitivity. Good work, brother, Cecil would say. Anton smiled at the next thought that crossed his mind, in Cecil’s voice: Put the rat on the table. It will say you care.

  It would be a struggle, but something made Anton certain it was the right thing to do. To present the rat in this way, to prove his good faith in doing his duty, should earn him the respect, and possibly the fish dinner, he knew he deserved. Anton gazed upon the dead rat. He could get it up on the bench in one small leap, and then it might well be possible to fling himself and his prize onto the big cutting board. Come along, mate, Anton thought, as once again he took the rat’s nape into his mouth. We’re going to make you look quite appetizing.

  Two skillful leaps and it was done. Anton arranged his offering, centered on the board with the tail straight out. Then, tired to his bones, he lay down on the far side of the table and fell instantly into a dreamless sleep.

  He awoke to a shout. Cloudy was standing over him, his palms pressed against his cumulous beard, his eyes wide with alarm. “Lord, have mercy!” he said, taking in a long breath.

  Anton sat up at once, trying to gauge the tone of this remark. Was it surprise, anger, outrage, gratitude? Cloudy gave his attention to the rat.

  “Look at the dreadful beastie,” he proclaimed. “He’s of a size with ye. I hardly dare touch him for fear of contamination.” He turned to the sideboard, took up a cloth and put it over the rat’s middle, then picked up the corpse and headed for the deck. “Overboard with the devilish creature,” he said.

  Anton started to follow, but one step persuaded him he’d just as soon wait to see what happened next; his foot was sore, and he was weary, hungry, and still dazed from sleep. He heard voices above, Cloudy speaking to one of the sailors, then down the hatch appeared the shoes, legs, chest, and head of the cook, who stood for a moment, arms folded over his chest, gazing at Anton.

  “But look at you, brave heart, the brute has wounded ye.” He approached Anton mewing like a mother cat and brought his fingertips toward the fur on his neck. Anton’s first thought was to run, but there was something in the manner of the man, a gentle concern that Anton had never experienced before, and so he steeled himself, as the fingertips came closer and closer, until, tenderly, the cook touched the bloody fur on his neck, drew his hand down Anton’s side, and examined the deep cut on his paw. “You put up a fight, mate.” Anton had to close his eyes, wondering what would happen next. If only it would be something to eat! As if the cook read Anton’s thoughts, he turned away, pulled a tin pan from the sink rack, and went rummaging among the cans and bottles in the cupboard above his stove.

  “No porridge for you this morning,” Cloudy said. He took down a can, punctured it with a blade, poured out the thin white liquid into the tin, and set it before Anton on the table. “That’s for starters,” he said. Anton bent over the milk, sniffing carefully, then tested it with his tongue. It was good. He hunkered down to lap it up while Cloudy went back to his cupboard and took down another tin. This one he pried open with a different blade, and the aroma that issued from it made Anton sit up openmouthed, so that the milk ran down his chin. It was fish! Bite-size greasy fish such as Anton had never seen before, and Cloudy forked one, two, three into the pan. Their heads were crunchy; the little bones cracked against his palate delightfully—delicious, delicious, delicious. From deep in his chest Anton could feel the rumble of a purr running over his shoulders and down his back. He looked up at Cloudy, who held the tin in one hand, the fork in another, crooning to Anton. “That’s to your taste, is it? I thought so, I thought so. Here, have another.” When Anton was full, he sat down and slowly ran his tongue around his mouth, enjoying the last bits of the oil.

  The hatch door was open and a soft breeze passed through the galley, warm and damp as a summer’s day on the harbor. Anton closed his eyes, feeling dreamy and gloriously full for the first time in days. Then he heard a sound that thrilled his heart, and he opened his eyes wide, turning his ears to locate the source. A singer with a voice high and sweet began a familiar melody. Anton stood up, strode to the end of the table, and leaped to the floor. His front paw stung him as he landed upon it, and he hobbled a few steps toward the door.

  “So you like the shanties, do ye?” Cloudy said, following Anton to the few steps that led to the deck. Anton made his way up cautiously, and as he came out on the deck another singer joined in, and the song, to his great joy, was one of his favorites. Windy weather boys, cloudy weather boys. Anton had no idea what it meant, but the familiarity of it made him forget his fears, his wounds, his battle with the rat, the dark, hungry days in the storeroom—they all disappeared as he stepped out onto the deck to see the sailors gathered at the base of the enormous mainsail, which flapped softly in the warm, unsteady breeze. It was still dark, and the sky was black with a line of soft clouds drifting across the round face of the moon. Anton drew closer to the men and one of them noticed him, crouched there in the dark.

  “There’s Mr. Gray,” Cloudy announced to his mates. “Our mighty little mate who slayed the blackguard stowaway. Let’s give him a hand.” To Anton’s astoni
shment, the men paused in the song, all directing their gazes toward where he stood, and they began patting their hands together, just as they did at the saloon at the end of a show. Anton drew closer, all his senses alive. The sailors went back to their singing. Stars were fading above; the watery world around him seemed paused between night and day. He sat down near a coil of rope, feeling the change in his whiskers, breathing in the salty air, the sound of the voices in their forceful refrain. When the wind blows, we’re all together boys.

  Anton felt a shadow fall from above and looked up to see the moon. As he watched, the globe of light narrowed, shrouded in thick, dark clouds like folds of fur. It was like an eye, he realized, a great eye, the pupil long and narrow as a cat’s eye, and it was watching him. A breeze rustled the hairs inside his ears, and it whispered to him as softly and clearly as Cecil did when he had a secret to tell. It whispered words Anton both did and didn’t understand: “Where the eye sees the eye,” the breeze said. Anton looked around, as if someone had spoken, but he was alone. The great ship surged beneath him, the sailors raised their voices, and Anton thought, I’m a sailor now. And this thought was curiously pleasant.

  CHAPTER 8

  A Fingerling Mist

  A passing seagull, in the early morning hours, might have mistaken the once grand clipper where Cecil now found himself for a floating white three-ring circus tent missing its tallest center pole, sagging sadly in the middle. But there were no birds in sight, nor any other creatures interested enough to observe the poor ship, which had been dismasted in the storm the night before. With a terrifying crack the gale had snapped off the mainsail mast halfway down. The mast had landed on the starboard railing with a crash that had shaken Cecil awake and left him trembling. We’re sinking! he thought miserably, and he resigned himself to the end, waiting grimly for the rising water to take the ship down in the night’s complete darkness.