by Lisa Martin
Gretchen chuckled softly. “They do love to swing, it’s true. Let’s have a look at what’s coming in.”
Gretchen carefully picked her way through the piles and the wreckage spread across the deck planks. Her eyes searched back and forth over the booty. Cecil followed, watching her keenly till he caught a whiff of roasted meat and turned aside to hunt for it. He spotted a large bone with a bit of meat still clinging to it. Ham! I love ham, he thought happily.
“Ah, here we go,” said Gretchen quietly. Cecil turned back to see her grasping a thin piece of cord with her teeth and tensing her back legs to pull it out from underneath a heap of coats.
“What’s special about string?” he asked, dropping his ham bone. Gretchen didn’t answer, but continued to tug on the cord until it slid free from the pile. It was attached to a small canvas pouch, similar to the one Cecil had brought over. She laid the pouch flat on its side on the deck and, beginning at the bottom, began stepping quickly with her paws on the canvas, like she was dancing a little jig, working her way up to the top. At the cinched-up mouth of the pouch she pushed swiftly down with both paws, and out rolled a round blue stone of lustrous beauty.
Cecil caught only a glimpse of the stone, how it was carved with many tiny flat sides, how it reminded him of the dark sea at night lit with cool sparkles of moonlight, before Gretchen scooped it into her mouth and moved off at a fast trot.
“Be ri’ b’k,” she murmured, her words muffled.
Cecil leaped aside in time to avoid a stuffed seabag dropped by the swinging pirates, and trailed after Gretchen, reluctantly leaving his bone behind. He turned a corner and saw her approach a large man who, from the looks of him, had to be the captain. The man wore a long green coat and a black hat with a feather sticking out from one side and tall boots up to his thighs. He dropped down on one knee to greet Gretchen, stroking her head and speaking to her quietly as she placed the blue stone carefully into his other open palm. Cecil trotted toward them to make his introduction, but the captain stood quickly, slipping the stone into his pocket.
“Who let this mangy fat fellow on board?” the captain growled, glaring down at Cecil. “We have a cat. We don’t need another.” He struck Cecil with the side of his tall boot and sent him tumbling head over tail across the deck.
Cecil rolled onto his feet and crouched. What was that for? he thought angrily. These pirates are nuts!
Gretchen sprang past him. “This way,” she hissed, and Cecil followed, his mind whirling. So the stones are worth something, he thought. He felt anxious about the glowing white beauty he had brought with him, still hidden in the knothole. At least, he hoped it was still there. Would Gretchen help him get on the captain’s good side? Whatever happens, Cecil thought, that stone is my ticket. I’d better use it well.
Cecil followed Gretchen among the kegs, barrels, crates, and seamen’s legs on deck to the narrow steps that led down into the galley. At the second step she stopped and looked up at a porthole, which was set into the low slanted ceiling overhead. It struck Cecil as an odd place to put a window.
“Come sit here,” she said, motioning him to her side. “And tell me what you see.” He stepped down toward her, his eyes up on the porthole. The only thing he could see through it was a set of dark steps that seemed to lead down into darkness. But that was impossible because he knew there was nothing out there but the wide, flat deck.
“Is it a picture?” Cecil asked uncertainly.
Gretchen watched him with amusement. “What do you think?” she asked. “Move over this way. Take another look.”
Cecil sat beside her and looked up at the glass. He gasped and stared openmouthed. Two cats sitting side by side were looking down at him through the porthole. He didn’t recognize one of them, but the other had a most distinctive face. “That’s you!” he cried, pointing at the smaller one with white and black fur. “Did someone paint you?” he asked, impressed.
Gretchen shook her head. “It’s me, but not a painting,” she said mysteriously. “Who’s that other guy?”
Cecil studied the other cat. He was a big fellow with sparkling golden eyes and black fur with white whiskers. He looked kind of unkempt and reckless, and quite well-fed. Cecil liked the looks of him, actually.
“Well, he must be some sort of . . .” but he broke off, noticing with a shock that the big cat in the porthole had also raised his paw to point. “What’s going on here?” he asked, as he and the porthole cat moved their paws up and down in sync.
“It’s you!” laughed Gretchen. “It’s a glass that shows you yourself. I think they call it a ‘meer.’ Isn’t it funny? This is how I know what I look like.”
Cecil began to understand. “That’s . . . me?” he asked hesitantly. He straightened up and the porthole cat’s face came closer. He put on his most menacing expression, holding up a paw and popping out his claws. Hmmm, not bad. He tried a knowing grin, and then a mischievous glance. Nice!
Gretchen rolled her eyes. “Okay. Come on, Mr. Full of Yourself, we’ve got to move. They’ll be bringing stuff down here soon, and there’s something else I want to show you.” She turned back toward the deck. Cecil sent himself a regretful farewell salute in the porthole and followed her. No sooner were their feet on the deck than a crewman stomped up and kicked a barrel he was pushing onto its side. The cats sprang away and the sailor rolled the barrel noisily down the steps.
“Over here!” called Gretchen, leading the way. Cecil sprinted after her, suddenly finding himself balanced precariously on the bowsprit, a long thin spar jutting out over the water on the very front of the ship. “Come out a little farther,” she suggested. “We’re out of the way here.” She promptly began cleaning her tail, seemingly oblivious to the waves directly below.
Cecil edged out a few more inches, then settled his girth as best he could on the narrow spar. Looking down at the sea in the orange light of the sunset, he noticed the figure of a fabulous creature carved under the bow, in the same space where the two little girls had been on Anton’s ship, the Mary Anne. This figure had a cat’s face, surrounded by a magnificent circle of fur, and deep, wide eyes that appeared brave and wise.
“Amazing, huh?” asked Gretchen, following his gaze. “They call this ship the Leone. I’ve never seen a cat like that.”
Cecil sat silently. The figurehead had brought Anton back to his mind, where he should always be, if I’m ever going to find him, thought Cecil reproachfully. Gretchen seemed to read his thoughts.
“Have you had any news yet about Anton?” she asked. “Have you picked up his trail at all?”
Cecil looked pained. “Nope.” He sighed. “No idea where he is now. But . . .” He glanced up at her. “There have been a few strange signs, I guess.”
“Like what?” she asked, stretching out her front paws along the bowsprit and sharpening her claws on the sides.
“Well, this will sound crazy,” he said, “but I’m sure there’s a huge and very old whale following me. Don’t know what he’s up to.” He squinted off at the horizon. “And I’ve heard now a couple of times about some ‘eye’ up in the sky, and also a saying where one eye meets another eye.” He shook his head and sighed again in frustration.
Gretchen sat up slowly and looked fixedly at Cecil. “An eye, yes,” she said softly, as if talking to herself. “I’ve heard the saying, too, from Billy and my grandmother back in the village.” She looked at the sky and her voice rose a little. “I think I saw it once—it’s kind of misty, white and glowing, shining down on you in such a comforting way. And it tells you things, important things, without using words. You just get a feeling . . .”
Cecil looked up, too, but the slate blue sky was thick with muddy clouds, even covering the rising moon. “What feeling?” he asked quietly.
She paused and looked down again before speaking. “It . . . it told me to take heart, find my way back,” she said. She nodded slightly and continued. “My grandmother told me the legend. She and Billy are the only ones who still reme
mber it. Do you know my grandmother Mildred?”
“Sure, I’ve seen her,” said Cecil. “But what is the legend? My mother never told us.”
“It’s an old cats’ tale,” Gretchen said, looking out over the waves, her gray eyes dark in the dusky light. She spoke softly. “The legend is that long ago, when cats began to be stolen from their homes and families and impressed into service on ships, there was no one to look after them. One young and kindhearted cat had been impressed by a crew that traveled through all of the widest oceans, and after many years and many voyages, he became old and very wise in the ways of ships and sailors. When the old cat’s ship sank in a terrible storm and he drowned, the spirit protectors of the world pulled him from the depths of the ocean and sent him into the sky. And now his eye watches over all lost cats at sea.”
“Huh,” said Cecil, resting his chin on his front paws. “You believe this story?”
“I don’t know,” Gretchen said thoughtfully. “I’d like to believe it.” She briefly rubbed a paw over one ear. “Anyway, there’s more.”
Cecil swished his tail from side to side. “How much more?”
“Just a little,” said Gretchen. “My grandmother also says there is a messenger in the ocean, some sort of creature who serves the spirit in the sky, protecting lost cats and helping them find their way home.”
“What kind of creature? Like a fish?” asked Cecil, thinking of all the fish he’d devoured recently.
Gretchen shook her head. “No one knows. But the saying goes: Where the eye sees the eye, the lost shall be found.”
Cecil lifted his head. “Well, Anton’s lost.”
Gretchen opened her eyes wide. “You are, too.”
“And let’s not forget you, right?” Cecil countered. “We’re all three of us lost and far from home. But two of us are together now. So that’s a start.”
Gretchen gave him a wondering look and nodded. “That’s true,” she agreed.
The sudden rattle of heavy chains against the deck boards startled them, and Cecil struggled briefly to hang on to the spar as they glanced over to the deck. The crewmen moved purposefully now, tying down loose items and arranging the rigging. They were departing.
“Quick, come on!” called Gretchen, and she took one long leap, hurdling Cecil and landing expertly on the deck railing before dashing away. Impressive, thought Cecil. He turned precariously and followed at a gallop, trying to keep her in sight. He didn’t know what she would do next; he liked that about her. But she had agreed that two might be better than one, so he made up his mind to trust her.
Cecil dragged the small red bag from its hiding place, stepped into the side room with Gretchen, and dropped the bag on the floor. He pressed on the silk cloth with his paws until the white stone rolled out onto the floor between them and lay glowing faintly in the torchlight streaming in through the open doorway. Cecil looked at it and back at Gretchen. She looked at him and down at the stone.
“I stole this from the captain of my ship,” Cecil said evenly, watching her face. “I thought I might give it to your captain. Maybe he’ll quit kicking me.”
Gretchen seemed bewildered. “Yes, he’d be pleased, I’m sure, but . . .” Her face clouded over and she stood up. “Why didn’t you tell me about this when you first got here?”
Cecil took a big breath and let it out again. He didn’t know what to say.
“You thought I’d take it,” she said slowly. “You thought I’d steal it and give it to the captain myself, didn’t you?”
Cecil shifted uncomfortably and looked away. “Well, you might have,” he said. “I don’t know, you still could. You seem to like being the only cat aboard!”
Gretchen stared at him. “Do you know how lonely it is being the only cat aboard?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah, actually, I do,” Cecil replied, standing to face her. “And it’s awful, and I’d rather stay here.” His eyes dropped to the white stone. “But it’s kind of up to you now, isn’t it?”
There was a long silence. They both sat down, carefully arranging their tails. Gretchen looked at him. Cecil knew that she was the quicker cat, that she could easily grab the stone and run. He knew he had to wait for her to choose his future. And he knew that she knew this as well. But his face remained perfectly peaceful, his golden eyes just barely smiling at her.
Finally, Gretchen smiled back. “Come on, shipmate,” she said with a sigh at last. “Bring your stone. There’s someone you need to meet.” She turned to the door.
Cecil picked up the stone in his mouth once more and together they walked, their tails in the air, to the captain’s quarters.
CHAPTER 11
A Mouse at Sea
As Anton jumped down to the deck of the new ship, the clacker feathers lodged around his shoulders pricked him as he moved, and though he couldn’t see them, he had a mental image of what he must look like. A cat with feathers! Approaching him was something he had rarely met on land, but never at sea: a toddling baby girl. Behind her came another onboard first for Anton: a young woman, presumably the child’s mother, hurrying along with her hands on her hips, speaking in a way that made it clear she wanted to be listened to but didn’t expect to be. The child had spotted Anton and was cooing joyfully, reaching out to grab him if she could, but Anton made sure she couldn’t. He didn’t want to hurt her, so he dodged this way and that, which made the baby laugh, and the mother laughed, too.
Anton sighed, leaping atop a coiled rope, thinking about how lonely it was on a ship, because the only creatures to talk to were rats, and they said nothing worth hearing. Anton’s conversation with Dave the lizard had been the most companionable one he’d had in a long time. He thought of the long evening chats with Cecil, as they strolled about trading stories they had heard from other cats. Sometimes Anton had talked with some of the gulls that hung around the wharf, but it was hard to understand them and they were very full of themselves. Seen it all; that was gulls. He’d spoken to a dog occasionally. As Cecil pointed out, they weren’t all bad, but one didn’t see them much and they were often on leashes, which looked dreadful as far as Anton was concerned, though the dogs seemed quite happy with their lot. This baby could scarcely make her mother understand her, so there wouldn’t be much hope there. “Cat,” the baby crowed. “Cat.”
The mother said, “Yes, that’s a cat.” They were both smiling and the mother approached Anton cautiously, holding out her hand for him to sniff. “How on earth did you get here?” she said. “And what bird have you tangled with? You must have dropped out of the sky.”
She might pull the feathers off, Anton thought. She was very interested in them. He sat still and put on his most serious expression. She brought her fingers around his face cautiously, molding his cheek in her palm, and he felt such a chill run down his spine that he shrugged a little. She murmured something consoling. Then she began to feel around the base of the feathers. “I see,” she said. “I see.” Carefully she began to pluck them out one by one. Anton thought of his own mother, cleaning his face and neck with her rough pink tongue, but always gentle, even when she had to use her teeth to loosen up a knot of fur. He was so tired from his ordeal with the clackers that he nearly fell asleep while the woman petted and plucked and crooned to him. It was a good thing, he decided, to have a woman on a ship.
When the kind lady had removed his feather dressing, Anton set to work giving himself a good cleaning from head to toe. The captain had come out by this time and spoke with his wife, who gestured from Anton to the sea, to the sky, and back again. The captain puffed his pipe, wide-eyed at first, then squinting closely at Anton, he picked up a feather from the pile on the deck, looked up at the sky, and examined the feather as if it was a text. “A cat that falls out of the sky is one we’d better make welcome,” he said. Taking up the baby, who shouted with joy, he carried her off to the cabin. His wife, with a nod at Anton that told him he was on his own, followed her family.
There were sailors aloft in the rigging, and
one fellow working on a barrel near the stern. Anton could smell fish cooking in the fo’c’sle. He leaped down from the rope coil and slunk along toward the promising odor.
The moment he stepped through the doorway, Anton knew there was a mouse behind the hardtack barrel, but he had to pay attention to the humans who greeted his appearance with shouts of surprise. “Will you look at what the cat drug in,” one shouted to the next. And another said, “It’s a catfish for sure.” The cook, a young fellow with bright blue eyes and a black beard that grew to his chest, studied Anton with a suspicious look, but Anton sat down and sniffed the air so appreciatively that the cook’s expression softened, and he said something that contained two words Anton knew well: “yer dinner.” It wasn’t long before the traditional tin pan of the sea galley was put before him, and a meaty fish head stared back balefully at the new ship’s cat.
The next morning Anton took a long stroll on the deck, allowing the news of his arrival to be passed from mouth to ear all up and down the length of the ship. He noted a few good spots for snoozing in the sun and others for hiding from bad weather, or that baby. The sailors weighed anchor and dropped the mainsail, which took the breeze at once. The ship began to plow smoothly through the calm sea, steering away from the island. Going where?
As the sun descended into the horizon, pouring a stream from a flaming red cauldron into the darkening water, Anton made his way back to the fo’c’sle to deal with the mouse hiding behind the barrel. The sailors had finished their meals and were either sleeping or on deck, and the cook had shut down the stove for the night. Anton didn’t bother with a stealthy approach; his nose told him exactly where the mouse was. He walked to the back of the barrel and shoved his head into the space where it curved away from the wall.
The mouse let out a shriek and shrunk down on the floor, hiding his head between his front feet. “I knew it,” he cried. “I knew it. Now I’ll be eaten, just like my poor father and my brother, and there’s no escape.” And then he sat up, tears streaming from his eyes, his nose running hopelessly, shivering from his ears to his tail. “Please don’t eat me,” he said through his sobs. “I’m barely a morsel to you, but to myself, I’m all I have left. I’m the last mouse in my family.”