by Clea Simon
‘You know he’s dead, right?’ The boy, disappointed, is distracting himself.
Care steps up. She is three from the head of the line.
‘I do,’ says the woman. ‘That doesn’t negate our agreement.’
I will not listen. Will not turn, at any rate, although I cannot help but wonder at her strange statement. Her words were meant for me, I have little doubt. The boy’s question merely providing the excuse. An agreement. Of what sort? There is the distinct possibility that the woman is lying. She had originally told Care that the keeper sent her – a story she appears to have given up, if her confrontation with the girl is any indication. That she knew him, though, I am inclined to believe. Knew me, I correct myself, as I once again regret the gap in memory and understanding that keep me from accessing more of that previous incarnation. Of whatever encounter we may have had. It does not escape my notice that she has been party to the disappearance of two men – the youth Rafe and now the keeper. Whether she was instrumental in these or is herself racing against some other, larger force, I cannot tell, but I do not like the way she hovers, waiting, as Care takes another step toward the guards at the gate.
‘He made me a promise.’ The woman’s voice, low but clear. Another step, and Care is talking to the guards. Her hands are on her hips. Her chin is raised, mimicking the bravado of a young man. If only her slight build, the delicacy of her features do not give her away. A girl – a young woman, really – in their hands …
‘My need is great,’ says the woman behind me. She is ignoring the boy now. Speaking directly to me. ‘Or I would not have come here. Would not ask.’ Across the street, the gate opens, and Care passes in.
I cannot stand it. Cannot wait. I leap from the alley and race across the street, ducking beneath the wheels of a truck that slows as it nears the enclosure.
‘What’s happening?’ the driver yells.
‘We’re signing up help,’ the larger guard calls, turning toward the street. ‘We’re back in business.’
I take advantage of the distraction to slip behind him, behind his mate. The gate behind them is closed and latched. But it is a gate – not a door – and stands ever so slightly above the jamb. If I can squeeze beneath it, I will be able to follow the girl. To save her perhaps, or at least to share her fate. I lay my head upon the jamb and press my muzzle forward.
‘Hey, what’s this?’ A hand wraps around my tail and pulls. And I, despite my scrabbling claws, feel myself being lifted. Hoisted against my will into the air as, around me, the waiting men laugh. ‘A cat?’
I hiss and claw, catching flesh. I smell the blood. ‘Whoa! Watch out.’ The hand releases me and I drop, landing secure on all fours. The laughter has died down somewhat, as I spit and snarl. Not that my growl – an unearthly whine emanating from deep within my chest – will hold them off for long. I remember the sack and the brutish handling. But all I hear is laughter and imprecations. Nothing of a summons or request. Still, I know this type. Their cruelty. I wait for the first rock.
‘Hey, what’s the hold up?’ A voice and then the squeal of metal from behind cause me to jump and twist, readying for the fight. Another man, fat and florid, stands in the open gate. ‘Keep ’em coming,’ he says, looking not at me but at that guard who now nurses his bleeding hand. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
‘Sorry,’ says the guard and looks away. No, word has not come down to these low scoundrels, or else the hunt is off. If he has other thoughts of me, of exacting retribution for his scratched and bleeding limb, he is too late. In the moment when the newcomer spoke, his round, red face peeking out to address the guards, I saw my chance. Wary of his thick black boots, I slipped through the open gate and raced to conceal myself before the cry could be raised. So that when the gate closes once again, with a clang, I am inside. I am trapped. This is a cage, and I fear it. But I cannot abandon the girl.
TWENTY-THREE
I have been lucky, dashing in beneath the gaze of those guards. Lucky, or no – it occurs to me, I have been sought. I may have been purposefully let in … No, it does not bear thought. Though if the hunt for such a one as I has been abandoned, I do not know what has taken its place. Two hunts – if I recall the boy’s words. First, for a black feline. Then, for a colleague of the girl’s.
I pause. It is possible. But if the missing keeper has been picked up in this sweep, perhaps in my stead, there is little I now can do. Nor can I count on fortune to sustain me, I remind myself as I survey my surroundings, all senses alert, as the reverberations of that slamming gate fade.
I am standing in an open space, but not – I see as I back up to the nearest wall – as large a one as I had expected. The space I have entered is not, as I had surmised, one vast pen, open to the air. Rather, directly before me is a wall – a barrier of similar construction to that outside. It is a baffle, I realize, directing traffic to the left or to the right and blocking any view of the interior from the gate.
I am panting, more from agitation than exertion, and the odor of many men overwhelms me. Still, I raise my muzzle, searching for a trace of the girl who passed by here not moments before. Her warmth, her sweat. The gate beside me swings open once again, and I am out of time. The heavy tread of boots enter and turn toward the right. I do not see if their owner has been beckoned or told to proceed this way, but it is all I have. Once more, the gate swings shut with an awful metallic crash. Ears back, to protect against such noise, I turn as well, and follow the boots. They lead me to a yard, a kind of open corral where boys and men mill about, talking among themselves. Low buildings – reaching only part way up the surrounding walls – line the yard. The doors to these are closed, for the most part. But as one opens, the men look up. A small bald fellow with the swagger of authority steps out. Behind him, another figure – a giant of a man. It is he who calls out for silence.
‘Yo! Quiet here.’ His voice as big as the rest of him, and all conversation dies away. ‘Listen up, if you know what’s good for you.’
A pause, as he gathers their attention, and then the little man begins to speak. His rhetoric is empty and, worst of all, needless. He talks of adventure and reward, when these men would work for a hot meal, most of them. But it serves my purpose well. The men are rapt. Mouths gape open as he describes the sea journey – the exotic lands they will soon know. I make my way behind them unobserved, all the while hunting for the girl.
A hiss, almost like a sigh, and the creak of a door cause me to freeze. I have been circling the perimeter, making use of what shadow there still is to conceal my search of the small crowd. At this sound, I cock my ear and dare a glance. A door behind me is off the latch. A sliver of darkness shows against its frame – the interior unlit. But my vision is not hindered by the lack of illumination. I can see the movement within, furtive and quick. I push my head against the door and it gives way, with another small squeak. Against the dimness, Care’s face shines like a beacon.
‘Blackie?’ I race to her, overjoyed at finding her, especially here, away from the crowd. She looks at me with alarm. ‘What are you—’
Her frantic question, interrupted, goes unanswered, drowned out by the sudden rise in volume of the speaker outside. The door has been pushed open, and Care steps swiftly sideways, as if to block me from view. I have already ducked into the shadow. Before us, in the light, the silhouette of the man who stands there looms large.
‘What’s this?’ He looks from the girl to the desk behind her. Papers in disarray. Drawers open. Care must have been rummaging through them before I interrupted. Before I opened the door further, exposing her to this brute. ‘Some little sneak thief thinks he can pocket our goods without the work?’
My ears swivel, taking in the room and seeking other exits. The door beside me, where the man stands, is the only one lit. A further door, off to our left, leads into darkness. Another room, perhaps, or storage. Care has seen it. Her eyes dart to the side. But the man does not appear concerned. A store room, then, without egress even to the
yard. He steps inside, and reaches behind him to close the door.
All this passes in a moment and in that time, I make my preparations. Care glances about, aware that she is cornered. In her haste, she did not plan for this eventuality, and my appearance has further distracted her. I am a worry and a bother. But I will make amends. I crouch, my hind quarters wriggling as I gauge distance and height. I will have only one shot at this man – his hands, perhaps, if not his face – and I wait until the ideal moment. He steps again, away from the door. One more step and I will launch myself. In that moment, I trust, the girl will make her move. She will be able to evade him, if I can hold him long enough. She will gain the door. And although she will find herself back in the yard, there then will be the chance that she could lose herself. Lose him, and join the crowd. The man has only seen her here, in the dimness of this unlit room, and coming from the sunlit yard he must still be partially blinded. If I can reach his eyes …
‘There you are!’ The man turns as I ready to jump, and my chance is lost. But as I hear Care’s intake of breath, I see that suddenly the situation has changed. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
Another figure enters, stepping to the side of the guard. Shorter than the guard, though not by much, and slimmer, but his deepening voice reveals his gender. Male, but still a youth, with a spring in his step at odds with this room, this place. His vitality is apparent as he advances into the dark room and extends his hand. ‘Come on,’ he says, his tone familiar and not unkind. ‘They’re waiting.’
‘Hang on here.’ Uncertainty has crept into the guard’s voice. Irritation, too, I think, at having his intentions foiled. ‘What’s this?’
‘Carl.’ The youth smiles, a broad grin that lights up his pale and freckled face. ‘Carl sent for him.’ And then I see it. The tension. He is holding himself back, this tall young man, but he is coiled like a serpent. His apparent nonchalance a bluff. Unnoticed in the shadow, I do not relax. I do, however, stare up at the girl, hoping to see in her a spark of recognition for the ruse.
‘Oh, yeah.’ She forces a smile on her face, but she must hear herself. She coughs and clears her throat. ‘Yeah,’ she says, her voice a half-octave lower. ‘Sorry. I thought I’d get that list for him.’
‘He’s got it.’ The youth takes her forearm and I see their eyes connect. ‘Come on. He’s waiting.’
And with that, he ushers the girl back out into the courtyard, walking quickly as if they were indeed late to meet a boss. Beside me, the large man grumbles, his hands now fists against his hips. Whoever this Carl is, he must have weight, for the guard not to question them. Or perhaps the youth simply moved too fast. I watch the big man, gauging my own next move, and when he steps back into the light, I am ready. If he decides to follow. But, no, he simply stands and looks on as two young people walk away. And so I take advantage of his distraction, slipping once more through that door into the courtyard to await my own opportunity to follow the youth and the girl, as soon as I may do so unobserved.
It is not easy. The tall young man moves quickly, ducking slightly, as if he would hide among the crowd. The girl struggles to keep up. I see her stumbling step – half jogging – as he propels her, his grip still firm on her arm. She turns to look at him and nearly falls, tripping on some unevenness in the ground. Only that grip keeps her upright, and he does not slow.
I am losing them, waiting here in the shadow by the wall. I follow the perimeter, cloaking myself in the slight shadow of the wall, and I speed up, desperate to remain in sight.
‘Oi! What’s this?’ The cry alerts me, and I dash ahead, just missing the boot that comes down hard. A hook man, one from the night before.
‘Hey, boy!’ I press into a door frame, seeking to disappear in the slight shadow it provides, but the sailor’s eyes are on me, even as he calls for assistance. ‘You see that cat? The boss was looking for a cat like that.’
He gestures, and I whip around to see a young boy, Tick’s age, approaching. He must have been hanging back from the crowd. Bored by the speech, perhaps, or hoping for escape. I offer, at least, the possibility of diversion, if not a chance for a reward. A wicked grin spreads across his dirty face as he focuses in on me. My ears go back, flat against my skull. I hiss and spew spittle toward him, but he is unafraid. Gleeful, even, with his new-found commission.
It is his eagerness that proves his undoing. In his spiteful enthusiasm, the cruel child lunges for me, grubby hands extended. And although I am sorely tempted to claw those hands – to see their pale and dirty flesh bedewed with blood – I have other concerns, beyond this boy. Although he believes himself to be swift, he has not thought out his attack. Most likely, he is incapable of the physics governing our movements, but his age and education make him particularly ill prepared to capture one such as I. As he runs forward, it is an easy matter to leap aside. And although I hear him grunt, as his matted head hits the closed door where I sheltered, I do not turn to look.
A cackle of laughter follows me as I run. The hook bearer clearly believes his domain to be secure, the boy’s mishap merely a momentary delay. And as I race, seeking both the girl and sanctuary, I fear he may be right. The buildings that line the yard may not stand as tall as the outer walls, but without a moment in which to determine a means of access, their low thatched roofs do me no good. My route along the perimeter has been noted. The hue and cry is raised. A crate, which might afford a means of approach, is snatched up as I race toward it, and a leg extends, blocking my way. A rapid detour saves me. Even at my age, I am more agile than these men.
‘Blackie! In here.’ Her voice, even at a whisper, reaches through the crowd. Ahead, where the encircling rooms have turned in again, I see a hand – her hand – gesturing from within a dark space. And I freeze.
I want to run to her. To see her safe and free, away from that strange young man who escorted her so roughly away. For safe she must be, if she is able to call to me. And yet I am loath to draw attention to her. I am the quarry now. The game of all these men. Boot treads following the lighter footfall of that boy. I peer into the darkness, willing her eyes to meet mine – green on green. A voice cries out. ‘Get it! Quick, you laggard.’
My choice is obvious. It is no choice at all. I turn and run into the crowd. I will draw the men away.
I am in luck. The speaker still holds their attention. He is describing some kind of sorting process. The bunks the men will occupy while they await the ships. Explaining meal times and the rules that govern them, things of importance to poor souls like these. My presence does not register at first – a low and darting thing around their feet. The ones now chasing me – two men, perhaps a third, and, still, that boy – add to the havoc, careening through the crowd. Their eyes seek me and not their fellows, and more than one gets pushed aside. Voices are raised in anger, as one man pushes back. I weave around the scuffle, hoping to draw more in, and hear above me a change in tone.
‘You there,’ the speaker calls. ‘That’s enough.’ Complaints quickly muted, as the guards begin to push their way into the melee. The brawlers stop – or are stopped – as one of them is thrown aside. He falls across two other men, who quickly prop him up.
‘Sorry, sir.’ He dips his head, fearful of being ejected. Of losing what he deems opportunity. The guard just growls and turns away. Sticking low to the ground, I slip away. After such a reprimand, the men will not let my pursuers go so easily, and I can make use of them. A buffer between me and those who would seize me.
I pause at the crowd’s edge, cautious about being exposed. Those roofs are promising. If I could gain access, their thatch would offer traction. The wall is high above, but it might be possible.
‘There he is!’ I start, lowering my body into a defensive pose. But it is not the man who calls out, nor even the boy who does his bidding. The youth – the one who took Care away – is standing in a half-opened doorway. Staring past me, he points toward a distant corner, beyond the fighting men. Away from where I cower. And, yes, behi
nd him, I can make out Care. Her beaming smile catches the light.
It works. The men turn away. And, goal accomplished, I dash across the open space and through the opened entry. The youth stands back as I make for the girl, and though I hear him closing the door behind me, I do not heed it. Instead, I launch myself at her as she throws herself down on her knees to greet me, wrapping her arms around me and nuzzling her face into my fur.
TWENTY-FOUR
She holds me close in her arms, and I consider her as dispassionately as only a cat can. I do not like to be constrained, not even by one I love. In circumstances such as these, her embrace serves neither of us well, restricting both our movements when danger may come from any side, but it does keep her quiet. And it is not disagreeable. Plus, as she buries her face in my ruff, I am at least able to survey our surroundings. To take stock of what we face.
The youth, at least, appears to pose no immediate threat. He stands and studies us thoughtfully, as if pondering the nature of our bond. I peer at him over the girl’s shoulder and, satisfied, scan the room. We are in a long space, one that seems to run the length of this stretch of wall. Rows of cots extend outward. The bunk rooms, then, of which the speaker told.
‘I was so scared,’ she says. Her breath is warm on my fur. The sensation pleasant. Reminiscent, I imagine, of when my dam must have washed me, a rough tongue in place of the girl’s soft lips. My eyes begin to close – and snap back open as the youth begins to speak.