CatFantastic

  We found him. It was his stone. He is a kind man, who will harm no one. He is gone. Is she looking for the stone?

  Yes, since last night. Where did he go?

  I don't know. Vanished. He said he had magic so I suppose he took Yellow Eyes to her home and then went on to his homeland in the east.

  Yellow Eyes is gone, too?

  Poof. Gone. As soon as I jumped down from the leaf-ear, they all vanished.

  Cat, you are so clever. You have saved the castle, sent the danger away and come back safely. If only we could find some way to satisfy her. There is no way to tell her what happened.

  And no need to. The man thought of that. Here, pull this bag off my neck and push it over to the edge of the bed where it just shows under the coverlet. She will find it sooner or later and be happy. It is a stone much like the other but not the same. He had a green sister stone to the red. Together they make fire that makes you hide your eyes. I was glad to see it go. This is a much calmer jewel.

  White Cat moved close to him, purring, and licked his ears. Cat, you are truly a marvel.

  He had never been so sleepy in his life and this seemed as good a place as any to take a nap. I know, he said and closed his eyes. Tomorrow would take care of itself. He had had his adventure for today.

  It Must Be Some Place

  by Donna Farley

  At a quarter of midnight, I sat with my tail curled around my paws, perched on a dryer in the deserted laundromat—deserted, that is, except for myself and the wizard's apprentice.

  All around us, several dryers and the one unbroken washer hummed and clattered like a herd of mechanical cows chewing on some particularly indigestible cud. What they were actually chewing on was the laundry Jack had been saving up for the last three weeks while his uncle and master Hugh was away at a wizards' convention.

  "There you go, cat," said Jack, tipping an anchovy quite delicately into my mouth. The boy had enough sense not to try to get me to stand up and dance on my hind paws like a circus dog, as my "owner," Miss Parke, sometimes does. I licked in the salty tidbit and bolted it down with my tongue-spines, then fixed my eyes expectantly on his face as he bit into his pizza.

  He was a slightly pudgy teenager, who, if he'd been a cat, would have been called "Ginger" because of his hair color. Similarly, my "owner" had named me "Butterfly" because of my attractive coat, orange, cream and black in color, a pattern cat fanciers call tortoiseshell. However, I'm not an ordinary tortoiseshell cat; I'm a tortoiseshell tom. Which means I'm impossible.

  Oh, very well, I'm exaggerating. Cats do that habitually. However, I am a rare animal, to say the least. You see, in the scheme of things feline, tricolor coats are for ladies only. There is no such thing as a tortoiseshell tom. But once in a blue moon (such as the one I was born under) the impossible happens.

  Tortoiseshell toms are magical.

  You think I'm exaggerating again. Well, you needn't believe my story or even listen to it; it doesn't singe my whiskers. Cats, especially tortoiseshell toms, are not interested in human opinions about felinity, except for a good laugh now and then. Back fence clubs often have a howl or two over the quaint and bizarre ideas humans hold about cats. Oh, Eliot did see something through a glass darkly—"jellicle" is a genuine Feline word, though where he managed to find it is a real mystery. But other than Eliot, the only human to ever come up with a real cat tale was Lewis Carroll. What he and his illustrators never realized was that the so-called Cheshire cat was really a tortoiseshell tom.

  Wizards know, and therefore we tortoiseshell toms avoid wizards like the plague. I, however, had had the bad luck to have one move in upstairs.

  Master Hugh was fat, balding, and beetle-browed, and very bad-tempered, even for the wizard. If, for instance, Jack were to tiptoe up the stairs a little too loudly on his return from school, waking his master perhaps ten minutes earlier than he preferred, it would not be unthinkable that Hugh would turn the boy temporarily into a mouse for his familiar, Samantha, to practice on. Fortunately for Jack, Hugh's repertoire did not include any spells much more deadly than this one. But if any doubt remains as to Hugh's character, let me merely remark what I have observed with my own eye (the blue one, which perceives psychic phenomena): his aura was the approximate color of ancient motor oil in a commuter car, with tinges of Chinese restaurant grease that only gets changed every six months, and a few overtones of red the shade of a bargain basement hooker's lipstick.

  They say that familiars reflect the personalities of their masters. Samantha, Hugh's black cat, was a form of life lower than a kicked dog's ego. She was also quite untalented magically, and I had no difficulty placing a lock-spell on her mouth when Hugh and Jack first moved into Miss Parke's upstairs, so that the wizard remained unaware of my true nature. After that, I stayed far from both his path and Samantha's (some black cats really are bad luck) but Jack was another matter. It was a mistake, of course, but I have a weakness for anchovies.

  Jack saw me watching him eat and smiled—he has a grin like the Cheshire cat's himself—and tossed me another anchovy.

  "How'd you like to be my familiar, cat, when I finish my apprenticeship?"

  I nearly choked, and he patted me on the back. I looked at him suspiciously, curling my tail tighter around my toes.

  He took another bite of pizza. "Uncle Hugh says cats gotta be black to be smart enough to be familiars. Personally, I think if they're all like Samantha, then it's their low morals and not their brains they got in common." He tendered me another anchovy, and I took it, purring approval. He was a very good judge of character, however naive he was in other respects. And unlike his master, he had an interspecies rapport gift; in other words, animals liked him, even Samantha. Naturally it had no effect on a tortoiseshell tom; I was only there for the anchovies and the warm clothes dryer under my backside.

  "Lemme show you something, pal," Jack said, and pulled out a pair of baby-blue socks with black embroidery from the gamy basket that was still waiting its turn for the washer. He took off his own shoes and socks and put the blue ones on, then stood up with a flourish. "Ta-da! Whataya think of that, cat?"

  I blinked. His figure had faded to a pale ghost of itself. Obviously they were magic socks which made the wearer invisible. I, of course, was still able to see him faintly, but I was betting he was completely invisible to humans, and probably to most other animals as well.

  I decided to play along, because it gave me an opportunity for free anchovies. As he stood there in silence with folded arms, I rose to all fours and pretended to be puzzled, searching the room for him. Then I made a quick spring to the bench where the pizza box sat, and calmly helped myself.

  "Hey!" He snatched the box away, and I leaped back to the dryer, keeping my eyes glued to the food while he pulled off the socks and tossed them in the basket again.

  When his form regained its solidity, I looked expectantly from him to the pizza box and back. He rolled his eyes, then gave me the slice of pizza I had stuck my paw into.

  "I guess the master's invisible socks don't impress you much, huh?"

  I ignored him, carefully working away at picking the anchovies out of the mozzarella. Of course I wasn't impressed—I can turn invisible without the aid of any idiotic socks.

  Jack sighed and picked up the basket, taking it to the washer as it shuddered to a stop. He pulled out the wet clothes and dumped them on top of the dryer beside me, then emptied the basket into the washer, adding the detergent and setting the machine.

  I picked away happily at my pizza while he put the machines through their cycles, until at last he had the final batch loaded into the oversized, heavy-duty dryer beneath me. I smacked my lips and curled up, savoring the warm vibrations of the machine. Now the clock read midnight.

  Jack leaned on the machine with one elbow and scratched me in the perfect spot behind the left ear. "If I didn't know better, Butterfly, I'd say you were a magic cat," he said.

  I kept cool, but I didn't like the sound of it. Sooner or la
ter, Jack was going to find me out. When that happened, his uncle would want me. I would have to stay on my toes, or I would end up like that snakebellied Samantha. I sniffed indignantly at the thought. I'd run away from home before I let them catch me!

  "You know, Butterfly, I'm thinking of running away from home," Jack said.

  I couldn't help flashing my eyes open. Did he have telepathy, too? If so, he seemed no more aware of it than of his talent with animals. But a second later something else set my sixth sense jangling like an emergency phone. I leaped up on my paws, twitching my whiskers and ears, and made a slow radar sweep with my tail.

  "Hey, what's up, cat?"

  The dryer rumbled to a stop and I leaped to the bench, landing beside the empty pizza box, and turned to face the dryer door.

  "Oh, the laundry's done," he said, as if that explained my behavior, and proceeded to unload it into the basket.

  I watched intently as he pulled out star-spangled underwear (Hugh's) and Woolco sweaters (his own) and socks in large clumps, tossing them into the basket without regard. Last out of the dryer was a lone baby-blue sock. Jack frowned and started rummaging through the basket.

  You've got to understand that laundromats are some of the few places on earth where you'll find randomly appearing interdimensional doors these days. Go ahead, laugh. Even the wizards don't believe it. They're too prejudiced against modern technology to consider the evidence. But just try to demonstrate scientifically the whereabouts of all the lost socks.

  Jack's expression was getting frantic. "Uh-oh," he said, and stuck his head in the dryer for a look. Then he tried the washer. Then the other machines. And behind the machines. I twitched my tail impatiently. "Will you do something!" he implored me.

  "Like what?" Ooops.

  He stared at me (and they call cats saucer-eyed!) then suddenly his face was transformed by that Cheshire cat grin, his green eyes glowing. I don't know—maybe he had been a cat, in some other life.

  "Aha! I knew you were a magic cat."

  I proceeded to wash my face.

  "Butterfly, old buddy, old girl, you have got to help me find that sock! Please, girl? C'mon, I'll buy you an extra-large anchovy pizza."

  I yawned at him. I'm not sure why I had spoken to him, but now that I thought of it, if I wanted to keep the wizard's claws off of me, enlisting his apprentice as an ally might not be a bad idea.

  "Butterfly, baby, girl—"

  "I am not a girl," I said tartly, and stood up and made a pirouette with my tail high, so he could see for himself.

  "Geez—I thought all calico cats were female—"

  "Tortoiseshell," I retorted. What abysmal ignorance and from a boy of his particular talent! Obviously Hugh was not only nasty, he was a hopelessly incompetent teacher.

  "Tortoiseshell cats are all female. Except that once in a blue moon, you'll get a male like me. We're magical."

  "Right." He straddled the bench and leaned down so that his face was level with mine, which I continued to wash. After a minute he burst out, "Will you quit with the primping already—Uncle Hugh will have my ears if I don't find that sock!"

  I riveted my blue eye on him, observing the bright true blue and nature green of his psychic aura; and said, "I doubt he'd have any use for your ears. Your heart, maybe, or your entrails, but not your ears."

  He grimaced, shuddering, and the aura took on a yellowish tinge about the blue and green. Of course the idea of Hugh actually extracting his own nephew's entrails was just a bit of feline exaggeration. I think.

  "I may be able to help you," I said, "for a price."

  "A price! Hey, I thought we were buddies!"

  I gave him a disdainful look. "Cats—especially tortoiseshell tomsdo not have 'buddies!' "

  Jack moaned and ran his fingers through his gingery hair. "Okay. What do you want?"

  "To make sure your uncle never finds out that I'm a tortoiseshell tom."

  "But how can I do that? I wouldn't ever tell him of course, but—"

  "But my `owner' might let it slip, or Samantha may find a way to break the silence spell I've put on her."

  "I don't see how we can prevent any of that. Why do you stay around? You'd be safer if you just ran away from home—heck, so would I," he added glumly.

  I twitched my whiskers. Why Jack was considering leaving was not my concern, but if he did go I would lose my ally. "I was here first, before that wizard moved in. I don't intend to desert my territory without a fight."

  Jack nodded slowly. "I don't blame you. But how can I help?"

  "Well, for now you can warn me if there's any sign that he's beginning to be suspicious of me. I'll come up with a plan soon."

  "Great. And now that that's settled, what the heck happened to that sock?"

  "It's gone down the rabbit hole," I said, stretching a little.

  "Where?"

  "Well, through the dryer, actually, but it's ended up the same place it would if it went down the rabbit hole."

  "Uh-huh. How does—"

  "Look. If you want it back, you'll have to follow it. It's that simple."

  "You want me to get in there?" He jerked a thumb at the dryer.

  I turned a critical eye on him. Although he was a little flabby, he wasn't big, as adolescent humans go, and the dryer was a large-capacity one. "We should just make it."

  "I suppose you know what you're doing," he said doubtfully.

  "That's more than I can say for you," I growled. "Imagine tossing a pair of magic socks straight through a dimensional doorway!"

  "I still have one of them," he said defensively; holding up the remaining blue sock.

  I sniffed at him. "What good is it being half invisible?"

  "Oh, you win," he said glumly, and stuffed the sock in the pocket of his jeans. He opened the dryer door and took a deep breath. "Geez. Uncle Hugh has had me doing some pretty weird magical stuff; but this takes the cake. Do I have to start at?"

  "Just get in. My own magic will get us moving." He crawled in, and when he got settled he looked about as comfortable as a Great Dane in a Chihuahua cage. I pounced in and found a spot in the nook made by his contorted body.

  "Ow! Watch where you put those claws!"

  "Here we go!" I said, and with a wave of my tail, I started us spinning.

  I'm afraid Jack found it a bumpy ride, though I was quite comfortable, curled up in his lap. He made a good shock absorber.

  The interdimensional transition was great fun, like being inside a kaleidoscope going five hundred miles an hour. We landed very gently, however, under a pink sky amid a vast, rolling plain of woolly texture and infinitely varied hue. It was so comfortable I was tempted to lie down and have a catnap, but instead I watched Jack, who was hunched over as if he were chucking up a furball.

  He lifted his face, which was rather green. "Never," he advised me, "eat anchovy pizza before taking a ride in a dryer."

  He sat up and gazed around, and for a minute I thought he was feeling better, but then I saw his jaw dropping, as slowly and surely as a hydraulic lift. His eyes swelled almost out of their sockets as he turned his head from side to side, surveying the scenery. He lowered his eyes again to the ground beneath him and suddenly fell on his knees, clutching at the multicolored tubes of yarn, coming up with two handfuls.

  "AUGH! There must be a million socks in this place!" He tossed them in the air and stood up, sinkmg to his knees in the myriad variety of style, size and color of the little human foot-warmers.

  I had found a more solidly packed pile, which I proceeded to knead with my claws into the most comfortable contours, before settling down with my tail curled up. "Billions, I would say."

  "Oh my God," he said and dropped to the ground again, his head in his hands. "Maybe I'll just give up wizarding altogether and join a circus somewhere." He groaned and looked around again. "What is this place?"

  "The Valley of Lost Socks," I was almost purring because it was so cozy. "You won't find a single matched pair among them, either."
/>   "A whole world full of nothing but lost socks?"

  "Oh, no. That's just this section of it. Elsewhere you'll find the Beaches of Lost Buttons, the Forest of Lost Ways, the Marshes of Lost Marbles, and the Caverns of Lost Voices, to name a few."

  "Lost Voices? Come on!"

  "They tend to come and go," I admitted, "more than the more solid items that end up in this dimension."

  "Which is where? Uncle Hugh never told me anything about this place!"

  "Oh, I'm sure he did," I purred, really feeling comfortable now. "Hasn't he ever said to you, when you've lost something, `Well, Jack, it must be someplace?' This is Some Place."

  He stared at me. "Oh, gimme a break!"

  But I merely watched him through slitted eyes. I thought I saw something, moving in the mountain of argyles and ski socks behind him.

  Suddenly I went on an all-six-senses alert, and a shiver of pure excitement ran along my spine. Heaven! My nose twitched at the unmistakable scent, and I eased slowly to my feet and began to stalk toward the argyle socks, noting at the same time that all angles of my vision showed tiny rustlings all around us. Jack, meanwhile, was as still as a human can make himself, watching me silently.

  I approached within a cat-length of the movement, waiting for it to betray itself again. Suddenly a green checked sock slid from the top of the pile, and I sprang, diving into the heap with every nerve and muscle intent on the prey. My jaws clamped on a furry morsel, and I leaped triumphantly up with my prize, ready to display it to Jack.

  "Ooh—eek! Let me go! I'm the queen of the mice, and you'll be sorry!" squeaked the little rodent.

  "Butterfly!" Jack leaped over and grabbed for the mouse. "Leggo! It talks!"

  I held on, fuming.

  "Shriek!" cried the mouse. "Oh, mighty master of animals, I implore you, save me from the jaws of your familiar!"

  I spit her out, right into Jack's hands, which closed protectively about the little brown body. "I am not his familiar," I said indignantly, and then gave Jack's forearm a swipe of my claws for good measure. I had lost my temper—I suppose it had flown to some other quarter of Some Place.