Guardian Cats and the Lost Books of Alexandria

by Rahma Krambo

  Marco thought had he lived in that time, Cicero would have been a Guardian Cat, not just an ordinary library cat. Marco blinked once, then again, as the truth dawned on him. Cicero was a Guardian.

  “That’s what’s in the box downstairs!” he shouted.

  Cicero kept climbing.

  “It’s Akeel’s book, isn’t it?” Marco badgered him from behind.

  No answer.

  “Come on, Cicero. Take me back down there to see it.”

  “Patience, Marco. My bones are weary and I need to rest. I must warn you, however. This has to remain secret. You can’t tell a soul.”

  “The book can’t be in danger now. Not here.”

  Cicero stopped and turned again. “The Professor is one who will never give up his quest for power. Hope that he never finds his way here.”

  Professor? What Professor? It seemed like all of Cicero’s explanations only raised more questions.

  Alaniah fluttered around their heads. “Silly cats. I am never far away.” She opened the portal and Marco breathed the welcoming smell of books as they stepped through the mirror into the library.

  “I am going to go rest now, but I would like you to meet the others.”

  “Others?”

  “I haven’t told you about the other readers, have I?”

  “Readers? You mean reader cats?”

  “Midnight tomorrow, behind the Café Ole. Come to a meeting of the Dead Cats Society.”

  Chapter 19: Dumpster Cats

  It was the dead of night in the parking lot behind the Café Ole. The lot was empty. So empty, that for a while Marco wondered if he had the wrong place or the wrong time, but gradually a few strays straggled in.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?" accused a wind-blown cat with bug eyes. Marco tried to hold his tongue.

  "Speak up, stranger! Make yourself known,” the hostile cat retorted.

  “Easy there,” said a sleek gray cat, just coming in.

  “You causing trouble again, Skitzo?” asked a scraggly tom missing one eye.

  “Everyone knows the rules. We have to be careful who we let in. And don’t call me Skitzo. It’s not my real name.”

  “What is your real name, Skitzo?” asked the biggest cat Marco had ever seen.

  Skitzo mumbled something no one could understand.

  The big cat, a Maine Coon, turned to Marco. “Skitzo tells us his owner inserted a chip in his head.”

  “Former owner, thank goodness. But it’s true! They’re using it to track me.”

  “Why would they want to track you, Skitzo? You’re so mean.”

  The aristocratic gray introduced himself to Marco more formally. “Excuse our bad manners. My name is Bait. It’s short for Baitengirth, but I rarely use my royal name.”

  Marco had never met royalty and liked his polished manner. Better than the others, he thought.

  “You got something to hide?” asked Skitzo, not wanting to drop his challenge. “Out with it.”

  “Show some manners,” said Bait. “We should treat our guests more graciously. Now, how about a civilized introduction. You are…?”

  “I’m Marco.”

  “Marco,” muttered Skitzo. “Wasn’t he some kind of spy?”

  “Boy, you should read more, Skitzo. Marco was a famous explorer, not a spy,” said the scruffy tomcat.

  “Well, Marco, you know who Skitzo is,” continued Bait. ”This is Tweezer, that’s Pudge and over there is Gypsy with her kittens.”

  A long-haired white Persian sauntered in. “Anyone seen my book? I stashed it here last meeting. Now I can’t find it anywhere.”

  “You mean that stupid fashion magazine, Caffeina?" asked Tweezer. "That's not a book!"

  “Well, it’s a lot better than your biker magazines.” The white cat swished her tail in Tweezer’s face and strolled off.

  This is not what Marco expected. Was this some kind of joke Cicero was playing on him?

  For all their grumbling, the arguments didn’t get physical. They scattered out and a few of them disappeared into a large dumpster to search for food scraps from the restaurant.

  Marco investigated the surroundings. Metal trashcans and empty food boxes lined the back of the brick restaurant. He sniffed lettuce, rotten bananas and dead potted plants. It seemed a waste of time, and he decided to leave.

  “Seize the day!” cried a familiar voice.

  Marco jumped, along with the others.

  Cicero had arrived unnoticed and taken his place on the wooden crate he used as a podium.

  “Greetings, fellow Readers,” he announced, unable to hide the fact that he was enjoying the small bit of drama caused by his arrival.

  But the drama was short-lived. Now they just seemed bored, licking French fry grease off their paws.

  Chapter 20: Stage fright

  Cicero sighed. He was well aware his passion for sharing Guardian stories was met with mixed enthusiasm. While they found the idea exciting and a few even dreamed of someday becoming a Guardian, none of these cats had what it took. Still, it was part of his duty to maintain the tradition of the Dead Cats Society as—what was that strange term? Social outreach?

  Cicero gave the cats time to finish their grooming. All were homeless, although they didn’t think of themselves as strays. They’d had humans somewhere in their past, for better or worse.

  All were tough survivors, though. Tweezer was a drop-off at Mrs. Wilcox’s Cat Rescue Mission, and Gypsy had strong barn cat lineage. He knew Skitzo stayed on the move, lurking behind markets and cafés, skittish of human contact, but Pudge was only too happy to have the café owner for a friend. Marco liked to sleep in tall trees or rooftops, when weather permitted.

  Then there was Caffeina, of whom he felt some fatherly affection. She told the others she lived at the Fairmont Hotel, and he never let on that it was a janitorial closet at the Sleep N’Go Motel.

  He spotted Bait making small talk with Marco. He knew the most about him; a pedigreed Russian Blue, born at a breeding cattery and adopted by a woman who supplied him with pricy collars, toys and food.

  Bait was proud of the awards he won at cat shows and how well he’d learned to read in the long hours he spent alone at home. He favored psychology journals. A strange choice, thought Cicero, but then Bait was a strange cat.

  Bait told him he grew bored with the cat shows, and shortly after, a white Persian kitten appeared in his house. They despised each other from the start. When Bait drew blood on the kitten’s face, the woman threw him outside, and that was that.

  The important thing was that somewhere along the way, this little group had all acquired the ability to read. It was rapidly becoming a lost art, and so, even if they didn’t read the best stuff, they came faithfully to meetings.

  Gypsy kept him supplied with kittens to tutor, and they were his hope for the future. Reader cats were necessary to maintain the tradition of passing on the Guardian Cat stories.

  It was the next Guardian Cat he was worried about. He must be sure this time.

  “What’s your story about tonight, Cicero?” asked Lily.

  Lily and Sophie, two of Gypsies kittens, were always eager for his stories.

  Tonight I will tell you the story of a Guardian Cat named Gadiel. He lived long ago in the frozen steppes of the Ural Mountains. That’s in western Russia.”

  “Hey, Cicero,” interrupted Skitzo. “What are you gonna do about this stray? I thought we had rules.”

  “Yeah, like you live by the rules, Skitzo,” countered Caffeina.

  “Yeah, like you’re not a stray,” said Tweezer, the tomcat.

  Skitzo ignored them and pushed his point with Cicero. “The one who calls himself Marco. What happened to security around here? Shouldn’t he at least swear by the Code?”

  “We’ll get around to that in good time,” replied Cicero patiently.

  “Like…?” pushed Skitzo.

  Cicero tolerated Skitzo’s rudeness. He didn’t expect much in the way of manners
from the strays, but he did enjoy teasing them.

  “Okay, Skitzo. Maybe you’re right,” he said.

  Skitzo looked smugly at the others.

  “In fact, now is the perfect time. Why don’t you recite it for us?”

  Skitzo looked like a deer caught in a car’s headlights.

  “Way to go, Skitzo! You stepped in that one,” yelled Tweezer.

  “I can recite it,” offered Lily. “I’ve been memorizing it this week. Mum’s teaching me.”

  “Okay, Lily. Let’s hear it.”

  Skitzo, under his breath, mumbled, “Bootlicker.”

  “Psycho,” Lily snapped back and scampered up to the front. In her small, confident voice, she began. “I will now recite the Code of the Dead Cats Society… a society created by our beloved Guardian Cats to help promote the cause of reading and other higher pursuits.”

  She took a deep breath. “I swear that I will put the welfare of others before my own…” She trailed off and looked to Cicero for help.

  “Interests,” he coached.

  “Oh, yeah. I swear that I will endeavor to uphold honor in the face of cor-por-a-tions…”

  “Corruption,” corrected Cicero, smiling.

  “Co-rup-shun. Okay. Uh, where was I? I will seek to be courageous in the face of danger. I will seek to live at peace with others, but never, uh…”

  “Hesitate.”

  “Yes, never hesitate to defend the weak and helpless against the forces of evil and injustice.” In her softest voice, she said, “I will aim to be gentle spoken and not boastful of my good deeds.” Then she lifted her head and pushed out her chest, raising the pitch of her voice again. “And I will remain true to my word and loyal to the ideals and principles of the Dead Cats Society.”

  “Well done, Lily! Thank you,” said Cicero. He turned to Marco. “Lily’s mum can help you learn the Code. I’m sure you will have it memorized in no time. Now, we usually have a Reader share something before I begin my story. Skitzo keeps us posted on tabloid news. Pudge reads from Garfield comics and Caffeina keeps us well supplied with the latest gossip from Cat Fashion.”

  “Oh. Wow,” said Marco, trying not to appear stunned.

  “You are reading an adventure, right? Why don’t you tell us about it?”

  “Oh… maybe next time.”

  “There’s no time like the present,” Cicero gently insisted.

  Marco threaded his way through Gypsy’s newest batch of kittens. She spoke encouragingly to him. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. The first time is the hardest.”

  All the cats were staring at him. Marco hung his head. He’d never had to give a book report before.

  “A little stage fright? Don’t worry, we’ve all been there,” Cicero said. "How about starting with the name of the book?"

  He didn’t think this crowd would be much interested in his book, but he took a deep breath and plowed ahead. “The Three Musketeers,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  “Can’t hear you,” said Skitzo.

  Marco looked at Cicero, who nodded to him. “The Three Musketeers,” Marco repeated in a stronger voice.

  “The three what?” asked Caffeina.

  “Musketeers. They’re like soldiers.”

  "Okay, go on. Tell us what you like about the book," Cicero said.

  "Well, I do like the hero in the story," Marco began uneasily, and then suddenly, the words came spilling out of him. "His name is d'Artagnan and he lived in the time of the French King, Louis the Thirteenth. He was rather a reckless and bold sort of fellow and managed to get himself into all sorts of predicaments.” Marco smiled, remembering how much he loved the book. “As soon as he arrived in Paris, he was challenged to a duel by three musketeers, and then their duel is interrupted and all of them had to fight the Cardinal's guards, and..."

  “Awesome!” Caffeina was gazing fondly at Marco. The others all had a glazed look in their eyes.

  Marco washed his face, stalling for time, but he didn’t have to worry about facing the rude alley cats any longer. Something much bigger had invaded.

  Chapter 21: Black masks and attitude

  They had black masks and attitude—raccoons, they must have been, although none of the cats had ever encountered a live one. There were only three, but their presence was intimidating and the cats had their hackles up.

  “Did I say you could eat outta my dumpsta’?” said the biggest varmint, a disreputable looking raccoon with a deep scar on one ear.

  The Dead Cats growled and hissed, but no one responded to the senseless question.

  Except Tweezer. “Who do you think you are?”

  “Oh, excu-use me. I didn’t know we needed intra-ductions. This is my territory, so ya better get used to me, ya mangy felines. Name’s Sting. Don’t forget it!”

  All three raccoons had banded eyes, but Sting’s were particularly narrow and his wide mouth flaunted no-nonsense fangs.

  Before Tweezer could reply, Lily piped up. “I don’t think so! We eat here all the time, so it’s our dumpster, mister, not yours. Besides, you’re interrupting our meeting.”

  Sting was dumbfounded, probably for the first time in his life

  “Yeah, pip-squeak? A meetin’? What kinda meetin’ do a bunch ‘a cats have?”

  “We are the Dead Cats Society, I’ll have you know,” Lily blurted out.

  Jaws dropped and the crowd fell silent.

  “Dead cats?” Sting suddenly looked worried. “You’s are dead?”

  “No, but you might be if you don’t scram!” yelled Tweezer.

  “Right, I’m scared now. How ‘bout you boys? You scared? Tank? Crimmany?” Sting asked his two cohorts.

  “We’re shaking in our boots, boss.”

  “Sooo’s what do a bunch ‘a dead cats do? Tell ghost stories?” laughed Sting.

  “That’s a good one, boss!” said Tank.

  Lily explained, “We read.”

  “Huh?”

  “Read. You know, books.”

  “You read what?”

  “You don’t know what a book is, mister?”

  “I know what a book is!” said Crimmany, obviously the runt of the gang.

  “Shut up! Course I know what a book is. You think I’m stupid or somethin’?”

  “I think you’re brain dead, that’s what I think!” Caffeina chimed in.

  Not wanting to be left out of the argument, Skitzo pushed forward through the cats and declared, “This is a top secret meeting. If you don’t leave now, I’m callin’ the cops.”

  “A secret meetin’?” asked Sting. “Ri-ight. You must be undercover cats and this is your secret hiding place… by the trash cans. I’m so impressed.”

  “You have no idea who we are,” said Cicero. “So take your buddies and go find another dumpster.”

  “And who might you be, ol’ man?” Sting asked. “You somebody I should be takin’ orders from?”

  “You leave him alone!” said Pudge.

  Bait tried a diplomatic approach. “I’m sure you don’t want a fight. Please let us continue with our meeting. There are other trash bins down the road.”

  Sting, undoubtedly the lead gangster raccoon, was never diplomatic. “Boys,” he said, without looking at his co-conspirators. “We gots ourselves a sit-u-a-shun.”

  With more grace than one would expect, the jumbo-sized raccoon swooped up Lily, the petite kitten who had so boldly challenged him. He held her out at arm’s length, as if she were a smelly sock. “Hey, kitty. How ‘bout readin’ to Uncle Sting?”

  Lily hung limply in his grasp.

  “Not talkin’, huh?” Sting yelled, shaking her like a rag doll. “Then I’ll take you home with me. You can read to me there. Come on, Tank, Crimmany. Let’s go.”

  The Dead Cats had not been idle—they had positioned themselves for an attack. Four of them leaped directly at Sting. Gypsy, Lily’s mother, bit him on the leg, and Bait tried to block him. Pudge, the only one who came close in size to Sting, succeeded in knocking him briefly on
his back.

  Marco had climbed up the dumpster to gain some height and used the vantage point to take a nosedive, striking Sting directly in his midsection. It would have been an effective move, if Marco had been bigger. As it was, he simply bounced off the fat-bellied raccoon and landed on the pavement. Marco, who’d never said anything mean, couldn’t help but mutter ‘Fatso’ under his breath. Sting took a swipe at him but missed.

  “You morons. You think you can take me on?” growled Sting, still clutching Lily. “You're nuthin' more than pets. You should all be curled up on somebody’s lap.” He called out to his crew, “Boys, get a move on!”

  “Whatcha gonna do with the kitten, Boss?”

  “I’m takin’ it with me. Maybe it’s time ol’ Sting had his own pet," said Sting.

  The raccoons scurried off towards the alley, and in a bold move, Tweezer plunged down from the back of a parked truck and sunk his teeth into Sting’s arm before he could get away.

  Lily dropped, coming to consciousness, and landed on her feet. Before Sting could make a countermove, Marco grabbed Lily by the scruff of her neck—not a move that comes natural to a male cat—and awkwardly dashed off, putting enough distance between her and her kidnappers to keep her safe.

  Sting left in a huff, hurling a warning. “You’ll be sorry, you scabby cats. Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me!”

  Chapter 22: “We are such stuff as dreams are made on…”

  Marco’s head hurt from thinking. Mostly he was thinking about the mystery that was Cicero. How could he imagine that time traveling was just ‘a little trip’? Why did he waste his time teaching illiterate strays? Who was he? Sometimes he seemed so old, lost in research that had no real-world implications. Then other times, Marco felt like Cicero was leading him down a dangerous path—one that was very real.

  Then there was the annoying side of the old library cat. Cicero insisted he attend the Dead Cats meetings. What a joke. Those cats were more interested in eating and fighting than reading. He could not imagine them spending any time in a library and didn’t see how they could be guardians of anything. Well, maybe Bait. Bait was different from the others.