The Golden Cat

by Gabriel King

  ‘Mammy close. Follow now. Pay attention this time.’

  Sealink sighed and followed as instructed.

  *

  The dead time between day and night, those two or three hours that precede the rising of the sun, when humans lie in the deepest trenches of their sleep and diurnal beings take to their burrows, is the time when the felidae and other creatures of the night tend to be at their most active and acute.

  Sealink, however, preferred to sleep at this time, particularly when there was no food to be had. It took her mind off things. She would also have been the first to concede that full dark could make her a little edgy. She was not, therefore, in the best frame of mind for her next discovery.

  On the barely discernible track along which the dragonfly led her there had been at intervals a number of partially rotted and foul-smelling objects which might once have been small rodents or reptiles. A few yards further and there was a small turtle shell, minus its occupant. Then cat and dragonfly rounded a bend and emerged out into a small clearing, in the middle of which lay two large identically round stones like garden ornaments, and something else…

  This object stood higher than her head and seemed to soak up all the available starlight, which it gave back in a great albescent glow, illuminating its component parts: an intricate, obsessive jigsaw of skulls and ribcages, spinal columns and hip-bones; fishbones and rigid claws; open beaks and empty orbital sockets – the ghastly remains of a thousand soulless bodies.

  Sealink stared, for a moment trapped motionless in her native curiosity. She sniffed at the bone-mountain. Then she tapped it cautiously with a paw. At once, the entire heap collapsed, sending tiny skulls and skeletons skittering down upon her, as cold and smooth and light as a shower of dead beetles.

  The calico recoiled as if shot, fetching up against one of the large round stones; but as soon as she bumped into it, the stone also started to move.

  Not sure which way to run next, Sealink stared wildly around her. What sort of place was this where nothing was as it seemed?

  Overhead, the dragonfly zigzagged furiously, buzzing like a creature possessed, then made itself scarce in the dark canopy beyond the clearing.

  The stone continued to uncurl itself – as a rock should not – revealing a number of stout armour-plates which now expanded and flexed; and suddenly produced some feet, followed by a long, delicate-looking snout and a pair of eyes which blinked in bewilderment. Whatever it was smelled quite strongly of earth and swamp, and, when it finally saw the calico cat, all four of its little clawed feet left the ground at the same time and it leapt high in the air in a parody of terror, all the time wailing, ‘I wasn’t asleep! I wasn’t!’

  It came to rest in front of Sealink. It blinked myopically at her.

  ‘You ain’t the Mammy.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I wasn’t asleep. Honest.’ It looked sly.

  ‘Honey, I don’t give a damn—’

  At this point the second ‘stone’ began to move. Sealink watched it with suspicion in case it revealed some other strange ability apart from imitating rocks and vertical jumping.

  Unfurling itself with greater dignity than its partner, alerted perhaps to the presence of a stranger by the recent kerfuffle, the second ‘stone’ came to its feet smartly and declared, ‘Reporting for duty, ma’am.’

  ‘What?’

  It gave her a hard, evaluating squint.

  ‘Thought you might be official.’

  ‘?’

  ‘From the Mammy – checking up on us.’

  Sealink felt a strange wash of emotions: relief that Mammy Lafeet must finally be close by; rapidly followed by disorientation and self-doubt.

  ‘Who the hell are you and what are you talking about?’

  ‘How do we know this isn’t a test?’ It sidled closer, snuffling. Sealink put a paw out defensively. Her claws popped from their sheaths and gleamed in the cold light.

  ‘Back off, buddy.’ Definitely not as fearsome as the alligator. She decided to take a stern tone with it. ‘Look, I’m here to see the Mammy. I ain’t here to play games. Please go find her and tell her she has a visitor.’

  ‘You knocked over our pile.’

  The first guard now had its back to Sealink and its companion and was trundling disconsolately around the debris, gathering skulls into one heap, fishbones into another.

  ‘Er, yes. Sorry.’

  ‘Took us ages, that did.’

  It started to stack bones haphazardly. The new foundations reached a height of perhaps five inches, tottered and collapsed. At once the second guard waddled over, muttering disapprovingly, ‘Not like that. Don’t you ever learn? Start with these…’

  She’d get no sense out of these guys. Shaking her head, Sealink left them to it.

  *

  Some yards beyond the clearing, the calico found herself at the water’s edge again and out in clear, if stifling, air. A dull glow in the eastern sky announced that dawn might not be far off, for which she found she was truly grateful. She sat down to await the new day, staring out over the spreading ripples of rising fish. Eventually, new light lent colour to her strange surroundings. It infused the pink of the mallow flowers and the lilac of the water hyacinths. It delineated the leaves of the dog-oak and the fronds of the buckler fern and crept into the duckweed on the surface of the bayou to light it to a phosphorescent, neon green. It marked out a snapping turtle on a rotting log, long neck stretched out to catch the first of the rays, his mouth as leathery and puckered and downturned as that of a toothless old man.

  Sealink was just about to address the turtle when a voice above and behind her made her jump.

  ‘Que veux-tu – what you at?’

  The speaker was positioned precariously upon the boughs of a moss-shrouded tree, the angularity of her posture enhancing the dry dustiness of her sparse fur. Her claws, buried in the deeply fissure bark, were as yellowed and gnarled and horny as old tortoiseshell and her coat was fiercely brindled – a dull orange which must once have been tiger-bright, overlain with a complex patchwork of black. Her eyes were hidden in shadow, and Sealink found herself suddenly and unexpectedly as unsure as a kitten.

  ‘Que veux-tu?’ the cat in the tree rasped again.

  ‘I— I came to seek the Mammy Lafeet.’

  ‘What your bidness?’

  ‘The cats of the French Quarter need help – they’re dying. It’s all gone crazy…’

  The old cat cackled. ‘We all crazy, honey; and we’s all dyin’, too. You had a long and wasted journey, chile.’

  ‘Are you the Mammy?’

  ‘The Six-Toed Cat. Kadiska. The Watcher at the Threshold. Madame Lafeet. The Mammy. T’ey call me many names.’ She leapt down from the branch with an agility surprising in one so aged. The rising sun revealed eyes veiled in milky cataracts, but she fixed the calico squarely with her gaze and pronounced, ‘Maybe I let you call me Eponine.’

  ‘Merci bien, madame.’ She bowed her head. Even Sealink knew enough to remember her manners in the presence of a Guardian, however fallen. But to refer to her as Eponine, an ordinary, if antiquated, Cajun name, seemed faintly sacrilegious, or even dangerous. Was this some sort of test? Then she realized that an anticipatory silence had fallen and that the Mammy was regarding her sharply. ‘They call me many things too. I was known as Rocket when I lived in Houston, and Amibelle in Missouri. In Alaska a guy called me Trouble. And in Europe— hell, I forget. Down on the Moonwalk I had the name of the Delta Queen. My friends—’ she paused. What friends? Who was she kidding? She cleared her throat, started again. ‘Folks mostly call me Sealink. After a boat I once came in on.’

  ‘Sealink.’ The old cat savoured the word in her soft Creole. ‘It is good that we trade names with one another, chile. It is a matter of trust, hein? Cats’ names are important: they are words of power. So, Sealink. A traveller. One who bridges many worlds. Un voyageur. A cat bearing news and a gift of gold who crosses oceans – an ocean of salt, and of fire
.’

  ‘Fire?’ Sealink was alarmed.

  ‘I have myself passed through fire. I have smelled the smell of fire,’ pronounced Eponine in a singsong voice. She turned a serene face to her visitor. ‘Viens.’

  Without checking to make sure the calico was following she disappeared abruptly into the dense undergrowth and, stepping neatly between aerial roots and knots of vegetation, made her way unerringly to another, hidden shore of the bayou, and the upturned hull of a small wooden boat, its timbers weathered to silver by the passing seasons.

  All around the skiff lay an assortment of tiny bones and feathers, some arranged in curious patterns, others scattered as if at random, all making a stark contrast against the peaty ground. The Mammy sat down and began to pat some loose bones into a small pile. She looked up at the calico and her mouth parted to reveal a few sharp, white teeth in what might have been a smile; or maybe it was just senility. Sealink found it hard to tell.

  ‘Eh bien, cher: you made a long journey down old roads to get here. You taken your life like a mouse in your mouth – une souris dans ta bouche – and held it tight but gentle through fear and peril. You been through hazard to reach me, alors, je pense que t’as bonne raison. I figure you got just cause. And even though you ain’t brung the Mammy no cadeau, because I sense you got troubles, I’m gonna allow you to ax me three silver questions, and in exchange I give you three silver answers.’

  The calico looked bewildered.

  ‘Honeychile, you gets to ax three questions. Don’t you ever listen to no stories?’

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t have a gift for you. But only three questions? I got hundreds.’ Sealink was appalled.

  ‘Got plenty to choose from then, cher.’

  Sealink thought about this for a minute. Her stomach growled. If she were to ask the Mammy for some food, would that count as one of her three questions? It seemed rather harsh. Perhaps she could phrase it in a different fashion…

  Eponine cackled, a short, staccato sound like an old cat dislodging hairballs. ‘You don’t need to waste no questions, honey: your belly is most eloquent. First we eat: t’en we consult the bones.’

  *

  They ate. The Mammy appeared to have an enormous and secret cache of food. She had vanished into the undergrowth and re-emerged a few moments later dragging the best part of a dead catfish, its eyes white with glaze and a querulous bottom lip protruding, as if out of disappointment at its fate. And while they ate, they talked: or rather, the Mammy, who had an appetite like a bird, talked while Sealink tore at the catfish and listened, making sure to ask no inopportune questions. It seemed there were still creatures who wished to seek advice from an old, wise cat. And when they came, they brought gifts and tributes – little offerings of food and dead things to add to the old cat’s bone-pile; not just as payment for the favour they asked, but to appease the bad spirits that might surround so powerful a seer. They came from out of the swamps, where they shared a house, or at least a garbage can, with the fragile fishing communities, making a small living from the brackish waters of the bayous where freshwater met salt and they netted the shrimp and crawfish, sheepheads and drumfish, redfish and bass that sold to the restaurants and markets of the city. Some even hunted and skinned alligators.

  ‘I encountered an alligator on my way here.’

  ‘I know dat, honey. You met wit’ Monsignor Gutbag.’ Despite the fish-scales around her mouth, the Mammy looked supremely serene, in control of a whole world of knowledge to which the calico had no hope of access.

  Monsignor Gutbag: the very name the dragonfly had applied to the beast. A deep furrow scored Sealink’s forehead, but she kept her lip buttoned.

  Eponine regarded her through slitted eyes. A tiny buzzing sound rose from her throat, followed by a tiny voice barely more than a reverberation.

  A gasp of amazement escaped from the calico. It was an uncanny piece of mimicry. But how could a cat use an insect thus? Sealink had the sense of being teased.

  ‘I have my ways. Proxies can be very useful to a cat wit’ bones as old as mine, but I got to take what I can – flies, armadillos… T’ey ain’t too smart, but when you stuck out here you don’t get much choice. Even so,’ she fixed Sealink with a gimlet stare, ‘it takes two to work: one to guide and one to follow; and if the one who follows don’t pay attention – bouff!’ She expelled a great cheekful of air that bespoke irritation and waste. ‘You take my meanin’? So when you ax your t’ree questions, cher, you listen real good, ’cos when da bones talk t’ey can be real obscure.’

  So saying, the Mammy retrieved a collection of bones from beneath the timbers of the boat. They lay in morning light, pale against the dark ground.

  ‘Touch da bones, chile.’

  Sealink sniffed at them but they gave back no clue of their origin. They looked smooth and polished with wear, their ends yellowing with age.

  ‘Touch da bones.’ The Mammy’s voice was suddenly fierce. ‘Touch dem and t’ink about your questions. Concentrate wit’ the wildest part of yourself. Make dem a part of you. Believe in da bones.’

  Sealink tried to clear her mind of all but those questions that demanded answers, but her thoughts milled about subversively – thoughts of times long gone, pointless memories of meals she had eaten, places she had been. She remembered eating noodles with Tom Yang outside a Bangkok temple; sharing fried chicken with the cats on the boardwalk. She remembered mates she had taken and friends she had made. She remembered Cy and Pertelot and an old seacat by the name of Pengelly and how he had been good to her when she had been less than kind to him; she remembered Dustbin and Francine – and cut the thought off before the guilt came. Then there came through the mêlée of images a pair of mismatched eyes, one cool blue and one a lively orange: eyes that gleamed at her with love and pride and amazed delight out of a brindled face, and suddenly she could think of nothing but an old scarred tomcat with frilled ears and a taciturn manner; a cat called Mousebreath, of his taste and his smell and how they had lain together under the arches at Coldheath, and how after that first mating he had stolen for her two cooked sausages off the plate of a surprised man in a café behind the market, and, legs pumping, had raced all the way back so out of breath and full of adrenalin that he couldn’t say a word, but only dropped them, steaming with flavour, at her feet, with saliva dripping off his chin and a wicked look in his orange eye… and all at once her heart contracted in a single pulse of agony as the memory of her loss tore through her for the first time since that terrible meeting at Tintagel, when Tag had told her how he died; and she opened her mouth and wailed as if her heart would burst.

  The sound ripped out into the quiet, sticky air of the bayou, and was gone: absorbed by the moss and the waters; and suddenly Sealink felt a profound calm settle over her. It was not acceptance, but something more, something that would bear examination at a later time, perhaps. Then another face swam into her mind. Silver and barred with a darker shade, eyes of lambent green: eyes filled with anxiety and a vast responsibility. It was Tag; but why she should think of him at such a time, she could not imagine.

  Tintagel and the King and Queen lay far behind her now. The journeys they had made; the battle they had fought, like stories from another age. She was in the New World now, or so humans termed it: but what did they know? All the world was old, as ancient as the Great Cat from which it sprang. And something was very wrong with it, something which made her bones sing out to the bones on the ground beneath her paws; and all at once some of the responsibility she had seen shining in a silver cat’s eyes had found a home inside her, and she knew what her first question must be. She opened her eyes and stared at the Mammy.

  ‘Eponine. Tell me: what was gone so wrong in the world that the cats of the city are sick and persecuted?’

  The Mammy closed her eyes and fell amongst the bones. She rubbed her cheek-glands upon them. She rolled onto her back and twisted her spine against them. She leapt to her feet and danced upon them, and Sealink had a fleetin
g memory of the jig that she and Baron Raticide had shared down on the Moonwalk only a few days before. Then the Mammy scooped up the bones and juggled them with clever paws. Balanced between momentum and gravity for a moment they hung, freighted with magic; then fell in a series of dry clicks to the ground, where they made a curious, disjointed creature, a creature with three legs and a single round of vertebra for a head.

  Eponine looked at the pattern the fall of bones had made, then jumped away from the symbol as if scalded. She started to murmur to herself, agitated little grunts and grimaces; but the calico could make out not a word.

  At last, Sealink could bear it no longer. ‘What do the bones say?’

  The Mammy stared right through her. Then in the strange singsong voice she had adopted earlier, she announced, ‘Dans le coeur… Isaac le Noir et le Chat Noir… la danse macabre. Bon ’ti ange et gros ’ti ange, ils dansent toujours. Ils mangent le monde jusqu’à la mort… Les rues sauvages se meurent… Ça ne finit pas… Tempora mutantur… Et les rêves—’

  ‘Speak English!’ Sealink was beside herself with frustration.

  But the Mammy was oblivious.

  ‘Les trois. Les trois sont perdus. Ils doivent être retrouvés. C’est tout ou rien. All or nothing.’

  Now the Mammy fell silent. Sealink stared at her. ‘What? I don’t understand – I don’t speak that stuff. C’mon, be fair. I got the “all or nothing” bit, and I can kinda see it’s a desperate situation out there, but that sure don’t help me understand things.’

  The brindled cat said nothing. Sealink felt a wave of despair. After everything, was this all she would leave with? A few words of broken French she didn’t understand? Suddenly she was furious. Running across the bones, she grabbed Mammy Lafeet by the scruff of the neck and shook her like a rat.

  ‘I ain’t got no time for all this voodoo shit, Granma. Make it plain English or I’ll eat your heart out.’

  The Mammy gurgled something. Sealink set her down, sides heaving with spent fury. Then she realized the old cat was laughing.