Cat Tales (5 page)

Cindy smiled, folded to her knees, opened the cage door and reached in past the porcelain litter pan to the miniature canopied bed. From atop a silk pillow she lifted the kitten.

“Well, hi, little fellow,” she whispered, holding him in her lap as she shone the flashlight on him. He gazed back at her with unblinking blue eyes beneath white JonBenet curls — curls! Cindy gasped. All over the kitten's petite body, the new hair was growing out in long, soft curls worthy of Barbie at her prime, curls that made even Cindy's chapped hands itch for a comb and some ribbons and barrettes.

“Oh,” she whispered, “you angel.” With snowy little-girl curls, Shirley Temple curls, fashion-model, movie-star, all-American curls. “Pretty boy!”

Click went the light switch, the ceiling fixture blazed on, and Cindy jumped so hard she dropped her flashlight. There in the doorway stood Devon, exquisite in mauve silk pajamas, with quite a large carving knife in her hand.

Devon, with a look in her eyes fit to curl Cindy's very commonplace hair. Cindy knew she should be afraid, very afraid. But her wonder at the white kitten overrode her fear. She blurted, “He's a mutation, isn't he?”

Devon's lips twitched in a grimace too cold to be called a smile. “Imagine how much money people will pay,” she said, “for a new breed of pretty kitty with long, silky, naturally curly hair.”

An explosive mix of emotions lifted Cindy to her feet. “Is that what you killed Samantha for?” she cried.

“I never meant to hurt her! I just told her I wanted the kitten, and she got stupid about it.”

A number of sleek cats with backward-tipped ears seated themselves on the cages as if on bleachers, watching. Devon advanced a step.

Keep her talking. Trying to think what to do, Cindy became polite and conversational. “Samantha knew this kitten was valuable?”

“No, she just wanted to keep him. The fool. I even offered to pay her for him.” Devon's voice went squeaky shrill. “And she said no. After all the work I'd done for her stinking shelter! I lost my temper.” Devon said this with a certain pride. “I thought I'd killed her.”

Forget politeness. “Well, you did now, didn't you?”

Devon just showed her teeth. “What do you think?”

“I think you're a murderer.” Holding the kitten gently even though her hands wanted to clench into fists, somehow Cindy found murder easier to accept than . . . “Did you have to put the cats out in the cold?”

“Don't be stupid. Of course I did. So no one would know I took one.” Devon raised her knife. “Stick that kitten in his cage.”

“No.” As she said it, Cindy felt her sweat start to run cold.

“You always were a stupid lard-ass.” Slowly, watching her fixedly, Devon advanced.

Devon in her mauve silk peejays, planning to spill her blood all over the thick cream-colored carpet. Sweating, Cindy blurted, “You're going to make an awful mess.”

“So who's ever going to look?” Devon took another step toward her.

“I made substitutions in your mother's medicines.” Cindy wished this were not a lie. “If I don't get back there before she goes to bed, you're going to have a very sick mother. She might even die.”

Devon paused, considering, then paced forward again. “So let her die.”

Cindy lifted the white kitten in both shaking hands. “If you take one more step, I'll wring his neck.”

But Devon gave a cold bark of laughter. “Bull. You're an overstuffed cream puff.”

One more step put her almost within arm's reach of Cindy.

“Here. Catch!” Cindy tossed the kitten at her. Devon squeaked, grabbing for the baby reflexively, and Cindy bent over and lunged to head-ram Devon just below the ribs with all the force of her way-too-many pounds.

She flattened Devon, fell on top of her, and lay there panting, mostly with relief that she did not feel any knife sticking into her. There it was, lying on the carpet several feet away. Cindy started to shake, but that was okay. She closed her eyes, taking time to recover, to think what to do next. Under her, enveloped by her, Devon struggled briefly, then apparently decided it was no use and lay still. In order to restrain Devon, all Cindy had to do was remain lying on top of her. Overweight had its advantages.

She lay catching her breath a few more minutes before something wet and raspy massaged her face. One of the cats was licking her . . . oh, God, where was the kitten? Was it all right?

Cindy opened her eyes, took a look around, and there was the white kitten, just fine, batting at the carving knife's shiny blade.

“Stop that. You'll hurt yourself,” Cindy muttered, knowing she should get up and take possession of the knife. But she still felt shaky. That and inertia kept her where she was. Even the sound of running footsteps in the hallway didn't budge her.

A pair of battered brogans appeared in the doorway below rumpled khakis. Suddenly lighthearted, Cindy heaved herself up to stand facing the tall detective.

He waved her to one side. In his other hand he held his pistol at the ready. “Tailed you,” he explained while never taking his eyes from Devon. “Heard most of it from outside the window.” He ordered Devon, “Ms. Heckmaster, clasp your hands on top of your head!”

Devon did not respond, just lay still. Very, very still. Staring blankly at the ceiling.

Cindy started to shake again. “I knocked the breath out of her,” she murmured, “then lay on top of her . . . oh, my God.”

The white kitten bounded over to Devon and pounced on her trailing blonde hair. He clutched her golden locks in his tiny paws, then climbed her head to prance on her face. He batted at her motionless eyebrows, lost his balance, and sat his furry little butt on her nose. He piped a soprano meow. From atop Devon's corpse he gazed at the world he was born to conquer, his wide blue eyes haloed by angelic curls.

Nancy Springer is closing in on book publication
number fifty and Social Security check number one
at about the same time. After 46 years in Pennsylvania, she is both startled and pleased to find herself
moving to the Florida panhandle, where she, her
husband, three pets, and four airplanes will be living
in a hangar at a small general-aviation airfield.

THE CATS OF ULTHAR

by H.P. Lovecraft

I
T IS SAID that in Ulthar, which lies beyond the river Skai, no man may kill a cat; and this I can verily believe as I gaze upon him who sitteth purring before the fire. For the cat is cryptic, and close to strange things which men cannot see. He is the soul of antique Aegyptus, and bearer of tales from forgotten cities in Meroë and Ophir. He is the kin of the jungle's lords, and heir to the secrets of hoary and sinister Africa. The Sphinx is his cousin, and he speaks her language; but he is more ancient than the Sphinx, and remembers that which she hath forgotten.

In Ulthar, before ever the burgesses forbade the killing of cats, there dwelt an old cotter and his wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats of their neighbors. Why they did this I know not; save that many hate the voice of the cat in the night, and take it ill that cats should run stealthily about yards and gardens at twilight. But whatever the reason, this old man and woman took pleasure in trapping and slaying every cat which came near to their hovel; and from some of the sounds heard after dark, many villagers fancied that the manner of slaying was exceedingly peculiar. But the villagers did not discuss such things with the old man and his wife; because of the habitual expression on the withered faces of the two, and because their cottage was so small and so darkly hidden under spreading oaks at the back of a neglected yard. In truth, much as the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they feared them more; and instead of berating them as brutal assassins, merely took care that no cherished pet or mouser should stray toward the remote hovel under the dark trees. When through some unavoidable oversight a cat was missed, and sounds heard after dark, the loser would lament impotently; or console himself by thanking Fate that it was not one of his children who had thus vanished. For the people of Ulthar were simple, and knew not whence it is all cats first came.

One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the South entered the narrow cobbled streets of Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk who passed through the village twice every year. In the market-place they told fortunes for silver, and bought gay beads from the merchants. What was the land of these wanderers none could tell; but it was seen that they were given to strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their wagons strange figures with human bodies and the heads of cats, hawks, rams, and lions. And the leader of the caravan wore a headdress with two horns and a curious disk betwixt the horns.

There was in this singular caravan a little boy with no father or mother, but only a tiny black kitten to cherish. The plague had not been kind to him, yet had left him this small furry thing to mitigate his sorrow; and when one is very young, one can find great relief in the lively antics of a black kitten.

So the boy whom the dark people called Menes smiled more often than he wept as he sat playing with his graceful kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon.

On the third morning of the wanderers' stay in Ulthar, Menes could not find his kitten; and as he sobbed aloud in the market-place certain villagers told him of the old man and his wife, and of sounds heard in the night. And when he heard these things his sobbing gave place to meditation, and finally to prayer. He stretched out his arms toward the sun and prayed in a tongue no villager could understand; though indeed the villagers did not try very hard to understand, since their attention was mostly taken up by the sky and by the odd shapes the clouds were assuming. It was very peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his petition there seemed to form overhead the shadowy, nebulous figures of exotic things; of hybrid creatures crowned with horn-flanked disks. Nature is full of such illusions to impress the imaginative.

That night the wanderers left Ulthar, and were never seen again. And the householders were troubled when they noticed that in all the village there was not a cat to be found. From each hearth, the familiar cat had vanished; cats large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow, and white. Old Kranon, the burgomaster, swore that the dark folk had taken the cats away in revenge for the killing of Menes's kitten; and cursed the caravan and the little boy. But Nith, the lean notary, declared that the old cotter and his wife were more likely persons to suspect; for their hatred of cats was notorious and increasingly bold. Still, no one durst complain to the sinister couple; even when little Atal, the innkeeper's son, vowed that he had at twilight seen all the cats of Ulthar in that accursed yard under the trees, pacing very slowly and solemnly in a circle around the cottage, two abreast, as if in performance of some unheard-of rite of beasts. The villagers did not know how much to believe from so small a boy; and though they feared that the evil pair had charmed the cats to their death, they preferred not to chide the old cotter till they met him outside his dark and repellent yard.

So Ulthar went to sleep in vain anger; and when the people awakened at dawn — behold! every cat was back at his accustomed hearth! Large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow, and white: none was missing. Very sleek and fat did the cats appear, and sonorous with purring content. The citizens talked with one another of the affair, and marveled not a little. Old Kranon again insisted that it was the dark folk who had taken them, since cats did not return alive from the cottage of the ancient man and his wife. But all agreed on one thing: that the refusal of all the cats to eat their portions of meat or to drink their saucers of milk was exceedingly curious. And for two whole days the sleek, lazy cats of Ulthar would touch no food, but only doze by the fire or in the sun.

It was fully a week before the villagers noticed that no lights were appearing at dusk in the windows of the cottage under the trees. Then the lean Nith remarked that no one had seen the old man or his wife since the night the cats were away. In another week the burgomaster decided to overcome his fears and call at the strangely silent dwelling as a matter of duty, though in so doing he was careful to take with him Shang the blacksmith and Thul the cutter of stone as witnesses. And when they had broken down the frail door they found only this: two cleanly picked human skeletons on the earthen floor, and a number of singular beetles crawling in the shadowy corners.

There was subsequently much talk among the burgesses of Ulthar. Zath, the coroner, disputed at length with Nith, the lean notary; and Kranon and Shang and Thul were overwhelmed with questions. Even little Atal, the innkeeper's son, was closely questioned and given a sweetmeat as reward. They talked of the old cotter and his wife, of the caravan of dark wanderers, of small Menes and his black kitten, of the prayer of Menes and of the sky during that prayer, of the doings of the cats on the night the caravan left, and of what was later found in the cottage under the dark trees in the repellent yard.