The Sign of the Cat (3 page)

Duncan galloped down the cobblestone streets, his chin straps flapping. The narrow lanes were shadowed in the late afternoon, but the flower boxes were full of bright color, and the scent of freesias filled the air.
Clatter, clatter
went Duncan's boots, and the noise echoed off the houses, built from gray island stone so long ago that moss had crept up almost to the windows. The doors were painted blue, or green, or red, and windows were hung with curtains of the thick white lace that island women tatted, sitting in the sun. Duncan had seen them at their work, elderly women with knobby fingers, and he knew their cats.

“Slow down!” cried Grizel. “I'm not a young cat anymore!”

Duncan looked back at the small moving patch of fur a full block behind and felt a pang. Grizel
was
an old cat—he hadn't realized how old. But if he went much slower, he might not be at the wharf when the boat docked, and someone else would get whatever jobs were going.

“I'll wait up at the bookstore,” he called back, seeing the familiar green awning ahead. It wouldn't hurt to wait one minute, and he wanted to see if the bookseller had turned the page.

He skidded to a stop and pressed his nose against the bookstore window. The book he'd looked at every day for three weeks was still on display, but the page hadn't been turned since yesterday.

“
A Recent History of Arvidia
,” he murmured hurriedly to himself, saying the title aloud for the pleasure of it. “
Being the True Tale of Kings and Queens, True Loves and Vile Hates, Clashes at Sea and on Land, Together with an Account of Great Ships and Their Builders.
” A sign next to the book said,
INCLUDES MAJOR EVENTS OF THE PAST TEN YEARS
!

Duncan looked hungrily at the picture, which showed a three-masted ship being built, and wished that he could see the illustration on the next page. Maybe it would show directions for building a smaller boat. The fishermen had taught him how to mend a boat, but he had never built one from scratch.

“You could go
in
the bookshop,” said Grizel, arriving slightly out of breath. “Then you could open any book you like.”

“No money,” said Duncan briefly. “Let's go.”

“It doesn't cost anything to look.” Grizel gazed wistfully at the bookshop. The owner was generous with kitty treats, in her experience, and she wanted one.

Duncan scuffed the toe of his boot over a loose pebble. He never liked to go into any shop unless he had coins in his pocket. Then, if he didn't buy anything, it would be because he didn't
choose
to, not because he couldn't.

Grizel stared at him with her yellow eyes. “You have too much pride,” she said. “You have the pride of a Mc—” She coughed delicately and spit up a furball.

Duncan kicked up the loose gray pebble and dropped it into his pocket. He glanced down the long, narrow street, already crowded with people hurrying home from work or shopping. “Let's go. Do you want me to carry you?”

Grizel's whiskers twitched as she looked around. “Other cats might see.”

“Now who's too proud?” Duncan grinned. “Keep up if you can. I'll meet you at the docks if you get that far.”

He stepped over Grizel's furball, dodged a woman with a market basket, and took off at a cheerful trot. Today might be his lucky day. Maybe the sailboat was owned by a rich person—a noble, say—who would pay extra because Duncan was so quick and polite. Maybe Duncan would earn enough to buy food
and
the history book in the display window. He loved history the most of all his subjects; it just about killed him to get poor grades in it.

He hadn't gotten a poor grade today, though, on the national tests—he was almost sure of it. Best of all, his mother would never find out.

The cobblestones rounded under Duncan's feet as he ran, and his legs gave an exuberant spring. Snatches of sound came and went in his ears—the clatter of pans, a burst of conversation, a barking dog. Narrow houses loomed overhead, breathing cold from their mossy foundations, and his boots made an echo like the footsteps of a giant. He turned a corner without slowing, and a gathering of seagulls exploded suddenly in a flurry of feather and noise.

He jerked back instinctively and looked over his shoulder. Had anyone heard the commotion? Had he drawn attention to himself?

Duncan winced and shook his head. That was his mother's fear, not his. It was his mother who told him to keep quiet, to stay in the background. It was his mother who worried if his grades were too good, or if he came close to winning a race.

A single clear note rang in the air: the monastery bell, ringing the quarter hour. The shadowed lane was cool, and Duncan shivered lightly as the sweat dried on his skin.

He did not like to think that something was wrong with his mother. But no other mother he knew wanted her child to be second-best.

At the end of the long row of tall houses, a blue rectangle of sky grew steadily larger. He was almost to the lower cliff road, and that was halfway down to the wharf. If Grizel was behind him, Duncan couldn't see her. Perhaps she had gotten tired and gone home.

He emerged onto the hot, bright limestone track, with the monastery school a stone's throw away and the bay shimmering cool beyond. Big blocks of squared stone edged the roadway, and Duncan climbed onto one to get a better view, shading his eyes against the reflected sparkles of the sea. The white scrap of sail had grown larger. He had been right; it was not a very big boat, certainly not big enough to be called a ship. It had only a mainsail and a jib. Still, it looked fast and well handled—but unbelievably, the boat was still sailing on a broad reach. Couldn't the skipper see the rocks on the point? If he wanted to enter the bay, he would have to tack in a hurry. There was no reason to cut the point that close, no reason in the world …

Unless the boat wasn't going to enter the bay at all.

Duncan scrambled off the stone blocks, ran uphill to a headland that extended beyond the road, and forced his way through a mass of junipers to get to the opposite side. He turned his back on the bay and looked to the west, where the sea crashed heavily against the stark cliffs. There was no bay to speak of on this side of the island, no sheltered spot where a boat could anchor in safety. The sailboat was going to pass the island by.

His stomach growled, complaining. Duncan bent over to ease the empty feeling in his middle and picked up a smooth white rock he saw at his feet. It was warm from the sun, and he held it tightly.

The sailboat was close enough now for him to see a jaunty blue pennant streaming from the mast. It made a tempting target. Duncan tossed the stone up and down in his hand—but he didn't throw it. It wasn't the sailboat's fault that he was hungry and needed to earn money. He dropped the rock in his pocket to keep the gray pebble company and turned back to the road.

Grizel, limping slightly, emerged from the shadowed street, stalked to the road's edge, and stared out to sea with narrowed eyes. Her head moved slowly, following the course of the triangular sail.

On the hillside below, rooftops shone like copper in the last rays of the sun. Beneath them, in the spacious bayside houses, children were sitting down to suppers of roast chicken and potatoes and greens. They were being told to clean their plates or they wouldn't get dessert. Some of them were pouting.

Duncan knew this because he had been in their large and beautiful homes. At one time or another, his mother had taught music to most of the island's children, and he had gone with her. It was only in the past year that she had allowed him to stay on his own while she taught music lessons after school. But he hadn't forgotten what he had seen and heard while playing quietly in the corner or reading a borrowed book behind the potted palms.

Grizel curled her tail around his knee. “We can still go down to the beach. There might be fish heads to eat.”

Hands jammed deeper into his pockets, Duncan scanned the waterfront. The fishermen had already pulled their boats up onto the beach opposite the wharf where larger boats docked. Fishermen mostly did their own work, but sometimes he had helped them splice ropes or repair nets. If he was helpful enough, he might be given a leftover fish. It would be one from the day before, one that wasn't quite fresh.

“Or,” Grizel continued, butting her blunt head against his shin, “we could go down to the baron's manor house. They have a new cat living there, I'm told. I hear he gets a lot of extra kitty treats.”

“That's nice for you,” said Duncan. “I can't say
I
like them.”

“Robert usually has a tin of something to eat in his room,” Grizel pointed out.

Duncan gave this some thought. Robert was the baron's son, and Robert's little sister, Betsy, took piano lessons from Sylvia McKay. Last year, Robert and Duncan had played at sword fighting together, whacking each other with sticks all up and down the green lawn of the baron's estate. Robert would undoubtedly have something to eat stashed in his room, and he would almost certainly share with Duncan, if he were asked. But Duncan hated the thought of going down there to beg for food.

“And you could walk your mother home,” Grizel suggested. “She's teaching a piano lesson there right now.”

Duncan was startled. “How do you know?”

Grizel rolled her eyes. “I shall never cease to be amazed at the inadequacy of the human ear. Honestly, can't you hear your mother's voice? She's counting out the rhythm to ‘King's March.'” Grizel cocked her head to one side, her ears pricked forward. “Young Betsy doesn't seem to have mastered the concept of six-eight time, I'm sorry to say.”

 

CHAPTER 3

Up the Drainpipe

D
UNCAN STOOD ON THE DAMP GRASS
at the back of the baron's manor house. Above him, on the broad window ledge, a large smoke-colored Persian was napping in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. The tip of his silvery tail hung over the edge.

“Go on, ask him!” Grizel hissed.

The tail twitched slightly.

“Mrraow?” Duncan gave the mild, inquisitive meow that informed a cat he had no aggressive intentions. Lacking a tail to indicate his attitude, he tilted his head in a friendly gesture.

The smoky gray cat rose, stretched his massive body, and looked down with the permanently irritated expression of all Persian cats. “Name?” he inquired. “Territory?”

“Duncan McKay, of cliffside.” Duncan waved his hand in Grizel's direction. “And Grizel.”

“Business?”

Duncan glanced at Grizel, who examined her paw with apparent deep interest. “We just wanted to say welcome to the island, and make sure you got the invitation to the cat council tonight.”

“
Kitty treats
,” coughed Grizel behind her paw.

Duncan ignored her. “Oh, and have you seen my mother? I think she's teaching a music lesson.”

The Persian's flat, squashed face underwent a contortion that Duncan realized was meant for a smile. “Ah, yes—Mrs. McKay. She plays a lovely violin. By the way, since when do boys speak Cat?”

Duncan ignored this last question. “You must mean she plays the piano. She doesn't play the violin.”

The Persian's smile disappeared. “I suppose next you're going to tell me that I haven't sat by her feet and listened? Her playing is lovely, lovely.… It makes me think of tender, plump little mice.…”

“It makes me think of delicate little songbirds,” Grizel interjected dreamily.

Duncan stared at her. “You've heard her play the violin?”

Grizel jumped back a little, her ears alert. “No, no, I was just
imagining.
Because she's such a lovely woman, see?
If
she played the violin, I think it would sound very sweet indeed.” She turned to the smoky Persian with a decided change of subject. “And you are?” she inquired. “I don't believe I caught your name, sir.”

The Persian frowned again. “You can call me—”

“Mr. Fluffers!” The high-pitched call came from the room behind the cat. The Persian made a sudden motion, as if to dart away, but his bulk kept him from moving quickly enough. A little girl's hands grasped him beneath the shoulders and picked him up. He dangled there as Betsy rubbed her face against his fluffy neck, his expression one of long-suffering resignation.

“There you are, Mr. Fluffers! I've been looking all over for you! Naughty kitty, to run away and hide during my piano lesson!”

Mr.
Fluffers
? Duncan did not exactly laugh, but it was a near thing. Down by his ankles, Grizel pretended to cough.

The Persian gazed down at them from his helpless position, haunches swaying as Betsy rocked him. “I prefer,” he said in a strained meow, “to be called Spike.”

Duncan felt his face undergo a spasm. It was a terrible thing to laugh at cats—they never forgot the affront to their dignity. But if he didn't laugh soon, he thought he might burst from the strain. He made a massive effort and kept his expression serious.