Cat Tales Issue #1 Page 10

  ‘Ayanna!’ cried the snake, and with her next strike, she clenched her jaws around the blood she thought my mother and froze. I thought time had ceased, that this world would unravel and I would be home. But her eyes darted about. We were alone together. I felt abandoned. ‘I see. She sent you as contrition. I will foster you as my own. You will learn the river and inherit–’

  ‘My mother died giving birth to me.’ I lied. ‘I found a letter. She was afraid you would judge her for never returning. She wrote to me that when I became a man I was to call you and fulfill her pact. I’ll come and visit you.’

  ‘That’s how you knew my name?’ asked the demon. ‘You are her spawn. You humans don’t grow much over a century but at least you’ve learned to live that long.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘How often should I come?’

  ‘Your time means nothing to me.’ She sank her top fangs into my breathing bubble and a droplet of venom fell on my forehead. I saw flashes. A colossal demon, black with yellowing stripes, growled. My mother running along the stream’s shore, laughing. A howl.

  The snake demon drifted away. The darkness followed. I felt a coldness, a hollow. The abyss. The river was gone, but I sensed its flow. I sensed my being, but the molecules of my body had dispersed.

  I awoke to gravity. The stars. A heaviness on my stomach. The fat cat lay across my belly, rising and falling with my breath.

  ‘Why didn’t you just say what this was all about?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said the cat. ‘And I don’t see why it mattered that your mother was a river sprite’s slave?’

  ‘Why did she do it?’

  ‘She wanted what humans want. To control fate.’

  I shoved the cat off me, rose, and brushed myself off. ‘She wanted to save my life.’

  ‘And why was that?’ The cat blinked. ‘Consider yourself lucky you washed up on the bridge. Your mother wasn’t so fortunate and had a gulukkugakat. You humans think you’re entitled to luck because you’re prepared. As if you could ever be prepared for a future that hasn’t happened.’

  The Belug was once again a river. I checked my arm. The slash had healed. He was not trivializing my birth. He was accusing her. She had put me at risk and needed the river water to cure whatever magic threatened my chance to exist, a curse contracted from her involvement with demons.

  A cat and a snake missed my mother. I was her child, and I did not feel the same. I was relieved that she had disappeared. I used to be afraid that she would come back and take me away from my dad. I then realized her life was with the demons, not us. I grew up with stories of The Witch Doctor, whom even priests respected and called on as an exorcist. It took me most of my childhood to realize this fabled hero was my mother. No one treated me like I was birthed from greatness. I respected her. I feared her.

  ‘She stepped on your tail to make you give up the Belug demon’s name,’ I said. And he knew I was a sucker for pups and kittens. He had thrown a baby rat in the stream and darted down the basin, awaiting me. His way of an introduction.

  The feline was silent. I remembered the flash of the black and honey beast that chased my mother down the shore. She was laughing. He was a titan. He could’ve pounced on her in a single leap. It was all fun. She played with the grumpy cat. The grumpy cat played with her. He was not a familie. He did not have a host to feed him and pet him and snuggle with him on winter nights. He was not a demon. He knew of the underworld as a hell lived right here on this rock we built a world on. If not truly a cat, and if not truly a demon, then he could only be what he had named himself. ‘Felesinfern.’ He was gone.

  The dewy air. The night bugs screeching. I gathered the bridging boards from Tarago Temple and trekked home under the stars, the moonlight carving my path through night’s shadows.

  About the Author

  Michael R.E. Adams pens narratives in the speculative tradition. He invokes the meditative lyricism of literary fiction and the mysterious suspense of genre fiction to create complex characters in magical and science-based worlds. From a black aristocrat casting curses in a scheme for power to a gay Asian American leading a superheroic fight to protect the innocent, he portrays underrepresented groups to expand the world's imagination of who we can all be. Even with magic, superpowers, and new perspectives, he tells tales that all people can relate to, stories about the desire and fear of connecting to others and exploring our own hearts.

  Pawprints in the Snow

  Dara Girard

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  Published by ILORI PRESS BOOKS LLC

  www.iloripressbooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author.

  About the story

  Paul Gibbons didn’t like cats.

  But the skinny cat on his doorstep looked near death and its haunting green eyes pleaded for his help.

  He wanted to turn away. He needed to protect his secret.

  However, he couldn’t look away and he let the cat in.

  A decision that could cost him his life or be his salvation.

  A fantasy story about facing one’s destiny.

  Pawprints in the Snow

  He wasn’t a cat person. He didn’t like cats. He didn’t think they were cute or sweet or interesting. He didn’t like to think of them at all. But when Paul Gibbons opened his front door one sunny December afternoon and saw a skinny cat—one of those fussy, squashed faced breeds with black and white fur—looking on the verge of death, he couldn’t turn away. As much as he wanted to. And he tried. He made a half-hearted attempt to scare it away, but the cat just blinked.

  He searched his sparse kitchen—he usually ordered in and hadn’t gone grocery shopping in the small Maryland town where he’d settled the past several years—until he found some tuna. He checked the can to see the “sell-by” date to make sure the can wasn’t too old. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything out of a can and didn’t want to feed the cat something that would make it sick. Not that he thought the cat would live very much longer, but he didn’t want to be the cause of its early demise.

  Once he was certain the tuna was still edible, he put it in a small cracked saucer and left it out for the cat to eat. But the cat wouldn’t touch it. The three times he would check outside his window to see if the animal was still there, he saw the saucer bowl still untouched. He softly swore then stepped outside to confront the cat. “Look, you eat or you die,” he said.

  The cat just looked up at him, its expression more miserable than before.

  This is why he didn’t like cats. They were high maintenance and picky.

  “I can’t help you,” he said and started to close the door, the cat’s green eyes watching him with an intensity that made his skin crawl. Yes, this was the other reason he didn’t like cats. They were complicated and knew too much about him.

  But he wasn’t going to be swayed. He wouldn’t leave it to die, but he wouldn’t get too close either. He’d get this cat healthy and then out of his life, just as he had everything else that caused him trouble. And cats had always been the source of his greatest trouble, but he gently lifted the cat, feeling it was more bones then flesh, and went inside.

  He found out from the vet, a woman with big teeth and too much mascara, that the cat was a female. Paul pretended not to know, even though he already did. He knew a lot more than he wanted to about his squashed faced intruder. He had always known too much about things, but he had learned to feign ignorance. He pretended not to know that the cat had bad teeth and probably had once been loved and then discarded—likely by an uncaring relative who had left it on the street to die.

  At first he even pretended not to know that her name was Phillipa. She’d been named by her owner, a woman who’d had her for ten years before she got sick.

  Phillipa wanted to
tell him more, but he wasn’t interested. The story of an elderly owner falling on hard times and a beloved pet suffering the consequences was nothing new. And he didn’t want to care. Although Phillipa tried to slip him information, he made sure to keep his mind blank.

  He just listened to the diagnosis from the vet and took notes on what he needed to do to make sure Phillipa got well. To their disappointment—more his than the vet’s—Phillipa didn’t have a chip so they couldn’t find out who her true owner was. She also didn’t have a collar.

  She loved wearing collars; she managed to sneak into his thoughts like a careful whisper, on their drive home. She missed her old one. A sparkly number with her name engraved. Could she get another one?

  No.

  After getting her teeth fixed, she ate with the ferocity of a lion. She didn’t like tuna or salmon. Chicken was fine, but she preferred fresh mice if possible.

  No. It wasn’t possible.

  He didn’t want her giving him orders. Once she was healthy again she was leaving. He’d kept her longer than he should have anyway.

  A week later Paul sat in his living room staring at the tiny Christmas tree he’d decorated for no reason at all. He knew there’d be no one else to see it but him. And he wasn’t really a holiday person, but since Phillipa’s arrival he’d wanted to do something so he wouldn’t think about her. Think about what having her there meant to him, said about him.

  She kept her distance. He was glad for that. Cats were smart. They knew boundaries. Most times, except when they were trying to reveal who he really was. What he really was.

  Phillipa jumped up on the table where the tree sat and sniffed it, her nose touching a purple plastic ornament and causing it to bounce off the table and fall to the ground. She jumped down and batted it between her paws.

  Paul shook his head. His little tree looking more pathetic without the ornament, which had helped hide how thin its branches were. You’re supposed to say sorry.

  Why? This is fun. She batted the ornament again then stopped and looked at him. Will I get something for Christmas?

  No.

  She didn’t pout, which was good. She’d gotten a place to stay and food. Wasn’t that gift enough? Why did people always want more?

  Not that he considered her a person. He knew she wasn’t, but like every living creature she seemed to stretch and crave and grasp for more.

  But he’d hidden away because he had nothing more to give.

  Phillipa sat and let her tail sway slowly to the right. She’s still there.

  Paul shifted his gaze to the unlit fireplace. He saw one lonely card from his parents sitting on the black mantelpiece. He didn’t know how they found him, but they always seemed to. And every year he put up their card, knowing its cherry colors couldn’t hide how alone he was.

  Phillipa’s tale swayed again, to the left, this time with more force. She’s still there.

  He didn’t care. He didn’t want to care. Phillipa talked a lot about her former girl who she called Annie. He didn’t trust that that was her true name (cats liked to live by their own rules) or even that she was a young girl, (cats didn’t care much about age as long as their girls or boys did as told, they didn’t feel that being specific was necessary when it came to humans). She was more polite than most who referred to humans as pets. But he still didn’t believe the name Phillipa had given Annie was her real one. For all he knew, Phillipa could have named her ‘girl’ after her favorite brand of chicken hearts.

  What he did know, and could trust, was that Phillipa adored—no adored was too strong, cats didn’t think like that—highly esteemed her girl. She liked to tell him what Annie liked to wear.

  Did that really matter? He once asked her, bored by her description.

  Yes, she informed him then continued to talk.

  She also talked about how Annie liked to hum old show tunes. How her book club was always hosted at her house and all the ladies and one guy would coo over Phillipa and how cute she was.

  Do you think I’m cute?

  No.

  But more and more Phillipa talked about Annie’s last days. He didn’t want to care, but each day he grew more curious. Curious about a woman he imagined to be kind, in her late fifties, and who smelled like nutmeg and Shea butter.

  What happened?

  He didn’t mean to ask, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him. He stood over Phillipa as she ate a beef and carrot mix.

  Phillipa flicked her tail then continued to eat.

  Paul sat down beside her and folded his arms. Don’t play games. If you don’t tell me now I’ll never ask again.

  I’m eating.

  He started to stand.

  It hurts.

  He sat back down and fell silent. He looked at the crooked little tree then heard purring and looked down to see that he’d been stroking her. When had he started doing that and why hadn’t he noticed her come up next to him?

  He folded his arms.

  Phillipa looked up at him. You know what happened.

  Not the details.

  Phillipa continued to stare. Please.

  He folded his arms tighter. I can’t help you. Haven’t I helped you enough?

  She’s still there.

  Paul rose to his feet and turned on the television sorry he’d asked.

  He didn’t sleep that night. He closed his door so that Phillipa wouldn’t watch him. She’d gotten into the strange habit of watching him go to sleep, her penetrating green cat eyes seeming to glow in the darkness; her body tense, waiting as if she anticipated something.

  But it wouldn’t work. He was done. Nothing would happen.

  He got into bed and stared up at the ceiling and in his mind’s eye he saw Annie’s brown hand stroking Phillipa, he saw a cane resting against the couch within easy reach. Then he saw Annie’s face through Phillipa’s eyes and saw she wasn’t as old as he’d thought. Pretty. Not that it mattered.

  She would walk with a limp for a long time since breaking her leg. But it wasn’t an accident another voice told him.

  He closed his eyes and plugged his ears, although he knew the motion was futile. He still saw the event: The distracted driver barreling towards Annie’s car. She was lucky to have survived. But she needed someone to come and help her.

  Someone now kept her drugged and had tossed her cat out to die.

  She’s still there.

  Phillipa’s voice had become more insistent now--stronger. She was stronger. He’d even opened the front door to let her out to see if she’d go and disappear, but she always came back.

  There’s nothing I can do.

  Paul sat at his kitchen table eating a breakfast burrito he’d heated in the microwave. He wasn’t really hungry, but ate anyway. Trying not to be hypnotized by the slow sway of Phillipa’s tail as she stared up at him. She didn’t speak. Her tail said enough.

  No more. It won’t help.

  Her tail stopped swaying. It will. You can help.

  I show up on the doorstep and do what? Say I have her cat and I think she’s in danger? Do you know what happened last time?

  Phillipa licked her paw then cleaned herself. This was why he hated cats. He hated their nonchalance; that total self regard. Here he was sharing his fears and she was grooming herself as if she were in the presence of a manservant. But of course she didn’t know what had happened last time. Or maybe she could guess, but didn’t care.

  She cared about Annie, she cared about herself. She didn’t care about him. Few people did. He wouldn’t risk his life again.

  You can help.

  He took a deep breath. He thought about Annie’s cane, he thought about how sickly Phillipa had been only a few weeks ago.

  I’ll just go by the house.

  Phillipa paused briefly then continued to groom.

  It was cold. Colder than cold. Paul stood outside a blue and white boxy house, its two windows lit and one car in the carport.

  Knock on the door.

  Phillipa’s
command flew over the miles that separated them, her thoughts easily blending with his, as she lazed safe and warm on his brown sofa. I only said I’d check.

  You have to go inside.

  Paul looked at one of the windows and saw the shades had been drawn. They’d lock him away this time.

  You can lie. Phillipa told him. She’s home alone. Get her out.

  He found the spare key where Phillipa had told him to look and went inside. A hushed quiet greeted him as he closed the door, the dark scent of dominance lingering in the air. He saw shoes by the door. Tiny petite shoes, they didn’t belong to Phillipa’s owner.

  I don’t have an owner! came Phillipa’s sharp retort.

  Paul softly swore, he had to guard his thoughts more carefully. Your girl, then. He corrected.

  He studied the shoes again. They weren’t Annie’s but the woman who was looking after her.

  Don’t trust her. Phillipa warned.

  I won’t.

  Get out fast.

  He followed Phillipa’s directions and went directly to Annie’s room. He imagined she would open her eyes and scream and call the police. Just like the last time he tried to help someone. The person eventually dropped charges, but it had been an ordeal. He’d briefly revealed himself—who he was, what he was—and that had helped only briefly before the campaign against his type began again. Freak. Feline f**ker. There were many myths about how his people came to have such a genetic and psychic tie with cats. There were lots of origin stories, but few knew the truth, just the outcome: A person born with the ability to communicate with cats and see life on a fourth dimensional realm. And there was more—the stuff of nightmares.

  He’d left town. He made people nervous. He didn’t blame them. He knew too much. He always knew too much. But he’d never used his knowledge to hurt anyone.