Кроха - Dedication

Ryan never squealed. It was not a scream but a high, delighted exclamation. He heard several voices all at once, excited male and female voices jangling together and then Ryan pounding up the stairs, Rock thumping and barking beside her. Her voice rose among the rafters and through his cat door as if the house were afire.

“Joe! Joe, are you there? Wake up! They’re home! They’re here!”

Joe yawned. Lucinda and Pedric? Well, good, it was about time. To go running off to Alaska just when—

“Kit and Pan are home. Kit and Pan are here! Wake up!”

He shot out from among the pillows, belted in through his cat door, and crouched on the rafter staring down. Ryan stood looking up at him, her velvet jogging suit wrinkled, her dark hair tousled. “Kit’s home! Pan’s home! Oh, come down! They’re here! Wilma brought them.”

Clyde appeared behind her, Rock crowding between them. Wilma hurried up the stairs, too, Dulcie tucked up in a fold of her red cloak. Kit and Pan raced up past them, flew up the stairs, and reared up, staring at Joe. He wanted to leap down yowling, wanted to pummel Pan and caress Kit as he’d done when she was a youngster—but even as delight rushed through him, Joe felt sick.

He looked down at the two cats crowding between Ryan and Rock, the red tomcat serious and silent, Kit’s black-and-brown fur all atangle, her yellow eyes huge. For a moment their looks were steady with satisfaction at being home. But then they let their pain show, their deep and terrible pain.

They knew. They knew that Misto was dying.

“Dulcie told us,” Kit said in a small voice. Pan’s amber eyes were filled now only with rising dread, his distress terrible to see. Joe dropped to the desk and to the floor and pressed against Pan. He put his chin over Pan’s shoulder, in a tomcat kind of hug. Pan pressed his face hard against Joe; they stood so for a long time before Pan turned away, hanging his head, and Joe moved to comfort Kit. But Ryan picked Pan up, holding him close, pressing her face against him, her dark hair tangled over his red coat. He snuggled his face into her throat, shivering.

And as Joe licked and nuzzled Kit, her yellow eyes were filled with such conflicting emotions. Her tears, her pain for Misto were terrible, her devastation at the old cat’s illness. When Misto had first arrived in Molena Point, Kit had followed and followed him over the rooftops, begging for his stories, listening to his ancient tales. He was the closest to a father she’d ever had.

But now Joe could see, even through Kit’s pain for Misto, a spark of wonder, too. Despite her hurt and grieving, he could see in her eyes a rising joy at the thought of Dulcie’s kittens. Sadness and wonder burned together, now, within Kit’s small tortoiseshell being.

Joe was hardly aware when Clyde picked him and Kit up and they moved down the stairs. Wilma carrying Dulcie, Ryan hugging Pan over her shoulder, they made a strange procession through the house and out to the drive. They all tucked up in Wilma’s car, Clyde beside Wilma, Ryan in the backseat, the cats cuddled among them. They headed for the Firettis’ cottage, dreading the moments ahead. Kit, in the front seat beside Wilma, pressed against Pan. Pan licked her face but then turned away, grim and withdrawn.

Dulcie had told them about Misto’s illness only a long time after she burst in the house catching their scent and letting out a mewl of joy. Going quiet, letting them sleep, she had waited in silence for a long while, tucked up in Wilma’s lap. But then when Kit and Pan did wake, and Kit jumped down to nuzzle Dulcie, she backed away with a yowl of surprise. Dulcie smelled different. “Oh, my!” Kit stared at Dulcie, her yellow eyes wide. “Kittens! You’re carrying kittens!”

Dulcie laughed and lashed her tail and looked very proud of herself. Pan came close and sniffed, and backed away again with a typical tomcat shyness.

It was only after Kit had sniffed Dulcie all over and asked too many questions, and Pan asked questions, only later that Dulcie put out a paw at last to silence them, and sat quietly looking at them both.

Kit and Pan grew immediately very still, shivering at Dulcie’s solemn look. When, gently and softly, Dulcie told them about Misto, Pan had slunk away into the hall by himself, where he curled up against the wall, nose to tail, rigid and grieving.

It was a long time more, after Pan finally joined them again, stoic and resigned, that Wilma had called the Damens. That she and the three cats got in the car and headed for Ryan and Clyde’s house.

Now, driving the few blocks from the Damens’ to the Firettis’, Wilma stroked Pan softly. “Don’t grieve, please don’t, Pan. Don’t let Misto see you grieve, he doesn’t want that.” And, to Kit, “Please don’t cry, my dear, he doesn’t want sadness. Misto himself is not sad—except to be parting from you. He is certain he is parting for only a little while; he is so very sure this is not a forever good-bye. He does not believe there is an end to the spirit.”

But even so, Pan tucked his nose deeper under his paw, and Kit laid her face against him. Wilma said, “Misto has known other lives. I believe him,” she said softly. “He will be bright-eyed when he speaks of waking in vast eternity again, of finding himself once more approaching a new life.” She paused at a stop sign, then turned onto the Firettis’ street, passing the softly lit dome of the clinic, approaching the lighted cottage that sat deep in Mary’s garden.

“Grieving would only make him sad,” Wilma said. “Let him tell you of the wonders, of how his released spirit will see the vastness of the earth, see the sweep of centuries again as no living creature can see them. Let him tell you more of his earlier lives, of the wonders that await us all, of how we will all be together again. Don’t spoil that for him.”

Parking in the Firettis’ drive, she picked up Dulcie and stroked Pan. “Misto’s vision is so clear, so real, it must be true. His view of what lies in the past is too detailed to be only an old cat’s dreams. Let him tell you with happiness. Love him, Pan. Tell him you know you will be together again. Don’t spoil his parting, don’t hurt him with your own sadness.”

17

The four cats padded quietly into the Firettis’ cottage, where Mary stood in the open doorway. Ryan, Clyde, and Wilma lingered behind, then silently joined Mary and John where they’d been lounging by the fire, John in tan pajamas and a brown terry-cloth robe, Mary in a velvet housecoat printed with small nasturtiums. As she drew humans and cats to the couch, Pan alone approached the bedroom. The others waited in silence, filled with his grieving.

In the bedroom Pan reared up to look. Misto did not recline now on the Firettis’ big double bed; he lay curled up in a roomy retreat of his own. A child’s crib lined with soft blankets had been drawn up against the big bed, the bars removed on that side so he could pad back and forth as he pleased. So he could settle alone with no movement to disturb him, or could curl up against Mary and John, warm and close. Now, as Misto lay sleeping, Pan’s heart twisted for the big yellow tom. Misto seemed so small suddenly, so frail. Padding across the covers of the big bed, Pan lay down with his front paws just touching Misto’s blanket.

They lay thus for a long time, father and son, Pan wrapped in silence and thin, elderly Misto so deeply asleep, his once-golden fur turned straw-colored from his illness. Pan, seeing his father so old and frail, felt his heart nearly break.

He could hear from the living room Dr. Firetti telling Dulcie that she mustn’t go traipsing across the rooftops anymore until after the kittens came. As he wondered idly how many times John had repeated his cautions, scolding the pregnant tabby, suddenly Misto’s eyes opened. The old cat had awakened to John’s voice, perhaps, or maybe to some inner perception—maybe to the sudden scent of his son reaching him through his dreams. Seeing Pan, he rose up out of the blankets, his amber eyes growing as bright as the eyes of a young cat, gleaming with life now, and with joy. Pan moved close to him in a tender feline embrace, father and son reunited, paws and fur all atangle, old cat and young together once more. For a long time neither spoke, the only sound their rumbling purrs. They didn’t see Kit, Dulcie, and Joe look in from the door and then turn away again. Kit, leaving the bedroom, stifled her longing to leap up and hold the old cat close, too, and snuggle him. Her own love for him could wait.

But then from the bedroom Misto, scenting her, called out weakly. “Kit? Kit, let me see you. Let me see how the Netherworld has treated you.”

Kit came slipping in and up on the bed and into the blankets of the crib, easing down close to Misto. The old cat looked her over and licked her face. “You look strong and fine, the Netherworld treated you well.” Kit smiled and nuzzled him; and there Kit and Pan remained, beside Misto, for the rest of the night.

Joe Grey and Dulcie, Wilma, Ryan, and Clyde soon slipped away home, leaving John and Mary to read by the fire, leaving Kit and Pan and Misto reunited, snuggled in Misto’s bed.

The three were quiet for only a little while before Misto stirred again and sat up as if he felt stronger, as if the closeness of Pan and Kit had brought him new life. No one imagined such a strengthening would last, but, “Tell me,” the old cat said, “I want to hear your journeys, I want to see that amazing land as you saw it.”

Listening to the crackle of the fire from the living room and watching its flickering reflections on the bedroom ceiling, Kit and Pan told Misto the wonders of those green-lit lands and the amazing beasts, the winged dragons, the white-feathered harpy, the dwarves and selkies and all the magical folk.

“We took a wrong turn at first,” Pan said, “where the tunnel split into five branches. Three crossed a sunken river on narrow stone bridges. The clowder cats argued; they weren’t sure which bridge, which path. We went a long way in the wrong direction and came out into the dark and fallen lands . . .”

“We didn’t mean to go there,” said Kit, “into that ruined part of the Netherworld. It is moldering and empty except for the grim old castles with their haughty rulers. The cruel royalty keep armies close around them, they are whip-masters over the peasants. The poor have nothing, nor do they care anymore. Why should they work when all they grow and any sheep or goats they raise are taken by the kings and they are left to starve?”

“They have turned to crime,” Pan said. “They think they have no choice, but they are courting even more evil. We moved through peasant villages where we saw no one, the cottages all collapsed, pasture walls fallen, fields fallow and untended. Not even a starving chicken remained, only mice and rats, scavenging. We hunted those, as did the peasants themselves; how thin were those poor folk, all weak and listless.”

“The magic is dead,” Kit told him. “We didn’t want to be there.” She tucked her bushy tail tight around her, her ears down as sadness filled her. “Dark spells rule them now. Greed rules that land.”

“We headed away,” Pan said, “seeking the one lone land that, the clowder cats said, had survived in brightness. Kate told us that, too. But she had approached on her own journey from another direction. We asked, from those who dared speak to us, which path, which tunnel. We asked from those brave enough to approach us.”

“We found the way at last,” Kit said, “beyond the Hell Pit and up the mountains. It was a hard journey—until the Harpy found us,” she said with a little smile. “The brash and loving Harpy. Oh, my,” Kit said. “A great, tall woman with a bird’s head, with bird’s legs and white-feathered wings, and she is all covered with white feathers. She is strong, she dines on the kings’ flying lizards. She took us on her back, all of us at once, our claws deep in her feathers to hang on, and she rose up to the stone sky on those great wings. She sailed up and up the mountains and over and down again in the green light, winging down into that clear, free land, into Zzadarray.

“She carried us down among the happy, smiling peasants,” Kit said, “to the only land still free, down among the strong selkies and the sturdy dwarves, and all of them welcomed us and their fields were green and rich and their animals are sleek . . .”

Misto sighed, seeing that land, seeing wonders he’d never known.

“No king,” Pan said, “rules that land. No bejeweled queen dictates tithes and taxes nor enslaves the villagers, demanding all their harvest. All farmers are master of their own fields and of what they wrest from them. All farmers own their land; they guard their small, free world fiercely against royalty’s cold sword.

“Those peasant armies,” Pan said, “with the help of the magical beasts, have gained the love and protection of the fiery dragons, too, the dragons who can be conquered by no man.

“One day,” Pan said, “that small country will take back the dark lands, you’ll see. Those who live in freedom will make the dark lands free again. Nothing of the Netherworld, then, will be ruled by avarice and greed. All rule will be born of love and caring—and of strength.”

“It is their strength in battle,” Kit said, “their fierce will to protect, that has kept alive Zzadarray’s magic.”

Misto rumbled a contented purr; Kit’s and Pan’s words brought strength to his thin face. The promise of freedom spreading from that one small land of Zzadarray lit his eyes, made the old cat smile. “I have lived many lives, but never in such a world as that magical place. Maybe one day fate will send me there, to that land.”

The three cats thought of that, and together they dozed and dreamed; it was not until they heard John bank the fire, to come to bed, that Misto said, “There is one more pleasure I crave, before my time is gone. Just one more visit to the sea, to say good-bye to the great and gleaming sea.”

John had come into the bedroom, Mary behind him. “In the morning, early,” he told Misto. He looked at Kit and Pan. “Will you come?”

“Oh, yes,” Kit said.

“Of course,” said Pan. “Where else would we be?”

“Early,” John said, “at low tide, when Mary and I feed the ferals. Misto, you can sit on the dock in your blanket as the wild ones share their breakfast. You can enjoy the beginning of their day with them, just as you like to do.”

“We will watch the sun rise,” Mary said, “red above the far hills, watch its reflection cross the sky and reach down to touch the sea.”

“We will watch the waves brighten,” Kit said, and as John and Mary climbed into bed, the three cats snuggled close together, yawning and safe. Kit and Pan were still tired from their journey, Misto bone tired from his lifelong journey, though it had been a rich passage. The old cat would soon be ready to leap up into the vast weightlessness beyond all barriers, to drift once again beyond mortal time, assured that one day he would return, to the finite world.

But never would Misto’s spirit, in life or in eternity, never would he abandon those he loved. All he had ever touched would remain close, forever would they be close, those spirits whom he treasured.

18

Max Harper’s office smelled of overcooked coffee, cinnamon rolls, and gun oil. The sweet-scented bakery box stood on the credenza just above Joe as he strolled in, his coat damp from the early fog. He shivered once, glanced up with interest at the bakery treats but padded on past. Behind Max’s desk he leaped up into the bookcase. Max glanced around at him, broke off a piece of his own cinnamon bun, and laid it on the edge of the shelf. Handily Joe licked it up, every crumb, then lay down against an untidy stack of pamphlets, DOJ reports, and government busywork. Detectives Garza and Davis were settled at either end of the couch with their coffee and snacks. Both looked unusually pleased. They paid little attention to Joe, and that was the way he liked it. He’d worked long and hard to become no more remarkable than the tattered volumes on the shelf behind him.