Catfantastic II

Big hands sweep me up. The food was just a trap! I squall and kick out with my strong hind legs, but the two-legs female holds me fast. So clever they are, those two-legs, with their deft hands. So much they take from us.

The two-legs holds me. Her littermate brings up a stick that buzzes like hornets and chews away my fine full ruff. Bitter water splashes upon my now-bare hide. I see the glint of the thorns the two-legs healers use, and I kick wildly.

"Now, be good, Puff!" I hear, and a hard hand scruffs down upon my neck. Trapped like the Folk outdoors! The thorn in the eldest's hand pricks me and hurls me out into the sleep that has no Dreamtime.

When I wake, I know the two-legs have taken something else from me-strength. Now I lie in the inmost lair where the smells of bitter water and sick, frightened Free Folk make my nose twitch. Gum clogs my eyes, and I feel weak, like a female after her first litter. My breath pants in and out.

"Puffs awake now. Here, Puff. You were a good boy." A piece of chicken, too cold from how they keep it fresh, drops beside me. I wrinkle up my muzzle and turn my face away. Let them worry.

Bloodscent tinges the air: mine. This time, the two-legs have stolen my blood itself from my poor body while I slept. What won't they sink to? I trace the scent over to a cage. One of the Folk is lying in it on the special cushion that brings the warmth of sunlight to lairs where the only light comes from the walls.

The newcomer is of a fine size. He has a deep, sleek coat, except where his neck is bound with cloths. They smell of bitter waters and hold in place the clear, hollow thorn that feeds my blood into his throat.

He twitches and flexes his paws. They have seven toes, and that, as all Free Folk know, means strength and craft. I fight up onto my haunches, nip up my bribe of chicken to give me strength and walk unsteadily to stand before him.

He opens his eyes, and I am trapped. His eyes are huge and wise as the full moon, full of shadow from the Dreamtrails. And then I know.

"I greet my younger brother," purred a voice inside my head, "and thank him for his gift, which makes me strong." For now, the sense came, though the voice does not admit it.

I drop my head to my paws. I would bow further and show my underbelly, but the stranger flicks up a corner of his lip: no need. Respectfully I curl my tail around my haunches and set myself to listen. It is not every day that one meets a Soulsinger; cut off too early from my mother's teaching, I have never met one before.

My fur fluffs up and I start to squall with rage. It was his time, yet two-legs had drawn him back, him, a Soulsinger, and stuck him with their awful thorns. How dare they?

"Be quiet, or you'll bring them here," he warns. Again, he uses the i

He looks as if he has to fight to raise his head. He closes his eyes, and I know he fights his body for more strength.

Why would a Soulsinger fight the call? Surely the Dreamtrails can hold no fear for him.

"Do you wish to take the Trails?" I ask. So clever these two-legs are, yet it is not hard to puzzle out their tricks. I could open that lock, dislodge the thorn, and send the Singer forth.

The Singer twitches his head: no. When his eyes blink open again, they are calm. The leafshadow has grown dim.

"I would not profane your gift by wasting it. Stay and talk with me."

"What is your name?" A Soulsinger, he has the right to ask that, and I, the obligation to reply. Untaught in the ways of the Free Folk I may be, but I know what is owed to those who deal with souls.

Not knowing my true name, I put my nose down again in shame. "I am called Puff," I say, wrinkling my muzzle in contempt for the two-legs sound.

"Perhaps you are too big and strong for a Puff," he agrees, then pauses. "I am Merlin."

"That is a two-legs' name," I sniff before I think.

"My name," he corrects me. "I am a named being, named by my human after a Soulsinger and healer of the human kind. Many songs come with this name, my human says. He who bore it hunted in a great wood and was accounted very wise in human dreams-which, you may be surprised to know, are as rich as our own. My human gave me the singer's name, but I have taken it for my own."

He holds his head proudly, despite the thorn. Then his eyes soften, fond as a tabby with one fine kit.

"Did you see my human when she brought me in?" he asks.

Was it for his two-legs he had stayed? I would not have thought a Soulsinger could be so great a fool. And yet, there it shone in his eyes. Love for a two-legs. Worry for a two-legs, though he was the one who was ill.

I start to tell him I do not look at two-legs, but those wise, troubled eyes force me to hunt back on my memory's trails. His human-there had been just one. Had she brought a kitten of her own? No, not that one… I shut my eyes… yes!

"The short two-legs with the long head-fur. The she who yowled all the while she brought you in-was that your two-legs?"

Merlin glares at me. "You should not call them two-legs."

"We are the People, the free kindred. They are just two-legs."

"You can still be polite!" A hiss tinges his mind-voice.

"The… person," I correct myself, unwillingly obedient. "I saw her."

"She is a fine human," Merlin tells me. "I do not wish to leave her. We have been together all my life. Kind hands, a soft voice, a generous heart. And pleasant to look at, once you know how to judge humans as they judge themselves."

Sickness had turned his brain. What a disappointment! Cut off so early from my kin, I had hoped to learn more of the ways of the Free Folk from this Soulsinger. And instead, what does he do? Maunders about a pretty two-legs. Some Soulsinger, indeed.

"She looks like the kind of two-legs who would feed a kitten till he cried with pain, but walk past a starveling stray," I snarl.

"I was a stray! You speak with less sense than a sick kitten!" This time, Merlin uses his voice as well as his mind. His yowl would have sent me flying against the wall if it had been a swipe of his paw. With it came an image of his human, crowned with light, bringing food to the Free Folk who rove the back streets. Wary they are, but they do come to her call.

Merlin's anger brings the youngest two-legs over fast. "Puff, are you bothering poor Merlin? Get down, Puff. Merlin's sick."

Her littermate calls over a shoulder. "Get him ready. Ms. Black is here to see him."

Both two-legs firm their lips and shake their heads.

"She's very upset, isn't she?"

"She's always upset. She's crazy about that cat. Look how she always gets one of us to come and sit for him when she goes away. And brings us gifts, too."

"He's a neat cat. Dr. Colt and Dr. Bell are worried about him. He's how old-thirteen? And he had this last year, too?"

"Dr. Bell says it's worse this time."

"It hasn't been a good week," sighs the elder two-legs. "That carriage-snatcher… there's lots of crazies. You haven't been here long enough to remember, but I do. Forest Hills used to be safe. You expected trouble in Manhattan, but not here. Now, we have people climbing in windows, and people grabbing babies right off Austin Street. Did you see how many people brought their kids in to office hours today? They're scared to leave them out of their sight."

"They drove Fenster and Purvis crazy. Puff ignored them."

"That's Puff for you. He was a good donor for Merlin today. Come on, Merlin. Good cat, pretty cat. Here we go. Want to see your mommy?"

The youngest two-legs lifts him from the cage. He protests and struggles a little. But "Merlin… Merlin…" they practically sing his name, and he is calm again. He rests his head against the shoulder of the she who holds him, and lets her run gentle hands over his fur. It is still glossy, with its ordered markings of night and moonlight, but I think it will dry out fast. I also think that the Soulsinger is enjoying the attention.