Catfantastic II

It is no kindness, the long memories of two-legs, I realize, and I wonder at the thought. Merlin shifts beside me and tries to chirp reassuringly. This far away, his two-legs does not hear him.

She does not look at the little suns that light up the sparkly toys behind clear walls. She does not sniff at the thousand intriguing food smells-or wince at the stenches of foul waters and foul air, or the wild two-legs whom not even a besotted Soulsinger would ever call "human" again.

At a gate scent-marked a long time ago by such two-legs, Merlin's human pauses. To my surprise, she calls, not in the speech of the Free Folk, but in what sounds like it.

"I told you she feeds the Folk who wander," Merlin's "voice" nudged me.

"Does she know what she is saying?" I ask. Merlin grimaces at me.

"She doesn't need to."

Two thin Folk drop from the undergrowth sloping up toward tracks on a bridge and trot toward her. "He's sick, fellows. Red Brother, wish me luck, will you?" The larger cat starts toward her; a smaller one bats him away. Both withdraw.

"I see your point," she whispers. "I didn't bring any food, and I smell sad. I guess I'm not very good company for you today. Sorry."

She turns and trots toward her lair, her eyes flicking in all directions as she crosses the street into a darkened square. Fears squeak in her thoughts: of the two-legs who leap from cars, the ones who pounce from hiding in the bushes, the ones who rush up in the street, or who linger in the halls. From her pouch, she pulls a jangling clutter of metal, an image of the Free Folk dangling from it, and uses it to get into her lair. I am surprised that any two-legs respects the Goddess of the Folk, much less bears Her image.

She sighs with relief when the door shuts behind her. Odd how doors mean prison to the Free Folk and safety to… all right, I won't call them two-legs.

Her lair is small, scent-marked as though Merlin were a full male, and full of toys. Stacks of paper lie on shelves, ready to be tumbled into cozy nests; warm wraps lie on chairs and cushions; a dark cave full of things that bear her scent yawns open.

Merlin's mind flickers into mischief. "'Shoes,' she says those are. For her hind paws. When I don't like my litter, I mark them to teach her better. She calls me 'rotten cat' and laughs. I don't do it much. It is a dirty trick."

He leads me on a thought tour of the tiny lair. "My dishes… and my box… and that's where I nap, on the fancy rug below the window. Someone sent it just for me from halfway round the world."

A bell rings, and the human stops it. "No, they haven't found the thief," she tells it. "None of the papers even have a picture of him. But they found the first kid. All right, thank God. I'd like to find that crazy myself." Her voice turns hard and angry. If she were one of us, her hackles would rise and her tail would lash like a mother in the kittening box with her litter when a stranger gets too close.

"Yes, I'll be careful. Yes, the door's locked. Stop worrying about me. I've got a sick cat to worry about. I have to visit him tomorrow. No, they don't know what's wrong with Merlin." Her voice quivers and breaks. "I'm scared he won't make it."

Beside me, Merlin's body tenses as if he wants to hurl himself through space and land beside her. Her hand goes out as if she seeks the comfort of his fur. Her face twists.

"Just thirteen. Yes, I know, it's old, but they live to be twenty, sometimes… Thanks for thinking of us. He's a hell of a cat, and he's putting up a fine fight. Whatever's best for him. I'll take care. Bye."

She lays down the bell and walks over to the cold box.

"Sliced turkey in there," Merlin says.'"She bought it for me."

Ignoring the delicacy, she pours herself some bitter water. I wrinkle my nose. Merlin shrugs. "It's like catnip, but they lap it up," he explains.

She sits in a chair before a table on which rests a box that holds a window screen. She touches it, and it lights and purrs. She rests her fingers on a pad and moves them, clacking, back and forth. Suddenly, she glances down, looking. "I always come and sit on her lap when she tries to make songs…" Merlin tells me. She tightens her muzzle and blinks her eyes. Salt water runs from them.

The Soulsinger beside me yearns forward, but he is begi

"Come back," I coax. "You ca

"I ca

I am Puff. I walk alone. I ca

Again, we hunt forward. The human prepares to sleep. When her breathing slows, Merlin nudges his spirit-self forward beside her head and extends a seven-toed insubstantial paw to touch her face. It melts against her skin. Merlin looks unhappy again. But the human smiles as if she feels the touch. Satisfied by that, Merlin purrs and settles his dreamself by his human's side.

When I feel his breathing steady where his body crouches by mine, I reach out. Like a tabby tugging a stray kit back against her side, I ease his spirit back into his flesh. Then, as if an eyelid I didn't know I had opened, I find that I can see within my companion. None of his bones are broken; no organs are diseased; no blood flows. Yet matters are all awry; his body has turned on itself, devouring its own strength.

I am surprised that his heart is only the size it is. It seems as if it should be much bigger.

"Gently done," comes the familiar undervoice. I start.

Merlin turns his head slightly, wincing at the pain of the thorn in his neck. "As if you had known how to hunt a human's thoughts thus all your lives. Do you know, deny it as you may, you are in the right place, my brother Puff? Puff, as you're called, with your fur like smoke and your face with a smoke smudge across its muzzle, floating across minds to heal them. The humans are not the only healers here."

The Soulsinger looks up at me, his eyes glinting too brightly. "They were not total fools, the humans who named you. But let me give you your true name now; your i

He jerks his head so our noses touch, and I feel his pain jolt through me. I know I do not want to hear this, but those eyes hold me. " 'Healer' I name you. Be the healer of souls you were born to be."

No! Careful not to yowl, I back away. I do not want to be a soul healer. I do not want to care so much-or care at all. I have already done too much. I am Puff who stands aloof, who takes my food and whatever else I can. I give as little as I can, and I go my own way.

"Who understands more than 'now'?" he asks me. "Who fears for humans, even when he most scorns them? Who watches the sick Kindred and fails to hold aloof-even from one as sick as I?"

No! I start to yowl as I back out of his cage, then mute my cry lest I wake the sick kindred. I do not want to be like Merlin whose body fails and who yearns for the Dreamtrails-but who forces himself to stay and watch… because he loves. I do not want to heal bodies or souls and run the risk of failure, or of fear. It is too hard, too much for me.

The whole lair is empty, except for the breathing of the Folk. Many are caged. I sense their fear as if it were my own.

Fenster and Purvis lie curled up together. They blink when I try to edge into their warm huddle. I do not think they are altogether pleased.

"You have always gone your own way, slept your own sleep, dreamed your own dreams. Why should we welcome you?" Fenster asks.

How happy they look, wrapped in warmth and the forever "now" of happy Folk. Please let me share, I ask. It comes out as a kitten's whimper.