The Feline Wizard

CHAPTER 7

Anthony only held out his hand very slowly and waited.

Balkis' opinion of him soared—here was a man who knew how to make friends with animals! She stepped forward and sniffed his fingers. It was a pleasant smell, warm with the musk of the cow's udder and the scent of milk, but with a masculine aroma beneath that made something quiver inside her. She butted her head against his hand. With a gentle, joyful laugh, he rubbed the top of her head very gently, then went on to massage an ear, asking, “Who are you, kit? How did you come here?”

Balkis decided a change of subject was vital and meowed again, her tone moving from plaintive to demanding.

Anthony laughed with gentle amusement. “Hungry, are you? Well, I think Sunshine can spare a drop or two. Can't you, old girl?” He slapped the cow's side, and Sunshine turned her head as much as her head-ropes would allow, mooing. Then, seeing Balkis, she lowed as though to say, Oh, it's only her. Why didn 'tyou say so?

“You see? Sunshine is quite generous.” Anthony turned a teat and aimed a squirt of milk right over Balkis' head.

Surprised, she ducked. Anthony rebuked her gently. “You must not waste, you know—and you don't want to have to lap your milk off this dirty floor, do you? Come, stand up and catch it in your mouth.”

What would he have said if he'd known she had been drinking off that floor all week? she wondered. Still, Balkis could see his heart was in the right place, and she had drunk from a wineskin often enough. She crouched to show she was ready.

Anthony laughed low with delight, aimed, and let squirt. Balkis sprang up on her hind legs and caught the stream full in her mouth. It stopped, and she dropped down to all fours again, licking her chops.

“Another?” Anthony asked.

Balkis crouched.

Anthony let out a squirt again, making it last as long as Balkis could stand on her hind legs. When she dropped down, licking the last drops off her whiskers, Anthony said, “That should keep you from starving, at least. I've work to do, though. Come close if you wish, but I must be about my milking.”

He turned back to his work, but Balkis wasn't willing to surrender his attention so quickly. She stepped up, rubbing against his ankle. “Good cat!” he said, and reached down to stroke her.

Now, that was something entirely different from a little rub between the ears. His hand caressed the length of her back, arousing an intensity of sensation that alarmed her. She shivered with pleasure from nose to tail-tip. He stroked again, and she felt a flush of warmth welling up from the core of her being and spreading through her whole body. In spite of herself, she closed her eyes to concentrate on the pure delight of his touch, and was surprised to realize she was purring. He stroked again and again, and she stood shivering as a vagrant thought drifted into her mind—how would she have reacted to that touch if she had been in human form?

At that, her eyes flew open in alarm—but still she stood quivering, frozen in place by pure pleasure. Anthony stroked again, and her feelings intensified so much that she knew she had gone into heat. In panic, she flowed out from under Anthony's hand and sat down beyond his reach, shuddering with fright but too fascinated to run.

Anthony chuckled. “Had enough, then? Well, come back if you want more. Cats need homes and petting as much as they need milk to keep them from going wild.”

Balkis thought that sort of petting was more likely to make her go wild. Still, she watched Anthony as he turned back to his work. Gradually, her breathing calmed and her feelings ebbed, leaving her to wonder if she'd really been in heat at all—from what she had seen of cats in that state, it lasted a week or more, or until some tom made it vanish but left the puss pregnant. Then Balkis began to wonder again what kind of sensations she would have felt if Anthony had petted her in her human form. The thought aroused such intense feelings that she ducked away into the darkness to let the panic subside.

From that day on, though, Balkis came out whenever Anthony was alone in the barn, telling herself that with time his touch would cease to be so inflaming. Anthony assumed she came for milk and always gave her a squirt or two, then petted her until she took fright again and retreated. She kept waiting for his touch to cease arousing the wonderful shivering, but it didn't. Still, she watched him as long as he was in the barn, for even the sight of him roused pleasant feelings now— pleasant, but much less alarming than his petting.

For his part, Anthony took to this new friend immediately. He named her Kit and treated her with kindness and affection, bringing her table scraps and as much petting as she would take. He even dangled a string for her to play with. She thought it was silly but found some strange fascination in its twitching and pounced on it anyway. He twitched it out of her claws and jiggled it again. She went along with it to make him happy, then realized she was actually enjoying the game—not for its own sake, but because it gave her a way to play with Anthony.

Spying through a knothole at life in the farmyard, Balkis saw that there was no one for him to talk to except his father and brothers, who didn't want to listen, scoffing at anything he said as the prattling of a fool. With a shock, she realized that, even though a mere cat, she was Anthony's only friend, and found herself wondering if he had ever had any other.

However, she was his secret friend, and had better sense than to run after him in the open, or when the others were about. She could easily imagine how Anthony's brothers would heap scorn on him if they knew he had a pet, or what they might do to any animal about which he cared.

At the end of the third week, Balkis could contain her curiosity no longer. One cold winter night, she decided to see what was happening in the farmhouse. She told herself that it wasn't a desire to see Anthony at home—it was because the cold pierced even into the barn, and the farmhouse looked so warm and welcoming. She followed the lee side of the barn, then a hedge, a tree, and another hedge, all on the downwind side to avoid the huge snowdrift on the windward side. Even so, the snow was up to her belly, and she moved by leaps, jumping her way to the farmhouse. It was an exhausting way to travel, but the warmth of the firelight shining through cracks in the shutters, and the sounds of laughter and singing in harmony, made her feel the trip had been worth it.

How to get in? The house would surely have a mouse or two, she thought, and if a rodent could find a way in, so could its hunter. She cast about in the snow until she struck one such scent, and not that of a mouse but a rat! She quivered with the excitement of the chase, and with the eagerness to repay Anthony's kindness, at least in a small way.

The scent led Balkis to a gap between the bottom of two boards. It would be a tight fit, but she knew she could manage it—especially if she could gain warmth and company thereby. She crouched down, squirming forward on her belly, until she could thrust her nose into the gap, then pushed a little more, and her head popped through.

Now, if she had guessed wrongly, she would be in a pretty dilemma, with her head caught and unable to push forward— but she wriggled, ignoring the chill on her tummy, and her shoulders followed her head, scraping painfully against the weathered old wood but popping through. Then it was only a matter of wiggling and wriggling until her hindquarters followed. She never could have managed this in human form, she reflected, for her hips would have been too wide. But then, in human form the hole would barely have been large enough for her hand.

She stood after slipping in and whipping her tail after her, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness …

There! The rat, half her size, clear in the light that leaked between ill-fitting inner boards, was shrinking back at the sight of a cat, lips writhing wide to bare its scum-yellowed teeth. Balkis' adrenaline flowed, and she was suddenly unaware of chill and exhaustion both. She crouched, tail-tip snapping, waiting her chance.

In despair, the rat sprang at her. Balkis leaped high, letting it pass beneath, then twisted in midair and landed on its back, teeth seizing its neck, hind claws raking. The rat squealed and thrashed, trying to turn on her, but she shook it and struck it against the wood of the wall again and again, until it went limp in her mouth.

The singing and laughter went on, drowning out the sounds of the struggle.

Balkis dropped the limp bundle and sprang back, crouching, tail whipping, watching for any sign of movement. When the rat lay still, she backed away—it might be shamming, after all—then turned and ran light-footed between inner wall and outer. Ordinarily she would have waited for movement and, when she saw any, struck again, then waited and struck and waited some more, until she was sure the rat was really dead and not apt to bite her as she ate it. She wasn't hungry, though—Anthony's last plate of scraps had seen to that—and was eager to catch sight of him in the bosom of his family.

She followed the rat's scent until she found its hole, and peered through. There they were, towering over her, the father in his big chair closest to the hearth, as befit his rank. He was swag-bellied—his silver-streaked ruddy beard nearly touched his belly—and sat with his hands on his knees, nodding in time to the singing. He wore only rough tunic and hose, like his sons, and none too clean, but neither were theirs. His sons sat in a half-circle around the fire, the eldest, Baradur, opposite his father and nearest the flames, which showed his rank. The next eldest brothers, Kemal and Philip, sat next to him on each side, and then still another son, whom Balkis had not seen before and whose name she didn't know. Finally came Anthony, who sat farthest from the fire—the youngest and lowest in rank.

Balkis frowned, displeased at her friend's treatment.

Then their singing broke into chanting, the eldest son calling out while the others fell silent, and she realized that they had only been singing a chorus before. Now Baradur intoned, “Then Rustam raised his steely sword…”

Kemal replied, “And swung it down with might and rage…”

Anthony's face lit up; he cried, “Against the sorc'rer—”

“No, Anthony!” Baradur snapped.

“Will you never learn?” Kemal said in exasperation.

“Butfhadarhyme!”

“You must wait your turn, and well you know it,” the father said sternly. “Moti precedes you. Then use your rhyme to add the last line to the verse.”

Anthony sighed, and nodded in capitulation.

“Where were we?” the father asked. “Kemal, repeat your line.”

Kemal recited, “And swung it down with might and rage…”

Philip, the middle brother, frowned, obviously stumped. “See, Anthony! You have made me lose my rhyme!”

“Vary, and quickly,” the father instructed.

Philip said, “Swung the great sword Harn with rage…”

Moti, clearly the next-to-youngest brother, chimed in: “Swung it at the sorc'rer-lord…”

Anthony forced enthusiasm as he added, “And slew the hoary-headed mage!”

“If that is your best rhyme, it was certainly not worth breaking the order,” Baradur said in disgust.

Balkis had thought it a rather good rhyme.

“Indeed, Anthony!” Moti snapped. “His white hair had nothing to do with his being a magus, after all!”

“But Moti—”

“And ‘mage’ is not a proper word,” Philip added.

The father nodded. “The proper word is 'magus.'”

“I have a better rhyme to begin the next stanza,” Anthony said hopefully.

The chorus of no's was so loud and angry that Balkis shrank back in shock. Anthony did not, and she reflected once more that he must have heard such a chorus often.

“Really, Anthony, will you never leave off trying to go out of turn?” Baradur said in exasperation.

The father nodded. “You are the youngest, so you must speak the last line.”

Balkis wondered what would happen if the stanza had six lines, then realized that each had only five because there were five sons. Anthony had been doomed at birth to always come last.

“You shall have your chance to begin a verse when you make up the last stanza, as always,” the father said severely.

Anthony sighed. “But there is nothing new to be said by the last verse,” he said, and raised a hand to forestall objections. “I know, I know—there is nothing new in the old songs anyway.”

Balkis watched his face, and saw the flicker of rebellion, the desire to begin a really new song—which he quickly suppressed.

“Begin the next stanza, mine eldest,” the father said with pontifical weight.

Baradur sang, “But from his corpse, the spirit rose…”

And they were off again, another round, from Baradur to Kemal, from Kemal to Philip, from Philip to Moti, and from Moti to Anthony. Balkis crouched quivering with anger as she realized that this game must happen every night of the winter months, the family sitting around the fire improvising new versions of the old tales in verse, and that her friend was never to move from his position as last, as no doubt he was last in everything else, too, including orders. Each of the others had a younger to command, but Anthony had no one— except, perhaps, herself. But Anthony hadn't tried to order her about—he seemed to know the difference between a servant and a friend.

She wished his father and brothers did.

They settled into the song, and Balkis found herself caught up in the story. Whenever Anthony's turn came, he was always ready, always had a line that rang with music and internal rhyme or alliteration, and she began to understand why he was so eager to begin a verse or to cast a line in its middle—the poetry came naturally to him, springing to mind unbidden, and he was near to exploding with it. She felt a sharp stab of envy, for although she could memorize the verses of her spells easily, she had a grueling time when it came to making up a new one.

Anthony showed his skill on the last verse, in which he could select the rhyme scheme, link internal rhymes, coordinate alliterations, and actually bring in metaphor, something unheard-of in the earlier stanzas. He gave the epic a pyrotechnic ending, making the final verse a dazzling display of acoustics. Nonetheless, his brothers scoffed.

“Oh, very pretty, Anthony!”

“Can you not manage plain, simple verse?”

“Surely Rustam would have scorned such frills!!”

“Well, what else would you expect of the clean-up boy?” Moti asked, and the others howled with laughter.

Anthony turned red with embarrassment and anger, clamping his lips shut to hold in hot words. Then his shoulders slumped, the flush faded, and he sighed. Once again, anger kindled within Balkis at seeing him so mistreated.

She could not help herself; she had to go to him, try to cheer him. She glanced out the rathole to make sure it was in shadow, unlikely to be seen—and it was indeed; the rat had chosen well. She squeezed her head through, and the rest of her flowed after, heart pounding. Then she skirted the wall, keeping tables and chairs between herself and the older brothers until she had to dare the last two feet of open space between a table and Anthony's stool. She covered the distance in two steps, not so fast as to attract attention, not so slow as to leave her exposed too long. There, she turned once to make sure all of her was under the stool and hidden from enemy eyes, and stretched forward to butt her head against Anthony's calf and twine herself about his ankles as well as she could without being seen.

She felt him stiffen, and hoped it was not with alarm. Her heart hammered—what if he leaped to his feet and kicked the stool over, thinking he had felt a rat?

But Anthony knew animals too well for that. His hand dropped down to swing beside the stool, apparently in weariness and negligence, but Balkis recognized a signal when she saw one, and stepped over to push her head against his palm. Anthony fondled her head, and she quivered with pleasure. fighting down feelings of alarm—a lost kitten was a lost kitten, after all, no matter the species, and Anthony was a friend who needed such reassurance as she could give.

Perhaps not—if he needed reassurance, his fear for her was greater than that need, for when his brother commented on Rustam's bravery in facing an overwhelming enemy, Anthony said, “It may be, Moti, but it also may be that he had more courage than sense. If he had been prudent, he would have known to go back home where it was safer

“Just the kind of thing I might expect a sissy-boy to say,” Moti sneered, but Baradur caught the slight emphasis on the last words and frowned. “An odd way to say it, clean-up boy. Have you some hidden meaning?” His glance followed Anthony's hand; too late, Anthony drew it back to his lap. His brother hooted. “What are you hiding there beneath your stool?” He jumped up and came toward Anthony, sidestepping to see around his leg.

Anthony turned with him, looking wounded. “How could you suspect me of concealing anything, brother?”

“Because he does!” Moti made a grab and yanked Balkis out from beneath the stool, banging her head on the seat as she came. The room swam about her as he held her up with a cry of victory.

She clawed and yowled in spite of the nausea. The lad, though, must have tormented cats before, because he kept his hands and wrists beyond her range as he held her up with both hands, crowing, “Look, brothers! Anthony has brought a friend home, a little friend!”

The brothers shouted with delight and crowded in to begin a new and rather sinister game.