CHAPTER 1
The Cat Speaker
DUNCAN WAS A BOY WHO COULD SPEAK CAT.
He had known cat language since he was small, because the cat who lived at his house took the trouble to teach him. It wasn't until he was a little older that he realized this was highly unusual.
Of course, all humans would be able to speak Cat if they were taught at the right age. But as most cats can't be bothered, the right age goes by for nine hundred and ninety-nine out of one thousand, and the chance is lost forever.
Duncan McKay was one in a thousand. Maybe even one in a million. Not that it was helpful to him now. He fingered the report card in his pocket nervously as he sat on the second-floor landing, watching through the window for his mother to appear on the crooked street below their house. He had gotten too many As this term, and she would be upset.
"Why me?" he asked Grizel, who was a very old cat by this time. "Why did you teach me to speak Cat?"
Grizel did not answer. She was crouched halfway down the stairs, watching a mouse hole. There had never been a mouse there, not once, but she was not a cat to neglect her duty.
Duncan kicked a heel against the old black sea chest that served as a window seat, and gazed out over the island cliffs to the sea. He hated not getting answers to perfectly reasonable questions. He was eleven and big for his age, and he was tired of being treated like a little boy. "Why me?" he asked again, a little louder.
"Why not?" Grizel snapped. She was testy about the subject; the other cats made fun of her because of it, and she had regretted teaching him more than once. Still, she was not a bad-tempered cat. She wouldn't have snapped at him if she hadn't been cranky from hunger and disappointed about the mouse.
She turned away from the mouse hole and looked up at the boy who sat on the second-floor landing. His face was shaded, but the afternoon sun streamed through the stairwell window and brightened his rough gray pants with their twice-patched knees.
A cat will hardly ever apologize for being rude. It usually doesn't see the point. But Duncan's lap looked warm and full of sun, and Grizel's spot on the stairs had fallen into shadow. She butted her head against Duncan's leg, blinked, and opened her eyes wide, with a tiny upward twist between her brows. This was Cat Trick #9: Melting Kitty Eyes. She had not been a kitten for a long time, but she could still act adorable when necessary.
Duncan took her on his lap and began to stroke her behind the ears.
Grizel kneaded his stomach with her paws. "I taught you to speak Cat because I felt sorry for you when your father died," she said. "All in all, I think I did a good thing. I've been able to explain why fresh tuna is better than the stuff in a can, for instance. And you have quite a knack for purring."
"That's nice if you're a cat," Duncan said, watching out the stairwell window for his mother. "Only, I'm a boy."
"You can't help that," said Grizel. "I've never held it against you."
Duncan didn't answer; he was trying to remember when his father had died. Had there been a funeral? He had been very small. There had been a forest of black-trousered legs around him, and someone smelling of pipe tobacco had picked him up and whispered gruffly in his ear. "You'll be the man of the house now," the voice had said. "You'll have to take good care of your mother."
Duncan had tried. While he was still too young for school, he tied an old shirt around his neck for a cape and practiced fighting evil villains. When he was a little older, he gave his mother all the copper pennies he found in the street. And when he was older still, he began to do small jobs at the houses where his mother taught music lessons. He gave her the coins he earned-at first the common five- and tenpenny pieces, later the larger brass barons and, on occasion, a silver-edged earl-and he tried hard to obey her rules, even the strange ones.
But some of her rules were very strange indeed.
Duncan unfolded his report card and looked at his grades with a sigh. He had made sure to get five questions wrong on his last history test, but it hadn't been enough.
Grizel tapped at the report card with her paw. "You could tell her that A means 'Average.' Or 'Actually Not That Good.'"
Duncan snorted.
"It could also mean 'Annoying,' or 'Atrocious,' or 'Abominable'-"
"What are you, a dictionary?"
"Or you could change the As to Bs," Grizel suggested. "Just draw a line along the bottom. And smudge over the pointy top."
"That never works." Duncan knew this because he had tried it before. "I could make it an A minus, maybe, but that's about all."
Grizel yawned, showing delicately pointed teeth and a small pink tongue. "Why don't you just get a few more wrong? There's nothing so hard in that."
"I hate getting things wrong," Duncan muttered.
"Other boys," Grizel observed, "would be pleased to have a mother who didn't push them to get good grades. Other boys would be grateful."
Duncan did not particularly care how grateful other boys might be and made this point under his breath.
Grizel flicked her tail and went on as if she hadn't heard. "A good son might have a little faith in his own mother. A clever boy might understand that she had a reason-"
"For what?" The report card crinkled in Duncan's hand. "For telling me never to get a gold star, or earn a medal, or win a prize? For telling me I should never stand out?"
"For keeping you hidden," Grizel said sharply. "And safe."
Something cold patted quietly inside Duncan's chest. "Am I in danger?"
"Did I say that?" Grizel closed her eyes until they were slits in her furry golden face. "I don't recall using that word."
"You said 'safe.' And 'hidden.' So there's got to be something she's keeping me hidden from, right?"
Grizel sank her shoulders more deeply into the round curve of her body. She seemed to grow more solid. A faint snore escaped her.
Exasperated, Duncan bounced his knees up and down. The cat held on with her claws, her eyes tightly shut.
"There's no danger," said Duncan. "You made that up. This is the safest, most boring island in all Arvidia. It's even named Dulle, which should tell you something."
The snoring grew louder.
"Fine. Be that way." Duncan detached Grizel's claws from his leg one by one, set her on the floor, and looked through the window again. His mother wasn't on the street that led to their house, and he couldn't see her walking up the steep cliffside road.
Instead, he saw a striped tabby cat rounding the corner. Its head was up, its tail well back, and altogether it had the purposeful look of a cat with business to accomplish.
It stopped beneath their window and looked up, meowing.
Grizel put her forepaws on the windowsill. Duncan opened the window and leaned out. "What?" he meowed back.
Grizel nudged Duncan aside with her head. "It's for me," she hissed. And to the cat in the street below she meowed, "What news?"
"Cat Council tonight," called the tabby. "At moonrise. In the graveyard."
"What for?" Grizel asked. "What's on the agenda?"
"Kitten examinations," said the tabby. "Territory disputes. Dog-taunting assignments. Old Tom warning about impending disaster. The usual."
Duncan grinned. He loved kitten examinations.
"Can't stay to talk-lots more cats to notify," said the tabby, turning away.
"I'll be there," called Grizel to the cat's retreating back, and its tail swished once in acknowledgment.
"I'm going, too," said Duncan.
Grizel leaped onto his lap. "If you do, the other cats will make fun of me again. They'll say, 'Can't she go anywhere without that red-haired master?'"
Duncan rubbed the top of her head gently with his knuckles. "I'm not your master, and they know it. And my hair isn't red anymore. It got darker this year-it's practically brown. Especially on a cloudy day."
Grizel settled herself more comfortably, curling her tail around her flanks. "You shouldn't go. Your mother wouldn't like it if she knew you were sneaking out at night."
Duncan was silent. Of course his mother wouldn't like it. But it wasn't as if he was doing anything bad.
"If I don't tell her," he pointed out, "she won't need to worry."
Grizel looked at him through half-shut eyes. "A mother's rules are for her kitten's own good."
"I'm not breaking any rules," Duncan said firmly. "My mother never said, 'No going to cat councils in graveyards.' Not once."
Grizel made a small huffing noise. "She may not have said that exactly-"
"See? You even agree with me." Duncan curled his fingers around the cat's bony jaw and began to scratch her under the chin. "Good kitty, nice kitty." He let his fingers pause. "Promise you'll wake me up in time to go?"
Grizel tipped her head and squeezed her eyes almost shut. "Scratch a little more to the side, and I will ... yes, rightthere." A rumbling vibration began in her chest as she subsided into a contented purring.
Duncan did not want to be a bad son. But there was no way his mother would understand about the cat council, and he would rather not mention the graveyard. She always got a worried look on her face when he visited the grave she had told him was his father's.
He scanned the cliffside road again. Maybe his mother was teaching an extra piano lesson today. He should probably set the table for supper. And maybe tonight he could offer to play their old game of Noble Manners. It was getting boring for him (what use was it to learn all the customs and dances and courtesies of nobles-barons and earls and dukes-when he would never be one?), but it seemed to please his mother. With any luck, she would forget to ask for his report card.
Grizel gave a little mew of protest. Duncan, who had forgotten to keep his fingers moving, began to scratch again, this time behind the cat's ears.
Petting a cat was not the most exciting thing in the world. Still, it was pleasant, sitting in his favorite spot on the stairs. The small window overlooked the bay far below, curved and shining in the late-afternoon light, and he could see the fishing boats coming in from the sea, floating like curled-up leaves on the water. Halfway up the hill, the rooftops of his monastery school flashed orange and gold in the sun.
Duncan and his mother lived in the cliffside part of the island of Dulle, where the sun scorched them in summer and the sea wind scoured them in winter. It was a long walk down to the bay, and they did not often have the money to pay for the freshest fish. But Duncan loved the little house that was tucked under the overhanging cliffs. He loved being up high where he could see everything spread out beneath him, as if he were a king looking out over his realm. And sometimes at night, if there was no mist, he could even make out the glittering lights of Capital City on the far curving edge of the sea.
Someday he would sail there to make his fortune. And then he would be able to take care of his mother so she wouldn't be afraid anymore. He didn't know what Sylvia McKay was afraid of, exactly, but he was sure that when he was a man, he would be able to protect her from whatever it was.
Something moved at the edge of Duncan's vision. He snapped his gaze to the street below and saw a tiny white kitten.
It looked like Fia, a kitten he had seen roaming the monastery school. He had given her treats once or twice. But what was she doing out alone?
The kitten blinked up at his window. Even from this height, Duncan could see the startling difference in her eyes-one blue and one green. It was Fia, all right.
He slid Grizel gently off his lap and thumped down the stairs in his socks. He undid the double lock that his mother had installed-snick, snick-and he was out on the cobbled street, paved with stones as smooth as the Arvidian Sea could make them.
"What is it, Fia?" He sat down on the doorstep, its rough edges warm beneath his hands. "Are you lost?"
"Not me!" Fia swiped a tiny paw at Duncan's knee. "Only baby cats get lost!"
"Ah," said Duncan.
Grizel slipped through the open door and gave the kitten a disapproving look. "Where's your mother? You shouldn't be out on the street by yourself."
Fia switched her tail. "I'm just as big as my littermates-well, almost-and they can go out by themselves. Anyway, I have a message."
Grizel shook her head. "You can't be a messenger cat. You haven't even passed your kitten examinations yet."
"I'm going to pass them," said Fia with dignity. "And I'm practicing to be a messenger cat. And I have news for Dunc-"
Fia stopped midword and swallowed hard. She tensed as if to dart away, but she was too slow for the cream-colored cat who streaked from behind a flowerpot and bowled her over with the force of a small, four-legged truck.
The white kitten squirmed under the pressure of two firm paws.
"I have news for you," said Fia's mother. "You do not leave the monastery grounds unless I am with you. Do I make myself clear?"
"But I want to tell Duncan something!"
The cream-colored cat stiffened her whiskers. "Are you a cat or a postmaster?" she demanded. "We cats do not concern ourselves with human affairs. We have enough to do with our own. And I certainly have enough to do with looking after one harum-scarum little kitten who can't seem to obey the rules."
Grizel coughed behind one paw. "Human affairs aren't completely without interest, Mabel. You have to admit that you usually wander down to the bay when the boats come in. And you're not too proud to beg for a fish head or two."
Mabel drew herself up with dignity. "Of course I don't expect you to understand," she said frostily. "You've never been a mother-you haven't a mother's feelings. But I, who must provide for my litters-"
"One every year," Grizel murmured to Duncan.
"-must get proper nourishment. Come along, Fia. We needn't waste any more time." She picked Fia up by the scruff of the neck and stalked away.
"But what about my message?" Duncan meowed after them. "What's your news, Fia?"
Fia's small voice came floating back. "Your mother is-"
Fia's words were cut short by a fierce shake, and Mabel, with the kitten dangling from her mouth, disappeared around the corner.
Copyright © 2015 by Lynne Jonell
Interior illustrations copyright © 2015 by Lynne Jonell
