PUSS IN BOOTS
Timeless Tales 1
Editor Tahlia Merrill Kirk
www.timelesstalesmagazine.com timelesstalesmagazine@gmail.com
Design and Layout Geoffrey Bunting
004 Bullets, Boots and Bullion Eda Obey 0 1 2 A Most Marvellous Pair of Boots Charity Tahmaseb 0 2 0 The Mouse Catcher Kate Henderson 0 2 6 Conversations Emily Vater 0 3 4 The Clarion Call John Vicary 0 4 2 Lady Gray Rhonda Eikamp 0 5 0 not a tame lion Maya Chhabra 0 5 4 Nine Ways to Skin a Cat Claire Smith
Fiction
Words by
Bullets, Boots, and Bullion
Eda Obey
EDA OBEY
bULLETS, BOOTS, AND BULLION
Puss wandered up during a firefight in Tikrit. Only Sgt. Miller saw it. It was so out of place. Bits of building splintered the air around them, and the cat was mildly walking through like it was traversing its own living room, instead of a room full of cursing and twitching soldiers. Miller’s attention was yanked back to the immediate when he heard the sound of bullets slamming into Samson’s chest, the soldier beside him. Samson was thrown backward and cursed breathlessly when he hit the dirt. Miller grabbed the man’s shirt and ripped it open. He smiled. “It’s cool. Your vest held up. Breathe, man. Breathe. Kicks like a mule, doesn’t it?” Samson nodded, still unable to speak. Miller squeezed his shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, kid,” he told him. Miller was wrong. As he turned back to his position by the East window, the boys at the West window shouted. “INCOMING!” Miller had just enough time to stand and turn before he was blown backwards through the window behind him. The black cat with white paws had leapt from the floor to his chest. The room became a fiery whirling ball that screwed itself up and exploded outward. Miller was amazed his arms and legs weren’t ripped off by the windowsill. He sailed through the air, deafened by the explosion. Everything slowed down and the only noise was the beating of his heart. All he could think of was his last day with his father. The old fart had called him to come fishing with him. Miller was there to make sure he wouldn’t fall in and drown. The day nurse wouldn’t allow him in a boat without a family member. She wasn’t getting sued because Dad decided to be a fool. Miller could see her point. So, he had helped his father into a pair of ratty overalls that gaped around his frail body. It hurt to see his father so gaunt, so old. At one time, that man filled the sky and strode the world like a
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colossus, now he was lucky to make it to the bathroom without crapping his pants. It really rattled Miller. Dad got his line in the water and propped his feet on the edge of the boat. He glanced over and said, “I didn’t really call you out here to fish.” Miller nodded. His own line bobbed in the water. His dad went on. “I’ve changed my will.” “Do I have a ‘new’ mom you’re leaving everything to? Is she 20, with a comprehensive wardrobe of pasties?” “Shit, I wish!” Dad’s laugh ended with a spasm of coughing. “Dad?” He waved a hand. “I’m fine. I needed you to come out here, because I wanted to explain myself before I died.” “Explain what, dad?” “Why I didn’t leave you nothing.” *** Back in Tikrit, Miller hit a shimmering swimming pool with a huge splash. More than half of the water fountained up onto the lawn furniture around it. God bless big stupid hotels, he thought, then passed out. He came to, floating on his back. He jerked awake, snorted a huge lungful of water and thrashed in terror. After a few moments, logic set in and he stood up feeling foolish for having almost drowned in three feet of water. He wiped his face and shook his hair out. When he looked up, he found the petite black and white cat sitting on a lawn chair staring at him with a look of mild disgust. He fingered the water out of his ears then asked it, “What?” It stood, stretched, yawned, bugging its eyes out, and finished with a yowling growl then turned to trot off toward the cabanas lining the pool. Miller pulled himself out of the water and glanced down. His clothes were in charred shreds.
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The sounds of continuing gunfire told him being found in camo might not be the best idea right now. He glanced up to the window he was blown from. It was a smoking hole. He knew that he and the cat were the only survivors. He followed the cat without knowing why. Inside one of the cabanas he found a dishdasha, the long white sleeved robe that local men wore. It was a nice one with a hand-embroidered collar and sleeves. He shucked off his burnt useless clothes and donned the robe. The cat watched him from a bench with half closed eyes. It didn’t look impressed. Miller gave the cat thumbs up. “What’s up, pussycat?” It snorted and trotted off. Once again, feeling as if he was carrying his head on a string like a child’s balloon, he followed the waving tail of the cat out into an alley. It wove in and out of the backstreets, as if it had a place to go. All around, gunfire rattled. Walls he had just walked past exploded in a hail of bullets, yet the cat ambled forward and he stumbled behind it. Why was he alive? His thoughts turned to his father. That last day… *** “Wow dad, nothing, huh? I thought you liked me.” “I do, kiddo. That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing.” “Sounds like you’re leaving me high and dry, that’s what it sounds like.” “Only because I respect you” “I guess I was wishing you underestimated me a little then.” “Look here, Junior…” Miller knew when Dad called him Junior, he was making a point. Miller wanted to argue, he wanted to yell, but he knew to wait. Dad continued. “David lives for the company. He’s the eldest, and is the perfect patsy to take on that headache. He’ll love it. Your brother, Malachi is an idiot, keeps knocking up that wife of his. What is it now? Five kids? He barely earns enough to feed them, ain’t smart
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enough to buy a pack of Trojans. He gets the house. Even if he can’t figure out the rhythm method, the kids will have a roof. It’s the least I can do.” Miller nodded. It sounded like more of an insult than anything else. His dad looked at him for a moment then snorted. “You hate me don’t you, boy?” “I don’t hate you. I just wonder what I did to earn this.” “You used your brain.” Miller joined the army the day his father died. He had nothing to hang around for. David and Malachi accepted their inheritance as their due, and looked at their youngest brother as undue burden. Miller would’ve liked to knock their smug heads together, but he knew his father saw them as the weaker brothers, so he didn’t bother. To hell with the knuckleheads, he was off to seek his fortune in the fortunes of war. It was a long ugly lesson that there was no fortune in war, only the illumination of death. He did his time and followed orders. It earned him a short ride into a shallow swimming pool. He stared at the swaying cat’s tail and followed his recent fortune. It led to a dark alley where a woman was pleading for her life. She knelt before two men who held machine guns. They laughed as she sobbed. Miller didn’t know the details and didn’t care. He picked up the nearest trash can and walloped nine kinds of crap out of both of ‘em. The woman clung to the wall and wept. When he was done banging the can on the senseless bodies he turned to the woman. “You okay?” She nodded. Her face was buried in her hands as she wept. He noticed as her sleeves fell back that her hands were white while her arms were tan. Burn scars. He held out a hand. She paused a moment before allowing herself to be dragged to her feet. The cat yowled at the end of the alley. The woman glanced over. “Is it your cat?” She asked.
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Miller shrugged. “I think it’s its own cat,” he answered. They followed the cat as the city around them exploded. Buildings crumpled and the sky filled with ash. After awhile, the woman reached for Miller’s hand and they walked clutching and pulling each other over the battle scarred landscape. The cat would trot ahead, pausing only to let them catch up. At one point the cat darted into an office building. Judging from the sounds of gunfire outside, Miller decided they’d be safer in the building. As they huddled against a wall, he found himself asking, “My name is Arthur. What’s yours?” “Aquila. Aquila Noor. I’m a human rights lawyer.” “Seriously? In this country?” Her eyes narrowed. She turned away from him. He chuckled as she gave him a ‘death’ look. The cat yowled once more. He once again felt the need to follow. Aquila hissed and tried to motion him back to the wall. After a few futile gestures, she sighed and followed him and the cat. They ended up in the basement. Miller stood at a door while the cat scratched at it. Aquila nodded at him. “Open it.” She told him. He cracked the door. A golden light filled the hallway. He peered in and breathed, “oh…” “…my,” she finished for him. The cat smiled at them both. It stood once more and meowed quietly this time. They took a few moments to admire the contents of the closet before them. Miller was again reminded of the last day with his father. He had been pissed he was cut out of the will. He felt betrayed and unloved and he told his father so. The old man rolled his eyes. He finally gave Miller what for. “You’re young. You wouldn’t understand the compliment I’m paying you. Your brothers, they need someone to look after them, someone to tell them what to do. But you, why, you’ll do just fine on your own. I’ve given you something I couldn’t give the other boys. Your freedom. I’m not going
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to tie you down to some old house or company. You are free to travel—to learn. That’s more than what they will get. Their lives are mapped out. You, you have options.” Miller snorted. His father sighed. The fishing line jerked with a fish. He pointed at the net. “Help me out, boy?” Miller grabbed the net, and bent over to capture the fish his father had hooked. While bent over, his father placed a firm boot in his ass and kicked him overboard. He flailed in the water, cursing and paddling. His father motored the boat to shore while Miller screamed behind him. When he reached the shore, his father stood there with a huge smile. He had his arms crossed over his chest. He asked, “What is the only thing I ever wanted to hear from you?” Miller knelt on the shore, dripping water. He sighed and gave the only answer his father accepted: “I got this.” His father gave a sharp nod. “That’s right, son. You do.” Back in Tikrit, Arthur and Aquila limped their way to the American base. The world exploded around them, yet the cat calmly led the way. Soldiers lined the walls with automatic weapons. They shouted for Miller and Noor to stand still, who froze while uniformed men surrounded them, bristling with weapons. The Colonel strode forward to squint at them. Miller squeezed her arm and whispered, “Don’t worry. I got this.” Sgt. Arthur Miller survived the worst day of Al-Qaeda terrorist activity in 2011. He returned to the golden closet and liberated more the 2 million dollars of golden bullion for him and his fiancé, Miss Aquila Noor. He paid his debts and those of his brothers, and lived happily ever after as much as he could manage. And he kept the cat. Moral: S elf-reliance is the best inheritance Or Fortune favors the brave and cats.
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Fiction
Words by
A Most Marvellous Pair of Boots
Charity Tahmaseb
Charity Tahmaseb has slung corn on the cob for Green Giant and jumped out of airplanes (but not at the same time). She’s worn both Girl Scout and Army green. These days, she writes fiction and works as a technical writer. Her novel, The Geek Girl’s Guide to Cheerleading (written with co-author Darcy Vance), was a YALSA 2012 Popular Paperback pick. Her short speculative fiction has appeared in the Unidentified Funny Objects anthology, Kazka Press, with forthcoming stories in Mad Scientist Journal and Cast of Wonders. She blogs (occasionally) at: writingwrongs.wordpress.com
A Most Marvellous Pair of Boots Charity Tahmaseb
It was during the wedding feast, the air heavy with roast goose and red wine, that Mirabella realized they’d all been duped by a cat. Her new husband, the Marquis of Carabas, sat to her right, his teeth tearing goose flesh, grease coating his lips. She shuddered and pushed away thoughts of the marriage bed. Her father, the king, was well into his cups, and tore at his food as if to mimic his new son-in-law. He slapped the marquis on the back and praised heaven that--at long last--Mirabella had found herself a husband. At long last, indeed. Near the end of the table, the cat lounged, booted hind legs crossed. With a paw, he wiped goose fat from his whiskers. Mirabella fixed her gaze on him until he raised his yellow eyes and took in her full measure. Then, the creature winked. She sat back, a flush heating her cheeks, traveling her neck, and ending somewhere near her décolletage. She sighed, not in the mood for wine, song, or her new husband. True, the marquis was handsome. A point in his favor, to be sure. A goose leg slipped through his fingers, and he stopped its descent with one meaty hand. Mirabella cringed, and again, shoved thoughts of the marriage bed from her mind. She turned to her new husband and asked, “More wine?” Without waiting for an answer, she filled his goblet to the rim. He’d barely spoken since they’d exchanged I do. Come to think of it, the lad--for he was hardly older than she--seldom spoke more than a word or two at a time. Mirabella leaned forward and, once again, trained her gaze on the cat. This time when he winked, she didn’t flinch. Oh, there was no Marquis of Carabas. She’s stake her somewhat tarnished reputation on it. Certainly if this lad were nobility, he would’ve curried her father’s favor long before now. Not only that, but he was untouched by palace
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gossip, rife with rumors about her improper relationship with her tutor. In her defense, the relationship hadn’t been at all improper. Well, maybe a little bit improper. But thanks to some rumors and a fast-talking cat, her father now praised the heavens, and shoved this lad into her arms and bed. Would he care to know the truth about the marquis? Of course not. A married daughter was one less burden, especially a daughter with a somewhat tarnished reputation. The splash of wine against her chest forced a gasp from her. The red liquid soaked into the bodice of her gown, the spot resembling a sword wound. Her new husband stared at his empty goblet as if the wine had sprung forth on its own accord. Her father pounded the marquis on the back, his hearty laugh filling the banquet hall. And, at the end of the table, that damn cat winked. *** Her new husband’s snores filled the bedchamber. From her vantage point on the balcony, Mirabella could see the outline of his form on the duvet. Make no mistake, it was a fine form, despite the drool. “You admire my master then, Princess?” Ah, that damn cat. “There is more to admire in a man than form or face, Master Cat.” The cat trod along the balcony’s edge, feet whisper soft against the stone, even with the boots. “What is it you wish?” he said. “I fear my wishes matter not to man nor cat.” “I did not ask that.” Mirabella glanced into the bedchamber. Yes, assuredly, her new husband would not wake until noon, if then. “Tonight’s wish has already been granted.”
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Could cats grin? Well, this one could, and did, twirling long whiskers with a paw. “And tomorrow’s wish?” Yes, the crux of the matter. “I cannot simply un-marry, Master Cat, and I doubt my new husband will appreciate his rival.” She gestured toward the telescope at the balcony’s far end. She had yet to peer at the night sky this evening--or rather, morning. Of course, at this moment, the only view was of a cat’s tail, which swished in front of the lens. Still, the urge to lean over the telescope remained. For a few hours, she could pretend that Sebastian was still at her side, imagine his fingers lighting on the back of her neck, hear his ardent whisper. “Do you see it?” The night spent with her tutor fueled court gossip even now. That the two of them had gazed at the stars and not into each other’s eyes was of little matter. She ran a hand along the telescope, the skies clear, but her mind clouded with thoughts of the upcoming tour of the kingdom. The grand celebration of her marriage meant visiting people she didn’t much care for and receiving gifts she certainly didn’t need. But the real question was: pack the telescope or leave it behind? “You’ll be traveling light,” the cat said. “Unlikely, Master Cat. Have you never seen a royal entourage take to the roads?” “I have, Princess. It’s all part of the plan.” “What plan is that?” “Do you not wish to see your Sebastian again?” Her hand stilled on the telescope, her fingers ice. Damn palace gossip, and damn that cat besides. How could he know her heart? “You keep a great many unsent letters beneath your bed.” Oh. That was how. “Would you like to be free? Study with your tutor in peace?” Mouth dry, Mirabella nodded.
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“Then trust me.” “I shall do no such thing, Master Cat.” “But what if you could un-marry, Princess?” the cat asked. “Would you trust me then?” “What God has joined together let no man put asunder,” Mirabella replied. “Even cats know this.” Ah, yes, cats could grin. “Oh, Princess, have you not noticed? I am certainly no man.” *** The carriage bumped over never-ending ruts. A week on the road, and the only sign of the cat had been this morning, when he slipped a wine skin into Mirabella’s hands. “Hold it beneath your cloak,” he said. “Just so.” Only thoughts of her studies, of Sebastian, compelled her to comply. She cradled her burden and settled in for another long day. A cry rose up from the outside of the carriage. “Brigands!” a guard shouted. Swords clanked and then the carriage door flew open. The cat sprang past her, a single claw piercing the wine skin. Red bloomed beneath her hand, the wine soaking her gown. The marquis took one look at the stain spreading across her bodice and crashed into the carriage floor, face first. Never mind that she reeked of her father’s finest vintage (come to think of it, so did the marquis), she was, in everyone’s view, fatally wounded. And with death came freedom. Un-marry, indeed. Before she could leap from the carriage, a paw tugged on her sleeve. “You’ll need this, Princess.” The cat proffered a dusty cloak, ragged along the hem. He dropped a small canvas sack at her feet. “And of course, you’ll need these.” He pulled the boots from his hind legs.
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He crouched, then sprang through the carriage window, and Mirabella swore his final sentence was more caterwaul than words. She pulled on the boots, the leather kissing her legs, the sole cupping her feet. She held one leg extended, turning it to study the boot. How was this possible? No matter. They fit. She jumped from the carriage. The boots carried her through sword clashes and rearing horses. No one called out. No one stopped her. Except a cat that wove between her ankles. “Master Cat?” His tail twitched and he blinked his eyes, slowly, but that was all. She nestled him in her arms, the cloak shielding them both, and took to the road. That night, she tugged the boots from her legs and placed them far enough from her campfire that no spark would reach them. “Master Cat, would you like to take a turn in your boots?” Within moments, the cat stood before her in all his booted glory. He surveyed their surroundings. “Seems safe enough,” he said. “I shall fetch dinner and return shortly.” Mirabella pointed to the pot simmering over the fire. “I have dinner.” “I shall fetch us a decent dinner, then.” She huffed, but couldn’t argue. Her skills with a telescope far surpassed anything she could manage with a cook pot. “I shall almost regret finding Sebastian,” she said to him later, over stew and a loaf of hard crusted bread from a nearby village. “I will miss these marvelous boots.” “Why not commission another pair?” the cat asked, strutting about, the leather boots glowing warm in the light of the fire. “How will I do that, Master Cat? I shall be a scholar, and a somewhat impoverished one at that.” “Haven’t you guessed, Princess? Who do you think gave me these boots to begin with?”
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“Not the marquis?” “Hardly.” “But then–” “Princess, you know their creator, intimately, if I dare say so.” “But... Sebastian is a scholar. He studies–” “The mysteries of our world – and has mastered a few.” Mirabella sucked in a breath, and blew out a stream of air rather than harsh words. After all, what was there to say? With a paw, the cat twirled his whiskers, and then strode off into the night. So it had been Sebastian all along. And, of course, that damn cat.
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Fiction
Words by
The Mouse Catcher
Kate Henderson
Kate Henderson is a children’s scriptwriter and designer based in the UK. Her interest in fairy tales can be traced back to her upbringing in Bavaria, an enchanting place filled with forests, castles and magical people. You can find out more about her at www.katehendersoncreates.com.
kate henders on
The Mouse Catcher
The season that my wife died had been one of the cruelest in living memory. Crops were abandoned to wither, unharvested, as people sickened and died of an ague that swept the countryside. I buried an infant daughter with my wife, and a son the following winter. My miller’s stone sat silent and unmoving for lack of grain to grind. Death was upon us. We merely had to await its clarion call. When I finally opened my eyes to find the delirium had passed and my heart still beating in my chest, I was a husk of my former self. I could not continue my livelihood, which required such fortitudes of physical and mental reserve. I was as the chaff now, and I longed to separate from this life and blow away in the wind. Of my three remaining sons, none had expressed an interest in milling. I knew well their shortcomings, which were my fault and burden to bear, but it was too late to remedy the situation. I called them to me, one night in late December. “I have split my inheritance into the only three parcels that make sense,” I said. “One of you shall inherit from me the mill, which is the bulk of the estate. The other shall inherit the donkey, and the third shall be master of the cat.” “What!” said Jack, the oldest son. “What sort of sense does that make?” “What should one do with a donkey?” Peter,, the middle son, inquired. “Or worse yet,” the youngest, Petit Jean said, “a cat?” I held up a hand. “If you will but listen, I shall explain my decision. I am unfit to continue this business any longer, and it shall pass to you. You shall draw straws for your lot of the estate: the longest straw gets the mill, the middle straw gets the donkey, and to the short straw goes the cat. But hearken to me, boys! It is not as it seems, for the running of the mill is not merely building maintenance. The donkey is needed to pull the stone to mill the grain. And so, too, must a third brother be involved in weights and measures. There is enough responsibility here for all of you, and the lots you draw will assign your share of the business. You all have a place here, and you
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are needed. I can help advise you in matters of finance, but no more can I run the mill alone.” The brothers agreed to pull straws, but when Jack selected the longest, thus receiving the mill proper, he smiled. “I won!” he cried. “You’ll need to clear out by dawn.” Peter shrugged, having pulled the middle straw. “I always wanted to see the world,” he said. Having inherited the donkey, he now had the means to accomplish his goal. Petit Jean frowned. “But where shall I go? I have only a cat!” “That’s not my concern,” Jack said. “Wait,” I said, seeing the threads of my plans fall to shreds as I spoke. I had not envisioned this turn of events, though their darker natures had been hinted at in the whispers in town. I shrugged off my doubt and continued my appeal for fairness. “This was not my intent. You need help to run the mill, Jack. Without your brothers, it will be a useless endeavor. You can’t do it alone. Did you honestly think I meant to bequeath one of you a donkey and the other with nothing but a cat?” Jack shrugged. “I care not. Father, you can stay or go as you please, but the others must away on the morrow.” By the laws of the land, the bargain had been struck in fairness and in fairness it would hold. I cursed myself a fool, but nothing could be done. I watched my youngest sons depart the following day with only the clothes on their backs and the wretched animals they had been given to serve whatever needs they might find useful. I despaired of ever seeing them alive again. The winter passed in cold days of decline, with darkness and hunger our ever-present companions. We had no donkey to turn the millstone, but neither had we grain to mill. By the breaking of the season, we had turned to boiling shoe leather into a broth to survive. My dreams were haunted by the specters of my absent sons, who had been sent down the beaten path with nothing to shield them from the pangs of starvation I now suffered. I saw no future at the mill, so I said my goodbyes to Jack and set out on my own enfeebled legs to find whatever shreds were left of my missing sons. Appetite cut sharp, but
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conscience bit even more deeply, and I could not rest until I found them. Or what was left of them. The road west was a fair one, and it offered more stable lodgings than the town I had left behind. Villagers had been spared the worst of last year’s summer sickness, and they had a better store of food set by as a result. Folks were willing to share, and I regained a bit of strength as I made my journey, though no one had heard of my sons. I walked through the spring and into the summer months. There had been frequent mentions on the road of a certain Lord Marquis de Carabas, but no one had seen anyone of my sons’ description. “They might be in the employ of the Marquis,” people said. “He has an enormous estate. Inquire at the castle.” After failing to find sign of them anywhere else, I decided to try the palace. It seemed unlikely, but I had no other ideas about their whereabouts. As I headed north, the tales of the marquis grew more and more outrageous: “I heard that he sleeps in a bed made entirely of diamonds and padded with eiderdown from golden geese that are fed with only the tenderest sweetmeats.” “I heard that when the princess saw him, she fell instantly in love with him because of his handsomeness.” “He was naked when they met because someone stole his clothes while he was bathing! Although I don’t believe that. I’m not one to gossip about such things. The princess has always been nothing but proper, I’m sure. I mean, it’s only natural to want to look at a man with no clothes on. I don’t blame her at all for that.” “He beat an ogre in a game of wits and that’s how he became the marquis. He wasn’t always a nobleman, you know.” “He was raised as a pauper. I don’t know how, but I heard it was true.” “He has a cat what talks!” “His cat wears boots and has a throne next to his! Can you believe such a thing?” At the gates, I gave my name and stated my business. It was, indeed, a vast estate, encompassing thousands of acres of land. I was admitted entrance and taken to the kitchens, where I was given a bowl of stew. The castle was thriving, and I hoped that my boys had made their way to such a stable environment. Times here were good.
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A cat twined through my legs while I ate. I reached down to pet it and felt no bones. It was a sign of prosperity that even the animals were well cared for. “Have you found what you sought here, sir?” I looked around for the voice, but found no one in the vicinity. The cat jumped up on the bench next to me and pressed close, eager to be stroked. “You look a bit like Petit Jean’s old cat,” I said to myself. The markings on the sides were similar, though they might have belonged to any barn cat. I remembered the distinct tortoiseshell stripes that seemed to form a little coat on the body. I petted him and peered around the kitchen. “Could it be that Petit Jean is here?” “Indeed he is, though he goes by a much different name now.” I looked around for the voice, but there was no one in the kitchen with me. Even the woman who had ladled the stew into my bowl had left to attend her chores. Yet someone had spoken, and the sound had been very close. A prickle of unease crawled up my spine. “Who’s there?” “We can’t have you upsetting our new life,” the voice said. It almost sounded as if the cat were speaking. I startled, a little spooked. It couldn’t be. Perhaps my fever was returning? The cat purred. “My master has made a home here and you are just a remnant of an old life. I will untie you before the tapestry unravels, old man.” It was the cat! My heart hammered as I realized that the feline was speaking in a man’s voice. Before I could shout or jump from my place, he pressed ever closer with his sinuous body and slid a blade across my throat, quick as breathing. Before I could blink, my lifeblood was spilling into the soup and mixing with the juices that had, just a moment before, nourished me and given me hope. “Your loyalty is repaid,” the cat said. “Be at peace.” I died on the floor, just another beggar at the hearth of the Lord Marquis de Carabas, my son.
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Fiction
Words by
Conversations
Emily Vater
Emily Vater is writer of dark fairy tales and whimsy. She graduated from Northern Kentucky University in 2010 with a BA in English Literature and has worked for the public library system for almost eight years. She has a wonderful husband, a delightfully quirky golden retriever, and a baby on the way! She has been previously published in A Quick Bite of Flesh: An Anthology of Zombie Flash Fiction and maintains a WordPress blog called “The Things I Write.�
Conversations
Emily Vater
“I need my boots, I can’t think without my boots!” said the Marquis of Carabas to his valet as his manservant informed him that the mouse catcher was waiting at the door. The Marquis of Carabas was a fashion-conscious nobleman with a castle, miles of land and a beautiful wife he adored. Every morning the Marquis would go riding before the Marchioness Marguerite arose. When he returned he would remove his boots, place a dew-dropped daisy on Marguerite’s bedside and kiss her softly. The pair were very much in love and although she never told him, Marguerite’s favourite sound was that soft squeaking of leather as he removed his boots in the morning. She longed to hear that sound, as it meant the Marquis had returned and there was nothing she looked forward to more than her true love’s kiss in the dreamy light of dawn. But today the Marquis was not feeling romantic, he was discontented, he was infuriated, he was…infested. Despite all the wealth he possessed, he couldn’t seem to rid the castle of mice. There were mice in the parlour, mice in the bedroom, mice in the bathroom and even mice in the moat. Mice, mice, mice! He hated mice. The Marquis, or rather his servants had tried all the traps that money could buy. But as soon as they trapped ten, another twenty would run out of the woodwork. It was time to call in a professional. “Such a spaciosous and appeasing castle”, said the mouse catcher as he glared around the grand mirrored hall, drinking in all the fine paintings and gilded furniture. “I can see why the tasty little, um I mean crafty little vermin have decided to make it their home.” “Well, they are not welcome here and the sooner they are gone, the better.” Said the Marquis impatiently. “I agree concurrly, and so demand - that is, request sincerlemently that you, you wife and all servants bog off immediately so I can begin.”
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The Marquis was just about to ask him what method he was intending to use, as he could see neither box nor bag present, when the mouse catcher replied obsequiously with a rumble in his stomach and a low curtsy, “if it please you my Lordship”. As the castle door slammed behind the last of the Marquis’ entourage, the mouse catcher’s face began to itch. The itch became as twitch as suddenly a giant cauliflower ear popped out of the side of his head. The mouse catcher caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored panel. He watched with delight as he shed his clothes like a python’s skin. There was a strange crunching, creaking sound as his feet grew large as a grizzly bear’s and his dirty horns hit a low-hanging chandelier. He blinked twice to focus, now through eyeballs as big as pumpkins and eyelashes like rusty skewers, he saw himself as he truly was…an ogre. It really hadn’t been the ogre’s plan to steal the castle, he just happened to be feeling a bit peckish when he spotted the Marquis of Carabas’ “mouse catcher wanted” poster pinned to the town square noticeboard. He was also sorely in need of the 10 gold coins reward to buy some new toenail clippers. He thought he would kill two birds with one stone, or rather twenty mice with one gulp. Mice, mice, mice! He loved mice. It had been a rare stroke of genius by the shape-shifting ogre to masquerade as a mouse catcher. He wished he’d thought of it sooner. Getting paid to chomp on an all you can eat mouse buffet, such Heaven. It was dark when the Marquis of Carabas and his wife returned to the castle, but their hearts were light with the notion of a mouse-free home. No more scurrying in the scullery, droppings in the drawing room or holes in the hallway. But their joy was short-lived when they were greeted by the sight of a ten foot ogre in the candlelit hall.
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The ogre was full of mice, but he was not satisfied. Now he had a new appetite. Why should he live in a cramped, slimy cave when the castle suited him so much better? Here was an endless supply of those yummy little crunchy, hairy nuggets that were his favourite snack. He could wallow in the moat and he could even fit in the four poster bed with just his curly toenails hanging out. Marguerite let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed around the castle, but by the time the echo returned it was a meek meow and Marguerite was a pussycat. On witnessing this frightful magic the Marquis grabbed a sword from the display on the wall. He was just about to plunge it into the ogre’s leg, when the ogre mumbled something in a language he couldn’t understand and – crash! – the sword fell onto the marble floor with a clatter. The sword had become too heavy for his little paw and the transformation had made him dizzy. The two little cats stared at each other in stunned disbelief as the ogre made a joke about there being enough room to swing two cats around in the hall. He then bundled them up in what remained of the mouse catcher’s tailcoat and dragged them into a carriage. The Marquis of Carabas couldn’t comprehend what had happened. He had heard legends of shape-shifting ogres in the Kingdom before, but he didn’t know they could use their power on others. The instinct to escape was strong in the aristocratic cats and as the carriage sped along the highway they clawed and bit urgently at the fabric that confined them. Eventually they created a small hole in the pocket and Marguerite was able to crawl out. But as she did so, the carriage wheel hit a rock and the coach swerved. Marguerite was flung from the carriage and onto the dark road below. The Marquis struggled to fit through the hole, desperate to join his love. But his wriggling caught the attention of the ogre, who
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reached behind, grabbed the coat and shoved it under his large smelly feet for safe keeping. The Marchioness looked up helplessly as the carriage disappeared beyond the horizon. Tears filled her cat’s eyes. All through the night she waited by the side of the road, wishing on the stars that her husband would return. Eventually she fell asleep and awoke believing for a blissful second that the whole incident was just a dream. But it wasn’t and she was still a cat and the Marquis was still gone. It was the sound of a young girl’s voice, not the sound of her husband’s boots that woke her that morning, along with a peculiar craving for sardines. “Daddy, please may I keep her? Please! She’s so lonely and pretty and fluffy.” Said Princess Carlotta. She was returning to the palace after a very long ball, when she spotted the Marchioness’ jewelled choker glinting in the sun and insisted the coachmen stop, so she could investigate. The King could never say “no” to his daughter and the cat did look rather sad and lonely. At the palace the Marchioness wanted for nothing. She had a bed of silk and velvet cushions, lashings of cream from the kingdom’s finest dairy cows and all the yarn she wished to play with, but she was never truly happy. The Marchioness would have died of a broken heart had it not been for the kindness and love of the princess. Meanwhile the fate of her husband was changing too. “Yes, this looks like the perfect place to drown a stuckup cat,” said the ogre as he reached the mouth of the river. “You’re lucky to be going this way, nice and quick. Your poor wife will be wolf ’s breakfast by now, her little whiskers stuck in his greedy fangs. Serve her right for trying to escape,” laughed the ogre and flung the Marquis of Carabas into the thrashing water below. It was the miller who found the poor half-drowned Marquis caught up in his water mill. “Just what I need”, said the miller “a cat to catch all the mice at the mill”.
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Although the Marquis of Carabas was barely conscious, he heard this and thinking he must surely have died, desperately tried to remember what sins he had committed to find himself in Hell right now. The miller and his three sons Jean-Claude, Jean-Pierre and Jean-Jacques nursed their cursed cat back to health and soon the Marquis of Carabas became one of the family. But here were no servants to see to his every need, here he must work to survive. He had always preferred shopping to hunting, but now his feline instinct took hold and he learnt to master the art of mouse catching. His job was just as important as the miller’s and his sons. If the mice ate the grain, there would be no flour to sell and no money to survive. He saw how hard the miller worked for little reward and came to understand what a charmed life he had been living. Now he slept on a bed of straw whilst an ogre slept in his bed. The past became hazy like a faraway dream as he resigned himself to his new life. He had lost almost everything; his wife, his home, his human form and even his boots. But he never lost hope. Hope of revenge, of becoming a man again and above all the hope of being reunited with his wife. A few years later the miller passed away. It was a very sad day for his three sons and for the Marquis who owed him his life. The miller bequeathed his cat to his youngest son, Jean-Jacques so now the Marquis of Carabas had a new master. One day Jean-Jacques took the Marquis, or “Puss” as he had named him, to market. On the way a gilded carriage passed them by. Looking out of the satin draped window was Princess Carlotta and her cat. The princess smiled at the miller’s son and he felt something he had never felt before, he had fallen in love. The Marquis of Carabas meanwhile recognised Marguerite and memories of his past life came flooding back like
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a river that had been dammed up for too long. He wasn’t sure if Marguerite had seen him, but he knew he had to find a way to see her again. He hatched a plan to win back his wife, his castle and help his master become a nobleman and secure the hand of a princess…but first he would need some boots…
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Fiction
Words by
The Clarion Call
John Vicary
John Vicary is the pseudonym of an author from Michigan. He has contributed to many compendiums, but his most recent credentials include short fiction in the collection The Longest Hours and the Birmingham Arts Journal. He has stories in upcoming issues of Disturbed Digest, Plague: an Anthology of Sickness and Death, Anthology of the Mad Ones, a charity anthology entitled Second Chance, and Dead Men’s Tales. You can read more of his work at keppiehed.com.
The Clarion Call John Vicary
The head dripped thick blood on the cat’s boots. Puss was used to blood; he had shed enough of it over the six months since the war began. But now he was in front of his compatriots, dressed in his fineries, and it wasn’t civilized to have someone else’s blood on you. Especially if it was human blood. He gave one last look to the severed mass. The man’s face had sagged almost beyond recognition, but there was something familiar about his features. He had seen so many dead faces lately; they all began to look alike. Carelessly, he tossed the head into a nearby wicker basket. “Another one bites the dust, as they used to say,” he purred to the surrounding crowd and motioned to a soldier nearby to come and wipe his boot. An emphatic cheer rose from the animals below him. “And let that be a lesson to any human that is still out there,” he pointed out towards the city, the crumbling buildings stolid, betraying nothing. “You will be found. You will be killed. You should pray to whatever god you worship that my army gets a hold of you before I do. Because a soldier’s sword is more merciful than what I have in store.” The cat turned and ran his paw along the guillotine’s sharp blade. “You may feel safe and secure now in your position, Puss, but we humans will have our revenge.” A guttural voice materialized in the air. Puss felt the vibrations of sound in his whiskers. Unsure of his hearing, he looked around cautiously until the voice spoke again, this time a little louder. “Down here, you manky excuse for a cat.” The general looked down at the head in the basket. “That’s right,” the head spoke. His voice was raspy and dry. “Thought I was dead, I bet. Fie! How you lot managed to overtake us is beyond me.” The cat crouched closer to the basket. He was speechless and his face betrayed his confusion.
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“What’s the matter, general? You look like a severed head just spoke to you!” The bodiless man spat a few drops of blood as he issued a strangled laugh. “How in the--” The general brought his hand to his mouth, stroking his whiskers as he tried to wrap his mind around this development. That voice. Having a severed head talk was enough of a surprise, but it was the voice that thoroughly confused Puss. Where had he heard that voice before? He looked around at the crowd that was slowly dispersing. No one seemed to have heard the head talk amid the din. The lower ranking officers had also vanished, leaving just the general and the head on the platform. Good, he didn’t want his people seeing him converse with a dead man. “I see I’ve got you befuddled, General Puss. Don’t you remember me?” The head issued a gurgled laugh. “You...you do look like someone I know. But I can’t place who...” “Aye. I barely recognized you myself last night, but it’s as clear as day to me now. I can see you still wear those boots with pride. I know them as well as my own nose. Those are the boots that the king gave you. They always made you feel superior. Still do, I assume,” he added. Puss fell back. “My god, it’s you!” “That’s right. It’s about time you remembered your old master.” The face softened. “I can’t believe you didn’t recognize me. After all we’ve been through.” “I can’t believe it’s you.” “I didn’t mean to be so gruff earlier. Being dead can do that.” A deep-set frown appeared on the old master’s face. “Is there somewhere more private where we can talk?” The general sighed. He hadn’t seen his master in over two years and he didn’t particularly want to re-open the friendship.
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But deep down there was still a sense of loyalty to the man, something that Puss couldn’t shake. He stood up and said, “We’ll go back to my office.” Puss motioned for two of his larger canine officers to grab the basket. Puss’s office was located in one of the nicer brick buildings in the village. Puss propped the head against a stack of old books on his desk. A small pool of blood began to collar the neck, wet with a sickly sweet odor. His mouth hung open in a sloppy gesture that either betrayed confusion or the ugly state of one who has passed on. In this case, it was both. “Tell me, old friend, what stirred your heart to kill your master?” the head spoke to the cat sitting across from him. Puss sat hunched in his worn leather chair, hands gripping the table as he tried to wrap his mind around what he saw and heard before him. “What’s the matter, Puss?” the head continued. “Cat got your tongue?” This caused the bodiless man to erupt in a fit of laughter. “You always loved that joke. I’d tell it to you whenever you were upset and you’d laugh and laugh. Do you remember that, Puss?” “It was never funny to me,” Puss answered, jaw clenched. Memories of the past started swirling in his already addled mind, a lifestyle he thought he had let go of until now. “I laughed just to humor you.” “You’re wrong there, friend. I know a real laugh when I hear one.” “It wasn’t a real laugh. Don’t you know it’s in poor taste to make those kinds of jokes?” Puss spat his words out. “Even after you became a lord you never lost your commoner’s sense of humor.” “Time and this silly war have warped your memories. My jokes always drew a laugh. Your head’s a bit off.” “Actually, it would appear that yours is the one a bit off,” Puss retorted. The man choked out a laugh. It was throaty
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and dry. Puss recoiled at the ease with which the crude joked slipped out. “That’s more like it. But really, Puss, why all this fuss? What has happened to you to make you do such a thing? You didn’t even recognize me and we’ve been best friends since you were a kitten. “ “You want to know why ‘all this’ is happening? You don’t even have a clue as to why the animals have waged war against you lot?” “I don’t, Puss. I thought you cared about me, you see. You went to all that trouble to make sure I became rich and famous. You made the king’s daughter fall in love with me. He even gave you those boots that you still wear. We had such a good system going-” “That’s just it!” Puss stood up in a fury, finger pointing at his former friend. “I did so much for you!” the cat continued. “I saw your face the day your father died and all that you got from his inheritance was me. Jealousy towards your brothers, who received all of his worldly possessions. His house, his horses, his livestock and farm, and what were you stuck with? A mangy housecat who spent half the day sleeping and the other half licking himself. I knew you were angry. I had to show that I could be better than anything your brothers got. And I did show you, didn’t I? I got you everything!” “You did a lot for me. I know that. And I was grateful, I was.” “No you weren’t. After you married the princess, you became someone else. You were the one who grew entitled. ‘Puss, get someone to build me a moat.’ ‘I need swans, Puss. Find me swans.’ ‘Oh, Puss, the bathwater is too cold. Boil some water for me.’ I was at your beck and call every moment of the day. It got me thinking.” Puss jumped from the chair to the table and began to pace around his former master.
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“I couldn’t belong to you anymore. I couldn’t be your pet. That’s why I left. I had to see if this is was what the rest of the world was like. Eternal servitude with no sense of thankfulness from you lot. And you know what I found out there?” The cat grabbed the head with both paws and turned it so the face was towards the frosted window. “That it was like that everywhere,” the head answered, his voice grown small. Puss turned the head in his hands to face him. The master’s face sagged a little more. “Everywhere, pets were being forced to do the most inane things for their humans. Sit, stay, lay down, fetch my slippers. It was too much to take.” He pounced back to the chair and sat down, his legs dangling from the edge, elbows resting on the table. Puss leaned his head in and rested his forehead against his former master. “It was all too much to take.” “Look at you, friend,” the head sighed. “You’re tired. I can see it in your eyes. Why don’t you call all of this off? We’ll go home. You can go back to the life you know.” “It’s too late for that.” Two brisk knocks sounded on the door. A dog dressed in officer fatigues entered. “Sir, I--” “Lieutenant, take this head away from me. I’m done questioning it.” Puzzled, the lieutenant walked over and picked up the head. He made his way back to the door and paused. “Sir, there’s no body attached to this head.” “Lieutenant, I’m astounded at your powers of observation.” The sarcasm dripped off of Puss’s words like melting wax. “What’s your point?” “How did you--” The lieutenant gave Puss a hard look. He noticed the general’s disheveled clothing, the way his fur was matted between his ears, and the slight shake of
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his paws. Something was definitely off about him. He looked at the head he was holding and directed his gaze back to Puss. “Never mind,� he said and walked out.
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Fiction
Words by
Lady Gray
Rhonda Eikamp
Rhonda Eikamp is originally from Texas and lives in Germany, where she translates for a German law firm. You can read stories of hers in recent issues of Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet and The Colored Lens and check out her newly discovered love, drabbles, at 101 Fiction (www.101fiction.com/2013/12/frozen.html) and The Were-Traveler (theweretraveler.wordpress. com/2013/10/06/the-innocence-machine-byrhonda-eikamp-2/). Yes, she owns a gray cat that talks to her with its eyes (or does it own her?).
LADY G R AY RHONDA EIKAMP
There once was a talking cat which attached itself to a lady of high standing and the purest morals and through its wit and feline cunning helped its mistress to great fortune. Fine, the cat was me. The high standing was the dunce stool, on which my mistress was made to perch at least once a week, being something of a ninny. Why attach myself to this timid girl with mouse-brown hair and gray personality, who could hardly utter a word on her own behalf? Because Jane was the only one in the school who was ever kind to me. A pat, a bowl of milk set out, when she had so little of her own. Like the back-alley I came from, like all of life, the girl’s school I’d come to live in had one rule – you survive by trickery and meanness or you die – yet little Jane Eyre managed to remain kind there. In exchange for the milk, I helped her survive. I was the demon voice from the corner, the tattle who could never be traced to her. Curled at her feet, I would answer for her in French class and who could say where the voice was coming from? Le chat aime le lait. Only I’m a la. And no lady either. Thus did Jane Eyre, at nineteen, finish with the best marks, and soon thereafter we found ourselves governess avec chat in a gloomy northern mansion, only a spoiled child for company since the mysterious master never appeared and the lonely evenings devoted to foggy walks on the moor. I was a gray wisp in the fog and when a horse rounded the corner the third evening I panicked, darted right instead of left. Hooves carved the air. The human boulder that was the rider landed in the road with earth-shattering effect. The R emblazoned upon his cloak told me he was the mysterious master. “You threw me,” he growled at Jane. “I tend to do that to men,” she replied, or rather I did, hidden by the fog, for my mistress was frozen with fright at this fat gift and could never have spoken a word.
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Rochester stared at this apparent pronouncement of hers and a light kindled in his eyes. It took little to fan that flame whenever they were together after that. Nothing my chaste Jane said that couldn’t be made more impudent with an added innuendo, and the impudence came thick and fast when I was nearby and the light was low. Rochester clearly liked his women cheeky. The day arrived when he asked her to marry him. “Do it,” I urged Jane, lounging on her bed in the evening as she brushed her hair. Her ninny side had returned. She’d told Rochester she had to think about it. “We’ll be set up for life. You’ll not have an opportunity like this again.” She knew it as well as I. For a governess to marry money was unheard of. She sighed. “Not a looker, is he? Oh, puss, if he wasn’t such an ogre.” “Once you’re married, you can make him go on a diet.” “There’s just something so…morally vague about him.” From the walls around us rose a wail then a screech, ghost sounds we’d long grown used to at Thornfield. Jane believed it some sadness, a servant’s grief she longed to cure. I’d figured it for another cat, until I’d tracked it down only days before and got an eyeful of Mr. Rochester’s secret. I’d been keeping it from Jane, but she might as well know the worst. “Got something to show you, milady. Follow me.” She was catlike enough to be curious. Up the forbidden attic stairs, past the sleeping crone who’d chased me away earlier as I’d snatched a glance. The door that had stood open was locked now. “Here’s the key-ring,” I purred beside the crone’s belt. Jane trusted me. She spirited the key from the belt and soon the door was open. An animal lair would have smelled fresher. My mistress stared for long moments at the inhuman human in the corner who stared back at her and spat into the wet straw.
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I believe Jane understood but I had to be sure. “Meet Mrs. Rochester,” I said. “An abhorrence,” Jane moaned. “How can he do this to her?” Insanity is a human condition. I’d seen worse during my back-alley kittenhood. “At least he gives her a roof over her head and a caretaker. And looks like the food’s good.” I’d discovered the remains of the missus’s supper near the door, excellent roast suckling, and was yielding to my nature. “The point is, my dear, you’ll have leverage as the other wife.” Very good food in fact. It made spots dance before my eyes. “Rochester’s gone to some trouble to keep his wife secret. You knowing about it…” Spots that warped and rose to fly; I couldn’t speak and then I could, for the attic had become a vast pink heaven of talking cats, companions such as my soul had always yearned for, who walked on their hind legs and licked my face and laughed. We ruled the world, we were the masters, free of humans and degradation. The rest were mice. They skittered across the floor. Then darkness kicked me like a boot and I died in pain. “Puss, wake up – you had a fit!” I awoke to Jane’s frantic whispers. She cradled me in her lap. There were tears in her eyes. From her crouch in the corner Mrs. Rochester watched and I saw that deep in that febrile brain she recognized what had just happened to me. I struggled up, weak, until my whiskers were near Jane’s ear. “She’s not mad,” I whispered. “Rochester’s poisoning her food.” The depths of human depravity will always amaze me. I thought I was one evil kitty, but Edward Rochester had me beat. For whatever reason, he had wanted to be rid of his first wife, but was too cowardly to murder her outright. Insane visions would do just as well, a bit of the poppy or worse, to justify locking her up. Reduce her to an animal. I wish Rochester could have seen Jane’s eyes then.
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My mistress rallied. I was proud of her over the next months, as Rochester manoeuvred to drag her to the altar and she put him off. Jane and I waged a secret war against the madness in the attic. At my suggestion the crone was easily bought, with jewels Rochester gave his bride-to-be, the poisoned meals thrown to the rats and replaced with wholesome fare. Finally the day came when Bertha Rochester stood in the door of her lair, filthy but clear-eyed, smiled at Jane and said, “Thank you.” “Thank Puss,” said Jane and I stood and curtseyed, a trick I’d been working on. They became friends, the wife and the almost-fiancé, in this secret place. Aired, the straw chamber was their tea-room, where they could be found often with their heads together, reasoning over what they should do while an innocuous gray cat swept about their legs and the crone dozed. Rochester never visited. “I couldn’t marry him now,” Jane insisted. It was summer. The room was stifling. “Bigamy – “ “Listen, dear Jane, I don’t exist, not anymore, not here.” Bertha had turned out to be a strong-willed woman with an agile mind. She would have made a great cat. She seemed to think Jane was just as strong-willed. “Edward’s machinations can’t be proved. He’ll simply say I got better. Best you marry him, intimate what you know, keep him in line. That way, at least one of us gets to be Mistress Rich. Dear Jane, believe me, I don’t want to be here. I bequeath him to you.” She squeezed Jane’s hand. In the corner I noticed a satchel stood packed with the clothes we had smuggled up. “I’ll escape tonight, quite by accident, and be gone.” From her bustier Jane produced a necklace, finer than any yet. “You can sell this,” she said. Bertha nodded. The wedding was held in the fall, and aside from a strange man who leapt to his feet when the minister asked about
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objections but was attacked at that moment by a rabid cat and had to be carried out, nothing untoward happened. Which would be the end of my story if not for human depravity. Within a fortnight bruises appeared on my mistress, then a broken wrist. Like a cat playing with a mouse it’s cornered, Rochester was bored with his catch. Keep him in line, Bertha had urged, yet when Jane flung his crimes against his first wife at him he laughed. There was no proof, Bertha long escaped, the crone vanished. “No one will believe a gold-digging orphan,” he assured her and struck her again, hard, before I could launch myself at his face, clawing, and impel him to leave the room. Being Mistress Rich was going to kill her. I sat on her lap after he left and licked the tears. “Give him a taste of his own medicine,” I recommended. Jane’s glance was withering. “I’m not a poisoner, Puss.” No, only a ninny with morals, in a world that demands claws. It was my fault. Bertha had once told Jane that Rochester was never violent, his cunning too subtle for it, but I should have foreseen this escalation. He had married the sassy voice, that ruse I’d abandoned lately, assuming Jane safe in the harbour of marriage, and now he was disappointed, suspecting he had been sold short. I decided to take matters into my own paws. Play to my forte. I found Rochester slumped before the fire downstairs, half-drunk. My plan frightened me. Revealing myself to anyone but Jane felt like someone rubbing my fur the wrong way. I sat down in front of him. “I know about Bertha too,” I announced. At first he looked for a servant who had spoken, even managing to stand and peer behind the settee, until his cross-eyed gaze came to rest on me.
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“I’ll tell it in the town if you don’t leave Jane in peace. They’ll believe a talking cat. Who wouldn’t?” The effect was not what I’d expected. I hadn’t reckoned with the brandy fumes that had replaced what he called a brain. “Demon!” Rochester sputtered. “Help us! A demon cat!” “Did you hear what I said at all?” With a womanly scream he snatched a brand from the fire and swung it. I yowled, all cat again, and pounced to the back of the settee. Another swing of his torch and the dusty brocade erupted in flames that leapt with feline speed to the drapes. In seconds the room was a furnace. Rochester swung again and fell, knocking himself unconscious. I revealed myself then, a messenger streaking through the house, shouting my warning at servants who dropped plates when they heard me and who would later convince themselves they’d hallucinated in the fumes of the fire. I found Jane and got her out. It was her ninny bravery that saved Rochester. She rushed back in and tried to drag him, shaming the fleeing male servants, who pitched in only after half a wall almost buried their master. I would have left him myself, but then I’m no lady. We stood through the night and watched Thornfield burn to the ground. We live in a manor house across the way now. Life is peaceful. Rochester was blinded by the beam that struck him and though he often calls to me when he thinks we’re alone, begging me to speak again, I never do. This uncertainty about me has left him fearful and quiet. The ogre has become a mouse. Jane sent about and found Bertha and she lives here with us. I’m all cat again and that’s as it should be. No more of humanity, thank you. I bask in the sun. I chase mice. There’s a tomcat lives in the barn, looks a real ogre, but I might have my fun with him one of these days.
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Poetry
Words by
not a tame lion
Maya Chhabra
Maya Chhabra is a poet and writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Mythic Delirium, Abyss Apex, Star*Line, Through the Gate, Liminality, Anathema: Spec from the Margins, Kaleidotrope, Mezzo Cammin, and Cast of Wonders. She graduated from Georgetown University with a degree in Russian and Government in 2015, and her translations from Russian have appeared in Cardinal Points. Her fantasy novella “Toxic Bloom� is forthcoming from Falstaff Books. Visit her blog at Maya Reads Books.
maybe when it gets hungry it will eat you, said his cruel brother, but no matter— it’s his inheritance, all he has left of his father. they hunt alone in the woods, and rumor reaches the king of a lion and a boy, living under the sky, sheltering from snow in that vast mane. he wants to bring them to the palace, to adorn his court, but the boy says no, I’m happy, and anyway, the lion is a wild thing. maybe when I get hungry i will eat you, he says, and the boy nods patiently. is it not the fate of us all to be devoured, to be consumed by our legacy?
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Poetry
Words by
Nine Ways to Skin a Cat
Claire Smith
Claire Smith’s poetry has appeared in the journals: Riddled with Arrows, Eye to the Telescope, Spectral Realms and Illumen. Her writing also features in the anthologies: Death’s Garden – A Black Book Series Anthology, Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling, The Night Cafe Anthology, and Untimely Frost - Dark Poetry Anthology. She holds an MA in English from the Open University. She was a featured writer in the organization Art Shape’s professional development program in 2018-2019. Her collaborative poetry was exhibited in Gloucester Cathedral as part of this work. She lives in Gloucestershire, UK, with her husband and their spoiled Tonkinese cat.
Through my crystal ball, clear as a cloudless sky, I saw old Puss striding towards my battlements. My fish-eye lens focused on that crafty cat. He hammered on the knocker of my portcullis. My servant watched in disbelief as the proud creature swanned across my great hall. My Page followed him, head cast down, as puss paraded into my library full of tricks: lists of potions and how they mix –my dark crafts. I sidled in, silent, behind him. I whispered a greeting to that Puss in Boots, mere servant to a miller’s son, with his designs on my castle, my lands, my riches. All for his master to steal a princess in marriage. He soon asked me to display my shape-shifting, designed to make me change myself into a mouse, to gobble me up. Instead, I transformed into a snake. I caught him in my serpent’s embrace – he struggled to breathe until his heart stopped... I tossed the carcass into a sack, and made myself a ruddy prince; waited, patient, for the princess and her father to come banging on my castle gate. I told them the tale of the cheating cat. The king thanked me heartily for saving his daughter the humiliation of an ill-suited match.
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The princess didn’t speak, but I saw a glimmer in her eyes, cheeks rosy, as she contemplated my finery. I returned her gaze with warm smiles. Reader, within a month her father sent heralds across his realm to post our Banns of Marriage. Great celebrations followed our ceremony. She still loves me… Has yet to find me out… I count my luck: in weeks, months, and years. Grateful for a conniving cat’s nine lives used up.
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