Endeavors of Will Page 5

  Satch raised his glass, forced himself to swallow one small sip, then leaned to place the glass carefully upon the table. "What does that make you, then? My executioners?"

  "Your allies," said the cat, unruffled.

  Satch looked at him closely. "Allies? Not friends?"

  "Not friends, Mr. Rodfern, though we wish you no ill." It was her turn again. "You have little time left, even with my intervention. You must have certain facts, which Axel and I can give you. Then you must reach a decision. Upon that decision rests your life..."

  "Or your death," finished Axel.

  Satch kept his eyes on the cat’s. "So you didn’t save my life, after all?"

  "Ah, no, my friend," said the cat, unblinkingly bearing Satch’s stare; "only you can do that."

  The tension seemed to drain out of him at that. He leaned back in the chair and looked at the girl. "Decision."

  She nodded; sipped more wine. "Mr. Rodfern, this--world--is not the only world. There are many--I suppose you would say--parallel worlds--"

  "Possibilities," the cat said, stirring in her lap.

  "Yes. A better naming, that. For, you see, the worlds are not precisely parallel. They are each separate and distinct creations, wrought by the hands of several Masters of this art...."

  "Millicent is one of those Masters," Axel interrupted.

  "That is not important. What is important is this: The Master who created this Possibility is Whitaker--" She shifted a little as the cat suddenly arched, then lay her hand on his fur, quieting him. "Whitaker--"

  Satch interrupted. "Axel doesn’t like Whitaker. Why not, Axel?"

  The cat hesitated. "He is an evil and immoral mind."

  "He walks the left-hand pathway," the girl amended sternly. "You know better, Axel. Without those who know the dark, the light would be unfriendly."

  "Theory--"

  "Truth!"

  Satch interrupted again, leaning tightly forward. "Why is Whitaker evil, Axel?"

  "It’s his nature, as she says. But he overdoes it. Glories in it. This Possibility is bad enough, what with legalized murder and mindbreaking and dismagicked cats who can’t even conjure a breeze to hide their scent. The last Possibility he wrought--"

  "Axel!"

  "He has a right to know!" The cat sat straight up, tail slashing. "The last Possibility was an--experiment, he said. He created a world in which witchcraft was the norm--ninety-eight percent of the people he used to populate the world had some large or small amount of psi ability." The cat stopped, turned his head and licked his back frantically.

  "And?" Satch breathed.

  "And then he created an overrule composed of the two percent of the population with no natural talent for witchcraft," the girl concluded, eyes on the agitated cat. "They outlawed the practice of the art and punished its use with various rather horrible deaths."

  "Why?" It made him ill. To be unable to use that which was yours at birth--might as well outlaw use of your right arm. Or forbid you to paint...

  She shrugged. "As Axel said: an experiment. The Council allowed it to continue for a time, but when it became clear that the experiment could only result in an entire Possibility going mad... There is still quite a bit of rebuilding to do. There are very few Masters and most are busy with their own studies. Rebuilding someone else’s world is so very tedious..."

  "Why try to repair it?" Satch heard himself ask. "Why not just blast it out of existence."

  Millicent looked a bit ill; the cat had overcome his upset and resettled in her lap. "That particular Possibility has given us many strong Masters, Mr. Rodfern. Of both persuasions." She sighed.

  "It is known that adversity breeds excellence. Another reason, Axel, to tolerate those who walk the other way." She fell silent, stroking the cat.

  Satch was quiet a moment, thinking--trying to think. He cleared his throat. "What does all of this have to do with my--decision?"

  She stirred, gave him her eyes again. "There is a way out, Mr. Rodfern," she said gravely. "Perhaps you have thought so before and have considered it but another indication of your--deviance?"

  He nodded, waiting.

  She stroked the cat, gently and at length; looked back at Satch, eyes and face serious--intent. "Finish it," she said.

  Satch stared. "Finish it!"

  "Tell him the rest," the cat commanded.

  Millicent sighed. "You do not have much time, Mr. Rodfern. The D-Patrol will be back--here--for you. They will be back to kill you. Believe this. My influence in such a Possibility as this is not strong, though Axel will tell you I am accounted a Power within my own sphere." She paused, staring at him, seeking perhaps to read his belief. Or lack of it.

  "The worlds are--connected," she said. "I cannot say to which you will go. A great deal depends upon your--concentration; your--"

  "Love," said the cat.

  Satch surged to his feet, anger twisting in him, hard and hot. "What you’re offering me is a chance to die and go to heaven, is that it? Thanks very much. Miss, but I think that I prefer to run away--"

  "And live to paint another day?" He hadn’t imagined that her soft voice could cut so.

  "Precisely." He spun, strode to the door and yanked it open.

  "Satchel," the cat called, concerned, friendly; turning him against his will.

  "Well?"

  "Follow your heart," the cat said; then blinked his eyes and let him go.

  Satch slammed the door as he left.

  And slammed the door open as he flung into his apartment, seconds later. He strode to the briefcase, upended and emptied it in one swift motion, stuffed it full of his possessions with another, clasped it shut with a third. He turned to the door again, and paused with his hand on the knob.

  "Sketchbook, Satchel," he told himself.

  He hesitated, briefcase an iron weight at the end of his arm. Sketchbook, yes. No room to take the paints or the palette. No room for even the least of the brushes. But the sketchbook he must absolutely have.

  He dropped the case and ran down the hall to the window-alcove.

  His finger found the light switch unerringly; he grabbed the book and a handful of pencils from their places on the shelf; spun to leave--caught a glimmer of reddish yellow, the flaming magnificence of a painted tree--and turned to look at his creation once more.

  Almost finished, Satch," he whispered, against the panicked clamoring of his common sense. "Another hour--two, at the most..."

  The sketchbook slid from his fingers, pencils scattering as they hit the floor. An hour. Surely he had an hour...

  It took a bit more than an hour, not that those brief minutes would have been sufficient to let him escape. He was still painting when they stepped in through the open door; putting the last, the finishing, stroke in place. He had enough time to know that it was finished--to know that it was right-- and not quite enough time to know that he was no longer alone.

  The woman upstairs, the cat curled in her lap--they heard the shot. Only one shot. The woman leaned forward to place her empty glass upon the table. Her face in the guttering candlelight was young and at peace. There was the ghost of a smile around her lips.

  "Do we go to him now?" the cat demanded.

  She shook her head. "No. I think it will be better for the others to greet him and give him their explanations. There will be enough time to speak again when he is a Master and a Power in his own right, don’t you think?"

  "Perhaps..."

  Millicent smiled. "Axel, he will walk our path, never fear." She stroked him. ’Balance in all things, old friend. Even in the Council of Masters."

  She stood, gathering the cat into her arms.

  "We should be gone," she said.

  And so they were.

  First published in Star Triad, February 1991

  A Matter of Ceremony

  HANK JENKINS STOOD like a mannequin in his stiff black suit in the center of the circular Room of High Ceremonies, his cat draped, purring, around his neck. A yellow-robed official
, his jeweled and leathered cat tall upon his shoulder, detached himself from the surrounding crowd and stepped close to flank, hissing, "You could have had the decency to let the dressers attend him."

  Hank’s light blue eyes were innocent. "Well, I told that young fella they sent around that Sundance don’t usually take to strangers; but he said he knew all ’bout cats. Pushy kinda fella, y’know? Well, I let ’im try it, ’course, since he was so set... Doc said his hands’ll be fine, couple weeks." He reached over this shoulder, rubbed the orange-and-white’s ears. The purr intensified and the official’s cat twitched his ears forward. "I combed him, see, and got all the burrs and twigs out of his coat. He does like to bang around in the woods, though--"

  Yellow Robe straightened abruptly, horror in his face.

  "In the woods!" He shuddered and walked quickly away, leaving Hank and Sundance in undisputed possession of the floor. The shoulder-carried cat looked back once.

  Hank sighed and shook his head. Nervous fella; lot of pressure in a Government job. His hand dropped from the cat’s ears to join the other in the job of mangling his good black hat. Like a kid caught in the act, he muttered, ’cept he hadn’t done anything wrong. Nothing at all, he repeated to himself firmly; but his hands twisted the rim of his hat into an impossible pretzel while Sundance purred into his ear like a happy dynamo.

  Sure were a lot of people in the place. Hank wondered what the hold-up was. There was a long, low rubbed steel table to his right. The Judge would sit there, maybe. That was it, they were waiting for the Judge. That made sense. Hank reached up toward Sundance again, but pulled his hand back in mid-motion as the subdued muttering in the room abruptly stopped and three tall, robed figures, a cat riding tall on each right shoulder, filed in from his left, moved stately across his field of vision and seated themselves together at the table.

  Quiet enough to hear a spider weaving at fifty yards. Hank pivoted slowly to face the table, suddenly calm. Now here were people who knew what was what. They’d understand that he hadn’t done anything wrong. He felt Sundance shift position smoothly and arrange himself, sitting high in imitation of the Judges’ decked-out kitties, on Hank’s right shoulder. The man squared his shoulders as best he might and they waited for the Judges to notice them.

  The Judges--an old man, to Hank’s far left; a younger man in the middle; and a woman of indeterminate age at the far right--sat with their faces forward, eyes closed. They looked like wax-work dolls, in their bright blue and orange and violet robes, with their cats so still, just like them. Hank wondered for a minute if they’d fallen asleep. Then, like somebody finally got around to closing the switch, three sets of eyes opened at once and swept the faces of the silent crowd; came to rest on the square-standing man and his ragged-eared cat. The younger, orange-robed, man glanced down at the sheaf of papers he had pulled from his sleeve and began to read.

  "We are here-gathered upon this day--the twenty-fourth in the month of Sept in the year since we joined the Cat, 400--to perform the Ritual of Decatting, which has fallen to the lot of this man--" he paused and glanced at Hank and Sundance with distaste that Hank could see across the room, "--Henry Jenkins."

  The pause was longer this time; and Hank figured that now maybe was the time for him to explain. He took a step forward, "Well, yessir, that’s me. An’ this here, this is Sundance--"

  He stopped at a slight shake of the woman’s head, "You will be allowed speech in a short time, Henry Jenkins. Be still for the nonce."

  Hank retreated his rash step, "Yes ’m."

  The orange-robed man dropped his glare once more the his papers.

  "The reason for this Decatting is that said man Jenkins improperly acquired the company of a cat of the House of Brunt, with neither knowledge of the special bond between the Chosen and their Companions or the uses to which that bond is properly, and legally, put. It is at the request of the House of Brunt, which is acting in concern for the dignity of their abducted Companion, that this Court has been convened for a full ritual Decattment.

  "The man, Henry Jenkins, lacks the status to demand this ceremony in his own right, and should bear this in mind before he exercises his option to speak in his own behalf."

  The silence stretched, unnatural, all around the room. Hank stayed as still as he could and watched the face of the woman Judge. She’d been neighborly to him once...

  "You may speak now, if you so desire, Henry Jenkins." Hank barely caught the deadleaf rustle of the old, old man’s voice.

  "Yessir. Thank you, Judge." Hank approached the table until the look on the face of the younger man stopped him; and spoke to the woman.

  "I’m Hank--Henry--Jenkins, just like it says in the paper the boy read. And this is my cat, Sundance. That part’s all right, what’s puzzlin’ to me is all the rest of that fol-de-rol about abductions and status and the House of Brunt--I never had any truck with the nobles, Judge. Like the fella says, I’m a farmer. I tend my farm and let the politics lie, ’slong as the taxes are reasonable and people don’t mind pickin’their own apples, now that I got the arthritis. So, if the House of Brunt is bringing me and Sundance to Court, Judge, I don’t know why. An’ I’d like to, if you can explain it better’n the paper."

  "How did Sundance come to be ‘your cat,’ Henry Jenkins?" the woman Judge asked him.

  Hank turned to face her. "Well’m. There’s a stream--creek, really--runs through my property, down by the cornshed. Well, one morning I went out--early, ’cause it’d rained the night before an’ sometimes the shed floods--an’ was checkin’ things out an’ I heard this little cryin’ sound, down behind some reeds. So I went to check it out--figured it could be somebody’s kid, y’know?--an’ there was this soggy and mad-lookin’ little kitten kinda scrooched up on this little raft kind of thing...

  "Well, I couldn’t just let ’im sit there, could I?" Hank was suddenly indignant, "I took the poor little thing home, dried ‘im off and gave ’im some milk and he’s been with me ever since. Four years that’s been, ma’am. An’ he’s been a real comfort to me. We get along fine. An’ if that paper says what it sounds like--that I stole Sundance--well, ma’am, that’s just a plain lie."

  "And how many other people of your acquaintance own cats, Henry Jenkins? And just to comfort them?" That was the boy in the orange robe. Somebody oughta teach ’im some manners.

  "Well, sir; nobody. At least--there’s Diplomat Jurie--she’s the Agriculture Overseer for Melbrome--and she’s got a cat. Never see one without the other, so I reckon the kitty comforts her some. She’s gettin’ up there, too, y’know. Must be nearly eighty."

  Orange Robe waved his hand in impatience. "Diplomat Jurie is an honored member of the House of Axtan, one of the oldest in the Brotherhood. I would be amazed to learn that she was not Companioned." He leaned forward, speaking loudly and with insulting clearness.

  "The question is, Henry Jenkins, how many people--common people; farmers, like yourself--how many of those people are you acquainted with who enjoy the Companionship of a cat?"

  Somebody really oughta teach that boy some respect for longer experience.

  "Well, sir, like I said before, I don’t know that anybody else like me has a cat. But, like you said, sir; I’m only a farmer. Could be there are things happening in the world that I don’t know anything about."

  A titter ran through the crowd at Hank’s back and died. The woman Judge mastered the beginnings of a smile. The oldest Judge remained impassive, "Perhaps you and Xaltin should work more diligently at the art of patience, Roderick."

  The boy glowered at the table top. His shoulder-kitty raised a dainty paw and licked at it with a careful tongue. "We shall endeavor to do so, sir."

  The old Judge nodded gently. "Henry Jenkins."

  "Sir?"

  "Henry Jenkins, surely it cannot have escaped your attention that only a certain group of people have the honor and the responsibility of Companionship with a cat. You must know, sir, that only those of us who administer the workings of the
multifaceted government, who have been adopted by one of the seven Great Houses--only these select people, Henry Jenkins, have need of the wisdom and counsel of a feline Companion. The lives of the common people are not complex, nor--forgive me--ultimately important enough, to squander the companionship of cats upon them.

  "If your farm were fired this evening, Henry Jenkins, so that by tomorrow this time you were destitute, it would make no real difference in the ordering of the shire or the lives of the people therein. If, on the other side, I were to misjudge a case involving the ethical holdings of a co-unity, History would be altered. Therefore, my need is clear. Yours is unimportant."

  The old man stopped speaking and closed his eyes. Hank stood, feeling Sundance like a stone on his shoulder, and was cold inside. The Judge didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. But it didn’t matter. They were going to take Sundance, anyway; without any more reason than ordinary people just didn’t count against the Government...

  "Henry Jenkins," it was the woman, speaking softly, "we are sorry. But there are too few Companions and our need for the newly-adopted of the Houses is great. You have had four years of comfort as a freely given gift from one of the Wise Ones. Be satisfied, Henry Jenkins. Be wise. There is work for Sundance, now; and he knows his duty as well as any other."

  Hank stood, silent and unconvinced. The woman sighed, reached up to touch the leather-harnessed breast of her Companion. "Listen to me. Henry Jenkins. To be Catted is the most solemn and beautiful ceremony in a lifetime. To feel for the first time that mind link with yours, to hear sounds through those ears, where before you heard only silence. Henry Jenkins, it is a way of life you challenge. We who are honored with the Companionship of a cat do not take that honor lightly. There are heavy responsibilities, and much to learn. We are never alone, Henry Jenkins; and we are never again only ourselves.