Endeavors of Will Page 6

  "You have not been through the full ritual. You do not know--do not really know. If it should have befallen one of our number--this Decattment which you so strongly resent--the human member would have chosen suicide. There is no other way for us, Henry Jenkins; and it is only half of honor that we think at such a pass. Your very lack of position saves you, Man Jenkins. I bid you once more--be content."

  Hank kept his mouth shut; reached one hand over his shoulder to touch a silky-furred foot. The woman sighed and leaned back in her chair, waving her hand vaguely before her.

  Roderick Orange Robe straightened and announced, "Let the Ritual begin."

  From the crowd at Hank’s right marched the yellow robed official who had spoken to him before the Judges’ entrance, flanked by two uniformed, but cat-less, men. They stopped directly in front of Hank and Sundance and the official recited, "By the authority vested in me by this gathering and the Wisdom learned through companionship with Mrrabin, who sits upon my right shoulder, I hereby and for all time declare that you, man Henry Jenkins, are Decatted and alone. Therefore, hand over to me the cat you have called Sundance, whose name in the House of Brunt is Pertt, that he may be taken to the Place of Resting before he is given Choice of another Companion."

  Hank didn’t move, "He’ll come to you if he wants it, Mister."

  The official reddened, glanced back at the Judges’ table and received that gentle nod from the old Judge and a slight smile from the woman. "Very well, then." And he reached out toward Sundance.

  The crowd gasped as the cat leaned toward the approaching man and swung his paw--claws out--once, twice. Yellow Robe jerked back with a yelp, left hand cupping his right, as one of the uniformed men leaned toward him with a linen handkerchief.

  Hank grinned and reached up to rub the cat’s ears. Sundance ducked his head down beside Hank’s and purred.

  The official, right hand wrapped in white, approached once more; the audience drew breath like one person; held it. Sundance leaned forward again; swiped at the approaching hands, claws battle-ready--

  The official’s cat leaned sharply to the left, smacked Sundance on the forehead, claws sheathed. The official stopped. Sundance and Mrrabin settled back upon their rightful shoulders. Hank felt Sundance’s tail beat a light tattoo on his back, then stop.

  The official licked his lips and murmured to Hank, "Hand me the cat, sir; this is undignified."

  "The cat don’t like you, Mister. Whyn’t you go home an’ let us be?"

  "That’s impossible. Don’t force the issue, Henry Jenkins, as you love your life. Turn the cat over to me now; no more nonsense."

  "Come an’ get ’im--if you think you can, that is."

  The official looked trapped. He looked back at the Judges again; received no support that Hank could see, and reached out his hands again.

  Mrrabin swatted--once, twice, three times--claws sheathed, at the white-wrapped hand. The official bit his lip on a sob. Sundance and Hank stayed absolutely still.

  Yellow Robe bowed stiffly to Hank and Sundance, spun precisely upon his heel to face the three Judges. "I regret to inform the Court that it is beyond my skill to remove the cat Pertt from Henry Jenkins’ shoulder, where he rides against all law and custom. Wise Mrrabin does not aid me in this. Rather, she, too, seems to believe that there is something wrong with the conduct of the ceremony. I beg leave of the Court to retire."

  The woman Judge nodded, "You may."

  The three Judges sat as they had when they’d first taken their seats, shoulders high and square, eyes closed in serene faces. Hank mopped his forehead with his jacket sleeve and wondered what was going to happen next. By everything they’d said, they weren’t going to let him and Sundance go home just ’cause the cat scratched one of their pretty boys. If they wanted the cat bad enough, there were ways, and not much old Hank could do to prevent it, either.

  Like before, all the eyes opened at once. Young Roderick cleared his throat. "It is the unanimous opinion of the Judges that the Ritual of Decatting must be followed in every particular. The dignity of the cats would seem to demand this. We have had no input from the three Wise Ones here; for the moment they choose to hold their own counsel. We therefore must proceed as we see best, in our purely human understanding.

  "Man Jenkins, stand forward, please."

  Hank moved forward one slow step at a time. Somewhere over his head Sundance was purring, loud and steady. They stopped two paces from the table.

  "Well, young fella, what d’ya have in mind this time? Like to pitch Sundance three to one?"

  "The situation is far too grave for joking, Henry Jenkins. You do not seem to understand that the failure of Politician Lea to relieve you of the unauthorized Companionship of cat Pertt has left us no choice but to demand that you end your life."

  The woman Judge looked as if she might cry.

  Hank wouldn’t believe it. "That’s crazy, ma’am, if you’ll pardon my sayin’ so. I’m an old man, sure, but I plan to go on livin’ ’til Death wrestles me down to stay. I in no way intend to commit suicide, ma’am, and that’s fact. If you and this House of Brunt want Sundance, you’re goin’ to have to figure a way to get ’im. An’if you can’t, then you’ll just have to let us go home--fair’s fair and if you people are outsmarted by a kitty-cat, then why don’t you admit it? I got cows to milk, ma’am, and crops to tend. I don’t have much time for games."

  The woman nodded, and the old Judge shifted in his bright blue robes, "Fetch the Honorsword, Roderick, please."

  The boy rose to obey--and three cats on three brightly-clad shoulders raised themselves into high arches, tails slashing air and jeweled whiskers quivering. Xaltin, claws deep in Roderick’s orange shoulder, raised his head and screamed. Another scream echoed his and Hank saw the woman Judge rub her fingers hard against her temples, eyes closed in pain.

  And through the crowd at Hank’s back the words ran like brush fire, "The cats...The cats object...It’s the cats, they don’t want it done..."

  "Silence in the Hall!" the old Judge’s voice rose almost to conversational level. The murmuring ceased.

  "Judges. Compose yourselves. Open your minds and speak with your Companions. There is something very wrong here. We may have gravely erred. Fortunately, we are warned in time..."

  Hank stood looking at the blank, closed faces before him, then twisted his head sidewise and up to look at Sundance, tall and calm on his shoulder. Well, it was worth a try. Sundance wanted to stay with him, didn’t he? That meant they were friends, right? Companions, even, ceremony or no. Hank closed his eyes and tried to not think of anything. It was hard and he kept seeing flashes of color behind his eyelids. He was about ready to give it up when...

  "Grrreetingsss, Man-Jenkinsss..."

  Hank started and swallowed; squeezed his eyes tight and thought hard, "Sundance?"

  There was a ripple of a sort of sunshine sound that Hank somehow understood to be laughter and then something--no, someone--warm in his mind, friendly-like, not scary at all, and then--pictures.

  Hank saw cats, lots of cats--ordinary cats, like Sundance, not dolled-up and jeweleried cats like the ones the nobles favored--all marching out of the seven Great Houses and Choosing their own Companions, working alongside people, equal to equal, sharing wisdom and learning, too. He saw the years run by with more and more kittens being born and Choosing their Companions, freely. And he saw great machines being built that rose majestically straight up through the sky and out of the world to land on other worlds, where men and cats learned to till those fields and build cities on that soil and then build more world-traveling machines to take more men and cats to other worlds...

  Hank opened his eyes. The Judges were all standing behind their rubbed steel table, cats sitting high and calm on each right shoulder. The eldest Judge spoke in his deadleaf rustle that carried through the crowd easier than any shout. "We have conferred with the Wise Ones and bow to their vision. This day a new era has come to us and Henry Jenkins is the vanguard
of that time. It will commence immediately that the Seven Great Houses will open their doors to all who desire Companionship of a cat, to let the cats that now reside in those Houses Choose for themselves who they may wish. And as kittens are born, they, also, will be granted this privilege and so on, until the whole world is Catted. And thus we will enter a new age."

  The Judges bowed slightly to Hank and Sundance and filed out to the left.

  The crowd turned upon itself and began to dissolve, here and there a voice already raised in jubilation, speculation.

  Thoughtfully, Hank tried to tug his mangled hat into some order, set the hopeless knot on his head with a shrug and a lopsided grin, and reached up to scratch Sundance on the chest. The cat purred loudly and shifted himself until he was draped around Hank’s neck like a lady’s stole.

  "Guess we’d better get on home, Sundance, how ’bout it?"

  Sundance continued to purr.

  First published in Amazing Stories, May 1980

  The Handsome Prince

  "I WILL NOT marry that woman, Father!" The Prince’s voice was very shrill.

  "You’ll marry her."

  "But such a tomboy! What man wants a wife who rides with the first hunters, draws a thirty-pound bow, and has even unsworded her father’s fencing master? It’s undignified." He drew breath. "Besides that, she’s taller than I am."

  "She is also," said the King in a voice that allowed no more dissent, "Princess of Orelewon, our closest neighbor and strongest potential enemy. It behooves us to maintain peace with Orelewon, my son, since the Sea and the Mountains keep us small. You are the Prince, the hope of the people of Tyka. You have responsibilities."

  "Father--"

  "Enough! Young people today! No sense of responsibility, no surety of duty. ... Do you think I would have chosen to wed your sainted mother--may she rest in peace--when I was your age? No! But I had the sense to listen to heads wise in the ways of statesmanship. As you should." He picked a sheaf of papers up from his desk, waving his hand in dismissal. "Princess Gwendolyn and her Aunt Astra will arrive Friday. You will plight your troth at dinner that same evening, and the banns will be read in church on Sunday. The wedding will be three weeks hence. Good day, my son."

  It was perhaps a minute before the Prince was able to unclamp his jaw and mutter, "Good day, my King." He all but ran from the room.

  Blind to the servants, the Prince stormed down the hallways and up the wide stairway to his chambers. He opened the closet door with a hinge-wrenching jerk. His brocade jacket tore. He threw the jacket to one side, the rest of his costume flying in other directions. He pulled on hunting clothes, jammed a green peaked cap upon his head, and strode out, snatching bow and quiver from their places by the door.

  As he moved through the castle hallways, mirrors gave back the reflection of a tall, fair young man, handsome face disfigured by anger, striding on long, well-shaped legs, bow slung carelessly across broad shoulders. Even in the many-times-mended clothing he wore, none could doubt that he was a Prince.

  He left the castle by the kitchen door, and entered the Royal Forest as if he were going home. His stride shortened after a few moments, becoming careful and silent. He walked with bow in hand, arrow nocked and at the ready. But the game was wary this noon, and the Prince hunted long and ventured far into the wood without flushing so much as a squirrel. Still, the hunt did cool his temper, and when he sat with his back against a tree in a heretofore unexplored clearing he was able to think about the thing in a more princely manner.

  It was true that Orelewon had grown strong since his father was young. Tyka, contained as it was by the Sea and two parallel lines of mountains, could not hope to prevail against her should it come to war. King Braxa, however, was notoriously squeamish when it came to slaughtering kin. Ergo...

  The reasoning was faultless; the solution pure. The Prince was able to step back from himself and admire the balance of the equation. Then he groaned aloud. Gwendolyn, by the Cross!

  Tall--tall! She topped his own six feet by more than an inch--and lacked even the grace to round her shoulders and thus appear smaller. No, by God, not this one. She stood boorishly straight, shoulders square, dark head high and proud ... like a cavalier. She stared one in the eye when she spoke, and her voice was as blaring as a goosegirl’s. As for the rest other! The Prince squirmed. Where other women were soft and rounded and robinish, this ... this lout of a Gwendolyn was lean and bony, with no breasts to speak of--and less hip, if that were possible--and big, ungloved hands that waved about when she spoke, as if guiding the path of her words. Ah, but the woman was a disaster! And to be forced by beautiful, ineluctable logic...

  He could have wept.

  Trying to calm himself again, he drew several deep breaths, focused on the silence and the cool air of the glade, and slept. The Guardian of the Glade found him thus a short while later and, in the midst of none too fine a day herself, regarded him as a likely object upon which to vent her frustration.

  "Aaaaaiiieeee!" she yelled at the top of her powerful lungs.

  The Prince’s body tried to leap into the air, found itself invisibly restrained, and was satisfied with keeping its eyes upon the Guardian. "I beg your pardon?" he managed to say.

  "Oh, yes, you beg my pardon now, don’t you, sirrah! Well, it’s too late. Who gave you leave to nap in my glade? Not I!" She took a menacing step forward. "No, not I!"

  The Prince swallowed hard, but kept his eyes fast to her face.

  "Tired, are you?" she asked him, slicing the air with a wicked right hand as he parted his lips to reply. "Silence! It’s got you in deep, this weariness, causing you to fall asleep where you’d do better alert. Well, young man, I’m going to do you a favor. Yes, a favor." And she smiled, which was in no way superior to her frown. She reached up suddenly, arms wide, and seemed to double in height and width. A wind sprang from nowhere, and the already dim light of the afternoon faded.

  The Prince wished he could close his eyes.

  "From this day forward," the Guardian intoned over the snarling wind, "you will be unable to sleep. And this condition shall prevail until such time as Article Two-B is fulfilled." She lowered her arms and pointed one dread finger at the Prince. The wind clawed her sleeve like a live thing. "Now beat it, sonny!" she said.

  The Prince hurled himself to his feet, grabbed his bow, and fled, racing the wind that nipped at his heels like a dog. Tripping over vines, slamming into trees--his bow was lost in that wild scramble, and most of his arrows--he arrived in the kitchen winded, bleeding, and--yes--badly frightened. The cook clucked and scolded, washed his face and scratched hands, and gave him warm milk over bread for dinner. He ate with feet stretched out toward the cookstove, the kitchen cat on his knees. Then he retired.

  Four hours later, he was up, cursing softly to himself. The Guardian of the Glade had been as good as her word. In spite of his body’s undisputed need, sleep eluded him. He walked the corridors and the hallways throughout the long night, and sought out his father in the morning.

  The old King knit his white eyebrows and helped himself to eggs and beef, "Article Two-B? Two-B? Can’t say I’ve heard of that one, myself. ’Course, my lawyering days are years gone by. ... Well, don’t worry, lad. I’ll get the whole pack of ’em on it right after breakfast. We’ll have it sewn up by lunch." He poured coffee and frowned at the pile of mail beside his plate. "Or dinner, at the latest." He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the Prince, and reached for the jampot.

  "Thank you. Sire." The Prince withdrew.

  But the Court Solicitors were unable, in days of dusty research, to turn up any mention of Article Two-B. Thus the Prince continued sleepless through the week, growing more wan and irritable and desperate.

  On Thursday, after another interview with his father, who reminded him that Princess Gwendolyn and her aunt were arriving the next day, the Prince attempted suicide. Any rest--even that of the grave--seemed preferable to unrelenting consciousness with Gwendolyn at his side. He
climbed the stairs to the guard tower above the moat. He heard shouts as he stepped away from the edge and tumbled down. The sounds meant nothing to him; Death was already cool in his burning eyes. The water raced nearer.

  Then, from nowhere came a wind, cutting across his downward path. He was slowed, lifted, and wafted gently to the farther side of the moat, where he was set upon the grass as if he were a priceless porcelain statue. There were cheers from the castle wall. The Prince leaned his head against the ground and wept.

  * * *

  FRIDAY DAWNED CLEAR and cool. Old Thomas found the Prince in the kitchen, slouched in a rickety wooden chair, a motley cat upon his knee, staring sightlessly into the cooking fire. Thomas fought sudden tears as he saw how thin his master had become, how vague and worn. Gently, he eased the Prince up and guided him to his room by means of a hand beneath the royal elbow.

  Throughout the rituals of bathing and dressing, the Prince uttered no word, acquiescing to everything like a cowed child, until, at last, the servant guided him to the mirror. The Prince stared at his reflection--sorry thing that it had become--and seemed to rise from whatever depths to which he had sunk.

  "She’s coming today, isn’t she, Thomas? The Princess Gwendolyn."

  "Aye, Your Highness. This very noon."

  "And it is still my father’s wish that we wed, even as I am." He sighed and turned from the mirror, pulling free of Thomas’s supporting hand.

  "Ah, well. It is to be hoped that she will rule Tyka well, for without sweet slumber I’m not fit even to rule myself." He spun suddenly, nearly rocking himself over, his face so full of anguish that Thomas swallowed hard around tears. "Oh, Thomas," he cried, "what is to become of me, with even the sleep of Death denied, and Article Two-B undiscovered?"

  "Now, now, Prince. Things’ll work out, you wait and see. Why, likely this Guardian-whoever-she-is will give your sleep back as a wedding gift. They’re like that, I hear. Not evil, really, just unthougthful." But his words sounded like lies to his own ears.