At first he thought the candleflame above his ears was the white light he'd been chasing, trying to get within pouncing range. But now, as he pried his encrusted eyes open, he saw it was just a candle.
He lay there dazed, among the waxy smoke of candles and the tinkle of windchimes, a cool breeze rippling his matted, fever-soaked coat.
Hmm. He no longer felt too hot or too cold. Stiff though. He could barely sit up, his muscles were in such a rictus. He took a long horizontal stretch, avoiding the candles and keeping his tail well out of the way, then stood on his hind paws and stretched upward, batting with his front paws at the curling candle smoke before dropping again to all fours.
Wherever this was, it wouldn't do to lose his self-respect, and he began setting in order his striped saffron coat, white paws and cravat with short, economical licks. He wrinkled his nose and lifted the outer edges of his mouth at his own smell. He had been to the vet. Dr. Tony and his wife Jeannette were lovely people and really knew how to pet a fellow, but their establishment reeked of antiseptic and medicine and Mustard did not like medicine.
When he looked up from cleansing the underside of his tail, another cat sat there, a female, surgically celibate, as he was, clad all in black from nose to tailtip, ear points to claws. "Finally awake, are you, lazybones? About time. Come along now. It is high time you met The Master."
"I do not have a master," Mustard said. "My personal attendant is female." He looked around him and considered the stone walls, the tiled floors without so much as a rug to warm the belly on, the ceiling so high birds tantalizingly flitter through the rafters, cheeping and leaving droppings on the floors and furniture. His home was a log cabin with his own private solarium (though his junior housemates had made free of it as he couldn't always be bothered to run them off. Besides, they were bigger than he was, all except the kitten. She had been a rather sweet little thing who begged him for hunting stories and when he growled in annoyance, would flop purring beside him.). His house was set in a large yard with a strip of forest in the back where he caught many tastey adjuncts to his the healthful but monotonous diet of low-ash kibbles his attendant provided. His last happy memory was of sitting at the picnic table being petted by his old friend Drew, who had stopped by to visit.
"Don't look now, but we're not in Kansas any more, Red," the black-robed female told him.
"My name is not Red, it is Mustard," he said. "And I do not live in Kansas. I was born and raised in Fairbanks, Alaska but for the past ten years have resided in the state of Washington. It is warmer there and I may go outside and it is altogether more congenial. Are we there still?"
"Your questions will be answered at length," she said. "When you've met The Master. And don't fret about a little nicknaming. You'll have to take a new one when you join the Order. I was formerly known as Jessie Jane Goodall but now am known simply as Sister Paka, which is in the Black Swahili tongue the name of our kind."
"Humph," Mustard said. "Affected. I've fallen into some cult, haven't I?"
She turned her new-moon dark tail to him and he waved it for him to follow. Since he wanted answers and had nothing better to do, he graciously obliged.
He was not, however, prepared for how weary he would be or how long the corridors were—miles and miles of them, stone walled or pillared, lined with trees and bushes—his favorites, roses. He was mortally shamed and self-disgusted to have to pause to rest from time to time on their journey, which felt more like a quest of many days' length from the way it taxed his strength. Normally he was light and spry, even though well advanced in years for one of his kind. He considered himself merely seasoned, toughened, tempered, but today he felt every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year of his life.
He expected impatience and jeering from the so-called sister, but instead she simply squatted on her haunches, closed her eyes and wrapped her tail around her front paws until he pronounced himself ready to carry on once more.
At last they padded up a long, long flight of stairs, high into the rafters, by which time even the flitting birds could not hold the exhausted orange cat's attention. The lady in black scratched at an enormous wooden door, partially open, and from within an unusually deep and sonorous voice, a voice like the rumbling growl of a big cat—the kind Mustard had once seen in a television movie-- bade them enter. Mustard straightened his white cravat and remounted the three steps he had backed down upon first hearing that echoing tone.
Sister Paka pawed and pawed at the door but couldn't get it to swing further open. Mustard meanwhile had regained his breath, and with a deep sigh walked to the door, inserted first his nose, then his head, shoulders, and upper body, and walked in. She entered grandly behind him, tail waving, as if she always sent her messengers to announce her entrance. She bumped into Mustard's behind immediately.
He could go no further straight forward, because a big hole took up most of the floor space, about an inch from his front paws. Hanging above the hole was a gigantic metal thing, a bell, as he recognized from the tinier versions he'd entertained himself with on various overly cute cat toys. That had to be why the so-called Master's voice sounded so deep and sonorous—it was bouncing off this humongous piece of hollow iron. Cheap trick. Mustard repressed the urge to growl himself. That hole was so deep it made the sound of his breath and heartbeat echo back up to him. And the edge was very very close.
Sister NL sat back on her haunches and swatted at his rump. "Kindly move forward, please. The Master must not be kept waiting. Do you think you're the only soul he must counsel today?"
"Who said I wanted counseling?" Mustard asked, but proceeded around the hole and the bell, hugging the wall as tightly as he could, since his exhaustion made him tremble. He was far less than his usual balletic self. Fine first impression he'd make. He could not help but hope the Master was a cat-loving human with kind hands and some nice tidbit and a bit of sympathy for a cat as ill-used as himself. He would love to feel warm fingers stroke his fur now. He didn't actually like cats, if the truth were known. He was a people sort of cat. He called his own person a personal attendant, just to keep it clear to others that he knew she was probably an inferior breed—especially since she had always had more time for his housemates than for his own excellent self, but he had loved her touch nonetheless.
He could see the other side of the bell hole now. A chair—a plain, straight-back chair with a bed-pillow on the middle, was the only bit of furnishing in the tower. On the pillow reposed another cat. This cat was a male—an old male, even more orange than Mustard himself. The old cat was absolutely rusty around the stripes actually.
"Peace, my son," the old cat said.
Sister Paka put a paw on Mustard's neck to force his head down.He bit her hard on the right leg and she fell beside him. He could tell she wanted to hiss but instead she lay there, submissively, on her side, though he could have torn her throat out if he'd wished.
"Peace, I was saying," the old cat said again. "Paka, see that bit under his cravat? He missed a spot. Get it for him will you, my child?"
Sister Paka put the paw of her wounded leg onto his chest, and, carefully leaning forward, gave the spot a lick and a promise. "There now," she said. "Much better."
The Master purred. "Yes. And that is a nasty looking bite you have there."
Mustard hurriedly gave it a lick, causing Sister Paka's fur to partially cover his fang marks.
"Much better," the Master said. "And so are you, my son. We had nearly despaired of seeing you on your pins again. The damage to you was great."
"Damage?" Mustard asked. "I don't remember."
"You no doubt slept through much of it, as our kind tend to do. But when Tony and Jeannette brought you here, it was after they had put you to sleep to spare you pain. They thought certainly you were dead, but as they were readying your earthly shell to return to ash, you stirred. Already you were beyond their knowledge and your lady had been told you were dead. They did not wish to raise her hopes only to have her lose you again, so they brought you to us."
"And you are?" Mustard asked, tapping his tail against the edge of the hole. He stopped that at once. It hurt.
"I am Mu Mao the Magnificent, spiritual leader of this order. Sister Paka you have met. The order is the Spiritual Order of Our Lady of the Egyptian Bandages. We are an interdenominational feline monastery and convent for the spiritual enlightenment and growth of our kind. While the non-celibate may study here, only the surgically celibate may take vows. Otherwise—well, we are all cats, after all." He twitched his ears in a humorous way. "Any vow taken by a more corporeally unenlightened cat would be meaningless in the face of our natural compulsions. But once altered, we may concentrate on higher matters."
"So, then you yourself are—?" Mustard asked.
"Yes. You see, in many of my former lives I was a human being, a priest, holy man, shaman, what have you until I finally was allowed to achieve my highest form in this incarnation and became a cat. But my corporeal urges interfered with my ability to concentrate, so I voluntarily left my littermates and my safe abode and as a tiny kitten walked to the veterinarian's to go under the knife so that I might help others."
"He's what's called a bodhisattva by Buddhists," Sister Paka said with awe.
Mustard was impressed. "I like Tony and Jeannette—my doctors—very much but I always complain when I have to go. It smells bad there, and I dislike needles and having patches of fur shaved. I would never have gone for the surgery myself except my attendant forced it upon me. I admit, life has been calmer since. I have time to study and read many subjects."
Mu Mao purred approval. "This is good. And although you are now emaciated, it is clear that you have kept sleek and active under normal circumstances."
"I am a fine hunter of vermin," Mustard said without false modesty. "And chase down even the fastest horoscope scrolls, however they may attempt to roll from my grasp."
"You are versed in astrology as well?" Sister Paka asked rather breathlessly.
"Oh yes. From the time I was a tiny kitten such scrolls were toys—my attendant—procured for me and me alone at the food-procuring place. None of my housemates were allowed to chase them. I alone was deemed worthy." His white cravat stuck out beyond his nose with pride, so even he could see a few pale hairs without taking his eyes from the cat on the chair.
Mu Mao did not sound as approving as Mustard might have hoped, but flicked the bushy rust-and-cream tail shielding his paws. "Did you not seek to share with your housemates the knowledge you acquired thus?"
"Of course not! They were my scrolls," he said, baring his teeth and then, seeing the old cat's eyes, added quickly, "Well, the kitten asked about them once and I did try to explain a few of the rudiments to her but she was much too young to grasp much of it."
"But that is a good start," Mu Mao the Master said in a tone sage enough to reflect his apparently exalted status.
"A good start of what, please?"
"A good start on your new life."
"My new life?"
"Well, yes. You've passed through number one and are now heading into your second."
"Then I didn't—survive?" He looked down at himself, all around at himself, and began licking furiously to reassure himself that all parts were there and solid and working.
"It's amazing you survived intact long enough to be brought to us," Mu Mao said. "Your mouth and your entire digestive tract was ulcerated. Something caustic, Tony thought. Something sudden."
"Something," Sister Paka said, "poison."
"But how can that be? I always ate the same thing, and have not even hunted much in recent years."
"Apparently you ate something out of the ordinary. And that something may linger to kill your former housemates as it killed you. The young one would be in particular danger, I should think."
"The kitten?" he asked, remembering the way the fur on her belly curled like a sheep's wool and how fluffy her tail was and how, though she was cute, she had the taste to be black so that it wasn't all that obvious—and she never tried to take Susan's attention away from him.
"Yes. And the others."
"I don't care—" he began to say with a spit, but catching the slight hiss from Sister Paka, stopped himself. Mu Mao gave him a warning look.
"Yes, well. I understand you have made that evident over the years. If you are to join us here, you must give up your greatest vice."
"I told you I've been neutered."
"A natural function is not a vice. You must abandon the baser instincts of our kind in search of enlightenment."
"I never said I wanted to be enlightened, though I like a sunny patch as much as the next cat. Why would I want to stay here? You're all cats. No human petting, and I've yet to see a food dish."
Mu Mao said, "Well, we shall see. You'll realize what this life is to be about soon enough. Sister Paka, you must take Mustard with you to the fish pond. A few more of those poor primitive spirits can be released from the bondage of their present lives in order to sustain his own, and then he may work in the garden while he regains his strength."
Sister Paka told him it was his duty to take the largest and fattest of the fish from the pond. "They've learned whatever lessons life as a fish can teach," she told him. "And are ready to move on."
He obligingly caught one and would have done more but she assured him they were always there for the catching and he didn't want to eat too much at first or it would make him spew. He felt tender inside and realized he wished to avoid that.
She then showed him his duties. "You will be the tender of the roses to begin with," she said.
"Oh, good. I love roses," he replied, and began nibbling at the petals of a fat red one.
"I'm told those that are a bit brown around the edges have the best flavor," she said casually. "Aged a bit. Not so green tasting."
"Oh?" he tried a slightly wilted one. It was good—had a slightly cheesy flavor. He tried another. Yes, she was right. Much better than the red one. And with the wilted ones gone, the bush looked nicer too."
"You may dig here," she indicated a spot where a new rose bush sat waiting to be pushed into place once a hole was prepared. "And here as well, though for other purposes." This time she showed him a spot in the garden where various humps of earth bore the scents of various brethren—this was the communal litterbox.
When he had pruned a few roses, he slept in the sun, but his dreams were troubled and his feet pedaled, running to or from something. It was a shame that his daytime naps were so unsatisfying too, because as the sun set and the shadows grew long in the courtyards and the other cats disappeared from view, the night grew very cold.
He stood there shivering, looking about for some pile of still warn grass, some bit of fabric to nest in, but there was nothing. Finally, a somewhat familiar face, a slightly softer golden-orange than his own, poked into the courtyard from around the pillar.
"There you are! We missed you. How good it is to see you again, my old—uh—companion," the golden cat said in the voice that Mustard now recognized.
"Peaches! Are you here too?" He had almost disliked Peaches when he was alive, because Susan had loved Peaches best. Even when she was petting himself, Mustard always knew she would rather be petting Peaches and when his name was mentioned or he walked into the room, Mustard would hiss at Susan that she wasn't fooling him and jump down from her lap, often leaving her with scratches to let her know just what he thought of her taste. Of course, when she was gone, Peaches wasn't such a bad fellow. And now Mustard was downright delighted to see him.
"Not Peaches this time around, you know. Peaches died and when I was reborn I was sent here. Because I was already on my eighth life when I was Peaches, and an old soul, I do remember that time, and you, my brother. But now I am here among our kind as Brother Paddy."
"Oh, you would pick a name like that!" Mustard said in disgust.
Peaches/Paddy backed away from him and sat on his haunches and washed his paw calmly. "The name was chosen for me."
"Sure, sure. Everyone always likes you best," Mustard said with his old bitterness then, remembering his more immediate and practical concern, asked, "You wouldn't know where there was an extra bit of fabric to curl up in for the night, would you? It's cold."
His old acquaintance said simply, "Follow me. It is time for Ves-purrs."
Whereupon they re-entered the great building with the bell tower. To Mustard's amazement, it was now lit by candleglow and the floor was totally covered with cats, each with paws curled under it, tail wrapped around the body, purring so loudly the very stones of the building seemed to be—er—purrmeated with the contented throb. "What's this?" Mustard murmured.
"We are giving thanks to the Maker for creating such a wonderful form for us, for giving us a pleasant place to be and kind companions."
"There are an awfully lot of kittens here," Mustard said, noticing the young ones who occupied two entire wings of the building.
"That is because so many unwanted are dumped or killed. They are innocents and come to us to learn how to prepare lives outside our walls, if that is their desire, or to take their vows."
Mustard was silent.
"I thought you would still be with Susan, until you died of your long years as I did," his companion ventured. "But I'm told you were poisoned. Susan must be beside herself with grief."
"Oh, you know Susan. She got a new kitten and another grown male besides the old girl and me."
"You must have been very distressed. I know you always wanted to be top cat."
"Well, yeah, but that didn't last for long. The old girl was bigger, you know, and she got bolder and started beating the living daylights out of me. I have to admit, I didn't like the kitten at first, but she's a nice little thing and very respectful. And Susan didn't really bond with the male, but he kept the old girl in line." He cried suddenly. "How can you stay here? I miss Susan so much. And she always liked you best. Can't you go back?"
Brother Paddy nee Peaches licked Mustard's face. "I taught Susan what she needed to learn from me. Now it is time for other lessons for all of us. Come. Join us."
He didn't feel like it, of course, but the thrumming purr relaxed him and he found himself joining in until his own purr lulled him into sleep, his body curling among four others whose warmth and softness made a better bed than Susan's comforter.
But though his body was comfortable, he began recalling the pain, the betrayal. And he saw the kitten, sniffing for him, calling for him, and at last trotting toward someone calling, holding out something attractive and deadly . . .
Mustard awakened and leapt from one small bit of floor to another, and bounded past the cats sleeping on the bell tower steps till he reached the landing. He scratched on the door.
The sonorous voice called to him, "Enter."
"Won't be but a minute, Mu Mao," he said, declining to call the old fellow "Master." "Just want to look out of your tower here and see if I can find my way home."
"So you have decided to attempt to rejoin the world, my son?" the old cat asked with his upper whiskers twitching.
"Of course. Susan is mine. I'm going back to her."
"Very well." The old cat hopped nimbly upon a window sill. Mustard leaped up beside him. The leap wasn't as easy as it would have been before he came to this place, but it would have been impossible earlier in the day. This sort of thing was fine for cats who only wanted to be and be with other cats, he decided.
For just a moment it seemed to him that all the world was spread out below him, like the globe in Susan's office. And then he saw that it was just the Sound and the Strait surrounding his own little town, and there he saw the propane tanks beside Tony's office and farther off, Susan's red roof he had so often napped upon and the wide green yard of his home.
"Ye—oowwwt," he said to Mu Mao.
"In good time, my son. Do you see there? Dr. Tony and Jeannette are getting into their van with that bundle Jeannette is carrying. I sense we will be seeing them soon. You may save your strength by riding with them as far as their clinic, at least."
"I am still very tired," Mustard admitted.
"Then rest here with us," Mu Mao said. "There is yet time."
Time for what? Mustard wondered, but to his surprise found himself curled up in the bulk of Mu Mao's great belly, and falling into a deep and this time dreamless sleep until a lick on the nose awakened him again. "It is time, my son," the older cat said.
There were tears in Jeannette's kind brown eyes when she lay the bundle down beside the master. "It's Susan's second loss," she said. "And there have been others in that neighborhood too. The woman down the street, Diane, lost one of her cats to the same thing."
"Looks like we have a serial cat killer on our hands," Dr. Tony said grimly. He was gently opening the bundle. Mustard's tail lashed angrily, and his ears laid back flat against his skull. Would he see now that the kitten had been crying to him before her death, that her black curly underside would no longer vibrate with her purrs, her bright intelligent eyes that had watched so attentively while he told his hunting stories would be glazed with death before she had a chance to catch her quota of vermin?
He cried out as the tip of a black ear came into view. The eyes were shut, the whiskers stiff—her under whiskers were so very long they curled under at the tips. The black nose. His worst fears confirmed.
But then he saw that the fur was short and coarse and the body much larger than the slight little female's. As the bundle was further unwrapped he saw the once powerful muscles slack under the sooty fur and the long sleek tail, which had been so expressive, now hung limp. "Boston Blackie!" he cried. This was the grown male companion Susan had brought home from the pound with the kitten. Her protector, until she had charmed all but the old girl into loving her. With Blackie dead, or here, which would be all the same to Susan and the kitten, he could only hope the kitten would grow quickly and manage to keep out of the old girl's way in the meantime.
Mustard had resented Blackie, of course, but not as much as some others. The big black cat, so massive and tough looking, actually had been a decent sort who realized the kitten's play with him had convinced Susan to bring the adult cat home too. The big boy had looked after his small companion, protected her from the others, taken the heat for her, as if he were her mother. He also had been decently respectful of Mustard's seniority.
"Poor fellow," Mustard said to the Master, Paddy and Paka. "A real softie for such a big palooka, you know? That must be why Kitten was sending me those dreams. She was mourning the big guy."
"Either that or she's next," Paka said grimly.
"Never fear, my son," Mu Mao said, giving Mustard's flat ears a lick. "He will soon be reborn into his new life, and a very good one it will be. He was a very old soul indeed and we have need of such a brother among our fold."
"That's great for you," Mustard said. "But what about Susan? And the Kitten? And Diane? And even that cantankerous old girl? Are the little one and the old biddy going to come here too and leave Susan all alone and afraid to have any more friends for fear of the same thing happening to them? And Diane, who is so kind and comes to feed us or finds someone like that nice Drew fellow to come stay with us when Susan is gone, she's sick all the time, you know. She depends on her cats to be there when she's too ill to move and lonely and afraid. She told me so."
Mu Mao surprised him by flipping his tail and saying, "That may be, but our kind have problems enough to concern us. Until they come or are brought within our walls, the companions of human beings are not within our protection."
"You can't dislike people?" Mustard demanded. "What about Tony and Jeannette?"
"Both were cats in their last lives, and of our order," Mu Mao said. "That is how they know to bring others to us. Like myself, they are bodhisattvas, not the ordinary sort of person who abandons a cat who is no longer small and cute, or has become inconvenient. Why should you care? This male and others, like Brother Paddy's former self, take from you the attention that is rightfully yours. If you return to your Susan and find the others all dead, should you not rejoice? Surely you will not make the same error twice and die again of the same poison? With no competition, your Susan will love you and only you."
Mustard didn't argue. Master indeed! This old cat obviously didn't understand Susan. Mustard had always hated it that she was always bringing home other cats, true, but he had also licked away her tears for the cats she had to leave at the shelter. He never had to be in a shelter. She had picked him out of his mother's litter, still in a good home with loving people. He'd always felt entitled to love but he knew from what the others said they had no such hope and getting a home with someone like Susan was a big break for them.
He hopped in the van before Tony and Jeannette left and rode in back. He desperately wished to be petted, but felt too restless and anxious to lie quietly. They didn't seem to notice him. They got a call and drove past the turnoff for their clinic back along the route he recognized from his own visits to the vet. He thought maybe old Mu Mao had asked them to give him a lift, but no, they were stopping at another house, not too far from his own.
Mustard thought it interesting that they had a phone in their van. He liked Susan's phones. She sat still to talk and he could usually curl up in her lap for a nap. He was good at doing it and staying so still and relaxed that she didn't even notice until she hung up.
He jumped out of the van after Jeannette and trotted the single block to his house. No one was in the yard and he approached the cat flap so confidently that he nearly banged his head on the rectangle of board that barred entrance to or exit from the house. He scratched at the door and meowed until he noticed that Susan's car was gone as well. Of all the nerve. Here he had taken the trouble to return from the dead and she couldn't even bother to be home. Just like a person.
Then, from behind the front door, he heard an answering scratch and a small mew. "Let me out! It's a pretty day. I don't want to be in here. Where's Boston Blackie? I want him to come and play!"
"Now now, young lady, this is no time for tantrums," Mustard said. "I don't think Blackie will be coming back but I dreamed of your danger and have returned to save you."
He meant to be reassuring but she gave a chirrup that was the kittenish equivalent of a giggle. "Uncle Mustard? Is that you? Where have you been? Do you feel better? Susan said those ashes she sprinkled on the roses were you but they didn't look like you. Weren't even orange."
"Stop prattling, child, and let me think. Why is the catflap closed?"
"Susan said so we wouldn't go outside and get into whatever killed you and Blackie." Her voice turned plaintive. "Is Blackie really gone forever? I don't like the old girl. She is not nice to me at all and I'm going to scratch her face if she keeps saying those mean things. I miss you and Blackie. I want to come too."
"That's just what you mustn't do," Mustard said. "My—er—illness, was long and very painful and far too much for a mite like yourself to bear. Or even a battleaxe like the old girl. About Blackie I can't tell you anything else. But we need to make the neighborhood safe for our kind again. Especially our yard. Have you noticed anything different?"
"No, nothing. And everyone has been looking out for us. Susan, Diane, Drew, Debbie and Dennis, Janice and Theresa, Mary and Michael Ann. Even Steinway barks very fiercely if he sees anything suspcious."
She was referring to Mary's and Michael Ann's dog next door. "Steinway must have a really suspicious mind then," Mustard said. "He barks at everything all the time."
"No, I think he's trying very hard to help. Merlin is very scared." Merlin was the black feline in charge of Mary and Michael Ann and Steinway and Chopin, the junior cat of the house.
"Hmm. Merlin never struck me as a scaredycat. Maybe I should go have a word with him."
"Yeah, okay. I gotta jump now. The old girl is coming."
"Who is it?" the old girl's voice demanded in a growl. "Who's out there and who were you talking to, you little . . . "
"Lay off her and pick on someone your own size," Mustard growled back through the door.
"What the . . . ? Mud Turd? Is that you? You're dead, ashes, gone, kaput and you can't have the warm place on the video back. It's mine forever now."
The thump of paws came from inside and he could see through the lace curtain across the glass door panel that she had hopped up on a high shelf so she could, as usual, look down on him. He glared back up at her and shouted, "Yeah, sure, until you eat the wrong thing and end up with the grandfather of all belly aches and writhe in agony till you're a ghost too, just like me and good old Blackie."
"A ghost?" she leaned so far forward she fell off the shelf. He heard the kitten titter from somewhere high and the sound of a cat giving herself a brisk shake before coming to the closed catflap to sniff. "There's no such thing as cat ghosts."
"Oh, that's rich. A cat who doesn't believe in ghosts. Well, there are, and I've seen them. I R them in fact. And like it or not, you too can be in the same situation if you don't stop bullying and try to help out here. Do you know what killed me? How I died? Or what got Blackie?"
"Of course not. Can I help it if the dumb beasts around here eat any poison thing they come across? I survived loose in the neighborhood for two years on my own after those people went off and left me when I was only a little kitten, no bigger than Miss Burnt Poptart, here . . . "
"Yeah, yeah, we all know how tough it was for you out in the neighborhood, taking handouts . . . "
"Hey, smart guy. You asked. I'm trying to tell you. The point is, in my two years I made the rounds of all the neighbors and I tell you, there's not one of them, not even one of the kids, who would hurt a cat. In this neighborhood, kids and dogs are brought up to have the proper adoration for our sort. I could have had a real home any time I wanted but I didn't want any of them. I wanted my house back and the minute I asked Susan, she displaced all of you who came with her from her old house and invited me in. She knew this was my home."
"Sure it was, old girl," Mustard said with a comforting purr this time. She was right of course. The only people who had changed houses since the time the old girl was on the streets were the renters in the back, and they had been there a good year and a half and were wonderful people who loved cats. "Thanks. But listen, I know you want to be top and only but I gotta tell you, the other side, over here where us ghosts are, it's not what you think it's going to be. I miss you and the kid too . . . "
There was a huff of air as she sank to her chest onto the floor and she said grudgingly, "Yeah, I miss that terrified look on your yellow face when I chased you, and watching you stand on your hind feet to stretch. How in the world did you do that anyway?"
He didn't answer but just said, "I'll be back. Just take care of the kid, you hear me? Remember too that she's going to be a strong young adult by the time Susan brings in the next strays and you may need someone to protect you. It's never too late, old girl."
"Shove it, Mud Turd," she growled, but softly, regretfully. "It's dull around here without you. You're coming back, you say?"
"At least for a little bit. I have to figure this out. The kid thinks Steinway and Merlin might have seen something."
"I'm sorry I can't tell you more about Blackie. One minute I see him out rolling around like an idiot on the picnic table, the next thing I know the big galoot can hardly talk for the sores in his mouth . . . "
That was how it started with Mustard, he realized, though he hadn't known what was happening to him at the time. He tried to remember just when he had begun to feel uncomfortable but the whole experience was blurred by the fact that he had slept through as much of it as he could manage. He left the old girl to ruminate and sauntered next door to see Merlin and Steinway of course, who barked his few brains out when he saw Mustard.
"Cat Ghost at two o'clock!" he yelled. "Cat ghost! Cat ghost!"
Mustard put his face right up to the fence and spat his nastiest at the bouncing, barking black lab, who backed off, hunkered down and whined.
"Nice dog," Mustard said. "Hi, Steinway. Good to see you again. Can we talk?"
The dog whimpered and a black cat as sleek as Blackie, though not as well formed, suddenly appeared, followed closely by a gray and white spotted longhair prancing officiously behind. "Hey, there, you. That's our dog. If he needs spitting at, we'll do it," the black one said.
"Merlin!" Mustard said. "Just the guy I wanted to see."
"So, rumors of your demise were highly exaggerated, eh?" Merlin asked. For a musicians' cat, he had a pretentious penchant for literary misquotes.
"No, I think I pretty well bought it, okay. I'm sort of—between lives at the moment, I guess. Can't seem to get on with number two until I figure out how I snuffed number one. Boston Blackie apparently died the same way."
"Not Blackie?" Merlin asked with genuine regret. "That is one fine specimen of my particular color. Poor guy. And he was so happy yesterday, just rolling on the picnic table, purring. I think he'd just had a visitor."
"Any idea who?" Mustard asked, looking from first one cat to the other and then to the dog, who covered his nose with his paws and whined. "Anybody unusual around?"
Steinway whined again. "You know how it is in your yard. Your mistress lets everyone walk through to get to the houses in back. Much too sloppy to keep proper surveillance on, though I try. A lot of thanks I get though. "Shut up, Steinway," people say, and uppity neighbor cats, who ought to be dead, hissing at me."
"You're breaking my heart," Mustard said. "You should know most of the people who go through the yard by now. Anyone you didn't know?"
"Nope. Just the usual residents and the usual guests. Of course, I think someone may have been through as I was chowing down—even I take a break once in awhile. Because right after I got back was when I saw old Blackie rolling on his back on the picnic table."
"Well, thanks, I guess," Mustard told them. "I seem to recall something about the picnic table too. Guess I'd better check it out. Could be the scene of the crime."
A recent rain had washed the table clean, but the sealant on the wood was old, and so maybe small particles of the poison might have sank into the cracks.
He trotted back to the door and asked into the room beyond. "How long ago did Blackie start getting sick?"
The old girl was just beyond the door. He could hear her scratching the bald spot on her head against the sill. "I dunno, let me see, I saw him rolling around yesterday afternoon. Susan noticed he was sick last night and took him to Tony's. Er—unless my memory fails me."
There was the sound of light, delicate paws landing on the floor beside the door. "No, that's right, okay. I asked him when he came in what was wrong. I could tell he wasn't himself right away. He was grumpy and kind of groggy and he smelled funny."
"Funny in what way, Kitten?" Mustard asked.
"Like that nasty stuff Susan sprinkled all over the floor at Christmas—that stuff that made you all act crazy. I was scared."
"You're always scared—" the old girl's growl began. At a warning hiss from Mustard she moderated it to, "or maybe I should say, overly cautious. That was nothing to be scared of. Just catnip."
Catnip! Of course! He raced to the table and sniffed—the rain had done a good job. And there might be fine particles of nip in the cracks, but he couldn't see them. He jumped under the table and put his paws on the supports and sniffed the undersides. His lips curled at the edges. Nip yes, and another smell, a smell he had not really noticed except as one of the subtle vintage differences in 'nip, but now that particular difference made him feel nauseous.
He streaked up the street to Diane's house, to the cabin at the back of it, the one Diane rented to Drew.
Sadie barked a warning, but Mustard ducked past her and over to a window where he scratched at the glass. No response. Then he looked through the pane. The inside of the cabin no longer contained Drew's books and bed, the little arrangements of Christmas lights he made, or Moonshadow's dishes. It was totally empty and almost odorless.
He was about to ask Sadie where his friend had gone when he heard the sound of Dr. Tony and Jeannette's van pulling into the driveway. Diane met them at the door and ushered them inside. Sadie, kept bouncing and barking.
"Shut up!" Mustard hissed. "What happened?"
"It's Moonshadow. He's been laying in the cabin for the past two days while Diane was gone."
"Dead?"
"No, but close. Oh poor Moonshadow! He's been so lonesome since that Diane made Drew leave."
"Why did she do that? Drew was nice."
"I don't know. Maybe he peed on the rug."
"Has he been around the last couple of days?" Mustard asked.
"Yes, Friday the 13th it was, day before yesterday. He came to pick up his things. I heard him yelling it through the door to Diane but she wasn't here. He petted us, gave Moonshadow some catnip, and left."
"Catnip!" Mustard exclaimed, and bolted out of the house and back down the street again, to the front door. "Kitten! Old girl! Are you there? Where is Susan anyway?"
The kitten's voice answered in a plaintive mew. "She went to get Drew to come and stay with us while she goes to visit her friends in Copperton. She doesn't want us left alone with all this cat-killing going on."
Mustard twined back and forth across the ridges that held the cat flap. He was agitated and had no idea what to do now. Except to say, "Look, don't either one of you let him near you. Don't eat food he puts out or touches, or even water. And don't take any catnip from him."
"Ick," the kitten said. "That nasty stuff. I am not one of the youth with a drug problem, Uncle Mustard. I think that stuff sucks."
"Just keep thinking that way," he said, noticing she was already falling into the teenaged vernacular.
He was about to run back down the road to check on Moonshadow when Susan drove up. She got out of the car on one side. Drew emerged from the other. "Thanks for coming to get me, Susan. With Diane's car broken down again, and me taking that job out of town, I had no way to get here. But it will be good to see the kitties again. I'm sure going to miss Blackie and Mus—" he stared straight at Mustard, who walked calmly over and sat down in front of him and stared straight up at him.
"Returned to the scene of your crime, eh, murderer?" he asked, but Drew didn't understand that much. He did, however, recognize Mustard for who he was. Which was unfortunately more than Susan did.
"What's wrong? Oh, look at the pretty white cat. Hello, honey. You better be careful around here."
White cat? Was she nuts? He looked down at his own orange stripes and back up to her. Well, Mu Mao had said this was a second life and he wouldn't seem the same to Susan. But white? So impractical.
He returned his attention to his murderer, who certainly looked guilty enough. Mustard was certain that somehow Drew saw his victim for who he really was. There had always been something uncannily catlike about the big man—leonine, really. It was what the cats liked about him. Had he been a cat in his last life like Tony and Jeannette? But he was no bodhisattva, even though at one time Mustard would have said so. Drew was wonderful with animals, he had often heard Diane and Susan say. But Diane had thrown him out. And Mustard doubted it was for peeing on the rug. She must have found out something about him to make her run him off and hadn't told Susan yet. No wonder, really. Right after Susan met Drew, she and Diane had had a fight, though they'd been the best of friends for years. But why would he poison the cats? His friends? Because now Mustard was sure it was Drew who did him in. You could still smell the tainted catnip on him. Probably had a bag in his pocket to feed the old girl and kitten.
Well, no way was that man going near them! Or any other cat, or Susan, not if Mustard had his way. He did the only thing within his power and sprang for Drew's throat, biting and clawing his way up as he went while Drew swore and tried to tear him off.
"The damned thing's rabid!" Drew screamed to Susan, who tried to pull Mustard away from his murderer. "Kill it!"
"No! I have it, see?" she said, pulling Mustard spitting from his victim. "But you need a doctor."
"No, I—"
"Don't be silly. I saw Tony's van up at Diane's. He can look at those scratches and test the cat for rabies. Just let me pop him into the carrier in the trunk. I still have it—" her voice broke and she looked very haggard. "From taking Blackie in, you know."
Of course, Mustard, white or not, was gentle with Susan and only hissed over his shoulder at Drew, who surprised him by sticking his tongue out at him and making a neck-breaking gesture with his big hands just before Susan tucked Mustard into the carrier.
They drove down the street in a split second, just as Tony was leaving. Moonshadow, bundled into Jeannette's arms, mewed plaintively and Drew pretended to make over her. "Don't let him near you, Moon!" Mustard cried. "He tried to kill you!"
As Drew stuck out his hand to stroke Moonshadow, she crouched back against Jeannette, laid her ears back, hissed, spat, and tried to rip his hand open, despite her illness.
Drew pulled his hand back just in time, then hissed back at her, "Traitor," he spat, and then tried to look wounded. "She must be delirious. Doesn't seem to know me," he said to the others.
It was Mustard's good luck that Tony and Jeannette were who they were. They didn't think he was white and recognized him too. Furthermore, they seemed to understand him. While Tony was examining Drew's scratches right there in the driveway, Jeannette called Susan and Diane over to look at his shirt. The pocket was ripped and a small bag of the tainted catnip sprinkled its contents down to mingle with the still-wet blood.
"Just what is this?" Jeannette demanded.
"A treat for the cats," Drew said. "OUCH," as Tony washed out a scratch.
"It smells funny. You don't mind if I analyze it, do you?"
"It's a special kind and it cost me a lot. But hey, nothing's too good for my kitties, huh?"
"Is that why Moonshadow is afraid of you?" Jeannette said. "Because you gave her this?"
"Afraid of me? Why should she be afraid of me? When Diane wouldn't let Moonie in the house because Rasta gave her too much shit, I took her in. But when Diane threw me out, did Moonie so much as catch me a mouse to get by on? Hell no! And Susan—she wouldn't even hold my hand but she treated those cats of hers like royalty and wanted me to do it too! She wouldn't even pay for me to go to a movie with her but she spent thirty bucks every two weeks on food for them." His eyes, which had always seemed blue, were now blazing green with jealousy. Yep, no doubt about it. The guy was one jealous dude—even of the cats. And if Mustard was right, he had been a cat himself. But then, cats were jealous of other cats. Mustard himself, for instance. He began licking his right front paw in embarrassment while the questioning continued. It didn't take long to wring a defiant confession from Drew.
As he had already said when he let the cat out of the bag, he had poisoned Mustard, Blackie and Moonshadow because he was angry with Diane for throwing him out and with Susan for breaking up with him—which Mustard actually hadn't realized happened. Human mating habits weren't of particular interest to him, after all.
Mustard told all of this to Mu Mao and the others later, as they kept vigil over the still body of Boston Blackie.
"But why did he hurt the cats he had taken such care to befriend?" Paka asked.
"Well, I guess he had a long record as a con man who got nasty when his victims turned. He was nice to us because that was a good way to get him close to single, cat loving independent ladies like Diane and Susan. He tried to go back on what he said about trying to punish them for rejecting him and said he was just trying to upset them so they'd turn to him in a crisis because they thought he was sympathetic to their love for us."
"And with your Susan, it almost worked," Mu Mao said.
"She's sweet, but not always real bright," Mustard admitted. "But at least the neighborhood should be safe from that particular danger now."
"You've done good work, my brother," Mu Mao said and Mustard noticed that he said "brother" instead of "son." "Will you be returning home to Susan again, even if she thinks of you as a white cat?"
"I've thought about it," he said. "But I'd like to know a little more about this place and there's a shelter full of kittens who've never had a good home. Susan will fall in love with some, the kitten will play with them and the old girl will have her usual tantrum. But she'll be okay."
"It isn't just that Susan didn't know you and it hurt your feelings is it?" Paka asked.
"No, no," he said, though perhaps that was part of it. "I was never her top cat. I think I see why now. I always hated all of the others—even hated her for loving them. But, you know, it took all of us to figure it out."
"You're too modest," Mu Mao said. "You overcame your jealousy of your housemates to save their lives. You are evolving very quickly, my brother, and growing in enlightenment."
Brother Paddy licked Mustard's ear affectionately and for once, Mustard didn't mind. "Not only that but he's smart. Mustard was always the smart one. Why, now he's a real detective, just like in those books of Susan's."
"Or on TV," Blackie mumbled, stirring and sitting up. The other cats surrounded him, licking and purring and he responded with a weak purr himself.
"The Mystery series," Sister Paka said. "That's right. Oh, Mustard, you have to stay now, won't he, Master Mu Mao?"
"If he wishes, of course. It's entirely up to him. But it would add very much to our order to have our very own Brother Catfael among us."