Shirley Murphy - Cat Breaking Free

The night's siren song of freedom sang loud in her heart, running unfettered beneath the moon and wind turning her drunk with excitement. They would have their own clowder, beyond Stone Eye and beyond the world of humans.

But then she curled smaller against the boulder. I would never again see Lucinda and Pedric. I would never again be loved like they love me. Like Joe and Dulcie love me and all my human friends. Pressed tight against the boulder, steeped in a fugue of uncertainly, Kit did not know what she wanted.

A thin, dawn fog began to rise hiding the sea; lights appeared on the road far below, careening around the verge of the hill: two cars with spotlights blazing out of their windows to sweep the hill-the kind of spots a hunter would use to shine and confuse a deer, freeze it in its tracks before he shot it. The four cats closed their eyes and melted away up the hill where a stand of boulders offered shelter.

Kit thought of hiding in Hellhag Cave where they would never be found, slip deep into the earth where no human would ever see them. Yes, so deep they might never get out again.

Lucinda, who knew so well the world of Celtic myth, thought Hellhag Cave might lead to places where no sensible cat would want to go. The idea that Hellhag Cave's fissures might drop away forever had once thrilled Kit. Not anymore.

The two cars had pulled onto the shoulder. The headlights went out. The doors opened and five men emerged. As they crossed the road and began to run up the hill swinging their searching beams, the gusting sea wind carried the faint scent of Luis and of Tommie McCord.

The cats fled up the high precipice that rose above Hellhag's grassy slopes, up into steep rocky verges that would slow or stop a man. Up cliffs that could, on this dark night, be dangerously deceptive to a human. Kit was drunk with excitement-she was feral, born to fear and escape. Heady memories filled her as the spotlights gained on them, violent bright shafts knifing close. She scrambled up the cliffs panting so hard she could hardly breathe; and on they raced, drawing away at last to lose their pursuers in steep, rocky blackness.

Three of the men stopped and stood arguing and at last turned back, heading down toward their cars. Only Luis still climbed. Behind him Tommie McCord stood halfway up the hill shouting, "Enough! Not chasing cats anymore." They heard a tiny scratch as Tommie stopped to light a cigarette; they saw the flame and smelled the smoke. Luis pushed on, grunting.

"Don't care what kind of money they're worth!" Tommie yelled. "I'm not climbing any more hills."

"Do what you want!"

But Tommie raced up at him suddenly, lunged and grabbed Luis by the shoulders. "This crazy idea of Hernando's! Get your mind on business." Pulling Luis close, Tommie stared into his face. "I don't care what they're worth, to the movies, to God Himself. I don't care what they know. I'm not messing with any more cats!"

Luis hit him, hard. They fought across the hill pounding each other, reeling and punching until Luis sent Tommie sprawling. And Luis raced on uphill, leaving McCord groaning on the ground. The cats fled up the stony crest and skidded and tumbled into a rocky canyon too steep for any man; loose gravel scudded down around them.

But the danger didn't stop Luis. He came crashing down between the boulders sliding so precipitously the cats were certain he'd fall; they prayed he would fall, that they'd be done with him. As he came sliding down like an avalanche they leaped to the narrow rocky bottom of the ravine and up the other side, scrabbled up between hanging rocks and over the next crest into deep woods.

Swiftly they climbed a tall pine up into dense foliage. From among the concealing branches they watched Luis circle below them until at last he turned away and, swearing, started his slow progress back down the cliffs.

Exhausted, the cats curled among the branches and closed their eyes. They slept so deeply they hardly heard, far away, Luis's car start and head, alone, back toward the village.

The chill February morning was still dark. Max, having kissed Charlie good-bye as she worked at her computer, shrugged on his jacket and headed out to his truck. Over Charlie's protests, he'd been eating breakfast in the village all week so she could work. For two weeks she'd been out of bed by four, was showered and at the computer within twenty minutes, a cup of coffee by her side. She always brought a thermos of coffee into the bedroom for him to enjoy when he woke.

Heading across the stable yard to his truck, he glanced to the pasture where he had turned the three horses out, smiling at the way they tore at the fresh spring grass. Since Charlie started on the book, he had returned to his old routine of feeding the dogs and horses as he had done before they were married. In the last six months, Charlie had royally spoiled him.

The book she was working on pleased him very much; she knew animals, but this story was amazing. And it and the illustrations totally absorbed her. Turning onto the main road, he looked off across the pasture again where Bucky and Redwing had begun to play, chasing the two dogs.

Charlie's project had started out as a short, children's book, but was turning into a much longer and more complicated story, into a book for all ages; it reminded him of the horse and dog stories he'd read as a boy. He wouldn't have chosen cats to write about, but Charlie understood them amazingly well, her words rang so true that he had begun, himself, to understand the small felines better. As he reached the end of the drive he was surprised to glimpse a cat tearing across the pasture as if terrified, as if racing for its life. Stopping the truck, he tried to see what was chasing it, half expecting a coyote or bobcat. It must be a cat from one of the small ranches. Swinging the door open he stepped out thinking to turn the predator aside. Or, if it was a cougar, he'd run it off and go back to tell Charlie and to shut the horses and dogs in the barn.

But behind the fleeing cat, nothing else moved in the green grass; and suddenly the preoccupied cat saw him. It disappeared at once. It would be crouching low in the grass-yes, he could just make out its dark shape, deadly still; as if it was more afraid of him than of whatever chased it. He watched until he was certain nothing approached it, then headed on down to the village. Maybe the cat had, like the horses and the two pups on this chill morning, only been playing-running for pure joy in the cold, early dawn.

Parking near the Swiss Cafe he moved in across the patio to the back table to join Dallas and Juana Davis. Clyde was there this morning, too. Stopping to give the waiter his order, he sat down with his back to the wall; he reflexively glanced above him.

From within the thick jasmine vine Clyde's gray tomcat peered down at him, his yellow eyes returning his stare as bold as some skilled confidence man.

Clyde grinned. "He was hungry. I get tired of cooking for him."

Max looked at the cat, and looked at Clyde. "You order yet? I'm surprised the cat doesn't order for himself."

"He orders too much. Gets expensive."

Dallas laughed, then went silent while their orders were served. Max thought the cook must have seen him walk in the door; he nearly always ordered pancakes. He watched Clyde set a small plate up on the wall. Clyde said, "Slayter called Ryan again last night, wanted her to meet him again, was really pushy. She turned the speaker on so I could listen, told him she was busy. He said he desperately needed her help." Clyde grinned. "She told him to call 911." He glanced at the other tables, but the people around them were deep into their own conversations, a bunch of guys arguing about baseball, one couple so involved with each other they wouldn't have known if an earthquake hit the restaurant. "He told Ryan he's up here looking into a shooting in L.A., that he followed the suspect up here, that he's working as a private investigator."