Andre Norton: Catfantastic II

The names stuck, and the kittens answered to them from the first. Christine changed the black kitten's name on an average of three times a month, totally without success. Ian, a late talker, probably had a different name for his. But Punkin lolled through life, lovable, loving, and barely animate. Bat lacked only leathery wings and a penchant for sleeping while hanging head downward by his back feet. Outdoors, he spent most of his time in trees, on high walls, or roofs. Indoors, he could be found on the top of the fridge, the top of the draperies, and the top shelf of the bookcase.

Punkin could have been anybody's cat. Fortunately, Ian was unaware of this lack of discrimination. Thus, when the little boy's attention was riveted to Bert and Ernie and Mr. Rogers, someone else could take care of "his" cat. Bat was Christine's cat, and he allowed no one to forget it. He accepted the children's parents with the regal indifference normal to cats, invariably ignored or eluded Ian, and rarely bestowed favors on visitors.

Bat knew Christine to be his human. He and Punkin had, after all, experienced incarnations in three alternate realities while searching for her and waiting until she showed up. Only Bat's genuine affection for her countered his previous annoyance at her tardiness. Punkin was unaffected: all nine lives had to be lived somewhere/somewhen.

Had the family lived in these other times and places, Christine's instant claim of so unprepossessing a kitten would have confirmed a reasonable conclusion. She was, after all, left-handed, red-haired, and green-eyed. She couldn't be called pretty, but her appearance left little doubt that she would be strikingly beautiful as an adult. Her personality, in common with a special category of people, combined independence and sensitivity, intelligence and empathy. In her own world, a description might include that most unfortunate phrase-the child who doesn't quite fit in. Part of this stemmed from her unfettered imagination. She believed things nobody else would-or could-and insisted, to the point of crying herself ill if anyone attempted to convince her otherwise, that her imaginings were fact. Her parents hoped that having a kitten would help to tie her to reality, but Bat's arrival seemed to stimulate her fantasy life. Each evening, Christine regaled the parent who put her to bed with a tale she said Bat had told her about a former life. However, as the family lived in the here and now and were churchgoing Christians, the term witch never came up.

Bat knew. Or, it is fairer to say, he knew what she would have been if she had not, unfortunately, been born into this world, one essentially inimical to magic. If she had not come for him in kittenhood, he would have, when a bit older, dragged Punkin by an ear and set out to find her. Denied his rightful place as her familiar, he took up the position of her pet.

Punkin knew, too. (Cats do.) But his involvement was with Ian, with whom he shared all kinds of preferences: love and affection, lots of good things to eat and drink, a warm, soft place to sleep, and semi-continuous attention.

As the two cats grew-and they did grow, prodigiously-Bat turned into a large, strong, shiny-sleek beast who reminded one of a black panther. Punkin loomed even larger than Bat, and the red-gold of his coat rivaled new pennies. Were he asleep on one of the children's pillows, one could not tell where their hair stopped and his began.

When Bat was about a year old, Christine insisted that he told her to get him a leash and harness so they could go on walks together. Mother, who usually enjoyed her daughter's vivid imagination, smiled to herself and bought the inexpensive equipment. She did not expect it to be used. She was mistaken. Bat required no training. His leash-manners were impeccable.

Circumstances in the modern world being as they are, neither of the children was ever without adult supervision for a moment. But Christine insisted that as long as Bat was with her, she was always safe and well cared for. Being informed, however, that Bat would be given to the Humane Society if she ever, ever went off with only a cat for company, she accepted the restriction. She never entirely accepted the necessity. However, she decided that her most intensely-defended disagreement with her parents-that she had, once, been left alone in the house for a period of perhaps hours-had, as they always maintained, been a dream. Bat, she admitted to her mother, told her straight out that the incident had been only a very clear nightmare, and Bat was always right. He had also told her that she must apologize to her parents for doubting their word.

Wishing herself believed to be as infallible as the cat, Mother accepted the apology without further comment. She wished, as a matter of fact, that Bat would tell Christine to forget all about the dream. Her own worst nightmare was that Christine might repeat the story to someone who'd believe it.

Punkin did not like to walk on a leash. He did not enjoy riding in automobiles, either. Bat loved cars. Originally, he was a problem because he preferred to sit on the dashboard directly in front of the driver. Only with difficulty was he persuaded that the back window, on the old shag rug, was the proper carseat for a cat. The children's mother permitted Bat to come along on short drives provided he did not have to stay alone in a car. He learned early that if he wanted to take the daily trips to preschool, then to kindergarden, he must not try to get out of the car or behave badly on the way home. Mother even let him accompany her on short errands without the children. She did not mention it to anyone, but if Bat was along, it seemed as if the most demented of the dangerous drivers stayed home. She required his presence if she chauffeured one of the school field trips.

Christine asked Mother please to drive when her class went to the Pumpkin Farm so the children could choose Halloween pumpkins. "Be sure Bat comes," she instructed. "He'll help me pick the right ones." Mother had been looking forward to the trip for almost as long as Christine had, and Bat was on his rug before the door was open far enough for Ian to get in and climb into his carseat.

They found Ian's pumpkin first-a huge, round one that had a definite resemblance to Punkin, or so Christine said Bat said Ian said. Christine's jack-o-lantern-to-be was harder to locate, but, after much effort and consideration, she and Bat were satisfied with their selection. "She put a lot more time and thought into choosing it," Mother told Daddy that evening, "than she did when we went to get the kittens."

Daddy grinned. "It wasn't trying to climb her jeans and yowling to be picked up," he explained. He observed the giant vegetable with some rue. "Not that she could have."

Mother grinned back. "Guess not," she agreed.

When the family got together to carve the faces, Christine insisted that the cats pose for their portraits. Daddy, who was skilled with his hands-and something of an artist, as well-agreed. Punkin was easy to capture. "Yawning Cat," Mother dubbed the result. Sleepy eyes, gaping mouth with too many sharp teeth. Ian giggled. Punkin flowed fatly onto the top of the lantern, arranged himself so that the smoke hole was not covered, and went to sleep. The whole family laughed-and continued to snicker whenever they saw him there. He appeared to be attached.

Bat's jack-o-lantern portrait did not yawn. Its mouth gaped open in a fearsome, silent snarl. Ian screamed and hid his face when Daddy put a lighted candle inside. The head seemed a real and menacing presence on the dark porch. Even Daddy regarded his handiwork with mild unease. Mother thought of several correct titles. She decided not to share them with the children. Christine shuddered, but she would not let her father change a stroke of the knife. "He's guarding us," she insisted. Looked at that way, the carving took on a somewhat less threatening aspect.