Martin Greenberg - Catopolis

The male blinked, apparently surprised by her candor. “From what little I saw of the man, that would have been a kindness.”

“May I know your name?”

“Jason,” he said absently as he scanned the woodland shadows. “Listen, I think you’ll be safe here for a while. I know where you live. I’ll do what I can to get word to your human. But you have to stay here, Freckles-any human with a gun is likely to shoot at a cat your size.”

“My name is Mhari,” she said. “And I would be pleased if you would visit me from time to time.”

That made him smile, albeit a little grimly. “Let’s get you home first.”

The night passed and most of the next day, and still no one came. No smallcats, no Jason, no Woman. Weak with pain and thirst, Mhari was almost glad a small, yapping dog found her hiding place. She was almost pleased to see the grim-faced humans in their Animal Control jumpsuits and long poles with loops at the end. She was almost relieved to have the relative comfort and safety of a small metal cage. And surely no water had ever tasted so sweet. One of the humans stuck something sharp in her hip, and she slept. When she awoke the next morning, her hurts had been cleaned and wrapped. Even though they planned to kill her.

Like the koi, Mhari would be permitted to live until she died.

Her Woman came later that day, bringing the portly Man with her. He waved important Papers and blustered on and on. Some of the things he said were sensible. All of the blood on Mhari’s fur was her own. The man had shot Mhari, but there was no evidence that she had attacked him. The Woman had insisted upon something called an autopsy, which proved that none of the wild man’s many wounds came from a Serval’s teeth or claws. There was evidence of other animals, and many of the small bites had been taken before the wild man died. And apparently there was no trace of something called “human DNA” in Mhari’s scat.

The round, loud Man talked and talked. Mhari still did not like him, but she could see that he impressed the humans at Animal Control. Mhari’s Woman signed many papers. Thick wads of money surreptitiously changed hands. Finally the Woman was allowed to open Mhari’s cage and strap her into her jeweled harness.

The Woman sat in the back seat of the car with Mhari on the way home, while the Man drove. She stroked Mhari’s coat and talked and talked, but for once Mhari did not hear. She did not hear English or Italian. She would not have heard even if the woman suddenly spoke Serval, for her own thoughts were too loud, and too troubling, for her to hear anyone else’s.

Mhari understood why the smallcats “set her up,” to use Jason’s term. They wished to protect themselves and their civilization. Perhaps they suspected that the wild man could hear the tiger. Perhaps they suspected that the wild man was doing the tiger’s bidding, acting as the wild cat’s agent in the city. And as Smithwicks had said, there was no place for the greatcats in the city.

Perhaps they thought there was no place for her in the city, either.

Perhaps they were right.

The Woman leaned down to give Mhari a careful squeeze. “I’ll be much more careful about your gate,” she said. “It just isn’t safe for a Serval to wander the city. You’ll stay in the house with me tonight.”

“No, I won’t,” Mhari said. Her Domestic was strongly accented by Serval, but perhaps the woman would understand. After all, hadn’t her ancestors kept company with Serval for hundreds of years?

The Woman sat up, smoothed a hand uncertainly over her hair. “But it’s such a lovely day, isn’t it? It would be a shame for you to stay indoors on such a night as this will be.” She laughed a little. “Perhaps I’ll stay in the habitat with you.”

“No. You won’t.”

“But of course I can’t.” She sighed and turned away to watch the city pass by.

Despite her best intentions, the Woman didn’t quite secure Mhari’s gate that night. The Serval waited until the waning moon was nearly set, then she slipped through the quiet streets to the zoo.

The tiger was still lying beneath his tree. Mhari wondered if he had bothered to move at all in the days that had passed.

“Your human is dead, Great One,” she said respectfully, “but not by my tooth or claw. I did not understand until it was too late. Forgive me.”

“And you understand now?” he asked, but in a way that suggested he had little interest in her answer.

“I think,” she said hesitantly, “you were trying to get him to free you.”

That got his attention. His ears went up, and he gathered his hind legs beneath him as if he might actually consider rising. “In a sense, yes, that is so.”

“Life will never be as you once knew it. I have wandered the city, Great One, and have learned that there is no place for us here. For the Serval, much less the greatcats, freedom is death.”

“Freedom is death,” the tiger repeated softly, “and death is freedom.”

Mhari thought this over until she understood it fully. Until she understood what she had taken from the tiger and what she must give him.

“I had kittens once,” she told him. “Savannahs, they call them. The sire was a smallcat, so they are not quite Serval. But they are beautiful kittens, lithe and lovely. They are not smallcats, not quite, but it seemed to me that the humans heard them, a little. I will bear another litter, and I will wean them to the knowledge of what must be done. In a generation, or perhaps two, my young can speak to the humans, and you will be free.”

The tiger’s yellow eyes brightened, then blazed. “Their seasons come early, these smallcats. One generation, perhaps two… It is not so very long.”

She dipped her head and then padded away to seek Jason and breed the tiger’s death. And echoing in her mind were heartfelt words-words no Great Cat should ever have to say:

Thank you.

After dark, all cats are gray, Robie thought over and over as he struggled to drag his bag of cat food along the littered alley. He kept to shadows as much as possible, hiding his snowy white chest and the mittens on his front feet. The rest of his matted fur was a mixture of gray, black and orange-the only legacy he had received from his long gone father. His mother had been a long-haired Himalayan, but although his fur was long, it lacked the silkiness he remembered of hers before she was run over by one of the noisy, smelly human machines.

Another few yards, he thought. That’s all. A few more feet until I find where the stray cats are hiding.

He had found the homeless cats a few days earlier in an alley behind an apartment building. He had given them what help he could, but it had been little enough that it tore at his conscience. The mother cat, a scrawny tabby, tried to nurse six kittens and had barely enough milk for two. Mother and litter alike were slat-thin and starving. Life in the city had been hard lately, even for a clever, quick cat like Robie. These others needed his help, and he was willing to give it to them.

He hunkered down as lights raked the brick wall over his head. He pulled in his feet and pressed his chin to his chest to hide his reflective white fur until the humans left. The rattle of their machine, the crunch of glass under the stinking rubber wheels, the gaseous filth spewing from the rear, all sickened Robie. His nose twitched, and he opened his mouth as he sampled their scent to memorize it. When he had a chance, he would get even with them for disturbing his peace-and his rescue mission.

Loud music blared from inside and the human guiding the machine smelled of burned hamburger, tobacco, and something else strong and nasty. Robie filed all this away on an already long list deserving retribution. Everything about that human was annoying and mostly illegal even by human laws.