Алан Дин Фостер - Mad Amos Malone

Advancing on paws each one of which was more than broad enough to completely cover a man’s head and face, the lion took a step toward Hudiksvall and let out a single… ROAR .

The folks who heard it over in the next county thought it was a storm a-brewing. The church bell in town shivered out a couple of desultory clangs that did nothing to reassure the pair of shopkeeper converts who huddled inside. Children woke up crying, in which exercise of their tear ducts they were equaled by a significant number of mothers. Strong men quaked in their boots and the town sheriff hurried to lock the jail door—from the inside.

Gustavus Eyvind Hudiksvall turned positively white (well, whiter than he had been previously, anyhow) and suddenly found his feet. Despite the effort required, they conveyed him with admirable rapidity to the saloon’s entrance, which portal he exited with such velocity that one of the swinging doors was knocked askew on its hinges.

Having nothing else to confront or on which to focus its attention, the splendidly immense example of Felis atrox turned back toward Amos Malone. A relic of an age only recently bygone, the great jaws parted. With interest, Malone peered down the throat thus revealed.

The tongue that emerged licked the mountain man’s face and copious beard so that both were soon dripping with leonine saliva, until Malone finally had to put a stop to the display of primeval affection. Reaching out, he dug his right hand into the vast black mane and began scratching. Like all its kind, the lion could not purr, but it lowered its head contentedly.

“It were that black ruff o’ yours,” he murmured to the big cat. “I saw the connection right off, but ’tweren’t no reason at the time t’ pursue it.” He nodded toward the damaged doorway. “Until it were forced. On the both of us.” Leaning forward, he whispered into the lion’s right ear.

This time the cloud shrank instead of expanding. Which was a fortunate adjustment, because it was unlikely the town itself would have survived a cat-thing of any greater dimension. When the last of the gilded cloud vanished, it left behind on the tobacco-stained floor a tabby of normal size, gold and tan in color, with an odd black streak in its hair that stretched from shoulder to shoulder. It shook itself, licked one paw to briefly groom the fur on its forehead, and then began to arch its back and rub against Malone’s right boot. Reaching down, the mountain man picked it up and placed it gently on the now-deserted sweep of mahogany bar. Then he leaned forward and over to peer down behind the barrier.

“Barkeep.”

Trembling visibly, the bartender rose from where he had been hiding. He looked at Malone, at the cat sitting contentedly near the giant’s right hand, then back at Malone.

“Wh-wh-wh-what’ll it be… sir?”

“Whiskey. Same label.” Malone indicated the serene feline seated nearby. “And a saucer of milk for my friend. Straight up.”

The barkeep managed to nod. “This… this is a saloon, sir. Milk, I’m not so sure…”

“This here’s also a hotel, friend. Got t’ be some milk or cream on ice in the kitchen.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Go find it. And you’d best come back.”

No one else entered the saloon that night. No one else came near the saloon that night. Its interior was occupied solely by its shaky proprietor, a mountain man of measureless smells and unsuspected abilities, and the gold and tan cat seated comfortably on the bar off to his right. Not his cat. Together the three passed the remainder of the evening undisturbed and mostly in silence, until the time finally came for Malone to exit. At this the bartender allowed himself to faint gratefully and with some grace. He did not hit the floor too hard.

The cat followed Malone outside. After the mountain man finished admonishing his horse for eating half the hitching post, he turned to look back at the plank sidewalk. The cat was sitting there, its tail switching slowly back and forth, staring at him in the unblinking, fearless manner of cats everywhere. For certain a most ordinary cat.

“G’night, puss. Got t’ be on my way. Watch your step. Don’t eat any mice I wouldn’t eat.”

The cat turned to depart, looking back only once to meow.

That is generally remembered as the Manhattan, Kansas, earthquake of 1867.

Has anyone ever asked you, “If you could be reincarnated, what creature would you come back as?” Oddly enough, I always knew the answer. Or least, I have ever since my family visited the Sierra Nevada’s national parks when I was seven years old. From that time on I knew what I would wish to come back as. It’s a choice that hasn’t changed in the intervening sixty-four years.

Of course, even among such imposing life-forms there are bound to be those inclined less to conviviality than irritability. I would hope that, should such a reincarnation occur, I could be more accommodating than the example set forth in this story. Especially if I were to be granted the opportunity to meet Amos Malone. And equally so, his human counterpart in this final tale.

Without question the grove of cinnamon-red, giant trees was one of the most beautiful, inspiring, soul-rejuvenating, spirit-calming, downright sacred places Amos Malone had ever visited. At least, it was until he heard the cry for help.

Riding astride Worthless, who was less than happy with the limited flavors of the local undergrowth and ventured his opinion by occasionally spitting out something the horse deemed not worthy of dissolution by his digestive juices, Malone had made his way up into the fabulous mountain country that had been described to him down in the valley. If anything, the farmers with whom he had spoken had understated the majesty of the untouched sequoia forest. The gargantuan ginger-toned columns that towered around him on either side reminded him less of other trees and more of the massive stone columns of the great temple at Luxor.

The cool lingering droplets of a just-concluded Sierra storm still perspired from branches high overhead and mushed beneath Worthless’s huge feet. Swathed in his buckskin and furs, Malone was quite comfortable. Familiar with the vagaries of mountain weather, he suspected that by midmorning he would need to doff his outer raiment lest he begin to sweat himself. This dermatological exposure would inevitably set free a personal bouquet which he, from experience, was reluctant to inflict even on a passel of passing marmots, far less upon another human being. Fortunately, there appeared to be none of the latter about, and so his questionable personal hygiene would remain a matter for he himself.

There was, however, the possible intrusion on his solitude of someone unknown calling out for help.

Despite the notoriety the giant trees had begun to acquire, lack of ready accessibility to their mountain vastness had kept the grove through which he was currently wandering free of all but the most determined adventurer. That was a situation that would likely change with time, he knew, but for the moment the peace and tranquility of his surroundings remained inviolate. Except for the intermittent cry for assistance.

Pulling back lightly on the reins, he brought Worthless to a halt, leaned forward, and listened intently. There was no panic in the shouts he was hearing, no intimation of fear. Whoever was calling for aid was not being attacked by a catamount nor clinging perilously to the knife edge of a cliff. It was a measured, periodic yelp, forceful and determined but absent of panic.

Yet a cry for help was a cry for help, Malone knew. Straightening in the saddle and tugging again on the reins, Malone inclined Worthless in its direction. Responding with a characteristic squint eye, the muscular mélange of Percheron, quarterhorse, Shire, Arabian, Indian pony, and something not of the current reality as most folks know it, turned and headed in the indicated direction, picking up the pace as he did so. All the while, Malone listened, adjusting his mount’s path according to the perceived location of each periodic outcry.