Кроха - Dedication

Misto grinned at Joe Grey. “About time you knew.”

Speaking kittens were rare; speaking, mated couples seldom brought little ones into the world. Joe, still shaken, looked back at Misto and smiled foolishly.

“Now,” Dulcie said, slipping closer to the ailing cat, “now, what else do you have to tell us? What about our girl kitten, that you didn’t tell me earlier when you fell asleep? Now you can tell us both.”

Beside her, Joe Grey went rigid with dismay. He didn’t want to hear predictions. He was proud and happy about the kittens, but he didn’t want Misto to lead Dulcie down some foolish path of what could be, what might be; he didn’t want the old cat planting foolish dreams.

Misto’s voice was weak but filled with pleasure. “Three kittens,” he told Dulcie again. “Two boy kittens, and a calico girl. It is she I have seen in my dreams. A lovely little creature, a beautiful young cat with a charmed spirit. A kitten who is heir to past lives more amazing than you can imagine.

“Your own child, your bright calico baby. Her past lives are set into humankind’s history, her portraits grace man’s ancient art from centuries gone. You will find the antique paintings, the tapestries, the illuminated manuscripts, you will find her image if only you will look.”

He glanced at Joe. “There is no other cat marked like her. She has moved through time with an elegance unique even to our own speaking race, this kitten who will be your child.”

Dulcie’s heart beat fast; she burned to search among the library’s old volumes, to find their own calico child. Yet she was shaken with fear for the treasure she carried, fear at bringing such a one into the world, fearful of the challenge, the responsibility for that precious creature.

“Courtney,” Misto said. “Courtney is her true name. She has carried it through much of time, she would welcome owning that name again.” The old cat laughed. “A name bigger, right now, than the little mite herself. But she will grow big and strong, this kitten who is destined to a life of honor.”

“What honor?” Dulcie whispered, even more stricken. “Oh, my. What destiny?”

But the old tom had dozed off again. As if, when he thought he had said enough, he escaped slyly into an invalid’s sleep. Softly Dulcie moved to the foot of the bed beside Joe, where the gray tomcat sat rigid and uneasy; and strange imaginings filled them both.

It was now, with the two cats so nervous and unsettled, that Dulcie’s housemate found them. Wilma slipped into the room beside John Firetti as the good doctor brought medications for Misto.

Wilma Getz was as tall as the younger doctor. She wore a tie-dyed sweatshirt today, a garment so old it was back in style, its soft reds setting off her gray hair, which was tied at the nape of her neck. John was in his white lab coat, having just come from the clinic. His light brown hair was short and neat, his sunburned forehead peeling, his light brown eyes kind as he greeted Joe and Dulcie. Moving to the dresser, he set down the tray with the syringe and medicine, to be administered when the yellow tom woke. He stood beside Wilma, looking down at the two cats sitting rigid and edgy. They looked deeply at Joe, then at Dulcie.

Dulcie flicked a whisker. “I told him.”

Wilma smiled and stroked Joe Grey. “It will be all right,” she said. “They’ll be fine, strong kittens.” She frowned at Joe. “What? They’ll be healthy kittens, Joe. You’ll be a fine father. What?” she repeated. “You don’t want these sweet babies?”

Joe stared up at her, his conflicted look filled half with joy, half with distress. “Of course I want them! Our kittens! Our little speaking kittens. It’s a miracle. But Misto . . .” he hissed softly. “Does Misto have to make predictions? I don’t need predictions!” Joe said. “I don’t want to hearpredictions.”

Wilma and Dulcie exchanged a look and tried to keep from smiling. Dulcie rubbed her face against Wilma’s hand. “Misto’s prophecies were . . . they frightened us both,” she said softly.

It was then that John interrupted—as if perhaps he didn’t want to hear predictions, either? Or perhaps he wanted only to soothe Dulcie and Joe. “Let’s have a look at you, Dulcie. Let’s see how the kittens are getting on.”

Moving his medical tray to a chair, he cleared the dresser and lifted Dulcie up. She stretched out, looking up at him trustingly, only the tip of her tail moving with a nervous twitch. She loved John Firetti, but even his gentle hands pressing her stomach filled her with unease, an automatic reaction to protect her babies.

But John’s hands were warm and tender on her belly. “Feel here, Wilma. And here . . .” He watched as Wilma’s familiar fingers softly stroked Dulcie’s stomach. “It’s a little late now to feel them properly,” he said, “it was easy when they were smaller. There are three kittens. Come on, Joe. You’ll feel better when you can see for yourself. Maybe you can wipe that scared look off your face.”

Reluctantly Joe leaped to the dresser. He hesitated, then placed a careful paw on Dulcie’s tummy.

“Feel along here,” John told him.

Joe stroked Dulcie as soft as a whisper. As he found the faintest divide between each tiny shape his expression turned from surprise to wonder.

“Three little heartbeats,” Dr. Firetti said, holding the stethoscope against Dulcie, then letting Joe listen. “I’d say about two more weeks, they’ll be ready to face the world.” Scooping Dulcie up again, he handed her to Wilma. “A ride home would be a good thing.”

He looked sternly at the tabby. “You are to stop galloping all over the village. No more running the rooftops. No more racing up and down trees. No climbing. You’ll soon be a mother, Dulcie. You have babies to think about. A little circumspection,” he said. “You are to slow down, take care of the kittens. We don’t want to lose these little treasures.”

Dulcie laid her face against his hand. Of course he was right. No one said pregnancy would be easy; no one said she’d like being a stay-at-home cat, being quiet and calm and doing nothing. Sighing, Dulcie snuggled down in Wilma’s arms. She guessed her theft of the pink scarf had been her last craziness before she accepted a dull and sensible boredom.

Wilma had once told her, “To admit to boredom is to admit to intellectual poverty.”

That remark, at the time, had shamed Dulcie because she’d been bored and restless and didn’t know what to do with herself. Now the thought nudged her again as they headed for the car.

We do have a snug and cozy home, she told herself. I can curl up before a cheerful fire, we can read together, we have music, and we always have nice things to eat. And, she thought, smiling,there’s Wilma’s computer right there on the desk . . . Now, maybe . . . Now, if I must be idle, maybe more poems will come, maybe new poems. Why should my idleness be boring?

As Dulcie and Wilma headed home, Joe raced away across the empty side street into a tangle of cottages, through a maze of gardens, and up a pepper tree to the roofs. Heading home himself, he was still getting used to the idea of kittens, to the fact that soon they would have their own family. His thoughts were all atangle, part of him annoyed at the interruption of his busy and sometimes dangerous life, part of him ashamed at such a thought. But what he felt most was an incredible tenderness for Dulcie and their babies, a fierce desire to protect them. What he wished was that the world was a safer place for their kittens—for all the innocent of the world.

These violent attacks on the frail and elderly seemed far darker, now, a cruel contradiction to what life should be. He didn’t want to think about human evil just now, but he couldn’t stop. Suddenly, passionately, with the amazement of kittens filling his thoughts, Joe Grey wanted no viciousness at all, anywhere in the world.