Anton and Cecil, Book 2 (12 page)

The sign squeaked on its hinges in the dusty breeze, and the coyote pictured on it seemed to be gazing down, smiling mischievously at the brother cats. Or hungrily, perhaps. Either way, it gave Anton the shivers as he stepped onto the porch with Cecil. Unfamiliar sounds floated across from the main street of the town—heavy boots thunking in time with jingling bells, the squeaks of swinging doors, horses clopping at a full gallop down the road, strange music that was more like the clamor of shorebirds than the sailors' tuneful songs from back home. The cats pressed close to the rough planked wall under a window and craned their necks up and around, inspecting the house.

“What now?” asked Anton. “We'll have to find a way in somehow.”

“Yup, that about sums it up,” said Cecil. He stood on his hind legs and peered in the low window, which was shut, his nose working along the sill. “Hmmm, smells good in there.”

“
You
think it smells good everywhere,” said Anton.

Cecil dropped down and shook his head. “Not over by those horses I didn't. Phew, that was awful.”

A shriek cut through the warm air, high and fluted like a train whistle, and Anton turned to look down the street. But the train had left the station; there was nothing on the tracks. And besides, the sound seemed to have come from over their heads, inside the house. How could that be?

They heard footsteps approaching from within.

“Get ready,” murmured Cecil, prodding Anton toward the door.

The door opened and closed quickly, and a little girl stepped onto the porch. She wore a long, many-layered dress and her blond hair was gathered with a silky blue ribbon. She walked over to a rocking chair and sat down, arranging the folds of her dress carefully, and began speaking in a pleasant voice. The cats watched her curiously.

“Who's she talking to?” whispered Cecil. “There's nobody else over there.”

“Not to us, I hope,” said Anton.

“No, she's looking down.” Cecil lifted his head to see better. “There's something in her lap.”

The girl held up the thing in her lap, and the cats saw a tiny version of the girl in her hands, complete with a miniature flouncy dress and ribboned hair.

“What shall we do today, dolly?” said the girl to the thing, stroking its yellow hair. “Shall we play with Merlin and Snowball?”

Anton nudged Cecil's shoulder. “What's she holding? I can't tell. A baby human?”

Cecil squinted. “I don't think so. I've seen those, and they wriggle. This is just one of those unmoving ones they play with.” He stood and stretched his back. “The human seems safe enough. I'm going to go make friends.”

“That's not what we're here to do!” whispered Anton as his brother sauntered across the porch.

Cecil approached the girl slowly with soft eyes, tail up. The girl saw him and squealed, tossing the doll down behind her and plopping to her knees in front of Cecil, her fingers extended.

“Kitty!” she said with delight. “Hello, what's your name?”

Cecil rubbed the side of his face along her hand and pressed against her legs as she rubbed his ears.

“Ooh, kitty,” crooned the girl. “You are a dirty one. Would you like a bath?”

Cecil was obviously enjoying the rubbing. He glanced over at Anton and sent him a satisfied smile. Anton scowled but said nothing.

“I like you, fluffy kitty,” the girl continued. “I think I'll keep you.” And she slid her hands under his belly, lifted him up, and tucked him under one arm. “Ooo, goodness! And I'll put you on a diet, too.”

Cecil yowled and squirmed mightily in her arms. His hind claws snagged in the layers of her skirts and quickly tore a hole in the fabric. The girl shrieked and flung Cecil down.

“You beast!” she cried, stamping one slippered foot. “You ripped my favorite dress!”

Cecil dashed off the porch and around the corner of the house, where Anton had already scampered.

“Well, so much for making
friends,
” said Anton as they trotted briskly into the tall grass behind the house.

“Hmph,” said Cecil. “I didn't care for her anyway. That squeaky voice would drive me crazy.”

“Yeah, I'll bet,” said Anton, smirking. “Plus those horrible rubbing fingers. Who could stand it?”

Cecil chuckled. “Anyway, I did manage to learn one piece of good news from those rubbing fingers.”

Anton looked at Cecil. “What's that?”

“He's in there,” Cecil said. “I know the scent of that blasted rodent, and he's in there. Alive.”

The brothers sat in a narrow alley between two buildings across the street, where they'd moved to survey the coyote house.

“Did you really think he might
not
be alive?” asked Anton.

Cecil shrugged. “I thought it was possible.” He looked sidelong at Anton. “Come on. You were worried too, weren't you?”

Anton had to admit that he was, terribly, and that even the worrying had worried him. “We've got to get in there right now,” he said fiercely.

“I agree,” said Cecil. “I'm starving, and they probably have food.”

Anton sighed. “So what's our plan?”

Cecil rubbed a paw over his face and smoothed his whiskers. “Okay. Unless we get lucky, we probably can't use the door. And the windows on the bottom are closed, so that's no good.”

Anton nodded, and his gaze moved to the upper floor of the house. There were windows up there, and he could see curtains moving in one of them, blown by the wind.

“What about up top?” he asked.

“Yep, that's our way in,” Cecil said. “Now, how to get to it?” He tracked backward from the house to its neighbors along the street, and finally to a tall, sprawling tree in the yard next to the third house down, and pointed a paw. “There's the answer. We climb that tree, jump from house to house on the rooftops, and drop down to the window on that ledge with the railing in front of it. Easy!” Cecil beamed.

“Easy?” snorted Anton. “We'll break our necks!”

“Come on, we're cats! It's what we
do
.”

“It's too risky.”

Cecil swished his tail impatiently. “You want to get in? This is the way we do it.”

Anton looked at the coyote-signed house once more, took a big breath and let it out in a long, worried gust. “Of course I want to get in. I do. But what if . . .” A fear greater than the rooftops had lodged in his brain. “What if we can't get out again? What if we become prisoners, too?”

Cecil met his eyes and nodded. “I know. We'll be careful. We'll stick together, like brother cats.” He stretched his back legs and started walking. “But he's in there, Anton, and he's waiting for us. You coming or not?”

Anton swallowed hard. They'd come so far. Hieronymus was probably in a house not fifty feet away. The mouse had called for help, and help had arrived. Anton got to his feet. “I'm coming.”

CHAPTER 12

Caged and Free

C
limbing the tree wasn't the hard part. The cats had sharp claws and strong legs, and the boughs of the tree reached out over the roof of the first house so they could drop onto it without too much trouble. Walking on the steep metal roof was tricky—they had to creep slowly and use the pads of their paws for traction.

The real challenge was the jumping.

“Okay,” said Cecil, gulping. “Here I go.” From the edge of the first roof, the distance to the second looked much farther than it had from the ground. And the ground was very far down.

Anton didn't reply. He was crouched, peering over the edge and trembling. Cecil fixed his eyes on the second roof. It was made of small overlapping wooden tiles, uneven but not as steep as the first. Cecil backed away from the edge and began a running start, but as he jumped he felt a stab of pain in his injured leg and he careened into the air, his arc too flat, stretching desperately and catching the second roof with only his front claws.

“Cecil!” cried Anton. “Hang on!”

Cecil's back legs flailed until he gripped the planked wall underneath, then he hauled himself up paw over paw to the rooftop, dislodging a few tiles as he went. He leaped to his feet and turned to Anton, smiling in spite of his leg. “Not bad, eh?” he called across. “Come on, you'll be fine.”

Anton set his back feet carefully against a rusted spot in the metal, coiled his muscles, and sprang across the gap in an artful, cat-like bound.

“Wow! Nicely done.” Cecil pounced on Anton's tail to keep him from tumbling off the roof after his not-so-artful landing, and they got to their feet again. Clambering quickly across the rough wooden tiles, they reached the edge and were checking the distance to the third roof—the coyote house roof—when the door on the porch swung open below them. They stepped back and flattened down, peeking over the edge to see who was coming out.

It was the girl again, wearing a different dress and clutching the doll in one arm, a man and woman on either side of her. The man shut the door with a boom behind them, and the three people strolled out to the street and down the block out of sight, the girl yammering all the while in a whining, unhappy tone.

“That's good, at least,” said Anton. “The fewer humans the better.”

“Agreed,” said Cecil. “So, about this next jump.”

“Yes?” Anton put his paws close to the edge and looked across. “That roof is much flatter than this one, right?”

“Right, but you see how it's also
lower
than this one?”

Anton nodded. “So, easier to jump down to.”

“True.” Cecil glanced at Anton. “But also impossible to jump
up from
. So once we jump, we can't get back this way. We either have to get in through the window or . . .” They both looked at the ground again.

“Got it,” said Anton grimly. “I'll go first this time.”

He coiled again and bounded onto the third roof, managing to stay on his feet. Cecil landed next to him with a thud, and they both moved to the front edge facing the street. They positioned themselves above the open window, crouched low, and pricked up their ears to listen.

What they heard surprised them very much.

First came the sound of a bell, clear and loud, reverberating out through the window. Anton and Cecil looked at each other. Then came the clip-clop of a horse trotting by, again from inside the house. Next they heard a man's voice.

Nothing but cattle rustlers and horse thieves, I tell you,
drawled the voice, though the words meant nothing to the listening felines
. Call in the cavalry!

Cecil's heart jumped. It was clearly a human talking, which would complicate the rescue effort.

Another voice sang out, high-pitched like a lady's.
It'll be a hoedown. A shindig. A grand old time!

Cecil shook his head. “There must be a whole crowd in there,” he whispered.

Anton nodded miserably. “I'll take a look.”

Very carefully, Anton leaned over the edge of the roof and peered, upside down, into the window. He hung there for a moment, then pulled up quickly, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

“I saw him!” said Anton. “I saw Hieronymus. He's alive! He's in a cage on a table. But . . .” He paused.

“But what?” Cecil asked, impatient.

“But the only other creature in the room is a bird.”

“A bird?” repeated Cecil. “What kind of bird?”

“A big gray one, hooked beak and talons, the usual. It's perched on top of a hanging cage. But I couldn't see any humans at all.”

“That's impossible,” whispered Cecil. “Who's doing the talking?”

At that moment they heard a familiar voice, one they could understand. “Truly outstanding work, Dayo, but would you be so kind as to give it a rest for a while? Your racket is giving me a headache.” It was Hieronymus.

Anton's eyes lit up. “That's him! He must be talking to the bird.”

“My friend,” replied a hollow, squawking voice that the cats understood as well, “it's not ‘racket.' You know Miss Betsy loves my speaking, and I have to practice. Why don't you get some exercise? You're getting chubby.” Then came the unintelligible human voice again:
Back in the saddle, boys! Round 'em up and move 'em out!
They heard Hieronymus groan, and then a soft whirring sound.

Cecil leaned over slowly and carefully, as Anton had done, until he could see into the lower part of the room. Hieronymus was indeed trapped in a large white cage with thin, close-set bars. A tiny bowl of water and another filled with small pellets sat on the floor of the cage, which was scattered with strips of newspaper. The whirring sound came from the only thing moving in the cage—a small freestanding wheel, suspended upright, which spun wildly as the mouse himself ran and ran along its inside track.

Cecil leaned a little farther, looking for the bird. It was large, though not as big as the owl in the first train station, and well-groomed, with gray, scalloped feathers layered from its rounded head down to its elegant tail, where a single stripe of red feathers flared stylishly. Its eyes were perfectly round, black in the center with white rims, and sat on either side of a large black beak. It cocked its head as it gazed down at Hieronymus from its cage-top perch, and then it opened its mouth and emitted an exact duplicate of the whirring sound.

Cecil whispered to Anton, “It's the bird. The bird makes the sounds.”

Anton brought his head down next to Cecil's so they hung side by side, peering in. The bird lifted one taloned foot into the air theatrically and recited,
Never squat with your spurs on, son
.

“I've never seen a bird do that before,” said Anton.

“The bird could stand on its head and ride a horse, for all I care,” muttered Cecil. “Those talons and that beak are what worry me.”

Before Anton could respond, an earsplitting scream filled the room. The bird had spotted the cats.

“Oh, my beak and tail feathers!” the bird screeched. “Hieronymus, run!”

The mouse stopped cold on his wheel. “I
was
running, Dayo. What's wrong?”

“Lions! Two lion cubs at the window!”

Hieronymus leaped from the wheel and spun to the window in terror. He squinted at the two suspended heads and stood still, his tiny forepaws slack at his sides. Then he came alive again and hurried to the edge of the cage and gripped the bars.

“At last!” he cried out, weeping and laughing at the same time. “You found me!”

The cats dropped down to the ledge and climbed onto the sill. “We found you!” whooped Anton as he and Cecil squeezed through the opening and landed on the floor below.

Dayo flapped his wings in agitation, causing the hanging cage to jounce and swing from side to side, which made the bird flap even more. “
Off my land, cowboy!
” he shrieked incoherently.

“Uh oh,” said Cecil, looking up.

Dayo flung himself off the perch and dive-bombed the cats. Gray feathers poofed in all directions as he dropped through the air, swiping Cecil with his wings as he passed. He pulled up sharply and landed in a muddle on a bookshelf. Anton and Cecil darted under a low sofa and peeked out warily.

“Sheesh, nice to meet you, too!” called Cecil, shaking his head. He looked at Anton. “What is it with birds, anyway? Why all the craziness?”

“Dayo!” cried Hieronymus from his cage, as loudly as he could muster. “Stop that right now! These are not lions. They are my friends!”

The bird righted himself and swooped to the back of the sofa where Anton and Cecil were hiding.

“They belong to the
cat
family—anyone can see that!” said Dayo, pacing across the sofa, his talons plucking at the fabric. “And a
cat
is friend to neither bird nor mouse.”

“You got the
bird
part right, anyway,” grumbled Cecil. Anton shushed him.

“CATS, get out immediately!” ordered Dayo shrilly, and turned to the mouse. “I'm protecting you, Hieronymus. You can thank me later.” He nervously plucked a few of his feathers and flung them into the air.

“I shall not thank you at all, Dayo,” Hieronymus huffed. “These are my cat friends and I trust them completely. They have come a very long way to rescue me from
this
.” And he gestured at the cage around him.

Dayo clucked and paced. “They'll eat you, you silly mouse. I know they will. They'll eat me too if I let my guard down.”

Cecil surveyed the room and called to Hieronymus dryly. “Say, old pal, didn't we hear on the mouse network that you were being held in a dungeon by an evil witch and guarded by a dragon? Kind of an exaggeration, wasn't it?”

“A
dragon
?” squawked Dayo, insulted.

Hieronymus blinked. “Oh, dear me. That's not the message I sent.”

“You sent a
message
?” screeched the bird.

“All right, everybody calm down, please,” said Anton, his voice muffled by the sofa. “So, Dayo, let's get properly introduced. You are a . . . what?”

Dayo's eyes narrowed and he cocked his head. “Is this some sort of cat trick?”

“No trick,” said Anton. “I really want to know.”

Dayo hesitated, chewing one claw. “I'm a parrot. An African gray parrot, if you must know.”

“Ah, and handsome you are, in your . . . grayness,” said Anton. Cecil rolled his eyes. “And you have a talent for making noises, is that right?” Anton asked.

The parrot stretched his ruffled neck and preened his feathers with his beak. “Why, yes. I can imitate many sounds. I do have a talent for it.”

Hieronymus caught Anton's eye and nodded in understanding. “Show them your speaking, Dayo,” he encouraged the parrot.

Dayo produced a pleased rolling trill and flew across to the table next to Hieronymus's cage. He eyed the cats distrustfully, then cleared his throat and opened his beak.
Round up the posse, boys!
he spoke in a deep, rough voice.

Anton poked his head out, his mouth hanging open. “But that's human language!”

“It is,” said Dayo, strutting up and down.

“What does it mean?” asked Cecil.

“I've no idea. All I know is that every time I speak for them, I get a cracker.”

Cecil looked at Hieronymus in surprise. “Is that true?”

Hieronymus sighed and nodded. “Every single time.”

“Wow,” said Cecil grudgingly. “Neat trick.”

“We've never met a creature who could speak human before,” said Anton, creeping out from under the sofa. “Impressive.”

“Why, thank you,” said Dayo, bowing slightly. “It is really a gift.”

“Will you speak some more for us?” Anton slipped across the floor, moving smoothly toward the table.

Hieronymus kept one eye on Anton and chimed in. “Yes, a little more, please,” he said, gesturing furtively to Cecil to come out as well.

Cecil could see that Anton was headed for the cage and that Dayo was still a dangerous obstacle. They needed a distraction. He paced along the floor, his eyes fixed on the parrot, waiting for an opportunity.

“Oh, well, I . . .” began Dayo.

A door slammed downstairs and the creatures froze. There was a beat of silence.

The cats whipped into action. Cecil vaulted straight up to the table in front of Dayo, driving the parrot into the air and back up to its perch, where it clung to its cage in shock. Anton leaped to the table as well and began searching Hieronymus's cage for a door.

“Here, Anton, it's over here,” called Hieronymus. “But I don't know how it works! I've tried gnawing it, believe me, but it does no good.”

Cecil could hear the family walking downstairs. The little girl would probably come up to check on her pets. Anton would need to work quickly.

“There's a latch, do you see?” said Hieronymus, hopping from one foot to the other and wringing his tail. Anton hooked his claws around the wire bars and pulled, but the door held fast. He jabbed at the latch with his paw.

Dayo watched the cage, angling his head this way and that and muttering. “This is outrageous. You can't just take Hieronymus.” He plucked more feathers. “I can't let you take him. I should sound the alarm. Of course! That's my job, that's what I'll do.” And he cleared his throat.

The cats exchanged a glance, and Cecil whirled to Dayo.

“Hey, bird,” he called quickly, racking his brain. “Listen. Why don't you . . . come with us, instead? Fly in the sky, be free.”

Dayo stared down at Cecil. “Be free?” He cocked his head and jutted his beak forward.

Cecil nodded, smiling. “Wouldn't that be great? Just let us get out of here, and we'll help you get out too.” He flicked his tail toward Hieronymus. “Do it for your friend, here.”

“But,” Dayo said, bobbing his head anxiously, “Miss Betsy would want us to stay.”