New Title 32 (37 page)

And the wheel of life is what brought us here today. Just before dawn on the winter solstice, about twenty of us gathered at the top of Red Rocks amphitheater. We were there to drum, dance, and sing up the sun, welcoming the start of the New Year and the 14th bak’tun.

As a rule, Denver doesn’t have white Christmases, the notable exceptions being the blizzards of 1982 and 2006. Nor do we tend to have white winter solstices, but this year we did, and the predawn hours in late December were damn cold.

Rose was the only one dressed for dancing, but we clapped and cheered her on through five or six songs about the sun or sunrise. Being a Dragon, Rose was immune to the cold and could have danced the rest of the morning, while the rest of us mere Humans were ready to leave far sooner.

With the sun well up and everyone ready for coffee and breakfast, we walked back to the upper parking lot. Our cars were just as we left them.

Well, sort of.

“What the frak?” Ember pointed toward our car. “When did you two get a cat?”

“We don’t have a cat,” I said.

Ember moved to the side and pointed again. The rear passenger door of our Range Rover was partially open, giving us a good view of the seat and the cat perched on it. “Something tells me you do.”

“Pretty sure we don’t.” I knelt and pulled the door open, while Rose peered over my shoulder. The space that was supposed to be empty was unquestionably occupied by a highly factual feline. I stared at him for a moment, but he showed no signs of Cheshiring off anytime soon. I had no idea what to say, so I stuck with the incredibly obvious. “Huh. It is a cat.”

Rose said, “In a hat.”

The cat flicked his tail. He was wearing a worn leather drover’s hat, and the faded, cracked remains of a sky-blue leather collar. Bright green eyes peered out at us from under the brim of his hat. A jagged scar pulled his lip up into a permanent sneer, and a dried stem of catnip dangled through his exposed teeth. He looked to be little more than bone under thin, worn-down flesh. Whatever color nature had given to his fur was long-since bleached away, leaving him an irregular patchwork of brown, grey, and tan, mostly due to the dirt and sand encrusting his fur.

I looked around and asked, “I don’t suppose he came up here with one of you?” All around the circle, people shook their heads. I stepped back and opened the car door all the way. “Sorry, buddy, but this isn’t your ride.”

Ember snickered. “Oh, yeah, that’s telling him.”

The cat stayed where he was, staring out from under the brim of his hat. The catnip stem twitched, and nothing more. I started thinking of places where I could get my hands on a water pistol.

Rose stepped up and tapped me on the shoulder. “Let me try.” I moved aside and she knelt to look the cat in the eyes. “We’re not the right family for you,” she said. “See if someone else here will take you home.” I know cats don’t understand English, but with the magic of the imperative form, that shouldn’t matter.

The cat started to stand up, shook his head, and settled back into position. Rose tried again, speaking Draconic this time. The cat flicked an ear at her.

Rose sat back on her heels. “I don’t think he’s an ordinary cat. Maybe we should give him a chance.”

“Fine,” I said. “He gets a chance. But not here. Let’s get into town and get some breakfast. I’ll buy him some chow and we can toss around theories. Starting with how he got a locked car door open.” I looked at the thin layer of snow and frost covering the parking lot, crisp and clear and even. Our footprints and tire tracks were obvious, but the area was singularly devoid of cat prints. It didn’t prove anything, but it was something else to consider. It wouldn’t be the first time I caught a cat teleporting.

Miriam asked, “Is he wearing any tags or anything?”

“I don’t see any,” I said. “I’ll try to check his collar.” He didn’t look hostile or feral, but I still took my time and watched for any sudden change in demeanor. The only identifying mark I found was the faded remains of the number thirteen embossed on his collar. He tolerated the search, but made it clear he didn’t like to be touched. At least he agreed to move to a blanket-lined box long enough for us to drive over to the diner.

The cat breezed past the SERVICE ANIMALS ONLY sign and hopped up on the window ledge next to our table. The waitress flipped to a new ticket and asked who was paying for his breakfast.

I looked at the cat and asked, “Scrambled eggs and sausage?”

He nodded. He stuck one paw out and tapped the window ledge twice.

“Two of each?” I asked.

He nodded again.

The waitress’s name tag said
Retta
. I smiled at her and shrugged. “Two eggs, scrambled, with two sausages cut up and mixed in. Put it on our bill.”

Retta looked at the cat. “You want anything to drink, honey? Milk, water, soda, hot coffee?”

The cat shook his head, and then flexed one paw and tossed his head back.

“Six bucks for a shot of Jack,” Retta said. “You going to pay for that, too?”

“Sure, why not.” I shook my head at the cat. “You’re an expensive date, buddy.”

“A shot of Jack Daniels in a saucer coming up.” Retta looked at me and added, “Don’t you be letting that cat drive home after this.”

“Not a chance,” I said. “He lost his license over catnip abuse.”

Once our food was delivered, the cat polished off his breakfast and started nosing around, collecting leftovers and bringing them back to his plate. I looked him over as he made short work of a blueberry pancake and shook my head. “Pretty clever, cat. You picked the biggest bunch of suckers you could find. What’s the next step in your master plan?”

The cat ignored me and went back to looking out the window. Around us, the conversations went on, eventually turning to our hopes for the New Year and the new age of the world.

One of the regulars, a weathered fellow who looked to be in his sixties, kept eyeing Vickie and the harp case sitting on the floor next to her. Being both a teacher and a born performer, she gave him the Smile of Charming Coins Out of Many Pockets. “Sir, did you want to hear something?”

He nodded. “I do, but, I don’t know what it is. My grandfather was from Kerry. He used to tell me fantastic bedtime stories, about Irish heroes and ladies and such. One he told me was about a prince taken away by a woman who had a head of gold. He always said it was proof blondes were trouble, even in the old days.” He laughed, but the emotion running through the deep places in his heart was plain to see. “All I remember is the part about the hounds. Hounds that can outrun the wind. It’s not much, but…” His voice trailed off, but the hope in it was sincere.

Vicki set her harp on the edge of her seat. “I think I know the tale you mean,” she said. “
The Lay of Oisin in the Land of Youth
. The great warrior Finn and his son Oisin were hunting, when they met a beautiful woman, Niamh of the Head of Gold. She sang to them of her father’s kingdom, Tír na nÓg, asking Oisin to live with her there.” Vicki touched her nails to the wire strings and added, “This was her song.”

“Delightful is the land beyond all dreams,

Fairer than aught thine eyes have ever seen.

There all the year the fruit is on the tree,

And all the year the bloom is on the flower.”

“There with wild honey drip the forest trees;

The stores of wine and mead shall never fail.

Not pain nor sickness knows the dweller there,

Death and decay come near him never more.”

“The feast shall cloy not, nor the chase shall tire,

Nor music cease forever through the hall;

The gold and jewels of the Land of Youth

Outshine all splendors ever dreamed by man.”

“Thou shalt have horses of the fairy breed,

Thou shalt have hounds that can outrun the wind;

A hundred chiefs shall follow thee in war,

A hundred maidens sing thee to thy sleep.”

“A crown of sovereignty thy brow shall wear,

And by thy side a magic blade shall hang.

Thou shalt be lord of all the Land of Youth,

And lord of Niamh of the Head of Gold.”

When she finished, the applause was subdued, but few eyes in the room were dry. The fellow who had asked for the song had a faraway look in his eyes as he looked at the menus on his phone. “Have to have my daughter help me put this on the Intertubes. Want my grandson to see it.” He set a twenty on the table and said, “I can’t thank you enough, miss, but I can buy you breakfast. Thank you again.” He shrugged into his coat and donned a sweat-marked Stetson before heading out into the morning cold.

I didn’t notice at first, but during Vicki’s song, the cat started pawing at the fogged-over glass. I glanced over, but it looked to me like any of the “finger-painting cat” videos you can find on the Internet. He finally got tired of it and sat down, leaving the window covered with lines and whorls.

“That’s pretty cool,” Ember said. “Think he’ll hold still while I get a picture of it?”

“You know cats,” I said. “Give it a shot. Are random paw marks classed as art now?”

“They’re not random,” Ember said. “It’s a dog.”

It took me looking at it from a new angle to see it, but, damn, she was right. It was recognizably a German Shepherd.

Ember skipped the usual cell phone camera and pulled her digital out of her purse. She took half a dozen shots and the damn cat posed like a furry Van Gogh for all of them. She scratched the cat under his jaw and asked, “What are you going to call him?”

Rose said, “Lunch.”

“Don’t be mean,” Ember said. “Was there anything on his collar?”

“Just the number thirteen.” I looked at the cat again and shrugged. “It’s not the greatest name in the world, but it’s better than nothing. What do you think, cat? Once for yes, twice for no.”

The cat looked at Rose and then back to me. “
Mrow
.”

I nodded. “Thirteen it is, then.”

Ember leaned forward, studying Thirteen’s paws. “Oh, wow—look at his feet. He’s a Hemingway.”

I looked at his feet and then back at Ember. “Um, what?” I asked, with as much dignity as I could muster.

“Ernest Hemingway got a six-toed cat named Snowball when he was living in Key West, and that cat’s descendants still live at the museum there.” Ember pointed to Thirteen’s paws again. “He’s got six toes on each foot, just like the Hemingway cats.”

“Really? I’ve never seen one before.” Miriam brought her phone over to the table and took a few pictures. She used some bits of sausage to keep Thirteen bribed as she turned his paws over. Her eyebrows went up and I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, my…” she said. She picked up her phone again and took more pictures.

“Find something interesting?” I asked.

“His bone structure is wrong,” she said. “It’s more than polydactylism. His rear paws are feline, but his front paws are closer to a raccoon’s bone structure than a cat’s. I’m not an expert, but I think this is more than a random mutation. Hell, it’s got to be more than selective breeding.”

I smiled. “Cool. I’ve always wanted some mad scientist’s genetic experiment for a pet.”

Miriam sat back. “A creature with this much time invested in him isn’t going to be anyone’s pet. I think the smart money is on someone looking for him.”

“Let’s find out,” I said. I looked over at Thirteen and asked, “Is anyone looking for you? Big, scary aliens? Exotic princesses? Pirate babe with a heart of gold? Evil overlord hell-bent on taking over the world?”

Thirteen yawned.

Frakking cat.

Rose said, “What are you asking him for? If he is a fugitive, he’s not going to tell you the truth anyway.”

“He is if he wants to come home with us.” I wagged my finger at Thirteen and said, “You listen to me, mister. You be straight with us, and you get three hots and a cot. You don’t, you’re off to do hard time at the Dumb Friends League.
Wakarimasu ka, neko-san
?”

Miriam said, “What are you doing? Cats don’t understand Japanese.”

“I suppose next you’ll be telling me deer don’t read deer-crossing signs.” I sighed. “Do we have a deal, cat?”

He yawned.

Typical. No cat, anywhere, ever gave anyone a straight answer.

“All right,” I said. “There’s a twenty-four-hour vet hospital near our house. You get a ride that far, and then you’re someone else’s problem.”

Thirteen swished his tail. “
Mrowr-urr
.”

Frakking cat.

He’s Only Mostly Dead

The vet tech’s name tag said,
Robin
. She took her stethoscope out of her ears and said, “Mr. Fraser, this cat shouldn’t be alive.”

“Oh, good,” I said. “If he’s dead, I don’t have to pay for shots, right?” I gave her the most obnoxious used-car-salesman smile I could muster. “Do you think a zombie cat would be enough to get me on Letterman?”

“He’s not actually dead,” Robin replied. “Not completely, anyway.”

“So he’s only mostly dead.” I shrugged. “Well, that’s good, because otherwise I’d be stuck with going through his pockets for loose change, and he doesn’t have any pockets.”

The tech put her stethoscope away and backed out the staff door to the exam room. “Please stay here,” she said. “I’ll get Dr. Byers to come in and talk to you.” She pulled the door closed behind her, leaving Rose and I alone with our temporary—and only mostly-dead—cat. For his part, Thirteen folded his paws under himself and began doing a great impression of a meatloaf.

“Why are you teasing that poor child?” Rose asked. “She’s already terrified of Thirteen.”

“I don’t like doctors who think they know everything,” I said. “I had to deal with people like that over and over again when Mom first got her diagnosis. All these doctors telling her what she was doing wrong and how long she was going to live, talking about treatment protocols as though she were a small variable in a huge static equation. It took her a year to get the team she has now together. It may just be for pain management, but they treat her like a person instead of a case number. They don’t agree with her decision, but they respect it and take care of her.”