The Catbyrd Seat (3 page)

“Yes…yes….just say yes…” Cociel begged, his hands clasped together in front of him.

“Yes!” Mr. Byrd cried. “I’ll say yes!”

“Yes!” Cociel flung his arms around the parakeet’s neck and hugged him.

Mr. Byrd flapped his wings and flew them both into the air and together, and they fluttered and danced around the room.

“Yes, yes, yes,” they chanted, in between giggles.

It wasn’t until much later, once Cociel had gone, that Mr. Byrd began to wonder what on earth it was he’d gotten himself into.

Much to Mr. Byrd’s amazement, when Piggles heard about the plan later on that evening, she didn’t laugh or say that he was crazy. She was somewhat surprised, but other than that, she was excited and incredibly supportive.

“That’s brilliant news,” she squeaked. “I think you’ll make a great politician.”

“You do?” Mr. Byrd asked with some apprehension.

“Yes, and I’ll help you. You’ll need some campaign managers.”

“Cociel said he would do most of the work within the Reservation, to drum up support.”

“Yes, and I’m sure he will, but you’re going to need as much help as you can get to defeat someone like Whiska.”

Mr. Byrd knew she was right, of course. It was a daunting challenge. He understood the plight of the mice well enough, but he was intimidated at the thought of what lay ahead, and stumped by his own inability to express himself.

“Will I have to make a speech?” he asked timidly.

“I’m sure you probably will at some point, yes,” she nodded. “But I can help you write it, if you like.”

“You will?”

“Of course. And we can make fliers, and posters, and leaflets with all the information on them. Maybe even some badges and T-shirts. Goodness me, this is so exciting.” Piggles was on a roll as she reeled off a list of suggestions, even going so far as to grab a pen and piece of paper to write some of them down. “We’ll need a Campaign HQ,” she decided, writing that onto the list.

“Won’t here do?” asked Mr. Byrd lightly. “Here at The Book Factory?”

“This is a lovely place, Mr. Byrd. But no, it simply won’t do. You need somewhere closer to the action. You need somewhere actually inside the Mouse Reservation itself.”

“How on earth are we going to do that?” he asked with a gasp.

“Leave it to me,” said Piggles with a crafty smile, tapping her nose with her trotter.

***

“Oh wow, that’s amazing, Cossy! I’d definitely vote for Mr. Byrd!”

Tails reaction was exactly what Cociel had been expecting, as was the reaction from Davetil, his father:

“Mr. Byrd’s a nice fellow, but he’s mad to try and stand against Whiska, and you shouldn’t have encouraged him, Cociel.”

Still, at least he had one mouse on his side already, and he wasn’t going to let his Dad’s words put him off as he went about his business that following day, wandering round the Reservation with a smile on his face and telling everyone the excellent news.

The majority of the residents were surprised and disbelieving.

“He’ll never win!”

“That’s madness, pure madness!”

“Suicide!”

“Does he want to be arrested?”

“What a waste of time!”

“Nobody can ever beat Whiska. We might as well just give up.”

All common responses that Cociel heard repeated in one form or another time and time again but, even among the negatives, there were a few that held out some more hope.

“I’d like to vote for him,” said one elderly resident of Section B. “I’ve known Mr. Byrd for a few years now, and he’s a good chap.”

“Well, now you’re going to get your chance,” smiled Cociel encouragingly. “His name will be on the ballot next to Whiska. All you have to do is put a cross next to it.”

The old mouse shook his head fearfully. “I daren’t.”

“Why not?”

“Have you ever been to Polling Day, young lad?”

“No,” said Cociel. “I’ve always been too young. This year, I’m allowed, though.”

“Well, you don’t know then. The cats are always there. They’re always there, watching over your shoulder, watching every move you make.”

“Why do they need to be there if there’s only ever Whiska’s name on the ballot?” laughed Cociel.

“To make sure mice don’t spoil the ballots in protest, or write rude things on them about Whiska. Someone did that one year, and there was quite a fuss about it, you know. Since then, they’ve really cracked down. Everyone is watched as they cast their vote.”

“But… they can’t do that,” Cociel protested. “That’s…undemocratic.” Even as he said the word, he realized how pathetic he sounded. Of course it was undemocratic. Everything about the system they lived under was undemocratic. It was no surprise that the cats would be there on Polling Day, hanging over everyone’s shoulders. Still, it would pose a problem if he wanted to encourage voters to have the confidence to mark their vote next to Mr. Byrd’s name.

That was why he then made a promise he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to keep.

“That’s not going to happen this year,” he blurted out.

“Oh?”

“No. Because someone from the Mr. Byrd campaign team will be there to ensure that everyone gets to cast their vote anonymously. The cats will not see who votes for who and, as such, there will be no fear of reprisals after the election, no matter what the outcome.”

***

“WHAT?!” Mr. Byrd screeched once Cociel had passed on the news. “How can we promise that? You know we can’t promise that!”

Thankfully, Piggles was there to calm him down, and she had a positive word to say on the subject. “Actually, I think we can. All we need to do is get more people on our side, and make sure that they all get down to the polling station on Polling Day. If we’re out in force, the cats wouldn’t dare to play any dirty tricks.”

“Exactly,” Cociel agreed with a grin, clapping Piggles on the back.

The three of them had agreed to a campaign meeting, now that Piggles was officially on board, too. She had really thrown herself into the idea, and had compiled a full and complete list that Cociel poured over eagerly, as they divided the tasks between them.

“If you campaign in Sections A and B, I’ll take Sections C and D,” he offered. “I live in C so I know the mice there, and my friend Tails lives in Section D.”

“I think the mice in Section D should be the easiest to win around, considering they’re the ones about to be thrown out of their homes,” said Mr. Byrd.

“You would hope so,” said Cociel.

“What about registering then?” asked Piggles. “Now that we’ve decided what the plan is, and how the campaign is to be run, don’t we need to actually register Mr. Byrd as a candidate to ensure he gets his name on the ballot papers.”

Cociel hadn’t actually thought that far ahead, about the logistics of the whole thing. “Er yes. Yes, we do.”

“And?” Piggles looked at him expectantly.

“And… what?”

“And… you’re the mouse, you’re the one who lives there and knows the politics of the area more than we do. Who would we need to see or talk to, to get Mr. Byrd’s name on the ballot paper?”

Cociel hesitated, then gulped. “Er… er… that would be Whiska,” he mumbled.

***

“WHAAAAAT?!”

It was the second time that day Cociel had heard that particular word yelled down his ear, only this time it was with a considerable amount more venom and hatred. The end result was a face full of cat spittle as Whiska screamed at him.

“Y-yes, s-sir,” Cociel stammered over his words, trying to be as respectful as possible to his enemy, simply to ensure he didn’t get thrown into prison before the campaign had even begun. “Th-this is a…a d-democratic and free election, sir, is it not?”

“Yes, of course it is,” said a silky smooth voice from the back of the Kennel, as Whiska paced angrily up and down the vast space of the Inner Hall, his tail swishing back and forth in distaste.

Cociel looked up in the direction of the voice, and saw another cat emerge from an archway; a recognizable feline whom everyone in Huntsville was familiar with.

It was Samantha; a beautiful long-haired tortoiseshell and the second in line to the throne. She was the daughter of Nine Lives and younger sister to her idiotic elder brother Strip, who was due to be King after Nine Lives passed. She was definitely the more intelligent of the pair. Cociel had recognized that in her, simply from her few appearances in the public eye a royal. She had a kindness in her eyes and a soft, gentle manner of speaking, and she didn’t come across as brutal or violent like some of her compatriots.

“Whiska,” she addressed the Prime Minister. “There is absolutely no reason why Mr. Byrd cannot stand against you in the elections.”

“I never said there was,” Whiska spluttered, apoplectic with rage. “Do not interfere with political business!”

“Do not make me interfere with political business,” Samantha shot right back. Whiska knew only too well that she had the power to intervene if she really wanted to. The royal family could, at any moment, put their foot down and call a halt to the entirety of Whiska’s corrupt rule. But none of them ever did. That was why he was glad Strip was next in line rather than Samantha. Strip was on his side, and the two of them were close friends.

“It’s just ridiculous for them to think that a stupid parakeet like Mr. Byrd could possibly win against me, their wonderful leader, whom they all look up to and admire,” said Whiska, arrogantly sticking his nose into the air.

“Pff,” Samantha scoffed and swished her tail, then disappeared through the archways at the back again. “I’m listening, Whiska. And watching.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Whiska snorted. “Nobody tells me what to do. Get out!” He snapped at Cociel.

The frightened mouse stood his ground. He needed to know that things were in hand and sorted before he left the Kennel of Parliament.

“So um… d-does that mean… Mr. Byrd’s name will be on the ballot?” he asked, still slightly timid but regaining his old cocky confidence back the longer he was around Whiska. It was the first time he’d met the Prime Minister, and he didn’t find him all that intimidating anymore. He was just glad Grady wasn’t around. “Is he…officially registered?”

“Consider him officially registered,” answered Whiska, turning his back. “But don’t expect this to be the end of it. Now get out!”

Cociel didn’t need to be told twice. He turned on his heels and raced out of the Kennel. The door through the fence was held open by the two guard lions, and he got on his bike, which he had abandoned outside, and dashed off back in the direction of home, wanting to tell his father the good news, whether he approved of it or not.

It was safe to say that Whiska wasn’t pleased by the challenge that Mr. Byrd proposed.

As soon as Cociel had left, he sent out a Postal Ferret to all members of Parliament, recalling them in for an emergency meeting and session. He even invited one mouse to attend, a middle aged and very middle class mouse by the name of Ruskie.

Rotund with a quiet, nervous voice, Ruskie was occasionally gruff and bad tempered. He owned half the homes on the reservation, including the majority of the abandoned ones in Section D, and he had always been very firmly on the side of the cats. They took care of him, made sure he always had enough to eat, and occasionally invited him to their parties, all in a clever (and very effective) move to keep him on their side. Now, it was time for him to repay that kindness.

“The mice will listen to you,” said Whiska. “You’re one of them. We need you to encourage everyone to vote for me, and not Mr. Byrd. Change is bad. Why do we need change here at the Reservation? We have everything we need. Mr. Byrd will not run things any better than I do. In fact, he will be worse. How can a bird know about the interest of the mice? A cat, on the other hand, is an expert in mice. Mr. Byrd is not to be trusted. He is an outsider coming into our community. Whiska is a great leader and everybody loves him. These are the essential points you must put across, drum them home in the minds of the mice and make them believe it.”

“Oh, I will, I will,” Ruskie assured the Prime Minister. “It won’t be difficult. Most mice in the Reservation are very reluctant to change. They are set in their ways and accept things the way they are. If anyone can persuade them to vote for cat rule, it’s me, sir. You’ve chosen the right man for the job.” He bowed in an over-the-top and unnecessary fashion, as if to further prove his loyalty to Whiska.

“Very good,” purred the PM, enjoying the fawning attention he was getting. “And you, Grady…” He turned to his loyal enforcer. “What can you offer me?”

“In my opinion, m’Lord,” said Grady in his scratchy, rough accent. “The best form of persuasion has always been fear and bullying. But if Ruskie wants to do things his way, I’ll do things my way. I’ll go round every Section of the Reservation and make sure everyone is too afraid to even think of voting for that Mr. Byrd.”

“Good,” Whiska chuckled darkly. “Very good, Grady.”

“And you can count on my help too,” said someone else, emerging through the crowds of Parliamentarians.

It was Strip, the Prince and future heir to the throne.

Strip didn’t know much about politics, but he did know one thing – he didn’t want the mice to have any power, because that might threaten his position as future heir. He was perfectly happy with the way things were. It suited him and his extreme laziness down to the ground. He had all the power of being a Royal but without any of the responsibility, because Whiska was the one in charge.

“I’ll be your campaign manager,” he offered. “With the Prince backing you, you’ll definitely get more votes. I’ll even get out there and talk to some of the mice myself, tell them what a great cat you are and how you’re the best PM for the job.”