Thomasina - The Cat Who Thought She Was God (19 page)

And then I knew. I had never seen him in this life before, but it was he of my doom-dream, he the red monster, the slayer of cats, upon whom lay the curse of Bubastis. Doom lay across his brow, and yet it was I who was filled to the marrow of my bones with fear.

He had not yet seen me when I crossed the distance from the house to the tree with one bound and the next moment I was clawing my way up the tree, nor did I stop until I was lost in the very topmost branches, so high that I could no longer see or hear what transpired below. And there I remained until the setting of the sun and the drawing in of the night.

Yes, I, Bast-Ra, a goddess, succumbed to the fear of a mortal man and fled from him. Nor was I able to say why this had happened.

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N
ow that he was there, Mr. MacDhui was beginning to feel something of a fool. During the long march up through the glen along the narrow track from the spot where he had had to park his jeep, there had been time to reflect upon what his friend Peddie had said about the figure he might cut in court. Thus the forthcoming spectacle of himself in the midst of a woods, bullying some creature who was touched in the head and hardly responsible for her actions, did not appear to him to be very attractive either.

Nevertheless there was his sense of duty toward his profession, and if farmers took to sending their sick cattle or sheep to this half-witted woman, there would be an end to the discipline he had installed in the valley.

But by the time MacDhui had reached sight of Lori’s cottage and outbuildings and paused to reconnoiter, his anger managed to reassert itself, defensively in a sense, for he resented the eeriness of the feeling the place gave him.

He took in the silent cottage with the blinds and curtains drawn, sleeping in the cool and gloom of the forest of oak, pine, larches, and old smooth beeches, but which yet was surrounded by an intensity of wildlife, heard rather than seen, which was startling. The house slumbered at the heart of the rustle and whir of myriads of forest creatures.

He glimpsed the cottontails of a pair of hares disappearing from the open space in front of the house; a squirrel scolded, hidden somewhere above his head. Birds went into nervous wheelings and chirpings, in flashes of color about the chimney and eaves at his intrusion, and something large went flapping off through the forest aisles on the slapping beat of powerful wings, laughing to itself.

MacDhui paused now before the giant oak, from the lowest branch of which hung the silver bell with the pull rope tied to its clapper. And he was furious with himself that he did not march forthwith and stoutly to the door of the cottage and pound upon it with his knuckles, or yank at a bell pull if there were one, in the manner of custom and civilization. But neither the house nor its surroundings invited such brazen intrusion. Quietly and effectively it had cast its spell over him so that he did nothing but stand there, uncertain and fuming, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket.

A moment later he recalled that the Reverend Angus Peddie, who believed not in witches but in an unseen, all-powerful Creator and Director of the universe, had given him directions as to how to come to grips with the woman who was the center of this little forest mystery, and thrusting his head and shoulders forward with something of his former aggressive truculence, he pulled hard upon the bell rope.

The sweetness and brightness of the shivery note of the vibrating metal startled him, as well as causing the birds to whir and flutter more loudly. A roe deer appeared at the edge of the forest and for a moment her liquid eyes stared curiously into his before she turned and galloped away. But there was no other response.

Mr. MacDhui yanked again and again at the clapper rope, setting the bell to crashing and dancing. He felt, more than saw, a streak of something, some small animal that darted to the tree and for an instant, between peals of the bell, heard the dry scrabble of claws as it vanished up into the jungle of high foliage. And he was in no wise prepared for the sight of the plain-looking girl with red hair who appeared suddenly from behind the crofter’s cottage and came toward him.

MacDhui had gathered from his talk with Mr. Peddie that Lori was no hook-nosed old crone in the tradition of witch and simple women, but he was not prepared for her youth and simplicity—at first glimpse he judged her to be twenty-six, perhaps twenty-seven at the most—but what startled him, for its contrast with the marks of blood upon her green smock, and upon her hands too, was her aspect of tenderness.

There was no other word for it, MacDhui decided, even at first glance, or rather this was the word he was aware of. She was not beautiful, she was not striking, but her bearing, her walk, the carriage of her head upon her shoulders, the flow of her limbs and the white arms, suggested gentleness and tenderness.

He was conscious of surprise even that so plain and ordinary a person should have impressed as hardheaded a community as Inveranoch to name her the Red Witch of Glen Ardrath and led children to fear and avoid her neighborhood.

And yet he was likewise aware that with her presence, all at once everything seemed to fall into perspective about the place, the feeling of many shy, inquisitive animals, unseen but present, the stirring and whirring of the many birds and even the thing that had flapped off laughing into the forest. If it was a piece from a fairy tale, it remained to be determined whether she was a good or bad fairy, was the strange thought pursued by Mr. MacDhui as she came striding toward him, accompanied by what, he reflected grimly to himself, might have been her familiars, two cats, one yellow, one black, an aged sheep dog and a rollicking black Scots terrier. The red squirrel ran down the bark of the tree, flirting his tail.

But he noted that the stains of blood upon her hands and smock were fresh, and the sight worked the needed disenchantment upon him, closing his mind to all else but the fact that if he needed any proof that she was practicing veterinary medicine without authority, here it was before him. She had apparently answered the summons of the silver bell straight from the operating table of her surgery.

It needed no more to evoke all the choler and indignation he had been storing for this visit, and as she drew near but without speaking, he cried out harshly, “Are you Lori?”

“Aye. I am Lori.”

Tender. Tender and gentle. It surged through his mind again as the softness of her voice pierced him. But he had nursed and coddled his anger too long to have it thus put off by soft speaking and in voice no less harsh he rasped, “Do you know who I am?”

“No. That I do not.”

He revealed it then with voice and demeanor that wanted only Jovian thunders and lightnings to accompany, and the trembling of the ground: “I am Mr. Andrew MacDhui, veterinary surgeon and sanitary officer for Inveranoch and district!”

If he expected her to be embarrassed, chagrined, or taken aback at this confrontation, another surprise awaited him. For she became suffused with a great joy, as one who can hardly believe her ears. A glow of relief and gratitude came into her expressive eyes, and for a moment all plainness vanished from her features as her face became illuminated from within.

“Och,” she cried, with a smile of acknowledgment, “then you will have been sent in answer to my prayer. Oh, you are sair needed and very welcome, Mr. MacDhui. Only come quickly before it is too late—”

Mr. MacDhui suddenly found himself drained of all choler by the strangeness of this welcome. He, come to read the riot act to her, the answer to her prayers? What manner of talk and behavior was this? And then he thought he knew. For the moment he had forgotten that other name that she was called and what was said of her.

Daft, he thought to himself,
daft as a cat under a full moon, poor thing,
and never realized that he had characterized her to himself as “poor thing” instead of “wicked” or “scheming.”

Yet he found himself following in her train as she glided ahead, as graceful as the red roe deer he had glimpsed, he walking soberly with the entourage of animals weaving about his ankles. They skirted the house and went on to the stone outbuilding, into which she led him, the outer door opening into a small room in which stood a table, covered with a white cloth, now blood and matter stained, on which reposed the still gasping form of a badger.

MacDhui’s practiced eye at once took in the nature and extent of the damage, the crushed hindquarter, the cracked shoulder and shredded forepaw, while his nose acknowledged the sour odor of the infection.

He screwed up his face in distaste and said, “Faugh! Here’s a mess.” Then he asked briefly, “Trap?”

Lori replied, “Aye. And surely a dog must have been at him while he was fast. Then he broke the chain and came here . . . I could do no more for him. I am not very skilled. That is why I asked for help.”

Mr. MacDhui nodded absently, not quite having caught the point of WHO had been asked for help, or the immediate irony of his having come there to put the quietus on an unauthorized rival, only to be called in consultation. However there was obviously no use lingering over the matter and he came to the point quickly. “Have you a can of ether, or chloroform and a bit of rag so that we can have the beast out of his misery, for that is the best that can be done for him.”

Lori said softly and confidingly, “God didna send him here to die, or you to be the instrument of his death, Mr. MacDhui.”

He drew back somewhat and stared at her. “Eh? How do you know?” And then he added curtly, “I do not believe in God.”

Lori said, “It does not matter. God believes in you, else ye would not be here.” She looked into his face with trust, and a soft, mysterious smile appeared at the corners of Lori’s mouth, a smile with almost a wisp of mischief in it, and which, for some reason he could not fathom, pierced straight to Mr. MacDhui’s heart, touching him and moving him most unaccountably almost to tears, so that he drew back yet further, gazing at her with astonishment . . . He was remembering then the sound her voice had given his name, a note he had almost forgotten. He became aware for the first time of the clarity of her gaze and the curiously endearing simplicity and containment of her features.

He was so shaken that he gestured rather too strongly and ridiculously toward the injuries of the animal on the table, saying loudly, as though addressing a particularly obtuse client in his own surgery, “But don’t you see it is impossible, madame?” and then added, “Besides I have not my case with me—having come on a somewhat different errand.”

Lori cried, “Oh no, no. It was because of your great skill you were sent.”

Andrew MacDhui looked down upon the suffering badger again, noting the condition of the forepaw, the gashed flesh and torn tendons, the nasty three-day-old fracture at the clavicle, the mangled hindquarter further damaged by infection. And he experienced suddenly the most curiously young, almost boyish desire to show off before this strange creature, to shine in her eyes, to bring back that wisp of smile to the corners of her mouth. He stole a glance now at this country girl whose copper-red hair fell loosely to her shoulder, noting the line of the nose that emerged so straight from the base of the wide, calm brow and gave such an expression of gentle and intimate wisdom to her face, but a wisdom and knowledge of things other than mundane. He had quite forgotten that she was mad.

“Och,” he said, “this is a very poor business—still, the major tendon is still attached—we must see now to what extent the nerves have been—you will have nothing to tie the beast down and no bit of chloroform either, I suspect—”

Lori said simply, “I will hold him. He trusts me.” She slipped a hand beneath the head of the wounded badger, laid the other on his flank and, bending down, leaned her cheek to the beast’s jowl close to his muzzle, while making sweet, soft sounds in her throat. The badger whimpered, sighed, and rolled his eyes.

Beads of moisture stood out upon the brow of the veterinary. “For God’s sake, child,” he cried, “that was a mad thing to do.”

Lori lifted her head, the rueful expression had pre-empted her mouth. She regarded him with a stabbing simplicity and said, “They call me Mad Lori.” Then she added, “I will keep him quiet. He will not stir—”

MacDhui did not reply but merely glanced at her again and thereafter, using what few primitive instruments and equipment she possessed, went to work, patching, sewing, building, and lecturing as he worked in the manner of a college professor to an audience of students:

“Hm—so. Now we have built an anchor for the muscle with a good blood supply—you see where I have attached it to the undamaged portion—of course we shall have to see how it takes—still these are hardy beasts with great vitality. Ah, ah! This nerve here; note how it has been crushed. But the nerve sheath has not been ruptured and so there is a chance if we can find a way to nourish it—” He stopped suddenly and asked a question of her. “What is this power you exert over the animal, Lori? It should be snarling and snapping.”

“He trusts me.” Lori replied, her eyes riveted fascinated upon the near miracles the skilled fingers of the surgeon were performing.

MacDhui improvised brilliantly with the broken shoulder, punching two holes in a sixpence and using it in lieu of a silver plate to rivet it together. He said, “If this succeeds, here will be one badger who will never lack for bus fare.” As he worked he questioned Lori again. “And where did you find this poor beast?”

“It came here.”

“I see. And how did it know to come here?”

“The angels guided it.”

“Have you ever seen an angel, Lori?”

“I have heard their voices and the rush of their wings.”

Mr. MacDhui felt himself suddenly filled with an unaccountable sadness, the sadness that results sometimes from a forgotten dream, or some hidden hurt to the soul that is touched off by something accidental or ordinary in life. He bestowed a long and searching look upon the girl standing beside him, gazing with undisguised admiration upon his work, and his sadness did not diminish. He shrugged, completed the bandaging of the animal, and having finished, stepped back, and spreading his hands almost like a stage magician who has performed a trick, said, “There now. It is done!”