Catfantastic II Read online

  “That was your flight,” Shepherd said excitedly to Feathers, amidst the general hubbub. “Which was your shot?”

  “He kicked her right in the bum!” howled Patterson over his shoulder. “You should have seen it!”

  “How the hell did you do it? And where’s Bomber got to? I haven’t seen him since you took off.”

  Feathers took Shepherd aside from the throng of rejoicing men. “Jack, he went with me. And he didn’t come back. Come on. I’ll tell you the whole story, if you’ll believe it.”

  In Feathers’ cabin, he and Shepherd shared what was left of the rum while the pilot told his friend the entire tale.

  “You must think I’ve gone crackers. But I swear, that’s the way it happened.” Feathers ran his hand through his sandy hair. “Jack, you’ve read more scientific stuff than I have. Do you think it’s possible to make a ‘hole’ between two different places the way Bomber did?”

  Shepherd rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “The fellows at Farnborough play around with all sorts of queer ideas. But one thing I do know, Feathers. You’re not given to fantasies. If it happened the way you said, I believe you.”

  “I feel terrible about leaving the little chap behind. But there was just nothing I could do.”

  “Well, look at it this way. You saved his life when you pulled him in from the sea. I think he just wanted to square the deal.”

  Feathers sighed, then looked at Shepherd with a wan smile. “Thanks. That helps a bit.” He hung his head, his hands between his knees. “You know, I’m really beginning to miss him. I wonder if he really was just a cat. Seemed more like a guardian angel. Aah, I’m going all soppy on you, Jack.”

  “Well he definitely was a cat as far as one thing was concerned.” Shepherd said, with a grin.

  “I wish I had him back again,” said Feathers.

  “Even if he were to… ah… continue asserting himself?”

  “Even if he did,” said Feathers.

  “Well, if it helps any, I’d suggest we give him an award, in memory of services rendered to king and country and all that,” said Shepherd. “I’ll get the tin snips from the repair shop. We can cut out a little Victoria Cross from the bottom of that mackerel tin and we’ll have a proper posthumous presentation ceremony. How’s that?”

  Feathers agreed that such an award would be the best thing. He and Shepherd embarked on its construction, during the intervals when he wasn’t being debriefed about the mission. In the confusion of the attack, no one could definitely assign which torpedo hit to which pilot. Only Patterson stoutly insisted that the aft hit was theirs, but the other aircrew also claimed it. Feathers took no part in the argument, since he had decided not to reveal Bomber’s story to anyone except Shepherd.

  Several hours into the evening, new reports came over the wireless. The torpedo hit had indeed done critical damage. After making two aimless circles in the North Atlantic, Bismarck was now heading northwest, in a wobbling course that indicated that she no longer had rudder control. She was backtracking helplessly, right into the guns of the oncoming Home Fleet.

  Both Swordfish aircrews were decorated by the ship’s captain and praised for their part in the battle. After the presentation, Feathers took his ribbon below, put it in a drawer and went back to Bomber’s Victoria Cross. Ignoring the cuts on his hands from the jagged metal of the mackerel tin, he worked determinedly.

  Shepherd came in just as Feathers was laying the finished piece in a little leather case that had once held someone’s cufflinks. He pronounced it a beautiful piece of work given the contrariness of the mackerel can and the awkwardness of making fine cuts with tin snips.

  “I think Bomber would approve,” Shepherd said softly, laying a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “The news of that hit has gone right up to the Admiralty, to Sir John himself. They’re all saying that it was a miracle, a hundred-thousand-to-one chance. It proves to me that your story must be true.” He paused. ” Bismarck is surrounded now. She hasn’t got a prayer. And the Germans will fly their colors to the end, so we have to sink her. They’re so sure of the end now that some bloke on the BBC has gone and written a bloody song about it.”

  Feathers looked down at the homemade Victoria Cross.

  “I’d give him the proper words to write, I would,” he growled.

  “If Bomber’s alive and still on board,” Shepherd said, “he hasn’t got much time. Maybe we’d better think about holding that ceremony.”

  “Just hold off another few hours, Jack. Maybe the little beggar can somehow piss his way home.”

  Shepherd gave the pilot a light pat on the shoulder and started to leave the cabin.

  Abruptly an unholy racket broke forth from the direction of the galley. It sounded like a war was being fought with pots and pans. And then came the indignant tramp of feet along the deckway. Shephard backed inside again, clearing room for the red-faced, indignant cook, who held out a large, meaty fist clenched about the scruff of a very wet, oil-stained, and generally bedraggled cat.

  “If this animal is yours, keep it out of the galley or Oi’ll complain to the captain, Oi will,” the cook bellowed, brandishing a ladle over his captive’s head. “Oi don’t know ‘ow ‘e got in, but ‘e’s made a perfect shambles.”

  “I think we can cope with him,” said Shepherd, smoothly taking the cat from the cook and gently escorting the indignant individual out before pushing the cabin door closed behind him.

  Feathers had risen from his bunk, his eyes wide. “Bomber!” He took the cat from Shepherd, held him up and looked at him in disbelief and delight. “It really is him, Jack!” Quickly he sat down with the cat on his lap and gently felt along the little body. “I think he may have a few bruised ribs from the smash against the wall, but he seems pretty fit otherwise. Wait till I dry him off a bit.”

  “Wonder what he was doing in the galley?” Shepherd asked.

  “I imagine he was making for my cabin and missed. Must have been in a bit of a hurry. And that’s why he fell in the sea instead of the ArkRoyal. He must have had to pop off the Hood pretty fast, too.” Carefully Feathers cleaned and dried the cat. He grinned as he scratched Bomber’s head between the ears. “He certainly got his revenge.”

  “The Nazis should know better than to get a British ship’s cat… ah, a bit niggled at them.”

  Feathers broke into chuckles, then laughed until he had to hold his sides. “I wonder if they have any idea what happened?”

  “I suggest we have the presentation ceremony right here and now,” said Shepherd. “Uh, what title were you planning to give him?”

  “Why, there can only be one. To Bomber, ship’s cat of the late H.M.S. Hood, I proudly bestow this Victoria Cross and name you mascot of Swordfish Sub-flight Two and,” Feathers drew breath and presented the cufflink box with its tin medallion, “Bombardier, First Class!”

  A Puma and a Panther by Wilanne Schneider Belden

  Christine was allowed to choose one kitten, Ian the other. Mother was surprised when Christine insisted that the scrawny all-black kitten with the gold eyes was the one and only cat for her. “He was waiting for me,” she explained. So he appeared to have been, for he ran to the door and squalled to be picked up the moment she came in. Ian, not yet three, clutched the rotund, yellow-orange kitty who slept in the nest-box. It yawned with all the animation of a damp towel and showed a mouthful of sharp baby teeth. Mother smiled, shrugged, and agreed. The five of them went home to introduce the newest members of the family to Daddy. Daddy took one look at the kittens and pronounced them Punkin and Bat.

  The names stuck, and the kittens answered to them from the first. Christine changed the black kitten’s name on an average of three times a month, totally without success. Ian, a late talker, probably had a different name for his. But Punkin lolled through life, lovable, loving, and barely animate. Bat lacked only leathery wings and a penchant for sleeping while hanging head downward by his back feet. Outdoors, he spent most of
his time in trees, on high walls, or roofs. Indoors, he could be found on the top of the fridge, the top of the draperies, and the top shelf of the bookcase.

  Punkin could have been anybody’s cat. Fortunately, Ian was unaware of this lack of discrimination. Thus, when the little boy’s attention was riveted to Bert and Ernie and Mr. Rogers, someone else could take care of “his” cat. Bat was Christine’s cat, and he allowed no one to forget it. He accepted the children’s parents with the regal indifference normal to cats, invariably ignored or eluded Ian, and rarely bestowed favors on visitors.

  Bat knew Christine to be his human. He and Punkin had, after all, experienced incarnations in three alternate realities while searching for her and waiting until she showed up. Only Bat’s genuine affection for her countered his previous annoyance at her tardiness. Punkin was unaffected: all nine lives had to be lived somewhere/somewhen.

  Had the family lived in these other times and places, Christine’s instant claim of so unprepossessing a kitten would have confirmed a reasonable conclusion. She was, after all, left-handed, red-haired, and green-eyed. She couldn’t be called pretty, but her appearance left little doubt that she would be strikingly beautiful as an adult. Her personality, in common with a special category of people, combined independence and sensitivity, intelligence and empathy. In her own world, a description might include that most unfortunate phrase-the child who doesn’t quite fit in. Part of this stemmed from her unfettered imagination. She believed things nobody else would-or could-and insisted, to the point of crying herself ill if anyone attempted to convince her otherwise, that her imaginings were fact. Her parents hoped that having a kitten would help to tie her to reality, but Bat’s arrival seemed to stimulate her fantasy life. Each evening, Christine regaled the parent who put her to bed with a tale she said Bat had told her about a former life. However, as the family lived in the here and now and were churchgoing Christians, the term witch never came up.

  Bat knew. Or, it is fairer to say, he knew what she would have been if she had not, unfortunately, been born into this world, one essentially inimical to magic. If she had not come for him in kittenhood, he would have, when a bit older, dragged Punkin by an ear and set out to find her. Denied his rightful place as her familiar, he took up the position of her pet.

  Punkin knew, too. (Cats do.) But his involvement was with Ian, with whom he shared all kinds of preferences: love and affection, lots of good things to eat and drink, a warm, soft place to sleep, and semi-continuous attention.

  As the two cats grew-and they did grow, prodigiously-Bat turned into a large, strong, shiny-sleek beast who reminded one of a black panther. Punkin loomed even larger than Bat, and the red-gold of his coat rivaled new pennies. Were he asleep on one of the children’s pillows, one could not tell where their hair stopped and his began.

  When Bat was about a year old, Christine insisted that he told her to get him a leash and harness so they could go on walks together. Mother, who usually enjoyed her daughter’s vivid imagination, smiled to herself and bought the inexpensive equipment. She did not expect it to be used. She was mistaken. Bat required no training. His leash-manners were impeccable.

  Circumstances in the modern world being as they are, neither of the children was ever without adult supervision for a moment. But Christine insisted that as long as Bat was with her, she was always safe and well cared for. Being informed, however, that Bat would be given to the Humane Society if she ever, ever went off with only a cat for company, she accepted the restriction. She never entirely accepted the necessity. However, she decided that her most intensely-defended disagreement with her parents-that she had, once, been left alone in the house for a period of perhaps hours-had, as they always maintained, been a dream. Bat, she admitted to her mother, told her straight out that the incident had been only a very clear nightmare, and Bat was always right. He had also told her that she must apologize to her parents for doubting their word.

  Wishing herself believed to be as infallible as the cat, Mother accepted the apology without further comment. She wished, as a matter of fact, that Bat would tell Christine to forget all about the dream. Her own worst nightmare was that Christine might repeat the story to someone who’d believe it.

  Punkin did not like to walk on a leash. He did not enjoy riding in automobiles, either. Bat loved cars. Originally, he was a problem because he preferred to sit on the dashboard directly in front of the driver. Only with difficulty was he persuaded that the back window, on the old shag rug, was the proper carseat for a cat. The children’s mother permitted Bat to come along on short drives provided he did not have to stay alone in a car. He learned early that if he wanted to take the daily trips to preschool, then to kindergarden, he must not try to get out of the car or behave badly on the way home. Mother even let him accompany her on short errands without the children. She did not mention it to anyone, but if Bat was along, it seemed as if the most demented of the dangerous drivers stayed home. She required his presence if she chauffeured one of the school field trips.

  Christine asked Mother please to drive when her class went to the Pumpkin Farm so the children could choose Halloween pumpkins. “Be sure Bat comes,” she instructed. “He’ll help me pick the right ones.” Mother had been looking forward to the trip for almost as long as Christine had, and Bat was on his rug before the door was open far enough for Ian to get in and climb into his carseat.

  They found Ian’s pumpkin first-a huge, round one that had a definite resemblance to Punkin, or so Christine said Bat said Ian said. Christine’s jack-o-lantern-to-be was harder to locate, but, after much effort and consideration, she and Bat were satisfied with their selection. “She put a lot more time and thought into choosing it,” Mother told Daddy that evening, “than she did when we went to get the kittens.”

  Daddy grinned. “It wasn’t trying to climb her jeans and yowling to be picked up,” he explained. He observed the giant vegetable with some rue. “Not that she could have.”

  Mother grinned back. “Guess not,” she agreed.

  When the family got together to carve the faces, Christine insisted that the cats pose for their portraits. Daddy, who was skilled with his hands-and something of an artist, as well-agreed. Punkin was easy to capture. “Yawning Cat,” Mother dubbed the result. Sleepy eyes, gaping mouth with too many sharp teeth. Ian giggled. Punkin flowed fatly onto the top of the lantern, arranged himself so that the smoke hole was not covered, and went to sleep. The whole family laughed-and continued to snicker whenever they saw him there. He appeared to be attached.

  Bat’s jack-o-lantern portrait did not yawn. Its mouth gaped open in a fearsome, silent snarl. Ian screamed and hid his face when Daddy put a lighted candle inside. The head seemed a real and menacing presence on the dark porch. Even Daddy regarded his handiwork with mild unease. Mother thought of several correct titles. She decided not to share them with the children. Christine shuddered, but she would not let her father change a stroke of the knife. “He’s guarding us,” she insisted. Looked at that way, the carving took on a somewhat less threatening aspect.

  Despite their appearance, Christine treated the jack-o-lanterns as if they were alive. She always addressed them by name, showered them with affection, and shared her life with them. She supplied their parts of conversation, changing her voice a little for each personality. One who only overheard her play might have believed the child to be one of triplets. Mother found this mildly amusing, but she did not let on. Why shouldn’t her little girl have playmates who always wanted her more than anybody else?

  Halloween, that year, was on Friday night. Christine and Ian dressed up in their costumes early in the afternoon and came very close to driving their mother into the nearest asylum. “When can we go trick-or-treating? Can’t we go now? Isn’t it late enough yet?”

  Trying hard to remember what it was like to be three years old-or six-Mother held on to the last wisps of her temper and assured the children that they would go trick-or-treating after Daddy got home, the mo
ment it got dark.

  Daddy arrived about four, but dark took forever and seven days longer. Mother put on her makeshift costume, a mishmash of gypsy skirt and every piece of costume jewellery she could lay hands on, a black cape and hat she’d bought at the theater costume sale, and a particularly gruesome mask that Daddy intended to wear to the costume party they’d be attending later.

  The family went out to the porch to watch Daddy light the candles in the jack-o-lanterns. Ian had learned not to look at Bat’s lantern. He waited at the foot of the steps, steadfastly staring at the pumpkin Punkin. Punkin followed them out the door. He yawned, then curled himself in the slight hollow in the top of his lantern. He rubbed his head against the little boy’s side in a surprisingly reassuring gesture.

  Ian wanted Punkin to come along, but Punkin yawned again and was asleep before he exhaled.

  “Do you think we should blow out the candle?” Mother asked. “I wouldn’t want him to get singed hair.”

  “Bat says it’s all right,” Christine informed her parents. “He says Punkin only looks stupid. He’s not, really.”

  Over the children’s heads, Daddy mouthed that he’d keep an eye on the cat, and Mother set out with Robin, the Batboy, and Tina the (Bat)Tamer. Bat (the cat) led the way on his leash.

  The only other trick or treaters making the rounds this early in the evening were no older than Christine, and everyone had a jolly time. Bat made a great hit as a circus big cat, and Christine’s star-status as his trainer was almost enough to make up for the times she’d been left out. Mother stood on the sidewalk with her flashlight, shining its beam to light the children’s way up the front walks. Other mothers, doing much the same, struck up conversations.

  “We’re lucky to live in this neighborhood,” one woman said. “Where I used to live, gangs would make things really scary on Halloween. Not the shoot-‘em-up kind of gangs, or at least I don’t think so. But they got a big kick out of frightening little kids and egging houses and writing on car windows with wax. Got so bad last year that the cops came.”