The Adventures of Caterwaul the Cat (2 page)

Then he felt one of the barbs pierce his right side. He was terrified. He had no idea what type of poison was on the tip of the arrow. He imagined it was some form of neurotoxin or a muscle inhibitor, like curare or something. He'd often heard that frogs were able to generate toxins within their own skins. A second quarrel hit him in the right hind leg and then a third, in the right shoulder. Still he ran. He was distressed, but he did not dare let up.

Yanking the barbs free of his flesh, he continued to run. Scared as he was, it did not occur to him that the poison appeared ineffective.

Finally, after about half an hour, his legs gave out, not because they were paralyzed, but from sheer exhaustion. Slumped over and gasping for breath, the cat lay trembling, propped up against a dead branch resting on the ground. He was so close to the edge of consciousness that he hardly felt the large reptilian paws lifting him up to carry him away.

The sun wasn't down an hour when the rat crawled back up the muddy rocks to the cave entrance. It had started to rain, and he was covered in muck. His coarse, wiry fur jutted out from his body in all directions.

“It's done,” he said. “I did it . . . just like you told me to.” He was laughing. “I swear I don't think ol' Fairfax has had that much fun in years.”

“You made sure to tell the general not to hurt him?”

“Absolutely, ma'am. The frogs were all shooting blanks. If they hit him, all he'd have felt was a little prick. Kind of fitting, if you ask me.”

“You are positive? You know what I will do to you if I find that you are not being truthful.”

The rat swallowed hard. “Don't worry, ma'am. I swear to you there was no toxin on any of 'em. After all, there's plenty enough frogs out there in this wood already. But if you don't mind my askin' . . . why d'ya let the ungrateful little fur ball go? It doesn't make any sense to me.”

The old woman lowered her hood back onto her shoulders. Her hair was matted, and her eyes were red. It was obvious she had been crying.

“Of course it doesn't Edsel,” she answered curtly before turning to go back down to her home. “I never expected you to understand.”

Part
l

On the Outside

1

Cathoon

B
arely an apple's throw from Harsizzle Road stood the castle of Cathoon. It was a dark and empty place, the likes of which you only find in the best of fairy tales. It was the kind of place that no decent sort would ever call home. So, for that reason, it was a good thing that the castle's occupant could never be called decent.

In that bare and chilly place lived Queen Druciah, a heartless creature who took delight in the misery of others. Just the sound of her name brought the tiny hairs to attention on the back of the neck.

Tall and gaunt, it was apparent that she had once been a woman of great beauty. Nearly six feet tall, her body draped in blue velvet finery, she still shone with the glow of power. She moved gracefully and with an elegance fitting her royal position. A golden crown set with only the most precious of jewels rested on her brow, her fading auburn hair tied up in a bun.

Druciah looked down from her perch in the hills, watching her subjects as they came and went. It was harvest time, and the village folk were busy. Farmers and their elder sons took their crops down Harsizzle Road to market, while their wives and children handled much of the daily grind. She wrung her stiffening hands together as she watched them through her spyglass.

Clawing mournfully at her thinning hair, she looked with hate upon the young men who went about their courting of the young and lovely village maids.

This made the queen angrier than anything. Seeing the attention that was lavished on beautiful young girls made her blood boil. It wasn't because she hated them. It was because they diverted the attention that she wanted for herself.

Unfortunately, Druciah was cursed with the sin of vanity. The one thing she hated most was that she was getting old, and seeing all those young men and women together only drove that point home.

Though aging was a natural part of life and the way of the world, the queen could not accept that it was happening to her. Every morning she rose from her bed, knowing that there would be a new wrinkle here or a crow's foot there.

She expected at least one new addition daily. Her once pristine skin was becoming loose and mottled. Small moles appeared where there were none before, and the worst insult of all was the hairs, which seemed to appear as if from out of nowhere. It was these stray hairs, more than anything else, which drove her mad.

It seemed like every day there was a new hair. First, one would show up on her cheek, and then another would sprout from her nose, and the next one from the side of her ear. And heaven forbid if one of the hairs happened to protrude from one of the moles? Well . . . there was really no point in going there . . .

“Why is all of this happening to me?” she shrieked, grabbing her ruby-handled tweezers. With a tug, she plucked the unsightly whisker from her cheek and wept into her hands. It seemed there was nothing she could do to halt the march of hated time.

She sent for the land's best and brightest, offering a fortune to anyone able to create a potion for keeping her young. With their mortars and their pestles they tried out a thousand combinations. She hired astronomers and astrologers, chemists and alchemists, but none could provide her with the answer she lusted for. She just kept getting older and more obsessed.

Soon no amount of white lead and vinegar makeup could hide the wrinkles. Every plant and root was crushed and applied to her face, yet nothing seemed to help. If anything, her skin grew worse from all the applications, becoming chalky and pale. Her hair was dyed with a mixture of saffron and cumin to give it color, but it only made her smell like the inside of her chef's spice cabinet.

Nothing worked at all. There was no earthly element, animal, vegetable, or mineral that could give her what she wanted. Even the most expensive periwigs and fine hairpieces adorned with diamonds could not make her happy.

Despite her compulsive behavior, she was still a powerful woman. Though thin, she had the strong neck of a ballerina, and she held her head up proudly through her queenly ruff. Her eyes were those of fierce determination.

If she had only just accepted the inevitability of time, she would have matured gracefully. And if she opened her eyes and looked around, she'd have realized that the world around her was aging too. But she couldn't see it, and would not accept it. The constant denial turned her sour.

As a young princess, she was beloved. Everyone in the kingdom talked about her and what a fine ruler she might one day become. She had men and women falling over themselves for the chance to be in the same room with her. Every eligible man in the kingdom desired her hand, but no one was good enough. She'd play childish games matching one suitor against another, all the while having no real interest in either. She'd found it so amusing to watch people jump at her every beck and call.

The Grand Balls she staged upon becoming queen were among the finest ever conceived. Everyone who was anyone begged to be invited. The castle resonated with music and laughter late into the night. The palace walls were adorned with the most intricate tapestries. Works by the country's most respected painters hung in nearly every room. Intellectuals and men of high creative bent became regular fixtures. Yet if there was one single thing that stuck out among all the fine accoutrements featured at her gala affairs, it was the ornately carved ice sculptures imported from the frozen land of Nordlingen. Anyone fortunate enough to see the ice sculptures came away from the experience amazed. The attention to detail by their creators was astonishing. Scenes from the mythological past came alive in the works of virtuosos. Even the placement of the sculptures was executed with purpose. They were set methodically to take advantage of the lighting of their surroundings, and shone like diamonds from most every viewing angle.

Druciah laughed as she turned her suitors away one by one, prince by prince. The worthy ones who might really have loved her were the first she cast aside. She thought their honesty pathetic and considered them weaklings for their genuine efforts to win her heart.