The Cats of Tanglewood Forest (4 page)

He was a big dark shadow in the woods, and the only way you knew he was close was by the
pat-pat-pat
of his tail on the ground, and then it was too late. If a black cat was bad luck, the Father of Cats was worse luck still. Some said he was the devil himself, but that was disputed by as many as those who claimed it to be true. Still, most would at least agree that he was a fearsome creature. Maybe not supernatural, but still very, very dangerous.

The worst story Lillian knew about the Father of Cats came from one of the Creek boys—John, or maybe it was Robert. The Creeks lived up on the Kickaha rez, but the boys came by Aunt’s from time to time to help with the heavier chores like plowing the corn patch and turning the garden, or fetching and chopping wood. One of those Creeks told her that the Father of Cats could prowl through your dreams. If you caught sight of him there, he’d chase you down until his big jaws chomped down on your head, and then you died. Not just in the dream, but for real.

“Is—is he everything the stories say he is?” Lillian asked the crow now.

The crow nodded. “Depends on the stories you’ve heard, but probably.”

The shiver went up Lillian’s spine again.

“Oh, no question,” the crow went on, “he’s desperately powerful, that bogey panther. Folks like us, we don’t want to get on his bad side. We don’t even want him turning his attention our way. So you can’t blame those cats for hiding.”

“But what do I do?”

“You need to find you a body that’s got enough magic in her she won’t be scared, but she’s also got to be somewise less formidable than him, so that he doesn’t see her as a threat. Someone like Old Mother Possum.”

“I’ve never heard of her.”

“That’s because she lives in your new world, not the one you came from.”

“I don’t want to be in a new world,” Lillian said.

“Maybe so,” the crow said, “but you don’t want to go back to the old one just yet, because over there you’re a dead little snakebit girl.”

“I don’t want to be that, either.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“Where do I find her?” Lillian asked.

“You know where the creek splits by the big rocks?”

Lillian nodded.

“Well, just follow that split down into Black Pine Hollow—all the way to where the land goes marshy. Old Mother Possum’s got herself a den down there, under a big dead pine. You can’t miss that tree.”

“Is—is she nice?” Lillian wanted to know.

The crow laughed. “She’s a possum that’s part witch—what do you think?”

Lillian didn’t know what to think, except she wished that mean snake hadn’t bitten her in the first place.

“Now, when you go see her,” the crow said, “make sure you show the proper respect.”

Lillian’s fur puffed a little. “I may look like a cat, but I know how to be polite.”

“Being polite goes without saying. I meant you should bring her a little something as a token of respect.”

“What kind of something?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be big. A
mouse, or a vole. Something tasty, with crunchy bones.”

Lillian thought of the squirrel she’d met, and now this crow.

“Do they talk?” she asked.

“Does who talk?”

“The mice and voles.”

The crow laughed. “Of course they talk. Everything talks. Just everybody doesn’t take the time to listen.”

“I couldn’t kill a talking mouse.”

The crow looked at her in astonishment. “Then how will you eat?”

“I don’t know. Do trees and plants talk, too?”

“Pretty much, though it’s not so easy to understand them unless they have a spirit living inside to do the translating. Otherwise their conversations are too slow for us to follow.” He chuckled. “But if you think a tree is slow, you should try talking to a stone. They can take a year just to tell you their names.”

“What’s your name?” Lillian asked the crow.

“Well, now,” he replied, “there’s some that call me Jack, and I’ll answer to that.”

“Jack Crow,” Lillian repeated. “I’m—”

“Lillian. I know.”

“Because you know everything that happens in these hills.”

The crow preened a feather. “That I do. Now a word of warning, little cat girl,” he added. “I know you like those hound dogs at the Welches’ farm, but you need to steer clear of them so long as you’re walking around in the skin of a cat. You see a dog sniffing around, you just go up a tree and stay there until it’s gone. Hounds and foxes and coyotes… none of them’s your friend—not any longer. There’s more than one critter living in these woods that would enjoy the morsel a little cat girl might provide.”

“I’m not scared,” Lillian said.

“I can see that. But you should be. You’re in a dangerous world now.”

Lillian thought her own world hadn’t been so safe if you could die from a snakebite when all you were doing was minding your own business.

She had a hundred more questions for the crow, but just then the belling sound of Aunt’s big iron triangle came ringing down from the farmhouse. Suppertime. The crow flew off and Lillian jumped
from stone to stone across the creek and ran up the hill.

She was hungry, but that wasn’t why she hurried home. She realized that Aunt would help her, because Aunt always knew what to do. She’d know some cure, or Harlene Welch would. And if neither of them did, one of them would know some old witchy woman with a bottle tree outside her house and magic in her fingers. Aunt might not put much store in spending time looking for fairies, but like most folks in these hills, she was a firm believer in cures and potions, and she knew where to get them.

N
ow, what have we here?” Aunt said as Lillian came running up to her.

“It’s me, it’s me!” she cried. “Lillian.”

But unlike the squirrel and the crow, Aunt didn’t hear words, only a plaintive mewling. She smiled and picked Lillian up, scratching her under her chin. Lillian couldn’t help herself—she immediately started to purr.

“Where did you come from?” Aunt said. She looked off across the fields. “And where
is
that girl?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Lillian cried from her arms.

But Aunt still couldn’t understand her. She carried her inside and gave her a saucer of milk, which Lillian immediately began to lap up because, as much as she didn’t want to be a cat, it was suppertime and she was hungry from the long day’s activities.

When she was done, she wove in and out between Aunt’s legs, but while Aunt would bend down to pat her, she was plainly worried and stood at the doorway looking out at where the dusk was drawing long shadows across the hillside.

They had no phone. They had no close neighbors. So eventually Aunt took the lantern and went out looking for her niece.

She made her way down to the creek first, Lillian trailing after her, still a kitten rather than a girl. Aunt walked almost a mile up the hollow, her lantern light bobbing in the dark woods, then crossed over the creek and came back the other way. Lillian followed behind, no longer trying to tell Aunt she was right here. If Aunt wasn’t going to listen to her, there was nothing she could do.

When they got back to the farm and Aunt went into the house, Lillian made her way to the barn. There were always cats there—maybe one of them was still hiding in some dark corner. She squeezed inside through a crack where the side door hung a bit loose. Something big stirred in the corner. Then Annabelle, Aunt’s milk cow, lifted her head. She blinked a couple of times before her gaze settled on Lillian.

“Hmm,” she said.

“Hello?” Lillian tried, not sure if the
hmm
was friendly or not.

“I haven’t seen a cat in here all day,” Annabelle said, “which is unusual enough on its own, but now when one of you finally does come in, there’s something not quite right about you.”

“That’s because I’m a girl, not a cat.”

“I see. That is, I don’t
see
the girl you say you are, but it does explain why I sense something strange about you. Have we met before? Because there’s also something familiar about you.”

“I’m Lillian.”

“Ah, yes, of course. It’s too bad you’ve changed. I always thought you had a firm but gentle grip.”

“I don’t have a grip at all now. I don’t even have hands.”

“I can see that, too. Mind you keep those claws away from my udder.”

“I will,” Lillian assured her. “I only came in to see if any of the cats were here. But you say they’re all gone?”

“Who knows what they’re up to?” Annabelle said. “You know cats. They’re a flighty bunch, going whichever way the wind blows. No offense.”

She shifted her bulk and Lillian felt the movement through the floorboards under her paws. She’d never realized just how
huge
Annabelle was.

“What do you want with the cats?” the cow asked.

“They’re the ones who changed me into a kitten.”

“Hmm. The old man won’t like that.”

“Old man?” Lillian asked. “Do you mean the Father of Cats?”

Annabelle nodded. “Though I wouldn’t be throwing his name around willy-nilly—not unless you want to call him to you.”

“I don’t. Jack Crow said he’s just like in the stories.”

“He is and he isn’t. Depends on what stories you’ve been listening to. But there’s no doubt he’s a caution.”

That was the sort of thing Aunt would say when she meant something was a little bit dangerous, so you should be careful.

“So you’ve been talking to Jack Crow?” Annabelle asked.

Lillian nodded and told her story.