Timba Comes Home (19 page)

‘You need a bit of TLC, old fella,’ he said, and turned to the younger man who’d been going to shoot me. ‘You take the dogs down and put them in the truck. I’ll
bring the cat, if he’ll come.’

‘You’re not seriously going to catch a scruffy old thing like that, Alf,’ protested the younger man, clipping a lead onto Alf’s dog. ‘Look at him. He’s a flea
bag.’

Alf sighed. ‘It’s payback time,’ he said, patting the orange-red plumage of the dead pheasants that hung from his belt. ‘You should try it some time.’

‘You’re an old softie.’ The young man shrugged and set off, laden with his dead birds and his guns. ‘See ya.’

Alf sat down heavily at the foot of the oak tree. He unclipped the dead pheasants and laid them on the grass. The gunman’s footsteps faded, and peace settled back into the forest. Tiny
movements restarted in the leaves and branches, a robin hopping, the twitch of a mouse’s whiskers as he peeped from his hole in the grass. A green woodpecker flew down into the turf and
stabbed at an ants’ nest with his red-rimmed beak.

Alf didn’t move. He didn’t invite me down or look at me. He just sat, with his blue eyes on the distant hills and trees. He didn’t shoot the woodpecker, but seemed to be
enjoying his company.

Observing Alf from my branch, I saw that his aura was not such a grubby red colour now. It was filling with light, the kind of light a wise old soul would have around him . . . blue, white and
gold. He looked up at me. ‘You coming down, puss?’ he asked, and waited until I felt confident that the guns and dogs had gone and we were alone on the golden road. Cautiously I climbed
down, eager for a cuddle with Alf. He was the first human I’d been close to for weeks.

I stepped carefully around the dead pheasants and put an exploratory paw on Alf’s knee. A smile glistened in his eyes. ‘Come on then,’ he said, and patted his heart where he
wanted me to sit. I crept up his tweedy jacket and arranged myself, stretching out, resting my chin over his sturdy old heart so that he could feel my purring. I wanted to cry like Leroy. After my
long, lonely journey, it was such a relief to be close to another being.

‘Oh . . . you’re a healing cat,’ he murmured and his hand stroked and stroked my fur, giving me a beautiful head-to-tail massage. We were healing each other. He didn’t
care that my fur was in such a state. He loved me for who I was. Timba.

Alf stroked the dead pheasants with his other hand, his eyes sad. ‘Sometimes I wish I hadn’t shot ’em,’ he confided. ‘Sometimes I wonder if, when I die,
they’ll all be waiting for me at the pearly gates . . . all those birds I shot.’

My greatest gift, as a cat, is unconditional love, so I turned the purring up a notch and, when Alf looked down at me, I did a cat smile right into his soul. Then Alf said something amazing.

‘I tell you what, puss, since you’re so loving . . . I’m going to drive you across the bridge and take you home to my missus. Will you come?’

I felt like royalty as Alf drove me down from the forest across the bridge, despite sharing his magnificent car with some dead pheasants. They were dumped in the back and I sat
on the front seat. Alf didn’t seem to care that he hadn’t got a cat cage for me. He asked me to sit still, and I did. The car was quiet and high up off the road so it didn’t
vibrate like Angie’s car.

This time the river crossing wasn’t so scary. I’d watched the bridge from the hills at night when it was all lights, and nobody fell in the river. The water was so far below that it
seemed we were flying across the sky like the starlings I’d envied. I thought of Vati, and felt he would be proud of me for getting myself a lift. Smart cat!

After the bridge, Alf drove on over the next hill, and the next, and my heart leapt when I saw the tall metal tower that Leroy had wanted to climb. In the dark afternoon, it had a light flashing
at the top. It would guide me, night and day, nearer and nearer to Vati.

My intention was to say goodbye, nicely, to Alf when he let me out of the car. Then I’d run on, across the blue-green countryside towards the metal tower. Surely my journey would soon come
to an end.

It didn’t work out like that. Alf swung the car into a yard with straw and chickens. He picked me up and carried me in his arms to the open door of a house.

Immediately my fur started to bristle, and a voice rang through my mind. ‘Don’t go in there, Timba.’ It was insistent, and it was the voice of the Spirit Lion. I wanted a meal
so badly. Something easy and tasty on a plate. I wanted a fire to warm my belly on that chilly day with the twilight deepening over a land that was strange to me. I deserved a bit of comfort. So I
clung to Alf’s shoulder as he carried me inside. A woman was sitting in a chair by the fire, knitting, but I hardly saw her.

I froze, and dug my claws into Alf’s jacket.

A fox was looking at me. A real fox with his eyes glassy and his teeth bared. He wasn’t moving, but I swear his fur was bristling and his black nose smelling me.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Alf. ‘He’s been there twenty years. I call him Bert. Don’t worry, he’s only stuffed.’

Stuffed? I didn’t dare move in case the fox leapt down and savaged me.

‘Oh what a lovely cat!’ I heard the woman saying, but I heard her through a glaze of terror. It wasn’t just the fox. All over the walls were the glassy-eyed heads of creatures,
a stag, a hare, and more foxes.

I couldn’t stand it.

With a thrust of my back legs I escaped from Alf’s grip, and landed on the floor. In my terror I hadn’t noticed where the exit was, and I ran through an open door into another room.
On the floor was something even more horrific: it made my back go up and my eyes turn black with fright.

‘Leave him. He’ll get used to it,’ I heard Alf say.

If Angie had been there, she would have screamed.

Stretched out in the middle of the room was an enormous tiger skin, lying flat with the beautiful colours glowing. At the far end was its head. Compelled to see its eyes, I inched my way round
it, my back arched, my ears flat. And when I saw the tiger’s face close up with its gleaming teeth and outraged golden eyes, I hissed and growled. The tiger didn’t react. Like the fox,
it had been dead for years. Overwhelming grief was for ever locked into its hard glass eyes.

I looked sadly at its paws. The sensitive pads were gone, and the claws. Only the skin with its lush, richly coloured fur was splayed across the carpet, never moving. And it was a cat. It
hadn’t been rescued and pampered like me. Why? I wondered. The question ruffled my fur like a freezing wind.

Alf was standing in the doorway, watching me. ‘It’s OK, puss,’ he said, ‘it’s dead . . . been dead for years . . . it’s a rug now, you can walk on it . . .
look.’ He strode forward and placed his muddy boots on the tiger’s beautiful coat, where the colours were so achingly bright. I was appalled.

My terror became a fragment of the global sadness that engulfed me, along with the bewilderment. How could humans be so disrespectful? I glanced at Alf, and saw guilt deep down in his soul,
simmering, seeking a way out. ‘I didn’t shoot him,’ he said to me. ‘Bought him, years ago, at an auction. Splendid, isn’t he? We love him.’

Love him! I couldn’t stay in that house for another minute.

Running scared and low to the ground, I escaped through the open door, and saw the woman, who held a dish of cat food in her hand. ‘Here you are, puss,’ she crooned. I flattened my
ears and shot past her into the yard. Chickens flew everywhere, and the dog chased me triumphantly as I streaked across the yard. I ran hard, into unknown country, high hills covered in heather and
gorse. The sky was starless and alive with big soft snowflakes, the first snow of winter. Alf’s words rang in my head. ‘It’s OK, puss.’

It wasn’t OK. It wasn’t. It never would be.

Day after day I ran on through the snow, my paws wet and icy cold. Hunger ached in my belly. Food was hard to find . . . the mice were tucked up sensibly under the ground, and
the birds I stalked saw me too easily, a black cat against the snow. I was getting even thinner and weaker.

When I reached the metal tower, I was exhausted. Its winking light had guided me on starless nights and cloudy days. How long since I’d eaten? I didn’t know, couldn’t remember,
and didn’t actually care.

The snow had made a thick crust over the gorse and heather, like a roof. Once I found a way in, there was a different world, a twilight of roots and dry branches, dimly lit under the crystal
covering of snow. It was surprisingly warm and spacious, and lots of creatures were getting on with their lives in there: mice, slow-worms and hedgehogs. Grateful for such perfect shelter, I stayed
under there for days. Long days when I didn’t see the sky, but if I listened I could hear the snowflakes softly landing on the canopy, making it thicker and thicker. I knew when the sun was
shining by the shafts of yellow light beaming through cracks. It tempted me out.

The morning was icy blue and clear, a bitter wind singing through the tall tower. I found shelter under an overhanging clump of bracken, a dry haven the snow hadn’t reached. I dozed and
slept through the morning, aware that sleep was not restoring me. I needed food.

After the experience with Alf, I’d chosen to avoid villages, and stay in the open countryside. But now, hunger drove me down over the crisp snow to a row of houses. I mustn’t get
caught. I waited until dark, then raided two of the cat flaps, hungrily eating what those lucky cats had left, mostly cheap fishy stuff and hard little rings of dried cat food which took too long
to eat when I was thieving.

I felt better, but missed being able to sit and have a leisurely wash in a warm place.

I inspected my paws which were sore from the wedges of hard snow stuck between the pads. Sitting under the heather I managed to wash my face, but trying to clean my thick fur was impossible, and
the hairballs made me sick. I felt like giving up. It would have been so easy to turn up on a friendly doorstep with my tail up, and get invited in to sit by a warming fire.

At noon that day, I tried to talk to Vati. ‘I’m not far away, but it’s so hard. I’m cold and hungry, and my fur is in a mess. Couldn’t you come to meet me?’ I
asked. Silence. The black, haunted eyes looked blankly into my soul. Nothing had changed. ‘Why can’t I reach you?’ I sent the question, but it hung in the air unanswered.

And then, white as snow, the Spirit Lion padded back into my life. This time he didn’t lie down and wrap me in his love. He simply asked me to follow him through the snow. I trotted after
him, focusing on his shining light, and he took me to a ridge where the snowdrifts twinkled in the sun.

‘Look, Timba,’ he said. ‘You’re nearly there.’

I sat beside him, gazing at the land below the hills, and my heart leapt when I saw that it was green. Green like summer. There was no snow down there!

Eagerly I ran to sit between his paws, but he wouldn’t let me rest. ‘Look for the stone tower,’ he said, and immediately I saw it, far in the distance, floating like an island
in the hazy landscape. My pads tingled. That same sacred energy, deep in the earth, was there, even in the snow. It cut through the land like a silver sword, and right at the end I could see Vati,
sitting in his barrel . . . waiting for me, his eyes just a breath away from a sparkle.

‘You must go now,’ the Spirit Lion said. ‘More snow is coming, thick snow that will cover the green earth for many weeks. You are weak, Timba. Go now . . . NOW . . . while you
still have strength.’

He was trying to tell me I could die in the snow if I didn’t move fast. I dumped the depression and the despair, and raced down the hill, through the blue shadows of hedges and gates,
across lanes and through copses. By the end of the day I was down there in the green grass, and there were still mice around!

The golden road became a real road and this time it was raised on a high bank as it led through the levels. Deep ditches and knobbly willow trees lined the route and there was no traffic. Only
the occasional loud tractor bounced past while I hid in the dead clumps of reeds. A few fields away was a busy road with lorries and cars.

When I paused to look back at the snow-covered hills with the metal tower, slate-coloured clouds were rolling, and the north wind howled through the willow trees. The blizzard was chasing me.
The Spirit Lion was still with me, a flare of light brighter than the white snow. He was watching me, and that was comforting. Encouraged, I ran on, searching for signs of home. I still thought of
Graham’s house as ‘home’. It had been my first real home and I loved it.

The longing and the ache of loneliness kept me moving, imagining the blissful sleep I would have by the fire, the plate of Whiskas rabbit in the cosy kitchen. And the welcome! The joy of being
in Graham’s huge arms again, the warm comfort of the sofa, the sparkle in Vati’s eyes as he welcomed me. The touch and smell of my beloved brother.

I was SO looking forward to being home that I ran faster and faster, only stopping to shake the wet snow off my fur. My paws stung with cold, and I felt wretchedly tired. But Vati was close. I
could feel him.

I crossed a field into a lane. Everything was different and muffled under the fresh snow. I followed one of the hard, slippery wheel tracks, finding it easier on the hard-packed, yellowish
snow.

With one paw in the air, I paused by a gateway to listen. All around me was the muted patter of snowflakes, and the crack of twigs as the north wind tore through the trees. A child’s voice
crying. A woman’s voice. And then . . . an old familiar sound that told me I was home.

‘Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, AH.’

I belted across the lawn with snow flying from my fur, and charged through the dear old cat flap.

And in that moment I was a kitten again, full of hope and unconditional love. I shook myself, put my tail up, and swanned into the lounge.

Vati was hunched in the corner of the sofa. His fur had lost its gloss, and his hip bones stuck out either side of his spine. His face was pixie-like and thin, his eyes black
and frightened. He saw me, but he didn’t come to greet me. He didn’t move at all.