Anton and Cecil (17 page)

“He's a kindly one,” Cecil said to Anton. “He actually saved me from drowning. We've got to get him to take you off with us.”

Anton sat up, staggered out of the box, and sat down again. Cecil licked his brother's cheeks and forehead. “You've been too sick to clean yourself,” he said.

The first mate looked in the door, and seeing the two cats (but not the mouse hiding behind the pillow), called out to his fellow pirates, who came ambling joyfully behind him, “Here's our hero, and he's found a poor abandoned chum.” Cecil mewed and rushed to his boots, then back to Anton—lick, lick,
can't you see he's my brother?
—then back to the boots,
meow, meow, meeeooow!

The first mate laughed. “I hear you, Black,” he said. “We'll take your friend. The gold in that chest is heavy, but he don't appear to weigh much, so we'll squeeze him in.” And with that the mate picked Anton up by his scruff, put him inside his vest, and strode out to the deck, where the pirates, having thrown down a rope ladder to the dinghy, were busily loading the sacks of gold doubloons they'd found in the chest. Cecil clambered down with a little help from the crewmen. No one saw the mouse who ran down a line at the stern and bolted under the seat, where he found, to his delight, an old sea biscuit, which he munched on joyfully all the way to the ship.

From a corner of the cage, Gretchen watched the two brothers squabble over the plan.
Hero today,
gone tomorrow,
she thought. The pirates' gratitude for the gold, like everything else about them, had proved fitful and unreliable. That first night they'd been so overjoyed, the cook had broken out three tins of the oily little fish and presented them in three separate pans. Hieronymus—
that mouse!
—insisted that Anton hide a few of his under the stove, as he was too weak to eat them all at once. For a few days, the cats could do no wrong, and every pirate hand was outstretched with a treat, every pirate's ugly face contorted in something resembling a smile when a cat came into view. Then the time came to divide up the gold, and no pirate was content with his share. Cats were no longer of interest, though they still got the dinner leftovers slapped down in one pan and all the dishwater they could drink. Another week passed and open hostility was running rife in the crew—in the wrong place at the wrong time a cat could get kicked. No sooner had they spotted land than the captain gave an order and the friends found themselves, all three plus
that mouse,
in a cage in a sprawling animal market on the edge of a bustling port city.
Again,
thought Gretchen ruefully.

Anton had made a good recovery, though he was never going to be a big, strong, muscle-headed guy like his brother. He was quicker and smarter, Gretchen thought. He was a tough cat, not like a fighter, but like a survivor. Seeing them together again made her heart feel light and happy.
The brothers,
she called them in her thoughts. The brothers were bickering now. Cecil paced up and down, as much as he could in the narrow space.

“You haven't been in a ‘markit' like this before,” he advised Anton pompously. “Gretchen and I have, and we know what to do.”

“But . . .” began Anton.

“The thing to do is,” Cecil continued, “whenever somebody comes by, lie down and act like you're sick or dying. That way we won't be traded away. We'll stay with the pirates. We need to stick together, not to be separated all over the world again.” He stopped pacing and sat down to face them.

Anton tried again. “But, are we sure we really
want
to stick with the pirates? I mean, they don't seem overly fond of us—they're eager to trade us off at the first opportunity. Maybe we could find a better life than that.” He noticed Hieronymus, who was able to slip in and out of the cage easily because of his size, trying to get his attention from the shadows.

“The pirates are fine!” Cecil exclaimed, pacing again. “Lots of food, lots of excitement.”

“Lots of danger,” Gretchen commented quietly, watching Anton. She felt oddly protective of him, something she wasn't used to feeling about anyone except herself.

Hieronymus sidled up next to Anton's forepaw, glancing nervously at Cecil before speaking. “I've examined the latch. It's made of wood, a wooden peg slipped through a hole in another peg,” he explained to Anton. “I could try gnawing through it, if you think that might work.” They exchanged a glance, almost a wink.

“Work?” Cecil snorted in Anton's direction. “No offense to your friend, but that'd take forever.”

“It could,” said Anton, amused.

“It would,” said Hieronymus, “but it seems worth a try anyway.” He turned and slipped through the ragged slats of the cage and made his way around to the latch, where he set to chewing.

The keeper of the market was a short man with long hair braided down his back and necklaces of painted wooden beads stacked on his chest. Brandishing a long stick made of cane, he strode back and forth calling out to potential customers, whacking the stick sharply on the tops of the cages of braying or mewling animals. Gretchen tried to strike up a conversation with a few of the other creatures, but none of them were friendly.

“I can't get any of these other prisoners to tell me a thing,” she remarked to Cecil. After several hours of languishing in the sweltering stall, Gretchen was finding the routine of dutifully falling into a realistic dead faint whenever a human strolled by tiresome. Hieronymus had worked industriously on the wooden latch while avoiding the keeper, who periodically spotted him and hit the front of the cage with his stick, but the mouse had made little progress.

Leaning toward Cecil, Gretchen lowered her voice. “Are you sure we shouldn't be trying to find a new home, like Anton said?” she asked him.

“Not if it means getting split up again,” Cecil replied, glancing anxiously at Anton, who was by the door encouraging the mouse's efforts. Gretchen could see the resolve on Cecil's face; he wasn't going to let Anton out of his sight if he could help it. “Nope, we're a team,” he said. “Three heads are better than one!”

“Four!” squeaked Hieronymus from up front. Cecil rolled his eyes.

Anton was worried about the mouse's endurance. “You know, my friend,” he said seriously, “you could just . . . go.”

Hieronymus spat out a tiny sliver of wood. “What do you mean, go?” he asked.

“You're not captive in this cage like we are,” said Anton. “You have a chance to escape, and you should take it. Really, you should get out of here.”

Hieronymus held up one paw. “I've pledged my troth; I will not leave a friend in danger.” The mouse gave him such a severe look that Anton retreated a bit, trying to think of something else to say. In the next moment, in the din of the stall, Anton heard a human's voice. He knew he had heard it before, somewhere, but
where?
He raised his head to listen.

“Yes, yes, I need a cat, mayhap more than one,” a man was saying to the keeper, looking around at the creatures. “I have rats in my larder like you would not believe, such awful brutes!” Anton couldn't see his face and he didn't understand the words, but the voice drew him. Cecil saw the man peering into the cages and murmured to the others to get down, but Anton remained standing at the cage door.

“Anton! Get away from there!” Cecil whispered loudly.

“Just a minute,” said Anton, stretching his neck to get a better look. “I think I know this one somehow.”

“Come on, it could be anybody. It's too risky.”

The man finally turned toward their cage, and Anton saw the tall, thin build and the puffy white beard, like a cloud passing by. It was Cloudy! Anton's mind raced. Cloudy, from his first ship, for whom he had killed the fearsome rat, the cook who had treated him so kindly and given him the delicious little fishes. Surely he would remember the little gray cat. Anton leaped up with both paws pressed high on the cage door, meowing as loudly as he could. Cecil rose to tackle Anton if necessary.

“What are you doing?” demanded Cecil. “Don't call attention to yourself. You'll be traded for sure!”

“It's all right!” Anton assured him in between yowls. “He's a good one. He knows me.” Anton was out of breath, but he kept yowling. “And,” he gasped, turning to Cecil, “he knows
where I'm from
.”

Cecil and Gretchen stared at Anton for a long moment, absorbing the meaning of this statement, then hurtled themselves to the door, adding their voices to the clamor. Cloudy moved down the row to stand in front of the cage.

“Well, what's all this?” he asked, bending to look at their faces. “Quite a spirited group, aren't ye?” He caught sight of Anton and paused, furrowing his brow. “And who is this here? Have I met you before, little one?”

Anton thrust his paw through the slats, and Cloudy gently grasped it. The cook touched the scar where the rat's teeth had sunk in and took in a sharp breath. He quickly looked to Anton's throat to confirm the deeper one there, then stepped back and smacked his hand on his forehead. “Bless my beard, it's Mr. Gray, is it? How the devil did ye end up here?” He blinked from Anton to the others. “Well, no matter, we've got to get ye out.”

Cloudy collared the keeper and pointed to the cage. The three cats fell silent, suddenly fearful that only Anton would be chosen, but after haggling with the keeper, Cloudy seemed pleased enough to buy the whole lot. The cats huddled together, and Hieronymus stayed out of sight—tucked into the crook of Anton's elbow—as Cloudy paid a passing boy to cart the cage out of the market and into the fresh sea air of the docks.

After the group had made their way back to the ship—there she was, the
Mary Anne,
her figurehead of the two little girls still dancing off the bow—the cats were given a quick meal in the galley. Hieronymus was able to slip safely into a dark corner, where he found plenty of crumbs to nibble. They quickly discovered why Cloudy was in need of aid. Cecil heard the noise first, his ears pivoting.

“Rats,” he said with a mix of disdain and anticipation. “A fair number of them, I believe. In there.” He nodded toward the larder.

“Ugh, rats,” said Anton with a sigh. “I had a tough fight with one.”

Cecil eyed Anton's scar approvingly. “You won, though, didn't you?”

Anton smiled. “Yes, brother,” he said. “I was the victor.”

Gretchen stepped up so all three stood side by side, facing the larder. They could hear faint clicking and twitching sounds coming from inside. “I ain't afraid of no stinkin' rats,” she said fiercely. Cecil and Anton glanced at her with respect.

Cloudy followed the trio to the larder and opened the door. The cats barged in shoulder to shoulder, and Cecil raised his voice.

“All right, you nauseating lowlifes, your time on this ship is UP.” The clicking sounds ceased completely; he had the rats' attention. “You know why we're here, and this will not be a pleasure cruise. We'll give you ONE CHANCE to save your worthless, revolting skins, but if you stupidly choose to stay, which would not be surprising given the puny size of your brains, then we're looking forward to what comes next.” He paused, popped out his claws, and dragged them sharply across the wooden floorboard, leaving five distinct lines. Gretchen grinned and nodded slowly. Anton squared his shoulders and passed a paw over his cheeks, smoothing his whiskers.

“Count of three, then your time in this world is DONE,” Cecil thundered, leaning forward. “One . . . two . . .” Simultaneously, the three cats crouched to spring.

There was an explosion in the larder as the rats bounded out of their hiding places, knocking boxes and tins off shelves, careening toward the doorway. Anton stepped aside and counted seven or eight of them as they streaked past. Cecil remained planted in the center of the small room so the rodents had to swerve around him, their claws scraping the floor as they scrambled. In seconds they were gone.