The Catbyrd Seat (5 page)

“That cat, Tilde,” said Cociel once they were safely out of earshot of the lions. “I don’t think she knows. I don’t think she actually knows the half of what’s going on in the Reservation.”

“No, I don’t think she does,” agreed Tails.

“My mother didn’t get a trial. Hardly anybody gets a trial. They have a courtroom, yes, but I can’t remember the last time it was used, and even when it does, it’s Nine Lives that presides over it, and he’s the King. He’s not going to disagree with the Prime Minister.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Piggles. “The King isn’t under the thumb of Whiska. The King is an entity to himself. He can agree or disagree with the Prime Minister as he sees fit.”

“Well yes but…their interests are the same,” argued Cociel. “They both want cat rule.”

***

The short and seemingly unimportant conversation they had experienced with Tilde, turned out to be extremely crucial in securing Mr. Byrd the trial they wanted. When Whiska returned from another lazy afternoon spent with Strip, he was surprised to find his mother asking questions about the imprisonment of Mr. Byrd.

“When’s the trial?”

“What trial?” he asked, picking at his claws with his teeth and giving her a strange look.

“The trial of Mr Byrd, your latest prisoner.”

The strange look only deepened. Why was she asking about that? Of course, there wasn’t going to be any trial, but he didn’t want his mother to know that. “I don’t know…tomorrow maybe,” he shrugged.

Tilde nodded then, unbeknownst to Whiska, went to pay a little visit to the palace, to confirm the time and date for the trial. Of course, no one at the palace had even heard that such a trial was taking place. Tilde assumed there had been some kind of mix up. The thought didn’t even enter her head to blame her perfect, handsome young son, who could never put a paw wrong in her eyes. She blamed the Nine Lives administration, and after an audience with the King, demanded that the situation be rectified and a trial was booked into the court immediately.

Nine Lives had no opposition to the idea. He enjoyed trials and he fully supported them; he was more keen on a fair justice system than his dictatorial Prime Minister was. Keeping out of internal politics for the most part, the elderly monarch had no real idea just how many prisoners were being kept in those dungeons unfairly.

When Tilde returned to Catting Street triumphant and pleased with herself that she had put the useless monarchy in its place and managed to arrange the court date which they seemed to have so foolishly emitted from their diaries, Whiska was internally furious. Now, there was no way of getting out of it. Now, he
had
to give Mr. Byrd a trial, or else tell the truth to his dear old mother and break her heart.

“Thank you,” he managed to choke out, his tail swishing angrily from side to side as he walked off to his room to brood over the matter.

***

The trial was set for that very next morning and, once again, word spread fast throughout the Reservation. It was all anyone was talking about that day, everyone debating whether Mr. Byrd would be found guilty and sentenced to prison, or whether there would be some scrap of evidence that might enable him to go free. The views on the matter were mixed.

Some people were hoping and praying for his release. Others wished for his further incarceration so that he would stop meddling in their affairs. He would only get them all into deeper trouble with the cats in the end; it was better to just leave things the way they were.

His three most loyal supporters – Piggles, Cociel, and Tails – all positioned themselves outside the Palace, eager to await the outcome. This time, however, there was someone else with them. Davetil. Up until that moment, he had been skeptical and critical of Mr. Byrd’s campaign but now, with the trial, he had become a little more intrigued. His own dear wife had never had a chance at such a trial, and he was interested to see what happened. Was it possible that this could mark the beginning of a change in the Reservation? He was loathe to accept it, reluctant to get his hopes up too high, but still, he just couldn’t keep away, and he knew how much it meant to his young son.

“You should wear one of these, Mr. Davetil,” said Piggles cheerfully, slapping a ‘Vote Mr. Byrd’ sticker onto his chest.

Davetil blushed and looked about him, embarrassed. He clapped a hand over the sticker and hid it. “What if someone sees? Besides, I’m not entirely sure I
will
be voting for Mr Byrd.”

“Of course you will, Dad,” said Cociel. “He’s literally, our only chance against the cats. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for all our lives.”

“Your enthusiasm can be infectious sometimes,” Davetil admitted.

“See, there you go.” laughed Cociel. “You’re halfway there already.”

“But we don’t even know if Mr. Byrd is going to get released yet,” his father argued back. “I remember the last time we had a trial here. It didn’t exactly go well.”

“But maybe they deserved it,” shrugged Cociel. “Not everybody in those dungeons is innocent, you know. There are
some
who should actually be there.”

“Yes, of course,” said Davetil. “Well…we’ll see. How about this for a deal, though? If Mr. Byrd is released as a result of this trial… I will vote for him.”

“I knew you’d come round eventually,” cried Cociel, flinging his arms around his father’s neck and hugging him and, as it happened, Davetil had no cause to go back on his words. Half an hour later, the gates to the Palace were opened, and Mr. Byrd flew out a free man.

It would appear that Piggles’ questions to Tilde about search warrants had not been entirely wasted. Nine Lives had asked the very same question, and Whiska and his men had failed to present any such warrant. Therefore, the evidence of the books and the notes was entirely inadmissible in court and the case was thrown out immediately. Mr. Byrd was set free at the discretion of the King.

The celebrations were numerous.

As the five of them triumphantly walked back to the Campaign Headquarters together – now a unified group of Piggles, Cociel, Tails, Davetil and Mr. Byrd – many mice they passed whooped and cheered and hollered.

“Congratulations, Mr. Byrd!” they shouted.

“You can count on our vote, Mr Byrd!”

“Well done, Mr. Byrd!”

“Vote for freedom!”

“We believe in you!”

“Beat the cats for us, please!”

It was a glorious and wonderful moment, one that Cociel would always remember for the rest of his life, and one that was very nearly spoiled altogether by the arrival of Grady.

From nowhere, the vicious cat appeared, snarling and angry at the result. He hissed at Mr. Byrd’s supporters and, without warning, bent down and caught one of them between his teeth, holding his tail and raising him up into the air.

“Help! Help!” the poor mouse squeaked, terrified.

The other mice fled in all different directions, fearful that they would be next on the menu, as Grady tossed the mouse back and forth in his mouth, playing with him like a ragdoll before carelessly hurling him away. He went flying through the air and landed with a thud into one of the houses.

Piggles rushed over to his aid. “Are you alright?”

The middle aged mouse was knocked out and severely concussed. Half of his tail had been severed by the sharp fangs of Grady’s teeth and now the cat was turning on someone else, punishing all those who dared to show their public support for Mr. Byrd.

“There is only one true Prime Minister of the Reservation and that is Whiska,” roared Grady. “You would all do well to remember that, come Polling Day.”

Cociel, Davetil, Tails and Mr. Byrd all helped to get the injured mouse onto Piggles’ back and the six of them hurried to the book shop in Section D, before they could incur the wrath of Grady any further.

Once in the relative safety of their HQ, Piggles and Mr. Byrd tended to the injured mouse until he came round from the shock of what had happened.

“I’ll be alright,” he croaked. “Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” said Mr. Byrd. “I’m so sorry that had to happen. I feel personally responsible. If I hadn’t have been standing, nobody would be getting this unfair treatment. Maybe it would be best if I backed out.” He had been nervous about running from the start, but now he was beginning to have second doubts about the whole thing.

“You can’t back out now!” the unknown mouse insisted. “You’ve come so far already. The mice in the Reservation believe in you. Some of them do, anyway. At least half, I’d say. I certainly believe in you, and a few injuries from Grady aren’t going to change that.” And with that, he rushed out of the headquarters and scampered off to rejoin his family, seemingly not bothered by his bleeding tail.

“See?” said Cociel proudly. “There are so many mice that believe in you. Even my father’s come around to the idea.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Byrd,” said Davetil. They hadn’t really had time for introductions earlier. “Cociel’s told me so much about you.”

“He’s told me about you, too,” said the parakeet. “It’s an honor to meet you, Davetil.”

“My son is right,” Davetil continued. “I was skeptical about the whole thing but… when I saw how the other mice were beginning to support you, and when I saw how passionate Cociel was about the campaign, how involved he was getting... And then, finally when I heard about the trial... We haven’t had a trial in the Reservation for years. It was a momentous occasion. I don’t know how you did it, but it gave me hope…. hope that things might not always have to be this way.”

“It was Piggles that did it,” said Tails. “She spoke to Whiska’s mother, Tilde, and asked when the trial would be.”

“That’s right,” nodded Piggles. “We don’t think Tilde knows how bad her son really is, and no doubt he doesn’t want her to find out, either. She must have asked him about the trial and then, put into an awkward position, he couldn’t really avoid having one.”

“You see, Mr. Byrd?” said Cociel. “You can’t back out now. You have to keep going. You saw what Grady was like today… you’ve really ruffled his fur. Same with Whiska, too. You’re shaking up the establishment and it’s working. We can’t give up.”

“You’re right,” sighed Mr. Byrd. “I know you’re right really. I just… had a moment of doubt.”

“Well, that’s what we’re all here for, Mr. Byrd,” said Piggles encouragingly. “To boost you back up again when you think you can’t do it. Because we know you can!”

“Yes,” he said, fluttering his wings and sticking out his chest, already filled with the new confidence that his supporters were flowing into him. “Yes, yes, I can. I can do this.”

“You can do this!” cried Cociel excitedly.

They all laughed, cheered up by each other’s enthusiasm, then they quietly got down to business and began to plan their next political move – a meeting with King Nine Lives himself.

It was not entirely impossible to get an audience with the King; it was just something relatively unheard of within the Reservation or, indeed, within the Kingdom or the whole of Huntsville itself. There was never any particular need for it, and in all his long life, Mr. Byrd had never known anyone who had actually met their reigning monarch. Still, that wasn’t about to put him off; not anymore.

That day in court, he had been given hope. He had seen a tiny glimpse of the honest and just ruler that Nine Lives could be, and he wanted to see if he could exploit that some more. Of course, he understood and accepted that it would be entirely impossible to get Nine Lives on their side completely, but if he could at least get him to ensure that the elections were fair, that would be a very good step in the right direction.

They started by writing a letter, which was delivered in person by the speedy Cociel on his bike, to the Catting Street, where he requested to see Tilde. He knew from experience that she was trustworthy, and that if anyone would get the letter to the King without simply throwing it into the bin, then she would.

He informed the lion on duty that he would not be going anywhere until Tilde herself had come out to speak with him. He gave his name and description, and told the lion to tell her that he was the same mouse she had spoken to the day before about the trial.

“Why did you not take this direct to the Palace?” she asked him with some impatience five minutes later when she emerged. “I am a busy woman, you know, even in my retirement.”

“I am very sorry,” Cociel bowed politely. “But I do believe that if I handed this in myself at the Palace, it would not reach the hands of the King himself.”

“And why not?” She looked at him blankly.

Cociel was reluctant to tell her that her son was a corrupt monster who ruled with an iron paw, but he was less reluctant to say bad things about the monarchy. After all, none of them were there listening right at that moment. What would it matter?

“There is much corruption that goes on there, m’lady,” he answered quietly, leaning in as if letting her in on a secret. “I don’t trust them.”

“Hmm… now you come to mention it, neither do I,” she purred. “Those incompetent fools didn’t even know that my son had booked in a trial. They’re either idiots or… like you said… corrupt.”

Cociel bit his tongue. She really did think her son was pure and innocent; they were right about their assessment of her.

“Very well,” she agreed silkily. “I will take this note to the King for you.”

“Thank you,” he bowed again profusely. “I really appreciate it.” And he did. As he scampered along after her, the two of them walking across to the Palace together, he knew now that the King himself would have the chance to read Mr. Byrd’s letter, and if he refused, it would be the King himself who was refusing, not Whiska, or Grady, or Strip or any of the others.

Except the King didn’t refuse.

Once again, Cociel waited outside the grounds of the Palace until he had had some kind of a response, and when Tilde returned from handing the note to Nine Lives, she had good news for him.

“His Majesty has responded to your request. He says he will grant Mr. Byrd half an hour of his time at three o’clock this afternoon. And not to be late.”

“He won’t!” cried Cociel excitedly, jumping up and down. “Thank you, Tilde! Thank you for taking the letter for us!”

“Yes, very good. Now be on your way.” She swished her tail and was gone, no doubt unaware of the great help she had just been to the Mr. Byrd campaign, because at three that very afternoon, their candidate was arriving at the Palace for his very own audience with the King.

He had gotten dressed up in his best outfit, and was trying his hardest not to be nervous. The others had briefed him on what he should say, and he had even practiced it by himself in front of the mirror. He knew what kind of arguments he wanted to put forward, and the kind of questions he wanted to ask of their monarch. All that remained was to be articulate enough to verbalize them aloud.

Thankfully, the elderly King put him at ease almost immediately by inviting him to sit down and offering him a saucer of milk.

Milk wasn’t Mr. Byrd’s favorite drink by any stretch of the imagination, but he most gracefully accepted, and settled himself down on a comfortable chair slightly to the right of the Royal Throne that the gigantic cat was adorning, his shimmering crown tilted jauntily off one side of his head.

“Well,” Nine Lives began, lapping at his own milk for a moment in silence before continuing. “You have an hour of my time. Your letter said you wished to talk with me about a matter of great importance. What is it?”

“It’s…it’s about the elections, Sire,” Mr. Byrd answered, stammering over his words a little.

“I imagined as much,” replied the King. “And indeed, it is good that you are here, as I have a number of questions to ask you, Mr. Byrd, about that very same matter.”

“You…you do? Well then uh….a-ask away, your Majesty. I’ll answer whatever questions you have to the very best of my ability.”

“What are your intentions?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why are you doing this? Why do you want to be Prime Minister? What are your motives?” Nine Lives leaned forward and scrutinized him carefully, his voice rising a little as he questioned him. He wasn't used to having to repeat himself. He was the King, after all. His questions were usually answered immediately. He glanced Mr. Byrd up and down with his coal black eyes.

“My motives are entirely unselfish,” Mr. Byrd assured him. “I just want a better life for the mice on the Reservation.”

“Are you suggesting that Whiska's rule is unsatisfactory?”

“That is what I have heard,” Mr. Byrd quietly admitted.

“And how, may I ask, would a bird... a bird, of all creatures, run a Reservation for mice?” Nine Lives asked, his voice full of skepticism. “The mice will not respect you. You know nothing of their needs and wishes.”

“Well,” Mr. Byrd began, fully prepared to defend himself against these kind of questions. He'd been answering them since the beginning of his campaign and expected him to be answering them till Polling Day. “I have several mouse advisers as part of my team. I have known mice my entire life, bonded with them, been friends with them. Although I am not a mouse, I feel I have a very good idea of what kind of things they expect and desire from life. Besides, what makes a cat so naturally qualified to rule over mice? The two of you are born enemies, aren't you?”

At that, the fur on Nine Lives' back prickled up angrily, annoyed. For a moment, Mr. Byrd thought he had gone too far, but to his relief, the King did not lash out or demand that he leave. He stared at him a little while longer and didn't respond immediately, as if weighing up the best option and considering his words carefully before speaking.

“The Reservation has only ever been ran by cats in the past,” he finally responded. “It is the way we have always done things, and you will find that many of the residents here are reluctant to change as though they are afraid of it, both mice and cats alike.”

“I have discovered that already,” Mr. Byrd admitted.

“I see no reason to change something which works perfectly. It makes little sense to me.”

“I am sure that not everyone would agree that the system works perfectly,” argued Mr. Byrd in the most diplomatic way he possibly could.

“Perhaps not...perhaps not...” Nine Lives sipped at his milk thoughtfully. “Now, you may ask one question of me, and we shall take it in turns.”

“Very well,” nodded Mr. Byrd. “At my trial this morning, I couldn't help but notice how fair and open you were.”

“It is my role as judge,” he answered impassively. “I must listen to all sides.”

“Then perhaps, you will find it in your heart to ensure that the elections on Polling Day are fair, and not corrupted.”

“Why did you hold private classes for mouse children?” Nine Lives shot right back at him immediately. “You know it is expressly forbidden.”

“You found me not guilty,” said Mr. Byrd, perplexed that the question had been brought up.

“Because the evidence was not permissible in court. That doesn't mean I believe in your innocence. I know some of the mouse children who attended your classes. I am convinced of your guilt as if I had seen you doing it yourself,” he thundered, raising his voice. “So why? Tell me, and then I might answer your question.”

“Because I believe that everyone should have the right to an education, the right to learn, whether they are a mouse or a cat or any other animal,” said Mr. Byrd, his voice trembling with the passion he felt for the subject. “The educational system you have here in the Reservation is simply not enough. There needs to be a vast reform... more schooling hours, more teachers, more serious consideration given to the topic.”

“Oh really?” Nine Lives tilted his head to one side and stretched out his back paws. “And exactly how would you achieve this?”

“I'd start by opening up an Educational Commission to discuss and debate these issues, and then to ensure that whatever laws we passed would be carried out to the letter. I would open up more schools throughout the Reservation - and the Kingdom. Free, public schools, available to all. I would employ mice and other animals from different sectors and have them retrained to be teachers.”

“From what sectors?”

“The military, for example. There are many great potential teachers in the military. Leaders that people respect and look up to. But when was the last time we had a war? When was the last time anyone attacked us? Of course, we still need the military, but it is by far the leading source of employment and most of them seem to actually do nothing except train for battles that never happen. It can be cut back without a threat to security.”

“Interesting suggestion,” mused Nine Lives. “Certainly not one I have heard before.”

“Yes, well, I'm full of new ideas, your Grace,” said Mr. Byrd politely. “And I'm sure that with my advisers I can come up with many more policies that will help advance both the mice and the cats and indeed, all of this great nation.”

“He certainly knows how to deliver a speech,” came a voice from the back of the Throne Room. A cat flap opened and a beautiful black feline appeared.

“Ah, may I introduce my daughter, Samantha,” said Nine Lives. “And yes, he is quite the speaker,” he agreed.

“Well actually, that was one of the things I was most worried about,” admitted Mr. Byrd. “I've never been very confident, and I didn't think I'd be able to manage the speeches, but I've been practicing a lot and… oh, now I'm rambling, now I've gone and spoiled it, you see,” he chuckled, then fluttered his rings and lifted himself up off his chair so that he could bow to the new arrival. “It's a true pleasure to meet you, Samantha.”

“And it's a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Byrd, I've been hearing a lot about you. My brother positively hates you.”

Mr. Byrd gave a nervous laugh, unsure whether that was entirely a compliment or not. Still, he would return it with a compliment none the less.

“The King is certainly very lucky to have a daughter as beautiful as you.”

“Yes, I am,” agreed Nine Lives. “Family is important to me, and my daughter is my pride and joy.”

“Family is definitely important,” nodded Mr. Byrd, failing to mention that he wasn't exactly on very good terms with his own family. That was irrelevant for the time being. His job was to impress the King and it appeared to be working, despite His Majesty's previous misgivings.

“What do you think of him, Samantha?” He turned to his daughter, obviously valuing her opinion as important.

“I like him,” answered the feline. “He has integrity and bravery. I believe his intentions to be honorable and true, and I like that.”

“I might be old and frail,” said Nine Lives. “But I'm not an idiot. I know what kind of ruler Whiska is like, and I turn a blind eye to it because I am too set in my ways to change, and because I don't care enough about the mice to do so. I have always been worried about them rising up, rebelling, deciding they don't want the monarchy anymore. This is why I'm concerned about you, Mr. Byrd,” he admitted. “My main reasons for disliking you are entirely selfish.”

“It's gracious of you to admit that,” said Mr. Byrd. “But I can assure you that no one will rise up against the monarchy in the event that I did win the position of Prime Minister. You are a good King, and I will make sure everyone knows that. I give you my word.”

“Samantha, do you take him at his word?”

“I do, father. I think we can trust him.”

“Well then, I give you my word in return,” said the King. “That the elections will go ahead as planned, and that they will be fair, open and untouched by corruption.”

***

On the way back to HQ to update the rest of his team on the meeting, Mr. Byrd was in high spirits. He had been released from prison and cleared of charges and now, Nine Lives had ensured fair elections. Things were finally starting to look up for him.

He was unaware of what Whiska and Strip had been planning that very afternoon. While his important meeting with the King had been taking place, the wheels were already in motion for their next cunning trick to sway support away from Mr. Bryd and back towards the cats.