I so hated those inside-speaking things that I used to run away and hide when I saw Old Man drawing the star on the cellar floor. I am good at hiding. Sometimes it took Boy half the day to find me. Then Old Man would shout and curse and hit Boy and call him a fool. Boy cried at night in the cupboard afterward. I did not like that, so after a while I scratched Old Man instead. I knew none of it was Boy’s fault. Boy made Old Man give me nice things to eat after I had sat in the star. He said it was the only way to get me to sit there.
Boy was clever, you see. Old Man thought he was a fool, but Boy told me—at night in the cupboard—that he only pretended to be stupid. Boy was an orphan like me. Old Man had bought him for a shilling from a baby farmer ages before I was even a kitten, because his hair was orange, like the ginger patches on me, and that is supposed to be a good color for magic. Old Man paid a whole farthing for me, for much the same reason, because I am brindled. And Boy had been with Old Man ever since, learning things. It was not only magic that Boy learned. Old Man was away quite a lot when Boy was small. Boy used to read Old Man’s books in the room upstairs, and the newspapers, and anything else he could find. He told me he wanted to learn magic in order to escape from Old Man, and he learned the other things so that he could manage in the wide world when he did escape; but he had been a prisoner in the house for years now, and although he knew a great deal, he still could not break the spell Old Man had put on him to keep him inside the house. “And I really hate him,” Boy said to me, “because of the cat before you. I want to stop him doing any more magic before I leave.”
And I said—
What was that? How could Boy and I talk together? Do you think I am a stupid cat, or something? I am nearly as clever as Boy. How do you think I am telling you all this? Let me roll over. My stomach needs rubbing. Oh, you rub well! I really like you. Well— No, let me sit up again now. I think the talking must be something to do with those inside-speaking things. When I was a kitten, I could understand what people said, of course, but I couldn’t do it back, not at first, until I had been lived in and been spoken through by quite a lot of Things. Boy thought they stretched my mind. And I was clever to start with, not like the cat before me.
Old Man killed the cat before me somehow. Boy would not tell me how. It was a stupid cat, he said, but he loved it. After he told me that, I would not go near Boy for a whole day. It was not just that I was nervous about being killed, too. How could he love any cat that wasn’t me? Boy caught me a pigeon off the roof, but I still wouldn’t speak to him. So he stole me a saucer of milk and swore he would make sure Old Man didn’t kill me, too. He liked me a lot better than the other cat, he said, because I was clever. Anyway, Old Man killed the other cat doing magic he would not be able to work again without a certain special powder. Besides, the other cat was black and did not look as interesting as me.
After Boy had told me a lot of things like this, I put my nose to his nose, and we were friends again. We made a conspiracy—that was what Boy called it—and swore to defeat Old Man and escape somehow. But we could not find out how to do it. We thought and thought. In the end I stopped growing because of the strain and worry. Boy said no, it was because I was full grown.
I said, “Why, in that case, are you still growing? You’re already more than ten times my size. You’re nearly as big as Old Man!”
“I know,” said Boy. “You’re an elegant little cat. I don’t think I shall be elegant until I’m six feet tall, and maybe not even then. I’m so clumsy. And so hungry!”
Poor Boy. He did grow so, around then. He did not seem to know his own size from one day to the next. When he rolled over in the cupboard, he either squashed me or burst out into the hallway. I had to scratch him quite hard, several nights, or he would have smothered me. And he kept knocking things over when he was awake. He spilled the milk jug—which I didn’t mind at all—and he kicked Old Man’s magic tripod by accident and smashed six jars of smelly stuff. Old Man cursed and called Boy a fool, worse than ever. And I think Boy really was stupid then, because he was so hungry. Old Man was too mean to give him more to eat. Boy ate my food, so I was hungry, too. He said he couldn’t help it.
I went on the roof and caught pigeons. Boy roasted them over the gaslight at night when Old Man was asleep. Delicious. But the bones made me sick in the corner. We hid the feathers in the cupboard, and after I had caught a great many pigeons, night after night, the cupboard began to get warm. Boy began to get his mind back. But he still grew, and he was still hungry. By the time I had stopped growing for a year, Boy was so big his breeches went right up his legs and his legs went all hairy. Old Man couldn’t hit him anymore then, because Boy just put out a long, long arm and held Old Man off.
“I need more clothes,” he told Old Man.
Old Man grumbled and protested, but at last he said, “Oh, all right, you damn scarecrow. I’ll see what I can do.” He went unwillingly down into the cellar and heaved up one of the flagstones there. He wouldn’t let me look in the hole, but I know that what was under that flagstone was Old Man’s collection of all the rings and shiny stones that came from nowhere when I sat in the five-pointed star. I saw Old Man take some chinking things out. Then he slammed down the stone and went away upstairs, not noticing that one shiny thing had spilled out and gone rolling across the floor. It was a little golden ball. It was fun. I chased it for hours. I patted it and it rolled, and I pounced, and it ran away all around the cellar. Then it spoiled the fun by rolling down a crack between two flagstones and getting lost. Then I found I was shut in the cellar and had to make a great noise to be let out.
That reminds me: does your house have balls in it? Then buy me one tomorrow. Until then a piece of paper on some string will do.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Someone smelling of mildew came and let me out. I nearly didn’t know Boy at first. He had a red coat and white breeches and long black boots on, all rather too big for him. He said it was an old soldier’s uniform Old Man had picked up cheap, and how did I get shut in the cellar?
I sat around his neck and told him about the flagstone where Old Man kept his shinies. Boy was very interested. “That would buy an awful lot of food,” he said. He was still hungry. “We’ll take it with us when we escape. Let’s try escaping next time he works magic.”
So that night we made a proper plan at last. We decided to summon a Good Spirit, instead of the hateful things Old Man always fetched. “There must be some good ones,” Boy said. But since we didn’t know enough to summon a good one on our own, we had to make Old Man do it for us somehow.
We did it the very next day. I played up wonderfully. As soon as Old Man started to draw on the cellar floor, I ran away, so that Old Man would not suspect us. I dug my claws hard into Boy’s coat when he caught me, so that Old Man could hardly pull me loose. And I scratched Old Man, very badly, so that there was blood when he put me inside the five-pointed star. Then I sat there, humped and sulky, and it was Boy’s turn.
Boy did rather well, too. At first he was just the usual kind of clumsy and kicked some black powder into some red powder while they were putting it out in heaps, and the cellar filled with white soot. It was hard not to sneeze too soon, but I managed not to. I managed to hold the sneeze off until Old Man had done swearing at Boy and begun on the next bit, the mumbling. Then I sneezed—once. Boy promptly fell against the tripod, which dripped hot stuff on the spilled powder. The cellar filled with big purple bubbles. They drifted and shone and bobbed most enticingly. I would have loved to chase them, but I knew I mustn’t, or we would spoil what we were doing. Old Man couldn’t leave off his mumbling, because that would spoil the spell, but he glared at Boy through the bubbles. I sneezed again—two—to distract him. Old Man raised his stick and began on the chanting bit. And Boy pretended to trip and, as he did, he threw a fistful of powder he had ready into the gaslight.
