The Wild Road
Gabriel King
THE WILD ROAD
Gabriel King
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
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About The Wild Road
Secure in a world of privilege and safety, Tag is happy with life as a house cat – until the dreams begin. Hazy dreams of strange pathways, of a mission he must undertake and of a terrible responsibility he will bear.
Armed with the cryptic message, Tag must bring the King and Queen of cats to Tintagel before the spring equinox. Meanwhile, a man known only as the Alchemist doggedly hunts the Queen for his own ghastly ends. And if the Alchemist captures her, the world will never be safe again…
Contents
Welcome Page
About The Wild Road
Dedication
Epigraph
Part 1: Love the World and Follow Your Nose
Prologue
Chapter 1: The Great Outdoors
Chapter 2: The Highway
The First Life of Cats
Chapter 3: The Wild and the Tame
Chapter 4: Feral Life
Chapter 5: Cy for Cypher
Chapter 6: Sealink
The Second Life of Cats
Chapter 7: The One-Eyed Cat
Chapter 8: The Cat Thieves
Part 2: Signs Among the Stars
The Third Life of Cats
Chapter 9: The City at Night
Chapter 10: Recriminations
Chapter 11: The Wide Blue Open
The Fourth Life of Cats
Chapter 12: Loss
Chapter 13: The Raw and the Cooked
Chapter 14: A Voyage of Discovery
The Fifth Life of Cats
Chapter 15: The Strange Adventures of Ragnar Gustaffson
The Sixth Life of Cats
Chapter 16: Cy for Cyber
The Seventh Life of Cats
Chapter 17: In the Eye of the Wind
Chapter 18: Partings
Part 3: Where the Wild Roads Meet
Chapter 19: The Ancient Country
Chapter 20: Ghost Roads
The Eighth Life of Cats: From the Diary of Mr. Newton
Chapter 21: Beasts of the Moor
Chapter 22: The Golden Dawn
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About Gabriel King
The Wild Roads Series
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
For Iggy and Finn
The smallest feline is a masterpiece.
– LEONARDO DA VINCI
The cat is called in Hebrew, Catul; in Greek, ailouros; and in Latin, Catus, felis. The Egyptians named it mau, for the sound of its voice, and gave it worship. To the Northern peoples, it is a Creature of fertility and fortune; but the Romany call it ma-jicou, and abhor its presence.
All Cats are of a single nature and agree much in one Shape, though they be of different Magnitude; each being a Beast of Prey, the Wild and the Tame, it being in the opinion of many a diminutive Tyger.
The most miraculous of Beasts, it walks invisibly and silently the highways of the Earth, and many believe it invested with the Magick of the World.
The Ancients have prophesied that in every eighty-first generation of the most ancient of the Felidae there shall come a Cat of Power, which shall not be greatest of Magnitude, but possessed of the most exquisite Soul. And the greatest of these shall be the Golden Cat, which shall come only when the ancient north joins with the Eye of Horus, and it shall have the Power to harness the Sunne and the Moon and the Wild Roads, and may render to any so lucky as to possess it the very Key to knowledge of the Natural World.
– William Herringe
The Diminutive Tyger, 1562
Part 1
Love the World and Follow Your Nose
Prologue
The one-eyed black cat called Majicou sat between a rusting cage and two sacks of stale grain on a shelf in a shop on Cutting Lane.
He had positioned himself with care; of the shop’s inhabitants, only the spiders he had dispossessed were sure he was there. He seemed to be asleep among the shadows and soft gray cobwebs. But his one eye was half open, and from it he had a hunter’s line of sight through the shop to the street door, where small rippled-glass windows admitted just enough weak afternoon light to illuminate a stock of leather collars, tartan-lined wicker baskets, and gaudy paper sacks of dried animal feed. Among this poor stuff, a human being moved clumsily about its business in a cloud of disturbed dust. It seemed to Majicou as tired and greedy as most of its kind. It seemed as ill as they all were from the bad air and bad food they had made for themselves. Majicou watched it idly for a moment as it pushed a rat’s nest of straw, tom paper, and spilled fish food around the old wooden floor with a broom.
Unless their affairs touched his, the black cat had no interest in human beings. He sat on his shelf as still as a stone, and half his mind was somewhere else. There, fires broke out; there were cries of terror both human and feline; he was responsible and not responsible. It was long ago but not so far away. The other half was on the shop – where, despite the gloom, nothing escaped him. If his cold eye could not penetrate, his whiskers mapped the air currents instead. His nose was full of the thick, complex smell of imprisoned animals – ‘pets,’ reeking of their own pent-up energy and tired resignation. Fish swam around their tanks in circles. Mice and rabbits crouched listlessly in heaps of straw. A cage of finches filled the shop with sad electrical peeps and chirps.
There was a single kitten in a wire cage.
At sixteen weeks, he was already a little old to sell easily. He was too big. He had lost the awkward delight of the very young, the appearance of a charmed life, the mixture of fragility and iron, timidity and courage. Nevertheless, he was still striking, with lambent, shockingly green eyes set in a sharp, intelligent, Oriental face. He had enough energy for every other animal in the shop. His fur, creamy white beneath, shaded above to an almost metallic gray. When he paced his cage this thick-piled coat seemed to shift and ripple restlessly in the gloom, emphasizing each muscle and movement; polished by passing gleams of light, it leapt out silver to the watching eye. There were faint gray tiger stripes high up on his forelegs, and a darker stripe ran the length of his spine. Did this reflect a darker stripe to his character? Majicou hoped so; but before he let things go further he had to find out. He would not call the kitten by its true name until he knew.
Let someone else name it until then.
Oblivious of this decision, the kitten climbed to the top of his cage and, clinging to the wire with powerful little claws, fixed a determined eye on the finches across the aisle. The finches scolded. The kitten glittered at them in a predatory fashion and made strange clicking noises under his breath.
The black cat watched.
Suddenly, the shop bell rang. Two humans, a male and a female, came in from Cutting Lane. The shopkeeper glanced up into the shadows for a moment, then rested its broom against the counter and approached them.
*
Human beings were as shadowy to Majicou as he was to them. But in his lifetime – which was long – he had watched them come and go, come and go, and he knew their qualities. This pair were young and nervous – he could smell it on them – and a little disoriented by the darkness of the shop. They were cheerful, harmless, well provided for, and keen to share their luck. They were eager to adopt. The moment they saw the kitten, they forgot everything else. This suited perfectly his design: they would fulfill the kitten’s needs until Majicou was ready for him. Nevertheless, the black cat watched exasperatedly as, through body languages of need and self-deception, all the age-old misunderstandings and betrayals enacted th
emselves again.
The male poked its fingers into the cage to attract the kitten’s attention. It made a noise at the back of its soft palate, ‘Cs cs cs.’ The female laughed. At first, obsessed by the finches, the kitten ignored them both. Then, jumping down as if he had grown bored with what he couldn’t have, he strutted over, stiff legged, tail up, cocky and curious and full of himself, to have a look. Ambushed by the beauty of his wild barred face and huge green eyes, the female gaped in delight.
Seeing this, the shopkeeper smiled a complex smile, deftly opened the cage, and scooped the kitten out into the female’s waiting arms.
For his part, the kitten sat still and stared intently at the two huge faces that loomed above him. His nose was full of the thick, pleasantly odd smell of them. His mind was full of possibilities. He sensed great positive change. He began to purr. His purr was like a great soft engine that trembled through his warm white pelt into the woman’s arms, from his bones to her bones. ‘Take me with you,’ said the purr. ‘Take me with you. A fine home and room to roam! Take me there and feed me sardines. Game casserole. Beef and kidney. Tuna in brine!’ The kitten rolled over to display his pure white belly. ‘Look! Take me home!’
Majicou viewed this performance emptily. Charm them now, he thought. Charm them well. But how will you help yourself when they have charmed you in return?
The silver kitten wriggled and purred.
Fifteen minutes later, he was leaving his prison forever, riding in a large wicker basket.
*
The shopkeeper stood like a wound-down toy for a moment, watching them go off along the empty street. Then, the smile fading suddenly from its face, it backed into the shop, shut the door, and peered out between advertisements – dog food shaped like a bone, cat food shaped like a bird. It reached up with its free hand, changed the sign from open to closed.
Then, without warning, every animal in the shop seemed to go mad.
Finches hopped from perch to perch, filling the air with shrieks and whistles of alarm. Noses twitching, the fat hamsters and guinea pigs stared panically through their bars, then buried themselves as fast as they could in their straw. The Belgian rabbits turned their backs, as if this gesture could render them invisible. Even the fish seemed agitated, flickering through the bubbles in their water worlds.
The shopkeeper turned to see what was the matter. Its broom clattered to the floor. It stared wildly around and seemed to be about to say something, deny something, apologize for something. Instead, for no apparent reason, it opened the street door again. The one-eyed black cat slipped out into Cutting Lane.
1
The Great Outdoors
Among human beings a cat is merely a cat; among cats a cat is a prowling shadow in a jungle.
– KAREL ČAPEK
They called the kitten Tag. They fed him, and he grew. They put a collar around his neck. They entertained him, and the world began to take on shape.
It was his world, full of novelty yet always reliable, exciting yet secure. He was a small king; and by the time a week was out, he had explored every inch of his new kingdom. He liked the kitchen best. It was warm in there on a cold day, and from the windowsill he could see out into the garden. In die kitchen they made food, which was easy to get off them. He had bowls of his own to eat it from. He had a box of clean dirt to scrat in. The kitchen wasn’t entirely comfortable – especially in the morning, when things went off or went around very loudly without warning – but elsewhere they had given him a large sofa, covered in dark red velvet, among the scattered cushions of which he scrabbled and burrowed and slept. He had brass tubs with plants and some very interesting fireplaces full of dried flowers, out of which flowed odors damp and sooty.
Up a flight of stairs and into every room, every cupboard and corner! It was big up there, and full of unattended human things. At first he wouldn’t go on his own but always made one of them accompany him while he inspected the shelves stuffed with clean linen and dusty books.
‘Come on, come on!’ he urged them. ‘Here now! Look, here!’ They never answered.
They were too dull.
A further flight up, and it was as if nobody had ever lived there – echoes on the uncarpeted stairs, gray floorboards and open doors, pale bright light pouring in through uncurtained windows. Up there, each bare floor had a smell of its own; each ball of fluff had a personality. If he listened, he could hear dead spiders contracting behind the woodwork. Left to himself up there he danced, for reasons he barely understood. It was a territorial dance, grave yet full of energy. Simply to occupy the space, perhaps, he leapt and pounced and hurled himself about, then slept in a pool of sunshine as if someone had switched him off. When he woke, the sun had moved away, and they were calling him to come and eat more new things.
They called him Tag. He called them dull.
‘Come on, dulls!’ he urged them. ‘Come on!’
They had a room where they poured water on themselves. Every morning he hid outside it and jumped out on the big dull bare feet that passed. Nice but dull, they were never quick enough or nimble enough to avoid him. They never learned. They remained shadowy to him – a large smell, cheerful if meaningless goings-on, a caring face suspended over him like the moon through the window if he woke afraid. They remained patient, amiable, easily convinced, less focused than a tin of meat-and-liver dinner. The dulls were for food or comfort or play. Especially for play. One of his earliest memories was of chasing soap bubbles. The light of an autumn evening shifted gently from blue to a deep orange. Up and down the room rushed Tag, clapping his front paws in the air. He loved the movement. He loved the heavy warmth of the air. Everything was exciting. Everything was golden. The iridescence of each bubble was a brand-new world, a brand-new opportunity. It was like waking up in the morning.
Bubble! Tag thought. Another bubble!
He thought. Chase the bubbles!
As leggy and unsteady, as easily surprised, as easy to tease, as full of daft energy as every kitten. Tag pursued the bubbles, and the bubbles – each with its tiny reflected picture of the room in strange, slippery colors – evaded him smoothly and neatly and then hid among a sheaf of dried flowers or floated slowly up the chimney, or blundered without a care into a piece of furniture and burst. He heard them burst, in a way a human being never could, with a sound like tapped porcelain.
Evanescence and infinite renewal!
Any cat who wants to live forever should watch bubbles. Only kittens should chase them.
Tag would chase anything. But the toy he enjoyed most was a small cloth mouse with a very energetic odor. It had been bright red to start with. Now it was rather dirty, and to its original smell had been added that of floor polish. Tag whacked it around the shiny living room floor. Off it skidded. Tag skidded after it, scrabbling to keep upright on the tighter turns.
One day he found a real mouse hiding under the Welsh dresser.
A real mouse was a different thing.
Tag could see it, a little pointed black shape against the gray dimness. He could smell it too, sharp and terrified against the customary smell of fluff balls and seasoned pine. It knew he was there! It kept very still, but there was a lick of light off one beady eye, and he could feel the thoughts racing and racing through its tiny head. All the mouse’s fear was trapped there under the dresser, stretched taut between the two of them like a wire. Tag vibrated with it. He wanted to chase and pounce. He wanted to eat the mouse; he didn’t want to eat it. He felt powerful and predatory; he felt bigger than himself. At the same time he was anxious and frightened – for himself and the mouse. Eating someone was such a big step. He rather regretted his bravado with the pet shop finches.
He watched the mouse for some time. It watched him. Suddenly, Tag decided not to change either of their lives. His old cloth mouse had a nicer smell anyway. He reached in expertly, hooked it out, and walked away with it in his jaws. ‘Got you!’ he told it. He flung it in the air and caught it. After a few minutes he had forg
otten the real mouse, though it probably never forgot him – and his dreams were never the same.
*
That afternoon he took the cloth mouse with him up to the third floor where he could pat it about in a drench of cool light.
When he got bored with this he jumped up on the windowsill. From up there he had a view of the gardens stretching away right and left between the houses. However much he cajoled or bullied them, the dulls never seemed to understand that he wanted to go out there. It fascinated him. His own garden had a lawn full of moss and clover that sloped down toward the house, where a steep rockery gave way to the lichen-stained tiles of the checkerboard patio. Lime trees overhung the back fence, along which – almost obscured by colonies of coton-easter, monbretia, and fuchsia – ran a dark, narrow path of crazy paving. Cool smells came up from the garden after rain. Wood pigeons shifted furtively in the branches all endless sunny afternoon, then burst into loud, aimless cooing. At twilight, the sleepy liquid call of blackbird and thrush seemed to come from another world; and the greens of the lawn looked mysterious and unreal. Dawn filled the trees with squirrels, who chased one another from branch to branch, looting as they went, while birds quartered the lawn or hopped in circles around the mossy stone birdbath.
Transfixed with excitement, Tag watched them pull up worms.
That afternoon, a magpie was in blatant possession of the lawn, strutting around the birdbath and every so often emitting loud and raucous cries. It was a big, glossy bird, proud of its elegant black-and-white livery and metallic blue flashes. Tag had seen it before. He hated its bobbing head and powerful, ugly beak. He hated its flat, ironic eyes. Most of all he hated the way it seemed to look directly up at him, as if to say, My lawn!
Tag narrowed his eyes. Angry chattering sounds he couldn’t control came from his throat. He jumped off the windowsill, then back up again. ‘Wrong!’ he said. ‘Wrong!’
