The Nine Lives of Montezuma

  The cat stood under the eaves of the old barn and listened. Several times every day he came back to check on his pigeons. On several occasions he had tried to ambush the parents while they were out foraging, but with no success. Montezuma knew his chances were slim, but he welcomed the challenge. A pigeon was a rare prize and an awkward quarry, worth the waiting. Any day now the young would be teetering on the edge of the nest in the old cob wall and taking their first tentative steps in experimental flight. This was the moment he had waited for. Pigeons are best caught either when they are very old or very young either too old to move or too young to know.

  The nest above him was strangely quiet this afternoon, and to begin with the cat supposed the parent bird was in there with them, but from the beech tree by the pond he heard the cooing and spotted the pair of them just as they clapped their wings and flew up out of the tree to the top of the barn. The nest must be empty. Montezuma ran across the cobbles and shinned up a dead elm that overlooked the barn. He surprised a squirrel climbing on the blind side of the tree but did not give chase: he was no random hunter. From an overhanging branch he could better observe the nest, but he did not need to investigate further. Above him, along the ridge of the lichen covered roof, he saw the entire family – three fledglings and their parents lined up alongside each other. It was a huge leap from the branch to the slate roof, but Montezuma had done it many times before. He walked out carefully as far as the branch would support him and then launched himself into the air twenty feet above the ground. His landing was perfect, his claws sinking into the grey lichen to give him purchase as he scrambled up the slates over and onto the ridge. The parent birds had flown already but at the other end of the roof the three grey fledglings seemed unable or unwilling to fly. As the cat approached they jostled into each other, turning this way and that in alarm. Then one of them took the plunge and fluttered off the ridge, half falling, half flying down the roof beating its wings in a frantic effort to achieve air power; this it finally did and soared away downwards into the yard below to land on the water trough. There were just the two left now for the cat, but that was enough for him. He inched his way along the ridge towards them, his tail whisking from side to side in anticipation. A few feet away he stopped, crouched and eyed them hypnotically. All his power was concentrated in the back legs, his paws shifting to find a perfect balance, the perfect starting block on the narrow ridge. The two young pigeons never moved until they saw the cat leap; then they were gone in a flurry of flapping, impotent wings. But the nearest one had left it too late and fell to the ground in the yard, the upper feathers of the wings torn away.

  Montezuma was disappointed – it had not been a clean kill; he had misjudged their speed. But down there below him in the yard lay his quarry struggling feebly to lift itself from the ground. That was compensation enough. The other two had gone and the parent birds with them, but that did not matter any more. Montezuma was in no hurry to find his way down across the roof to the top of the yard wall; the bird was crippled and the cat was sure of his prey.

  He came in through the yard gate by the dung heap and froze. The pigeon was lying where he had expected, its wings still flapping, feebly now. But Montezuma was not looking at the pigeon. From out of the darkness of the shippen at the far end of the yard came a huge black tomcat, shining and sleek in the sun. He had seen the pigeon and was about to move in for the kill. The two cats saw each other almost at the same moment and had stopped dead in their tracks. All that moved in the yard was the dying pigeon.

  Montezuma set up his battle cry and manoeuvred closer, his back arched and bristling. The pigeon was forgotten. His challenge was hurled back at him across the yard and the two cats crept slowly towards each other uttering dire warnings, none of which were heeded. This was a cat Montezuma had not met before and he would take his time before he attacked. He watched the black cat move and noted the strength in his shoulders: he glared into its yellow eyes and probed for weakness there but found none. Once again he arched his back and hissed out his defiance. But the black cat blinked, crouched, and sprang. The two cats met in mid-air and fell to the ground, rolling together in a bundle down the slope towards the drain. Montezuma regained his feet first and struck out across the black cat’s nose. But the black cat was young and knew only how to attack. He sprang forward again but this time Montezuma was prepared and swayed to one side, catching the cat a glancing blow on his head as he passed. Blood trickled down through the black fur and dropped onto the yard.

  In most fights this would have been enough to finish it and Montezuma stood his ground now waiting for the black cat to retreat and call it a day. To encourage him he began the baying cry of victory. For several minutes the black cat sat down at a safe distance from Montezuma, seeming disinterested in continuing the combat; but none the less he would not give way, he would not concede. He was on Montezuma’s territory and yet he would not give way. Once again Montezuma’s victory call resounded around the barns; but the black cat sat and watched him, unimpressed and arrogant. Furious, Montezuma struck. Like lightning his front claws slashed out. He had anticipated that his opponent would run; after all that was what usually happened. But his attack was met head on, and the two grappled together, biting and clawing each other in a frenzy of hate. Montezuma knew now that he had underestimated his adversary; he could feel that he was matched for speed and strength, that his every move was parried. As they broke apart again and stood back, a few yards separating them, Montezuma understood that this was to be no ordinary fight. He was already hurt badly, his good ear torn and bleeding. It was a challenge to his supremacy; lose this and he would have no kingdom. For the first time since he was a kitten, Montezuma feared defeat; for the first time in his life he felt tired and shaken.

  Both now watched for the other’s move, their tails swishing in anger, each trying to outdo the threats of the other. But unlike the black cat, Montezuma was thinking all the time, working out his tactics. He knew he must take the initiative if he was to survive. The standoff lasted some time until both cats had regained their composure, but still neither would leave the field. They skirmished spasmodically, neither inflicting serious damage, but it was after one of these incidents that Montezuma yelled in pain and deliberately turned away and ran – but not too fast. The black cat gave chase as he had hoped and within seconds was on him. Montezuma flipped over onto his back before the teeth could bite and as he did so he found the black cat’s throat exposed and unguarded. The bite was accurate and incisive. He felt the grip on him loosen and knew from the cry of pain that the bite had been well placed. The black cat half ran, half shuffled out of the yard and away into the fields. The feint had worked as planned, but at a cost; the ear already torn had been bitten again and the blood flowed freely from the wound.

  Matthew found him only by chance late that evening when he came into the yard to grease up the mower. Montezuma was lying by the water trough, blood still pouring from his ear. Not far away was a dead fledgling pigeon up against the barn wall. The cat looked more dead than alive, his eyes were glazed and his breath shallow.

  ‘Loss of blood, more than anything,’ said the vet after he had patched him up and injected him. ‘He should pull through, but he’ll have matching crumpled ears now. Looks to me as if he came off worse this time. Fights a lot, does he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Matthew, stroking the wounded warrior, ‘But he always wins.’

  ‘Didn’t do so well this time,’ Matthew’s father said.

  ‘He’s getting on, you know,’ Matthew said defensively. ‘Not as quick as he was, perhaps. But there’s not a cat to touch him.’ Matthew felt almost personally insulted by this supposition that Montezuma might have lost a fight.

  ‘Past his prime,’ said his father. ‘He’ll not come through many more like that.’

  ‘Maybe the other one’s worse off,’ said Matthew. ‘We don’t know, do we?’

  ‘Well he couldn’t be very much worse off than Monty is now, could he?’ Matth
ew’s father had to have the last word and it seemed to be fair comment. Montezuma lay there in his basket by the stove scarred and panting; but as they all watched him, the panting turned to the deep roaring self-satisfied purr they all knew.

  ‘What’s he purring for?’ said Matthew’s mother. ‘He’s no right to purr, he’s practically dead.’

  ‘I bet the other cat isn’t purring,’ said Matthew.

  THE SEVENTH LIFE

  MONTEZUMA’S BOUNDARIES EXTENDED AS the years passed. He was satisfied as a young cat to roam close to home, returning regularly to the farmhouse for his meal. His favourite hunting grounds lay in the hedges, barns and fields around the farm. Here hunting was a science, and with his knowledge of the ground and his wide experience he could be assured of at least some kind of kill. Beyond, out in the wilderness, hunting was a more chancy affair, and though often more exciting was invariably less successful.

  But there was another reason besides hunting for wandering abroad. The local she-cats had become few and far between, and a tom cat must chase the she-cats if he is any kind of tom. Already Montezuma had sired perhaps a hundred kittens during his lifetime. Innumerable tabby farm cats, Persian cats, Siamese cats and once a sleek, aristocratic Abyssinian, all had fallen for his rough charm and the parish was heavily populated with his progeny, many of whom possessed the tell-tale white patch on their throats. His success rate with the ladies merely spurred Montezuma to greater efforts and he began to wander further and further afield in his search for new mates. It was during one of these expeditions that Montezuma over-reached himself and came to grief.

  As the years passed, Matthew was taking more and more of the running of the farm onto his own shoulders. It was corn harvest and he had been busy combining the barley and bringing in the bales of straw. With his father and mother he had spent all his waking hours out in the corn fields taking full advantage of a succession of blazing warm days. Every day’s harvest was an emergency in case the weather broke before the next day, and they worked late every evening bringing in the sacks and straw before the night came down. There was no time in all this to notice the cat; and so for two or three days no-one realised that Montezuma was missing. By that time Montezuma was a long way away and in deep trouble.

  Montezuma had never before ventured beyond the wide main road that cut through the hills several miles from the farm. He lay now in the long grass high above the road and watched the traffic flash by. His ears were back and his heart beat fast: this was not for him. He had been here often enough on previous expeditions and surveyed the unexplored territory on the far side of the road, but always his better judgement had ruled him. This time however Montezuma had been following the scent of a she-cat, and the trail led him like a magnet down the steep slopes towards the edge of the road. This time he had to cross, he had to go on.

  The road was a dual carriageway separated by a long strip of grass and shrubby trees. Montezuma took his time, judging all the while the speed of the cars as they approached. For several minutes he watched, his head turning this way and that like an irregular metronome until he was sure that the nearest car was far enough for the attempt to be made. His mind now made up, he sprang out into the road and skipped across, the tarmac hot under his paws. He reached the island with only seconds to spare, springing up from the road into the sanctuary of the dusty grass. It was as he landed that he cut himself. As his back legs came down under him he felt a sharp stabbing pain in one of his rear paws. On three legs he hobbled into the shadow of a thorn bush and lay down to assess the damage. Cautious licking revealed a long gash right across the central pad of his paw. He cleaned it thoroughly and then lay back in the shade to wait for the bleeding to stop.

  By late afternoon he was ready to move on, but the expedition into the unknown lands on the other side of the road had had to be abandoned. His one thought now was to get home to the safety of his farmhouse. He limped back through the grass to the edge of the road carrying his injured paw well off the ground and began the long wait for a sufficient pause in the flow of the traffic. The pauses came and went, but the cat was unable to move. Each time he decided to wait for the next opportunity, and then the next and the next. His confidence was disappearing. With only three legs at his disposal his ability to calculate the risk had been upset. Once he did start out to make the crossing but he found he could not gather up enough speed to make it in time. Half way across, his nerve failed him and he turned and scampered back to the island. There he lay down again, dejected, and nursed his throbbing foot. On either side of him the cars and lorries thundered by in an interminable, unbroken procession; and as the evening came on the traffic seemed to intensify. Montezuma lay besieged on his island, hunger, fear and the loss of blood combining to make him tremble from head to foot. He was now totally confused and disorientated. He needed help, so he called out for it; but his yowling was obliterated by the roar of the engines and the continuous swish of the tyres on the soft tarmac.

  Sergeant-Major Sydney Shannon hated roads and avoided them whenever he could, but this one lay across his path and had to be crossed. ‘Old Syd’ as he was known whenever he went in this part of the country, was a country tramp. He had long since given up on the world of people and rarely spoke to anyone unless he had to. His life was spent in the woods and fields deep in the countryside where men had not yet overrun the land completely. Here there was still the quiet to listen to and the space to wander. But even here the roads had come slicing through his fields. He regarded them as an intrusion, an invasion of his privacy, and the people who used them as marauding lemmings. He viewed them with a degree of detached pity and considerable contempt.

  Holding up his hand like a policeman he strode out towards the island in the middle of the road, his kitbag over his shoulder. For hundreds of yards back the cars squealed to a halt and set up an indignant honking of horns that Old Syd ignored completely. As he approached the island at his regular unhurried pace, he spied a cat in the grass not more than a few yards from him. Oblivious to the abuse of the drivers behind him, Old Syd unloaded the kit bag from his shoulder and held out his hand towards the cat.

  Montezuma’s first instinct was to run, for it was a strange looking being that confronted him. Old Syd was a tall man with a craggy, pitted face and a shock of completely white hair that fell down over his forehead. He wore what he always wore, summer or winter, his old heavy khaki trousers over a pair of high black boots, and a drill khaki shirt done up at the neck. His greatcoat was in his pack along with his billycan and his razor.

  ‘Don’t be afeared, son,’ he said. ‘ ’Tis only Old Syd and he’ll not hurt you. Don’t you be afeard.’

  The voice was warm and gentle, and Montezuma felt he had found a friend. He made no resistance as the old man knelt down beside him and made to stroke his head. The cat stood up, walked towards him and pushed his head into the welcoming hand. ‘A bad paw, have you, son? We’ll soon have that right, soon as we get out of this place. No use waiting for them, son. They never stop. They don’t stop for people, so they’d hardly stop for a cat. They’d run you down first and then say sorry after. They’re all in such a hurry.’ He picked the cat up in his hands and opened the end of his kit bag. ‘You stay there now, and just watch.’ With one arm around his kit bag Old Syd stepped out in front of the traffic and threw up his hand in an imperious gesture. He stood, legs apart, in the middle of the road facing the cars until everything had come to a halt. ‘That’s the way to do it, son,’ he said. ‘That’s the only way.’ And he turned and walked slowly across the road. Once on the other side he gave the angry motorists a mocking, courtly bow and then climbed the fence into the field beyond. ‘It must be this way you live,’ he said. ‘The other way’s all people, and no cat in his right mind wants to be with people.’

  For a few days after he realised that Montezuma was missing, Matthew did not worry unduly. He had known Montezuma now for nearly ten years and had become convinced of his ability to survive anything; but afte
r a week or so even his conviction began to weaken. He would call for him at all corners of the farm where he was working, and he would ask anyone he met whether they had seen a battered looking ginger tom with a white throat. At home he tried hard to disbelieve his father’s pessimism.

  ‘There’s any number of ways for a cat to die, any number,’ said his father. ‘And he’s not immortal you know.’

  ‘He’ll come back one day, you’ll see,’ said Matthew, but even as he spoke he knew he was deceiving himself.

  ‘Cars, lorries, traps, drowning, poisoning – there’s a lot of danger out there for a wandering tom. Even a fox you know, he’ll take an old cat if there’s nothing else.’ His father shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t hope too much, if I were you. ’Tis never worth it. Accept the worst, that’s what I say.’

  ‘He’s not that old, Dad,’ said Matthew. ‘And I’ll not believe Monty’s dead till I see his body for myself.’

  The days came and went, and stretched into weeks and still Montezuma did not come home. Now even Matthew had to face the probability that Montezuma was dead. No one talked of him any more in the house; even Matthew’s father refrained from further speculation. Speculation now led always to the same conclusion, and that they kept private so that each should not reveal his worst misgivings to the other.

  After three weeks Matthew’s mother moved the cat-box from the corner by the stove and took it out to burn it in the orchard. Matthew noticed it was gone that evening, but he passed no comment. None was needed.

  Some miles away in the water meadows that ran alongside the river, the old man and the cat had set up home in a deserted fishing hut. Montezuma’s paw had healed cleanly and he spent his convalescence sunning himself on the banks while Old Syd fished for trout in the river. They lived on a diet of trout and milk. The milk was taken surreptitiously from a dreamy Jersey cow that grazed on a hill of buttercups nearby. She stood quite still, only occasionally turning a mildly enquiring eye to see what was going on underneath her. Old Syd talked to her all the while as he filled up his water flask with warm milk. The trout were just as easy for the old man. He made his own flies from the cat’s ginger fur and found discarded hooks hanging from the alders along the banks. It was never that long before the line jerked in his hand and he pulled in yet another sparkling trout. No cat would ever leave a diet of fresh trout and warm milk, and Montezuma was no exception.