A Cat Prince Distinguishes Himself

  Chapter 1. Voices in the Walls

  Historians have written chapters or even books about the night Selbis fell to the cliff faun armies. However, few historians devote more than a couple of paragraphs to that night a hundred years before when Selbis almost fell to the Durian wolves and wolflings. Lack of information partially accounts for their silence. It was a curious event—perhaps more legend than fact. However, some part of the story must be true, for the Endless Wood derives its name from this incident.

  Some say the city floated. Some say it gathered about it a moat of blue flame. Some say that Gabalon polluted the air of the wood with a deadly plague. All agree on this: Durian wolves and wolflings entered the wood alive—and disappeared forever.

  —Capricia Sor, A Concise History of Panamindorah

  Corry ran a hand lightly along the library wall. The director’s office was above this spot. He pressed both hands against the plastered cement blocks. Sometimes he could do the thing he was trying to do, and sometimes he couldn’t. Please work today.

  No one had ever let him read his file. Corry thought that was unfair, especially since he couldn’t remember half of the events it contained. He could remember coming to the children’s home, but that was back when his mind was still slipping. He knew he’d arrived almost a year and a half ago.

  That’s almost all I remember of my whole life. But somewhere there’s a file that tells more, and somewhere up there, someone is going to talk about it to strangers.

  “A potential foster home,” the director had said. These people were not looking to adopt him. Corry didn’t care one way or the other. What he wanted was that file.

  Corry pressed his hands harder against the wall, probing for the tiny vibrations that would form…words.

  “…has never been physically violent to our staff, but I cannot promise that he will not become violent, which is another reason I will understand if you refuse.”

  Corry thought that was the director, because he’d listened to her in her office before. He couldn’t be sure, though. People’s voices sounded different when he listened to them this way.

  “What’s his name?”

  “He told us his name is Corellian. We’ve been calling him Corry.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “We don’t know. He can’t remember.”

  The voice grew faint, and Corry shifted his hands.

  “…wearing strange clothes …symptoms of shock.” The voices steadied and grew clearer.

  “His condition improved with regular meals and a calm environment. A few days after he arrived, he began trying to speak to us, but he spoke a language no one could understand. Now he seems to have forgotten it.”

  Corry held his breath. Yes, that seemed right. He remembered being frustrated with people when he first arrived because they wouldn’t answer his questions.

  The foster parents asked about abuse. The director said she thought it certain. He waited impatiently while the people upstairs speculated about cults and children kept in solitude who invented their own languages. That’s not what happened to me, he thought.

  Finally, the director said. “His records are full of incident reports. You can read them.”

  No, don’t read them! Corry almost said aloud. Talk about them! You’ve got to talk!

  “…no idea how to use zippers…behaved as if all foods were strange to him. Electronic devices… He loves books, and I think he’s learned a lot of what’s normal from reading. He asked me one day how we got all the letters to look the same shape and size. He’d never seen typeset.”

  Corry sagged against the wall. He could vaguely remember some of that. For a moment he couldn’t hear them and thought they might be reading.

  “What’s synesthesia?”

  “A sort of cross-wiring in the brain that causes some senses to trigger others. It’s a rare condition. With Corry, his sense of smell seems most affected. It’s mixed up with his other senses, particularly with his sense of sight. He talks about smelling and tasting colors.”

  Corry bit his lip. He didn’t really think he had synesthesia. At least, he’d never been able to find a description of the condition that matched his own. For one thing, his ability to smell and taste colors came and went in a way that he could not always control. And hearing vibrations? He hadn’t been able to find any information about that.

  They were talking about boring things now, things he already knew—how he didn’t get along with the other children, how he liked animals, how he was small for his age, how they didn’t really know his age for sure, but placed it between twelve and fifteen.

  Corry felt an intense wave of disappointment. He took his hands from the wall. They hardly know any more about me than I do. He was still staring gloomily at the bookcases when the library monitor came to tell him the director wanted to see him in her office.