The Nine Lives of Montezuma by Michael Morpurgo
‘Where the divil’s he gone now?’ said his father, still holding the baked bean tin in his hand.
‘He’s up there,’ said Matthew. ‘Frightened half to death.’
‘Matthew,’ his mother said, ‘I haven’t used baked beans in weeks. Have you been at my tins again?’
‘I was hungry,’ Matthew admitted. ‘I just had a few, that’s all.’
‘Gad, you’re a baked bean fanatic,’ said his father. ‘And you’ve been told often enough about tidying up after yourself. It’s your fault, my lad. Could have killed that kitten you know.’
‘Didn’t know you cared,’ said Matthew.
‘Don’t you start, you two,’ said Matthew’s mother. ‘There’s poor Monty stuck up that tree, so don’t start. We’ve got to get him down, he won’t come down on his own – not from that height.’
‘I’ll go up after him,’ said Matthew.
‘You can’t go all the way up there,’ his mother said. ‘What happens if you fall?’
‘He won’t fall,’ said Matthew’s father. ‘He’ll be all right. He’s spent most of his life climbing trees, climbs like a monkey – he’ll be all right.’
Matthew felt less confident as he began the climb. The bark was slippery from the previous day’s rain and the higher he climbed the more the wind seemed to gust. He climbed carefully, securing good footholds and testing each branch before he put his full weight onto it. He had climbed the old beech often enough before but always for fun. This was serious and he was not enjoying it. He had lost sight of Monty now and was concentrating on the climb. From below his father kept shouting up detailed instructions about how he would do it if he were up there, about grip and balance; and his mother kept up a chorus of: ‘Oh be careful, dear. Do be careful.’
He found Montezuma crouching at the end of a long tapering branch that hung out over the pond. The branch looked thick enough and safe enough near the trunk, but the further away it stretched the more fragile it looked. Matthew stood in the fork of the tree and considered all the alternatives, trying to ignore the warnings and advice from below. He could not climb out along the branch to Monty – the branch would not take his weight. He needed a net to throw out over the cat, but there was no-one who could bring a net up to him – neither his father nor his mother could climb trees – at least he had never seen them. He would have to talk the kitten back to safety, that was the only way.
‘Monty,’ he said in as soothing a tone as he could manage. ‘It’s me, Monty. You can’t stay out there all day. You’ll be all right now. I’ll take you down. Come on then, come on. I won’t hurt you.’
But the kitten crouched low, glued to the branch like lichen. He blinked back at Matthew, swallowing hard and mewing weakly every so often. Matthew talked on in a consoling, sympathetic tone; but he received no encouragement from Montezuma who never moved a muscle.
From down below his father was shouting up to him. ‘Can’t you get him down?’ A question which Matthew didn’t feel he could answer politely.
‘Fire Brigade,’ his mother shouted up. ‘What about the Fire Brigade?’ They looked so small down there in the yard. Matthew felt his parents had been getting smaller in recent years, but he had never seen them this small.
‘Not yet,’ Matthew shouted back. ‘Not yet. I’ll try one more thing.’
‘Do be careful, dear. Do be careful.’ His mother’s voice sounded hysterical, but then it always did whenever she shouted.
Matthew held onto the branch above him, and edged out onto Montezuma’s branch stepping sideways like a cautious crab. The two branches ran parallel for a few yards and then the upper one that Matthew was holding onto came to an abrupt halt. Matthew went as far as he could and then released the upper branch. For a moment he stood balancing with nothing to hold onto. The branch swayed underneath him and he lowered himself carefully until he was sitting astride the branch his hands clasping it firmly in front of him. Like this he pulled himself along inch by inch until he knew he could go no further. The kitten was still well out of reach.
‘That’s far enough.’ His father’s shout was sharp. ‘No further. That’s far enough. The branch won’t take the weight. No further.’
Matthew knew he was right, but he was nearly there and it was only a few more feet. He lay now flat along the branch gripping behind with his feet, his hands holding on in front of him. ‘Come on Monty, come on down. Please, there’s a good kitten. Come on now.’ But as he released one hand to reach out towards the cat, he lost his balance and had to grab at the branch suddenly to retrieve himself. Alarmed, the kitten backed away, lost his grip and tumbled down through the air towards the pond. Matthew watched for the splash and saw his father running down across the yard towards the pond. The ducks evacuated the pond noisily, leaving Matthew’s father alone in the pond striding waist deep to the spot where Montezuma had fallen in. Matthew waited, closed his eyes and prayed. When he opened them his father was shouting up at him and laughing, holding up a dripping kitten. ‘Got him. He’s all right. The little divil’s still breathing.’
By the time Matthew had made the descent, his father was out of the pond and had pulled off his shoes. He was sitting on the ground taking his socks off and wringing out the water.
‘Your father will catch his death,’ said Matthew’s mother, who was holding on to Montezuma in a vice-like grip. ‘Here’s your Monty,’ she said. ‘You take him. And for God’s sake hang on to him. You worry me to death, you two. First you go climbing up trees and then he goes jumping into cold ponds – at his age. You should know better. Could have killed you both and all for what? For a kitten.’
‘For Monty,’ said Matthew, rubbing the kitten dry with the tail of his shirt. ‘This is no ordinary cat, you know. Can you imagine my Dad jumping into a pond to rescue any other cat? He’s dropped plenty of kittens into this pond, but this is the first one he’s ever pulled out and that’s a fact.’
‘And the last,’ said his father wriggling his wet toes. ‘Definitely the last.’
Montezuma’s career as a sneak thief was at an end – for the time being anyway. Certainly, half empty tin cans held no fascination for him. Of course there were other temptations, but he was off baked beans for life.
THE FOURTH LIFE
MONTEZUMA SPENT THE FIRST SUMMER and winter of his young life exploring his territory. During these months he awoke to his own potential as a hunter. The days were slept away peacefully by the kitchen stove; but at dusk, well fed and rested, he would slip out silently through the back door and be gone for the night.
Matthew saw little of him during this time. He might spot him skulking around the hedgerows on his way down the road to milking in the morning, or find him curled up in the barn when he went to fetch the hay. He loved to watch Montezuma basking in the summer sun, or chasing leaves in autumn, or stalking stealthily through the long grass in the orchard. But Matthew never played with him. For him, Montezuma was no plaything, just a companion that he liked to be with. He felt no proprietary rights over the cat. It was not his cat; he was Montezuma and that was enough.
Montezuma felt at ease in his home – most of the time. When Matthew and his mother were in the house he could sleep secure by his stove. For food he went to either of them, or both if he could get away with it, and always felt assured of a friendly response. He liked to sit on Matthew’s knee and sharpen his claws on the shoulder of his jacket, rubbing up against his ear. But the sound of the father’s footsteps was like an air-raid siren to him. If asleep he would awake, look frantically around and dash into the deepest, darkest corner he could find, and then flee the room as soon as he could. Matthew’s father had never been deliberately cruel, not as such. But a cat knows when he is not welcome. Countless times Montezuma had been tipped out of his chair and chased out of the kitchen. It was true that Matthew’s father had flung a boot in his direction once or twice when he had been yowling for his food, but he had never hit him. Now they simply avoided each other and had come to terms wit
Montezuma had grown into a huge, stripey ginger tom with a long tail that he carried proud and high, unless he was hunting. His ears were pointed sharply and were long enough to be those of a wild cat. The farmyard was his kingdom; he had made it so. There were other cats that occasionally strayed onto his land, but he made sure they didn’t stay for long. Each intruder found to his cost that Montezuma stood his ground.
He was fast becoming a lethal hunter, with a preference for ambush. His favourite killing ground was in the hedgerows and ditches in the long barley field that ran along the lane down to the river. It was here he had served his hunting apprenticeship, discovered by trial and error the techniques that worked, and the habits of his prey. He knew every little track and hole; he learned to use the noise of the wind as camouflage and to lie in ambush as still as a log. He had come to gauge the speed of their reaction to his attack, to recognise and appreciate their individual capacity for retaliation and survival.
It was only with Sam, the farm’s sheep and cattle dog, that Montezuma felt unsure of himself. Sam was never allowed in the house, so that the problem only arose outside the farm. Here, out in the open, they eyed each other at a distance and went their separate ways harbouring feelings of mutual suspicion and fear. Sam understood that this cat had come to stay by the frequency of their meetings and Montezuma knew that the dog belonged to the farm and was no direct threat to his feline supremacy of the farmyard.
Sam was a bushy black and white collie with long white teeth and a mouth that seemed to pant perpetually. He had that perception and intuitive intelligence that a good sheepdog should possess, and he sensed that it might be wise to give the young cat elbow room, for the moment anyway.
The two co-existed as only animals can with a degree of tolerance inspired by self-interest. But self-interest in two such close neighbours must inevitably clash, and so it did one Sunday afternoon on the front lawn outside the farmhouse.
As usual the bone from the Sunday joint of lamb had been handed to Sam, whose appetite for bones, or for anything else for that matter, was inexhaustible. Now Sam did not usually eat his bone at once – few bones were worth eating until they had lain in the earth for some weeks. His usual procedure was to trot down the lane to Mr. Varley’s vegetable garden, the softest bed of earth in the parish. There he would bury the bone busily, looking furtively over his shoulder all the while; and when he had nudged all the earth back over with his nose, he would return to the farm with an air of achievement, his nose caked a rich red-brown. For an intelligent dog this was a foolish thing to do. Everyone knew where he buried his bones, Mr. Varley best of all, who dug up the bones whenever he discovered them and that was often enough. However, this particular afternoon Sam was tired, and it was hot, and the bone was big; so he lay down on the front lawn and gnawed contentedly in the sunshine.
Now Montezuma had always entertained hopes of the Sunday bone, and from his vantage point by the stove he watched Matthew leave the table and carry the great bone outside. He followed only on the off chance, and watched from the shrubbery as Matthew made the dog sit and take the bone gently in his mouth. The dog waited for Matthew to go back inside, standing possessively over his bone; and then he turned and padded onto the lawn, droped his bone and lay down neatly, relishing the feast to come. Montezuma emerged cautiously from the shadows of the fuschia, and sat down on the path a safe distance away. He had a tick in his ear and it needed scratching. The dog turned at the movement and growled a warning. He picked up his bone and moved away towards the garden wall.
This wall was a favourite place for Montezuma. It was flat on the top and could be used either for basking in the sun or as one of the best observation posts for local hunting. He had caught a wagtail from there only the week before. He retreated from the shrubbery and in a flanking movement ran round the other side of the wall and sprang up easily.
Sam was busily involved and unable at first to decide which end of the bone to begin. After much consideration he decided finally to stand up and strip it wherever the meat was most plentiful. He planted one paw firmly on it and began his meal. From above him on the wall the cat watched biding his time.
The phone rang back in the kitchen and Matthew’s mother answered it as she always did. No one else ever moved when the phone rang. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Oh, we are sorry about that.’ And then, ‘I can’t think how it can have happened. I’m, so sorry.’ Matthew and his father stopped eating their apple pie and listened. ‘Through onto the garden. Oh deary me, deary me, it must be a terrible mess. Yes, yes. Well, we’ll be right down. One of us’ll be right down.’ She put the phone down and ran back into the kitchen. ‘It’s your cows, Matthew; they’re out in Mr. Varley’s garden, his vegetable garden. You’d best get down there. Hurry now.’
‘Take Sam,’ said his father. ‘And tell Mr. Varley I’ll be right down to help. Go on lad, get going else there won’t be any garden left.’ But Matthew was already gone, calling for Sam as he ran down the garden path.
Sam was reluctant to leave his bone. He had barely started his feast and he wouldn’t leave his treasure out on the lawn exposed and vulnerable. ‘Come on, Sam. Leave it!’ Matthew shouted at him and whistled him up. Sam compromised, picked up the bone and ran over towards him. ‘Not the bone, Sam, you blockhead. It’s you I want. Drop it, drop it now.’ Sam obeyed, as he always did in the end, and dropped the bone in under the fuschia hedge, out of sight. He backed out, cast an eye around to make sure that no-one had seen him and then sprinted away up the lane after Matthew, who was still whistling for him. Montezuma had watched it all from the top of his wall. He waited until boy and dog were out of sight and then he moved in, bounding across the lawn and into the fuschia hedge. The bone was too heavy to move and anyway this was a perfect place to settle down. Montezuma crouched down on all fours and set to, still alert however to the possibility of surprise. His joy was unbounded as he found more and more layers of rich succulent red meat. He ate on, oblivious now to the world outside the shadows of the hedge. He had quite forgotten the dog and it never occurred to him that it might return to retrieve its bone.
Matthew and Sam were away for some time. It was not difficult to drive the cows back through the broken gate and out into the meadow again, but the explanations and condolences could not be hurried. Mr. Varley had been a neighbour as long as Matthew had been alive and in all that time Matthew could not remember hearing a harsh word from him. And even now as the old man gazed out over his ruined vegetable garden, he simply shook his head sadly and puffed his pipe. He blamed no-one. ‘S’pose it’ll save me rotovating it.’ he said. ‘We’ve had a wonderful lot of vegetables this year, so I can’t grumble.’
Matthew tried to apologise and mentioned insurance money, but Mr. Varley would have none of it. ‘Not your fault,’ he said. ‘Not anyone’s fault. The cows broke through the gate. It’s no use blaming them, is it now? And insurance you say. No, I’ll not have any of that kind of thing. These things happen and there’s nothing the insurance can do except pay me money; and it doesn’t take money to dig over a vegetable patch, does it? You go home my lad, and tell your Dad not to worry. We’ll put it all to rights, you’ll see.’
Sam waited impatiently as the apologies dragged on. He had done his work and now he wanted to get back to his bone. When Matthew had finished apologising for the umpteenth time he turned to go. Sam could wait no longer. At the bottom of the lane he left his master and ran on ahead, his mouth already watering in anticipation.
By the time Montezuma heard the dog, it was too late. He was caught unawares and was panicked into a hasty flight. He shot out of the back of the fuschia hedge as the dog came in the front, but the dog had seen him on his bone and that was enough. The truce was broken and it was war.
Behind the fuschia hedge was the piggery and the door was open as it always is in the summer to let the air in. Montezuma saw it as a way out. The pen doors at the back of the
Sam was going for the throat. He had lost all traces of domesticity. He was back to the wolf. His teeth were bared, his face transformed from the soft, loving sheepdog to the ruthless killer. He had made two hits near the cat’s throat conceding a scratched eye and nose, but his blood was up and no cat scratch could deter him now. He leapt forward again onto the cat and struck downwards, his teeth closing over the cat’s ear. He had him now and shook him until he could hold the grip no longer.
Matthew heard the rumpus from half-way down the lane and he could guess what had happened. By the time he arrived there was no stopping Sam, who was quite beyond reason. He leant over the wall and tried to pull him off, but the dog turned on him like a cobra, snapping at his wrist. Matthew ran for the bucket of water he used for mixing the barley for the pigs. He filled it quickly from the tap and ran back, throwing it over Sam. Then he vaulted in over the rails, opened the pen doors to the outside and bundled Sam out whilst he was still shaking the water from his face.