The Nine Lives of Montezuma by Michael Morpurgo
Every night when he came back from his hunting in the meadows he would find Old Syd awake in the fishing hut, humming in a deep, gruff growl that contained a roll of drums on each note. They were old marching songs and he would hum them over and over again, his arm around the cat. Old Syd was not used to talking to anyone but himself, but now he had found the perfect audience. The cat would lie by him at night and he would tell him what he had told no other living soul. He would tell of the terrible war he had fought, of the men who had died, of the men he had killed, of the bombing and shooting and the fear. He would tell of his return home to his family, to the street that had crumbled into rubble, to the graves of his wife and children. He told of the hospital where they thought that he was mad, and the world outside where men still killed each other and where the bombs still fell. The cat lay and purred beside him as he talked, shooting his claws in and out of the greatcoat that acted as a double blanket. ‘I’d have been happy as a cat,’ said the old man one evening as he looked down at his companion. ‘ ’T’would be good not to know, not to know anything.’
A few days later the water bailiff came with a policeman and with the farmer that owned the Jersey cow and the buttercup hill. Old Syd was fishing when he saw them coming. He threw his line in the river and drank down the last drop of the milk. ‘Trouble,’ he whispered to the cat. ‘Seems we’ve outstayed our welcome. You run along now, son, else they’ll pull you in as well, and I shouldn’t want that.’ But that cat sat where he was beside him.
‘You again, Syd,’ said the water bailiff as he came closer. ‘You’ve been warned often enough.’
‘Good afternoon to you as well,’ said Old Syd.
‘Mr. Hildstock here,’ the policeman said, taking off his cap and wiping his brow. ‘He says you been at his Miranda.’
‘Miranda?’ Old Syd asked. ‘Who’s Miranda?’
‘My cow, that’s who,’ said Mr. Hildstock who had a red face and a jutting chin. ‘I seen you out there every evening milking her off.’
‘Only a bit, farmer, only a bit. Only just enough for me and the cat.’ The old man kicked out to one side at Montezuma. ‘Go on, son, get out of here, else they’ll take you.’ But the cat ignored him and lay down just out of reach.
‘Not on, Syd,’ said the policeman. ‘Tis poaching and theft and we can’t have it.’
‘Don’t s’pose you can, son.’ said Old Syd. ‘But leave the cat be, he’s done nothing. Just leave him be.’
‘He might belong to someone,’ said the policeman.
‘He doesn’t belong to anyone, son; like me. We’re the same sort; that’s why we get on so well.’ He bent down and picked up a stone which he threw at the cat. He spoke sharply now for the first time and Montezuma pricked up his ears. ‘Get out of here, you dumb animal. Can’t you see they’ll have you too. Get out of here!’
Montezuma ran as the second stone flew past him. He dodged past the farmer who was making a grab for him and made off along the river bank towards the woods.
‘Run!’ shouted Old Syd. ‘Run like blazes!’ and he cheered as the cat disappeared into the trees. ‘You’ll not get him now, you’ll not get him,’ he said, ‘but I’m ready for you. Just let me get my things.’
That same evening the first heavy spot of rain fell after the long harvest drought. The sky fell lower over the farm and turned a translucent lead. The flies vanished suddenly, and dogs everywhere disappeared under tables at the first dull distant rumble of thunder. In the farmhouse the electricity went off as the lightening struck and candles were brought out. Everyone went to bed early that night, there was little else to do; but they were awakened around midnight by a frantic knocking on the door. Matthew was first down. It was Mr. Varley from the end of the lane.
‘Sorry to disturb you so late,’ he said, ‘but I thought I should tell you soon as I could.’
‘What is it?’ said Matthew, tying up his dressing gown. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘It’s your cat, Matthew,’ he said. ‘You know you asked me to keep an eye out for him. Well I did, and as I was coming home from the meeting up in the village, I think I found him.’
‘Montezuma? You found Monty?’ His mother and father had joined Matthew and the three of them spoke almost as one.
‘Where is he?’ Matthew asked. ‘Where d’you find him?’
‘He’s in the car outside,’ said Mr. Varley. ‘But I’m afraid he’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Matthew found tears in his eyes for the first time since he was a child. ‘Not Monty. He’s not dead, can’t be.’
His father pushed by him. ‘You sure, Mr. Varley? You sure it’s him?’
‘Looks to be the same cat to me,’ he said. ‘I feel sure it is, but it’s your cat and you’d know best. You’d best come and look for yourself – that’s the only way to be sure.’
They shone torches into the boot of the car while the rain lashed down on their backs. ‘It’s him right enough,’ said Matthew’s father. The dead cat was soaked to the skin, his fur matted and dark, but there was no doubt it was a ginger tom with crumpled ears. Matthew picked him up in the blanket he lay in and carried him into the barn adjoining the house. He laid him down gently on the worktable and they all looked again, just to be sure.
‘Not been dead long, I shouldn’t think,’ said Mr. Varley. ‘He was warm when I picked him up. Been knocked down I shouldn’t wonder, trying to get home. He’s all broken inside. I don’t think he suffered.’
‘That white patch doesn’t seem the same,’ said Matthew. ‘Looks a lot smaller than Monty’s patch to me.’
‘It’s him all right, lad. No question,’ said his father, his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘No use clutching at straws, not now. It’s Montezuma, and you’d best believe it.’
‘That’s him Matthew,’ said his mother. ‘I’d know him anywhere. Poor old thing.’
Matthew nodded slowly. ‘I’ll bury him tomorrow,’ he said, covering the cat in the blanket. ‘I’ll bury him out in the orchard and then that will be that.’
THE EIGHTH LIFE
FOR SOME DAYS MONTEZUMA WAITED under cover of the woods for his friend to come back. Each evening at dusk he would emerge from the shadows and make for the fishing hut; it was always deserted and silent. He would sniff around the old fish bones and prowl the fishing bank calling the old man back, but he never came. So it was that one evening he did not return to the woods but instead made his way up through the buttercup field towards the farmstead beyond. After all this was the way they had taken Old Syd.
He approached the buildings cautiously, sneaking through the long grass and the docks and the thistles, all the while taking stock. His nose told him that this was the way his friend had come, but as he came up the lane and into the farmyard the scent vanished totally. He thought for a moment that he should return to the fishing hut by the river. Home, he knew, lay somewhere the other side of that river that he could not cross. He was about to retrace his steps when he heard the sound of singing on the far side of the farmyard wall. Montezuma was hungry – hunting in the woods had not been good, not after a diet of trout and milk – and where there were people there was always the possibility of food. So he decided to take a chance. He bounded up the steps, jumped down into the vegetable garden beyond and then padded through under the broad beans until he came out into the sunlight beyond.
Lily Hildstock was sitting on a swing under an apple tree in the corner of the garden, her head covered by a white hood and a great wooden cross hanging around her neck on a string. She was draped in a long white habit that covered her from head to foot. She sang in rhythm to her swinging, a slow lilting hymn tune that repeated itself every few seconds. On the grass, scattered around the swing lay her pride of little animals: two white rabbits with pink eyes and twitchy noses, a solitary still tortoise, assorted lizards and slow-worms, three shaggy guinea pigs, a hamster and a speckled hen with a broken leg. When she saw the cat stealing across the lawn she sat up on her swing and put her feet down scuffl
Montezuma crouched low on the lawn, his eyes fixed on the hamster. His tail whisked gently. But his plans for the hamster were rudely interrupted. The girl in white was coming towards him. ‘If you come in peace,’ she said, holding up her hand in a sign of blessing. ‘If you come in peace, you are welcome. We are all God’s creatures and we do not harm one another.’ At this moment the animals at her feet sensed the presence of the cat. The rabbits scuttled under the nearest shrub, the tortoise lost its head and the guinea pigs rushed back into their box. But the hamster was asleep by the speckled hen and noticed nothing; the lizards and slow-worms froze where they were. ‘We are all followers of the blessed Saint Francis,’ said Lily walking slowly towards the cat, who remained crouched and suspicious. A few paces away she knelt down and held out both her hands. ‘Come, little cat, come and join us. I am Lily, a nun of the Order of Poor Clares, and I will care for you because you are a creature of God. That is what the blessed Clare taught us.’
Bemused, but interested, Montezuma remained where he was until the little girl reached him, stroked him and then picked him up in her arms. ‘There, little cat, you see. We mean you no harm. You feel thin. We shall feed you. You need shelter. You will live with us. You have been sent to join us and we shall care for you.’
Her mother was calling her from the back door. ‘Supper, Lily, come in for supper now.’
‘Sister Lily, Reverend Mother. You must call me properly. You are Mother Superior and I am Sister Lily. We agreed.’ She stroked the cat cradled in her arms and Montezuma responded immediately with his deep roaring purr.
Her mother sighed and cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Sister Lily,’ she said. ‘Sister Lily, even nuns have to eat. Will you please come into the Convent for supper now.’
‘Coming, Reverend Mother,’ Lily said, ‘but first we’ve got to feed this poor starving cat. He’s come to us for help. Have you got a saucer of milk and some cornflakes?’ At this Lily’s mother came round the corner and onto the lawn, shielding her eyes against the sun. ‘Where did you get that?’ she said. ‘Where did it come from? Whose is it?’
‘God’s,’ said Lily, ‘and he came from God. He needs something to eat, Reverend Mother.’
‘Lily, this has gone far enough. We said that we had enough animals already in the Convent, in the house I mean. There’s no room for any more. We agreed.’
‘Just this one, Reverend Mother. He’s old and hungry. God has sent him, I know he has.’ Lily brought the cat into the kitchen and set him down by a saucer of creamy milk. Montezuma wasted no time, but lapped the saucer clean and then looked up for more.
‘That animal will have to go, Lily,’ said her mother. ‘You know what your father thinks of cats. He won’t have them on the place. And your Aunt Bessie would be horrified. She can’t be in the same room with a cat without sneezing. And I will not become a rest home for battered animals. The cat must go.’
‘But Reverend Mother . . .’ Lily pushed the tears away from her eyes.
‘Mummy,’ said Lily’s mother. ‘I’m your Mummy, not your Mother Superior. This is a farmhouse, not a Convent. Now take off those ridiculous clothes and come to your senses. Your father has told you often enough not to dress up like that. It’s not right, not proper. You’re carrying this thing too far. Be kind to animals by all means, but remember there are people around as well.’
‘More’s the pity,’ the girl mumbled quietly, as she pulled off her nun’s habit to reveal a Snoopy tee-shirt and blue jeans.
Her mother spoke sharply. ‘What’s that?’
‘I said it’s a pity, Mum. He’s a nice old cat, a gentle cat. We’ve never had a cat and I’ve always wanted one. Can’t we keep him, please? He won’t be a nuisance. I’ll look after him. It’ll be the last one, I promise, the very last one.’
‘No.’ Her mother took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘No, Lily. That cat either belongs to someone, or he’s a stray, and he looks more like a stray to me. Now the vet is coming here later on this evening to see Miranda; we’ll give it to him and he’ll know what to do for the best.’
‘But you know what he’ll do,’ Lily said. ‘He’ll have him put to sleep. No-one wants an old cat like this, all battered and torn. He’ll have him killed, can’t you see?’
‘If he’s not wanted, then that’s what’s best for him,’ said her mother, stroking Lily’s hair in an effort to console her.
‘But he is wanted,’ cried Lily. ‘I want him.’
At this moment Mr. Hildstock and Aunty Bessie came in. She sneezed once and ran out of the door and that was enough to settle the argument for good. Montezuma was wrenched away from his milk and deposited unceremoniously into the bottom of an old corn sack. Mr. Hildstock tied the top firmly, and dumped him out in the old cartshed to await the vet’s visit.
Back in the house Mr. Hildstock blamed it all on the old tramp who had been trespassing on his land. ‘Every year he comes; he leaves dirt wherever he goes. You wash yourself properly, my girl. And don’t go round picking up mangy old cats. I’ve told you before, cats are dirty things. That old man, he steals my fish, steals my milk, infects my Miranda and now he leaves his filthy cat wandering around my farm.’
‘He’s not filthy,’ shouted Lily. She turned around from the sink and screamed at her father, tears pouring down her face. ‘He’s a kind old cat and Syd’s a kind old man. Everyone says so. He’s never done you any harm. You sent for the police and you had Old Syd put in prison and now you’re sending away his old cat and he’ll be killed. I’ll pray for that cat every night till I die, and then God will look after him in Heaven and he’ll be there when I get there. Only you won’t see him – you’ll be in Hell with all the other murderers.’ Of course she was sent to her room where she flung herself on her bed and prayed. She prayed for the cat’s life to be spared and went on praying till the tears stopped flowing and she was left only with a terrible still anger against her father. It was while she was upstairs that the vet came, treated the cow and took away the cat. Lily never saw him again.
Out in the yard before he drove off, the vet peered into the sack in the boot of his car. ‘Seen that one before somewhere,’ he said to Mr. Hildstock. ‘Seen him somewhere, sure I have.’
‘Only an old stray,’ Mr. Hildstock said. ‘Should be put away. Too many like that just running wild. You’ll never find a home for him, not at his age.’
‘Not likely, I agree,’ said the vet. ‘Looks a bit of an old warhorse to me. I’ve a few more calls to make, then I’ll take him to the R.S.P.C.A. in town. They’ll keep him for a day or two and if he’s not claimed they’ll put him down. Sure you wouldn’t like to keep him? Good mouser by the look of him.’
But Mr. Hildstock was already walking away. ‘No mice on my farm,’ he said. ‘There’s no mice, so we don’t need a cat. He’d be no use here. He’s all yours.’
Matthew knew there was something wrong as soon as Emma calved. Normally a cow will stand up to lick her calf over immediately after birth, but Emma just lay where she was on the straw and refused to get up. No amount of gentle persuasion or pulling would get her to move and Matthew called his father in to help.
‘I think it’s that milk fever again,’ said Matthew.
‘We’ve had a lot of it recently. You see if you can get her up. I’ve tried everything I know.’
His father pulled the new-born calf round to where the cow could see it. ‘Come on, old girl. She’s yours and you got to look after her.’ But Emma turned away and stared steadfastly in another direction. Then between them they used force, trying to rock the cow up on to her feet, but Emma weighed over half a ton and was not co-operating. Matthew’s father stood back and took off his flat cap. ‘Gad, you’re right,’ he said. ‘That milk fever, ’tis the divil itself. It’s a vet’s job. You better have him in quick. If he’s not here fast we’ll lose that cow and the calf as well as likely as not.’
They contacted the vet by radio phone a few minutes after he’d le
‘Still talking to them?’ said the vet as he came back into the shippen with Matthew’s father. ‘It’s not a talk she needs, it’s this. A nice drop of calcium and she’ll be well on her way.’
And so she was. It was not long before Emma was on her feet with her calf suckling frantically underneath her. ‘Go to it, son,’ said the vet, packing his bag and rolling down his sleeves. ‘You’re luckier than some I’ve seen today.’
‘What d’you mean?’ said Matthew.
‘Nothing,’ said the vet. ‘Nothing. It’s just that I like to see results. I spend far too much of my time putting animals to sleep. I’m just off now into town to the R.S.P.C.A. – another stray. I’ve never got used to it and I’ve been at it now for five years. Perhaps I’m in the wrong job.’