When Myrrrthin opened his eyes again, it was to the sight of the usually pristinely white big tom, his harem, his courtiers, and his lieutenants buried up to their whiskers in the noxious, soggy, reeking, inedible-by-carnivores contents of the dumpster behind Velma’s Vegan Paradise. But it was the pink lace doily and florescent orange and chartreuse paisley party hat jauntily perched on Ambrose’s head that convinced the old feline that his doom was truly sealed.
Silence lay like drenched dog fur over the scene. No one and nothing moved until a ball of rotting bean sprouts slid off the end of the dock and smacked wetly to the concrete beneath. It was followed shortly thereafter, not by an order for Myrrrthin’s disembowelment, but by laughter. Loud, belly-deep, prolonged solo laughter. The Warlord of Lower Greenville was in the throes of a giggle-fit of profound quality and volume.
In due course, the top cat wound down enough to look at the aged feline in front of him. “That was funny, old one,” he rumbled. “I do believe I like you. I will like you even more if you make this mess go…” he flicked one ear in a dismissive gesture, “somewhere else.”
“Of course, my lord,” Myrrrthin replied smoothly, adding a bow of his head. He made a show of settling into proper spellcasting posture and began an impressive-sounding chant of chitters, growls, and other vocalizations. His tail undulated, sinuously weaving intricate patterns in time to the chanting. Volume and degree of movement increased in slow crescendo until, finally, his tail lashed forward toward the mess, and his chanting ended on a single, sustained yowl.
For the space of perhaps five heartbeats, nothing happened. Then the mess simply disappeared. All but the doily and the hat. Myrrrthin blinked, scowled, lashed his tail again, and uttered something that sounded almost like a bark. Hat and doily followed the garbage to wherever it had gone.
In the silence that followed, Myrrrthin began to shake like a cat just escaped, by the width of one claw, being reduced to bits of bloody fur by a marauding dog pack. Chitters of amazement, followed by applause, began to sound around him and, after getting control of himself, he acknowledged it as might a warrior victorious but exhausted from single combat. Those around him, especially the alpha tom watching him so closely, need not know that his was the exhaustion of terror, his shaking that of abject relief. No, indeed, they did not need to know that.
“Bravo!” Ambrose bellowed, applauding. “That was wonderful! Come, Starfur, sit here beside me. I have a proposition for you.” As Myrrrthin made his way slowly up the stairs on one side of the dock, the tom turned to the female on his immediate left and convinced her, with a hiss and a cuff, to move.
“I’ve heard tales about you for as long as I can remember,” Ambrose confided as Myrrrthin settled himself into the vacated spot. “I was half convinced you were a myth until I started getting reports from sentries who’d claimed to have marked your passage. Just between the two of us, I think you started getting sloppy.”
I think I started getting old, Myrrrthin replied in his head. He smiled in deprecating fashion toward his host. “Well, that could be, my lord. Or it could be that your sentries are an observant lot, keen in their senses.”
“They’re my get,” Ambrose laughed. “Of course they’re sense-sharp. But what I want to know is the real story. Which of the several myths about you is the true tale?”
Myrrrthin looked thoughtful. “To answer that, my lord, I’d have to know what myths you’ve heard.”
“I suppose you would,” the younger cat mused. “Let me see. There’s the one that, more generations ago than anyone can count, you were served by the creatures who built this place and that they left you behind when they abandoned it. Another claims this place was already long abandoned when you, yourself, were dumped here.” The big tom fell silent as he rifled his memory. The female who’d been displaced from her position next to him crept cautiously close to a place near his back and began grooming him.
“In some myths, you’re called The Great Protector and The Paw Of Bast. There are stories in which you single-handedly vanquish entire huge armies of wild dogs, calling lightning from the sky as an ally and weapon to achieve that feat. I’ve heard you called Magician and Mage and Wizard.” For the moment, the alpha tom paused before adding, in a voice touched by sly teasing, “I’ve even heard your name invoked as the monster that snatches up and devours kittens who wander too far away from the den without proper supervision.”
“Oh…” the old cat blinked, “my.”
“So which is it, ancient one? Which of the stories is the true one?” Ambrose narrowed his eyes a bit and cocked his head to one side, his ears both pointed forward. “And what exactly are you?”
Myrrrthin glanced around, noting that every feline in sight was watching the dock with rapt attention. “Well, now, I’m not at all sure how to answer that. If my being used to keep kittens from going walkabout serves that purpose, then… I suppose I’m an imaginary monster, and a bit of a depressing thought that is. It would seem far better to think of me as a useful tool to their survival, don’t you think? As for the other tales… my days have been long, and there have been encounters with dog packs and other more mindless dangers. I have, somehow, survived them, and it may well be that, in my doing so, others who happened to be in the vicinity have also survived. Have I called down lightning as a weapon? It seems fanciful, and yet… I almost recall it. It… could be.” The last he said almost to himself before growing silent for a long while. Then he smiled engagingly.
“As to what I am, I would think it obvious. I am old unto ancient and venerable unto decrepit. In my prime, I was exceedingly handsome, and exceptionally long legged and lean. But time, as it so often does, has turned me gaunt and a trifle scraggly. My coat, which was at one time a dark wizard gray, is now more gray than dark, and the white markings from whence came my name are no longer quite as white or nearly as much like five-pointed stars as they were in my youth. My hips are stiff, my senses not as keen as they once were, and what prey I catch falls less to skill than to wiles and plain dumb luck these days.” He chuckled, and Ambrose joined in. “But the question, my lord, is what I am-or might be-to you. You mentioned having a proposition for me?”
“I want you to join my household. Move from wherever it is you’ve been living to accommodations nearby and under my immediate protection. Entertain my mates, instruct my offspring, make me laugh, and provide counsel when I ask for it. You said yourself you’re slowing down, and your chances of continuing to stay fed and ahead of snapping jaws get slimmer by the day. Join me here, and you need not worry about such matters ever again.”
Myrrrthin half-closed his eyes, considering the notion. “I must say, my lord, that’s an interesting offer. It seems quite self-serving on your part.”
Ambrose blinked, and his lips curled back from his teeth. He blinked again and began to laugh. “Well, of course it’s self-serving. I’m a cat, after all. An old, clearly inferior male moving freely through my territory, without regard for my authority, might give some of the young toms ideas that I’d rather they not entertain.”
Myrrrthin chuckled. “Indeed. That could present a terrible inconvenience for you. So, if I agree to this bargain, you get the benefit of my service, wisdom, and experience, not to mention getting rid of what might appear to be defiance of your position as alpha. And I get…?
The younger cat’s face went entirely still, his eyes holding level on Myrrrthin’s. “… to live.”
The old cat grinned. “Then how can I possibly refuse?”