the water, a low growl building in her throat. Instantly he yanked back his hand. He was just about to turn away when in a fleeting moment of sunlight he noticed, for the first time, a dark, glistening stain on the rock where her body pressed against it.
Warily he circled her to get a better view, keeping his distance. The animal's growl became louder, higher in pitch. Suddenly he saw it, on the side that had been turned away from him, almost hidden by fur: a rose-red hole gaping in the flesh beneath her ribs. Around this wound the skin was folded back in small triangular flaps, like little petals. It was clear, even from several feet away, that the wound had been made from the inside.
He remembered Poroth's story of the mouse caught in the man's throat and recalled a kind of slug he'd read about that, when eaten by a bird, will bore its way out through the bird's stomach. But he'd never heard of such things happening to a cat.
More likely, he decided, she had impaled herself on a tree branch or the sharp end of a root – something that, as she'd disengaged herself, had tugged the flesh out with it. He was surprised there wasn't more blood.
One thing was certain: there'd be plenty of blood – his own – if he tried to pick her up. In her condition she would probably try to scratch his eyes out. Still, he would have to do something; the Poroths would expect it. After all, the damned animal was like one of their own children, especially to Sarr. He thought, briefly, of trying to contact the two of them, but he had no idea where they were • today. Even with a phone, it would be almost impossible to locate them; they could be at services at any house in the community.
It occurred to him, suddenly, that there was one thing he might do: find himself a pair of gloves – surely Sarr must have work gloves somewhere-and use them to carry the hurt animal back to the house until the Poroths returned. Yes, that was it. He cleared the brook in two strides and hurried up the hill toward the farmhouse.
The slope was more tiring than he'd expected, the proof of how out of condition he was. He felt thoroughly winded by the time he reached the house and pounded up the steps of the back porch, where two of the younger cats eyed him with alarm. Once inside, he realized that he didn't know where to look. This is crazy, he told himself as he dashed up the stairs. She'll be dead before I get back.
He checked the low cabinet in the upstairs hall, but it contained only linen and blankets. Entering the Poroths' bedroom, where the creaking of the floorboards made him feel like an intruder, he stood panting in the center of the rug. Where would Sarr keep his gloves? There was a Bible on the nightstand by the bed, a kerosene lantern on the dresser. He peered at the shelves that ringed the crowded little closet, but found only hats, shoeboxes tied with twine, a painting set, a sewing box, two old cast-iron banks, and various dark folded clothes of Deborah's that he was nervous about searching through. The dresser contained neatly folded clothes and, in the top drawer, a tidy stack of deeds, diplomas, loan receipts, and a few old photos, including one of a severe-looking bearded man with Sarr's jaw and brows.
By the time he'd decided that the gloves must be in the workroom above the barn, he was certain it was already too late. Anyway, he'd had enough of this. Tiredly he ran downstairs, hurried out to his own room, and tore the frayed woolen blanket off the bed. If the damned animal were still alive, this would serve as well as gloves.
He trotted back down the slope to the stream, the blanket beneath his arm. Even before he reached it, he could see that the rock on which the cat perched was now bare.
Probably dragged herself off into the woods to die, he thought, disappointed more at his own wasted efforts than at the loss of the cat. He eyed the pines across the stream; there'd be no finding her in there.
He wondered what he'd tell the Poroths when they got home; bearers of bad news were always blamed, and, after all, he'd been left in charge here today. He could picture their anger as he told them of the hurt animal and of his own failed efforts to help her. If he hadn't taken so long up at the house, she might still be alive. Maybe his own shirt would have sufficed, instead of a blanket. Maybe he'd been a coward not to have used his bare hands. Sarr would never have hesitated.
Glumly he walked back to his outbuilding and threw the blanket on his bed. Better to say nothing, he decided. Better to pretend he'd never seen the cat. Let Sarr discover the body himself.
He spent the rest of the afternoon reading in his room, pushing through the Stoker. He wasn't in the best mood to concentrate.
Sarr and Deborah got back after four. They shouted hello and went into the house. When Deborah called Freirs for dinner, neither of them had been outside.
All six cats were on the back porch, washing themselves after their evening meal, when he walked up to the house.
'Have you seen Bwada?' asked Poroth, as Freirs pushed through the screen door, the cats filing behind him into the kitchen.
'Haven't seen her all day.'
He had done it; the lie was told. There'd be no going back now.
'Sometimes she doesn't come when I call her in for supper,' said Deborah. 'I think it's because she eats the things she kills.'
'Well,' said Sarr,' 'twill still be light after supper, and I'll go look for her.'
'Fine,' said Freirs. 'I'll help.' Perhaps, he decided, he could lead the other down toward the stream. Maybe the two of them would come upon the body. Resignedly he sat down to eat.
And then, in the middle of dinner, came a scratching at the door. Sarr got up and opened it.
In walked Bwada.
What a relief! Never thought I'd see her again – amp; certainly not in such good condition.
She was hurt badly earlier today, I know she was. That wound in her side looked fatal, amp; now it's only a hairless reddish swelling.
Luckily the Poroths didn't notice my shock; they were too busy fussing over Bwada, seeing what was wrong. 'Look, she's hurt herself,' said Deborah. 'She's bumped into something.' The animal did move quite stiffly, in fact; there was a clumsiness in the way she held herself. When Sarr put her down after examining the swelling, she slipped when she tried to walk away, like someone walking on slick ice instead of a familiar wooden floor.
The Poroths reached a conclusion similar to mine: that she'd fallen on something, a rock or a branch, amp; had badly bruised herself. They attribute her lack of coordination to shock or perhaps, as San-put it, 'a pinching of the nerves.' Sounds logical enough, I suppose. Sarr told me before I came out here for the night that if she's worse tomorrow he'll take her to the local vet, even though he'll have a hard time paying for treatment. I offered to lend him money, or even pay for the visit myself; I'd like to hear a doctor's opinion.
Maybe the wound really wasn't that deep after all; maybe that's why there was so little blood. They say animals have wonderful restorative powers in their saliva or something. Maybe she just went off into the woods amp; nursed herself back to health. Maybe the wound simply closed.
But in a few short hours?
I couldn't continue dinner amp; told the Poroths my stomach hurt, which was partly true. We all watched Bwada stumble around the kitchen floor, ignoring the food Deborah put before her as if it weren't there. Her movements were awkward, tentative, like a newborn animal still unsure how to move its muscles. When I left the house a little while ago, she was huddled in the corner staring at me. Deborah was crooning over her, but the cat was staring at me.
Killed a monster of a spider behind my suitcase tonight. That new spray really does a job. When Sarr was in here a few days ago he said the room smelled of it, but I guess my allergy's too bad for me to notice.
I enjoy watching the zoo outside my screens. Put my face close amp; stare at the bugs eye to eye. Zap the ones whose faces I don't like with my spray can.
Tried to read more of the Stoker book, but one thing keeps bothering me: the way that cat stared at me. Deborah was brushing its back, Sarr fiddling with his pipe, amp; that cat just stared at me amp; never blinked. 1 stared back, said, 'Hey, Sarr? Look at Bwada. That damned cat's not blinking.' And just as he looked up, it blinked. Heavily.
Hope we can go to the vet's tomorrow, because I want to ask him how a cat might impale itself on a rock or a stick, amp; how fast such a wound might heal.
Cold night. Sheets are damp amp; the blanket itches. Wind from the woods – ought to feel good in the summer, but it doesn't feel like summer.
That damned cat didn't blink till I mentioned it.
Almost as if it understood me.
