9 (Nine) Tales O'Cats

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Publishing History and Other Information

The Queen’s Cat’s Tale

Bastet’s Blessing

Mu Mao and the Court Oracle

Boon Companion

The Cat-Quest of Mu Mao the Magnificent

Cat Among the Pigeons

Born Again

Tinkler Tam and the Body Snatchers

Final Vows

About the Author

9 Tales O’ Cats

An Anthology of Fables of Fantastic Felines

by

Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

All rights reserved

Copyright © October 1, 2011, Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

Cover Art Copyright © 2011, Karen Gillmore

Gypsy Shadow Publishing

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-370-0

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: October 2011

Second eBook Edition: November 12, 2019

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memories of Andre Norton and Martin H. Greenberg, for whom most of these stories were written.

Publishing History

1. The Queen’s Cat’s Tale © 1991 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough. First appeared in Catfantastic II edited by Andre Norton and Martin H. Greenberg, Daw Books

2. Bastet’s Blessing © 1989 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough. First appeared in Catfantastic edited by Andre Norton and Martin H. Greenberg, Daw Books

3. Mu Mao and the Court Oracle © 2001 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, first published in A Constellation of Cats, and in Feb. 2003, published in Scarborough Fair and Other Stories by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, published by 5 Star in conjunction with Tekno Books and Ed Gorman.

4. Boon Companion ©2002 by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, First published in Vengeance Fantastic by Tekno Books and Daw Books, reprinted 2003 in Scarborough Fair and Other Stories by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, Five Star in conjunction with Tekno Books and Ed Gorman

5. Cat Among the Pigeons © 2005 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, first published in Magic Tales, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Janet Pack, Daw Books

6. The Cat Quest of Mu Mao the Magnificent proof ©1994 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough. First appeared in Catfantastic III edited by Andre Norton and Martin H. Greenberg, Daw Books

7. Tinkler Tam and the Body Snatchers proof © 1999 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, first published in Cat Crimes Through Time edited by Ed Gorman, Martin H. Greenberg and Larry Segriff, Carroll and Graf Books

8. Born Again © 1996 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, first appeared in Catfantastic IV, edited by Andre Norton and Martin H. Greenberg, Daw Books

9. Final Vows, © 1998 Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, first appeared in Midnight Louie’s Pet Detectives, edited by Carole Nelson Douglas, reprinted 2003 in Scarborough Fair and Other Stories by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, Five Star in conjunction with Tekno Books and Ed Gorman.

Annotated List of Stories

9 Tales O’ Cats (and 4 of the 9 Feline Lives of Mu Mao the Magnificent)

1. The Queen’s Cat’s Tale: Guinevere’s Cat tells the true story of the fall of Camelot

2. Bastet’s Blessing: An Egyptologist’s Cat curses some mummies

3. Mu Mao and the Court Oracle: The much-reincarnated feline bodhisattva, Mu Mao the Magnificent, first introduced in Last Refuge breaks out of an animal shelter to assist a depressed fellow inmate.

4. Boon Companion: A former barn cat learns how to be a true familiar to defend a young woman against greedy kinfolk.

5. The Cat Quest of Mu Mao the Magnificent: in which the much-reincarnated feline bodhisattva goes looking for love in all the wrong places.

6. Cat Among the Pigeons: the cat who ratted on the 12 Dancing Princesses tells how this fairy tale actually happened.

7. Born Again: In which Mu Mao the Magnificent, the cat who survived the end of the world, helps another cat in his quest for a reincarnation that will reunite him with his beloved human friend

8. Tinkler Tam and the Body Snatchers: A canny Traveller cat making his home in Edinburgh battles the greedy resurrectionists for the love of his friends.

9. Final Vows: This time Mu Mao the Magnificent appears as a secondary character in the story of a reincarnated cat attempting to solve his own betrayal and murder

The Queen’s

Cat’s Tale

My first cat story for Andre Norton’s Cat Fantastic series of cat anthologies, this story was dedicated to Lady Jane Grey, a delicate and diffident tabby.

I’ve held my silence long enough and see no reason why my story cannot now be told. My children are grown, everyone concerned save only my lady and me has passed beyond, and though you’d never know it by looking at me, I’m getting on in years. So is my lady, drowsing now beside the fire. Her hair—that smelled so like wild violets I delighted to roll in its spring-bright strands during those long months when her lord was campaigning and we lay together for comfort …Ah her hair—where was I? Oh yes, (how one does wander as one gets on in years).

Her hair is now white as that cold stuff—snow, it’s called—that sticks to the paw pads and inevitably comes around whether it’s wanted or not.

Just like some people I could mention. But more about them later.

As I was saying, it’s peaceful here in this simple, quiet place, and although it is drafty, my fire. Of course, the idea is that we live here with the sisters because my lady has been humbled, you see, and they, she and the sisters, are supposed to be all the same, but snobbery springs eternal and my lady’s rank gets us our little fire and the choicest morsels and never a cross word about me even if I choose to sleep in the chapel. A queen—even a former queen, even a disgraced queen, is still top cat.

Not that we haven’t made many sacrifices. This is not as nice as the palace with its lovely fresh rushes twice a day and the delicious fur coverlets to nuzzle and knead and that little velvet cushion just for me. Not that I ever actually used the thing, mind you, but I appreciated having it reserved for my exclusive occupation nonetheless.

But those days have long since passed away, as soon shall I and my lady as well, though not necessarily in that order. Just in case I’m someday left alone I’ve taken as my protégée Sister Mary Immaculata a common but cheerful young calico who loves to hear of life among the quality. As well she might. For who came closer to any of them than me? Who knows better the truth behind the dreadful events that preceded the fall of Camelot, and who else fully realizes why anything or anyone worthwhile was salvaged from the entire mess? Who knows with more claw-bearing conviction than I the true villain of the piece?

And who besides myself and my lady knows the deepest, darkest, most private secret of the great and fearless Sir Lancelot DuLac himself? No one, that’s who. And so no one else is aware that this weakness in the great warrior is the crux of the entire matter. Ordinarily I would never cast aspersions on such a seemingly flawless reputation, but willy-nilly there’s no tampering with the plain and simple fact that Sir Lancelot was allergic to cats and it was this weakness that was the undoing of Camelot and the salvation of my lady.

When I say allergic, I do not mean dislike leading to the genteelly martyred sniffles some affect in my presence. Oh, no. Blew up like a toad, he did. Broke out in spots the size of mouse droppings. Got so itchy he looked like he was trying to dance a pavane in a seated position. Sneezed loud enough to be heard halfway to Cornwall. And his eyes, usually so clear, swelled shut as if encased in two red pillows.

And me? I was crazy about him. He was like catnip and cream to me. Something about his scent, I expect. But particularly when I was younger, I simply could not stop myself. No sooner did he walk in into the room than I twined around his ankles. No sooner did he drop his hand to the arm of a chair than I began grooming his fingers. No sooner was he seated at the Round Table than I leapt upon his shoulders and ran my tail beneath his nostrils, rubbing my face against his hair, purring like a chit of a kitten.

The other knights laughed at us and my lord, the king, looked rather sad that I had never so favored him, for he was very fond of cats and had given me as a kitten into my lady’s service, but I was shameless. My mother always told me it is a wise creature who knows her own mind and I knew that I wanted to be with Lancelot. Not that I ever got to spend a great deal of time with him. My lady would always come to pluck me away, though often I brought with me a bit of fabric or a strand of hair for a souvenir, to purr over at some later time. Lady Elaine, my lady’s minion, once tried removing me and all I will say about that is that she never tried again. Lancelot was too polite and too afraid of offending my lady to swat me. Also, I am quite sure he admired me from afar, for as events revealed, at one time he was fond of cats, despite his malady. My fur is very soft and my purr is very soothing, as my lady so often has said. I used to hope one day his iron will would overcome his unfortunate reactions to my presence.

Alas, we never had the chance to find out, for my lady, at the instigation of that beastly Elaine, shut me up in the privy tower whenever Lancelot was in the vicinity. After the time when I almost fell into the hole and had to be rescued after hanging on by a clawtip and screaming for hours before anyone heard me, I decided that my attraction to Lancelot was merely a superficial one, and whatever silly problems Lancelot had to overcome, he would have to find some other cat to train him out of them.

Never let it be said that I am anything but generous and patient to a fault, but I had my position to think of and my lady could not be expected to do without my services for long periods of time just because a mere knight, no matter how worthy, had what was really a rather comical reaction to cats.

So I hid. I hid in the little hollow of the crown at the top of Arthur’s throne, under the Round Table, and on nice days in one of the arrow slits overlooking the moat. I particularly liked the top of the canopied beds because I couldn’t be got down before I made sure the tapestries, as well as arms and faces, suffered, and I knew very well how much Lady Elaine hated mending. After awhile, they forgot to look for me, and I once again assumed my rightful duties as my lady’s chief confidante concerning the supervision of the business of the castle.

I could have told them never to let those two in, Mordred and that so-called cat of his. Any cat worth the water to drown her in could have told them that Mordred was the sort of boy who torments cats with unspeakable indignities (and I should know), not the sort to share a morsel and pillow and a bit of companionship with one of us. That alone should have warned them, as I could not, but since it did not, they should have realized what those two were up to at once when that so-called cat snuggled up to Lancelot and he didn’t even sniffle.

That should have told the humans, poor things, that something distinctly fishy was brewing and it wasn’t chowder. I knew at once, of course. The creature’s accent was dreadful and her manners worse.

I was in the garden when they arrived, Mordred riding his golden steed, that creature in a basket in front of him. I was engaged in efficiently rearranging the piled leaves the gardeners had gathered and paying no attention to traffic. My lady, His Majesty, and Sir Lancelot played dominoes on a nearby bench. Mordred, sweet as pie, dismounted, lifting down the basket more tenderly, I swear, than he ever did anything. To no avail. The nasty creature hopped out, landing with a plop in the middle of my leaves, where she sat as if she belonged. Naturally, I hissed at her and told her whose territory she was invading before giving her a pawful across the nose. She did not even do me the courtesy of hissing back. She did not raise a hair, did not arch her back. She merely flipped her tail as she deftly avoided my paw, rose, and sprang straight onto Lancelot’s lap.

I crouched expectantly, quick thumps of my tail sending the leaves flying like so many gold and orange birds flushed from the gorse. Soon she would get her comeuppance as he sneezed and swelled. I was not greatly surprised that no one stirred a finger to remove her. It had been some months since I had made my private, privy-bound decision to leave the man alone in his poor cat-deprived existence. I’ve noticed people have very short memories when it comes to who suffers what ailments, and a good thing that is, too, I suppose. But when, after several minutes, the knight’s long fingers strayed to stroke her sleek black-and-red mottled fur, and his eyes didn’t swell and he did not cough or sneeze, I confess I was quite insulted. To all appearances, he was unperturbed by the newcomer. To all appearances, therefore, he was not allergic to cats in general, but to me in particular.

Not that I cared, mind you. I’d given up on the man as hopeless already. I sat washing the fur of my stomach with great concentration whenever he glanced my way. But he did not glance my way. While Mordred charmed Their Majesties with soft words, the tortoiseshell slitted her sly gold eyes at my lady’s Champion and purred in a disgustingly ingratiating manner. And Lancelot, normally so intelligent and perceptive, called her la petite minou and fondled her ears while smiling like a total ninny.

I entertained myself listening to Mordred, who was attempting to convey greetings from the exiled witch, Morgan le Fey, the King’s sister. His Majesty did not want to hear about it. I had heard rumors that the witch was exiled for plotting the King’s murder. I have also heard rumors that she once stole Excalibur and arranged for the disappearance of the king’s old tutor, the wizard Merlin. Whatever the king’s true reason for her banishment, to him it was an urgent one: that brave and kind man’s brow sweated at the mere mention of her name.

My lady the queen nodded politely at everything Mordred said, but stretched out her hand to the newcomer in Lancelot’s lap, who arched so that her head butted my lady’s palm. Well! That was enough for me. I bounded from my leaf pile, not that anyone noticed, and twined about my lady’s ankles, plaintively reminding her who was her trusted associate and who was not. I was poised to jump up when Lancelot, the traitor, began sneezing and snotting and, though I couldn’t see for my lady’s skirts, swelling, I am sure. To my great satisfaction the tortoiseshell horror was dumped from his lap and I did a bit of swelling myself and lashed for her with my front paws. Bat-a-bat-bat! I would give her, mincing her nose. That would teach her to bring it interfering into the business of others.

But once more she neither cowered nor raised a hair to attack. She simply sat there and then, as I was poised to strike, emitted the most un-feline meow. Well! Really! I halted in mid-swipe, amazed at her dreadful shredding of our mutual language. Not even her apparent origin in the country could account for such noise. Before I could administer the chastisement due such a creature, rough hands grabbed me up, nearly breaking my ribs, and flung me into the fish pond.

If I had had any delusions that Mordred contained a scrap of decency, they would have vanished at that moment.

I dashed back into the kitchen to complain to cook’s mouser, who laughed at my soaked and bedraggled condition as heartily as ever did his mistress but allowed me a place by the fire. I make it a point to be always on good terms with the kitchen cat, as I may have mentioned.

From this inauspicious entrance, Mordred and his familiar, as I believed her to be, continued to ever more dastardly deeds. Mordred kept the King constantly upset, though he was outwardly polite to everyone else, and was especially smarmy to my lady and Lancelot. And that beast never let Lancelot alone while he was in the castle. What was worse, he tolerated her. He even seemed to like her. He never swelled at her, or sneezed at her, or broke out in spots from her. He was quite pleased with himself and with her, looking at her as if he had composed her himself.

I lay atop the canopy and watched them, mourning the ignorance of men. I knew something was wrong but I