SMR6 - Quiet before the storm

Monday afternoon. The sun was high in the clear sky for the second day running and the townsfolk knew then summer was officially upon them. A jubilant mood seemed to infect the small town, even the postmaster got out of the somewhat grim office he liked to squat in day to day, and was seen basking in the warm breeze, smoking a pipe and beaming at passers-by. The only unfittingly grim person, however, seemed to be me.

Three days had passed since I delivered the mail to the Mansion, and though there was no mail coming over the weekend, I had been finding myself excuses and pretenses to be around the mansion. I kept back letter No.25 and dropped No.31 and No.6 (now made 16 by me) in the mansion mailbox on Friday morning, the house dead silent in the morning shower, and in the afternoon when the storm stilled a bit, returned to deliver the left out letter. I was almost going to drop it in the mailbox as usual, having taken a good look at the solitary house in its desolate neighborhood, but something in me nudged and nagged: This is a perfect opportunity to find out…if No.6 mattered, if anything mattered at all…and I was both shaken and emboldened. I had hardly put down my hand from pressing the bell when the heavy oak door swung open again, and this time the Mr. King standing before me was even a stranger person.

It was startling to reflect that it had been only a few days since I last and first saw him, and his already translucent skin seemed to have gone transparent, revealing small, purple veins crawling underneath his skin, the neurotic hand holding the door had its index finger freshly bandaged, and there were subtle water stains on the front of his otherwise spotless trench coat ( in this weather?) All these I took in within a fraction of a second, his crumpling frailness and extraordinary fatigue...but his nonetheless severe gaze on me was crushing my self-assurance by the second, and it was almost within one breath that I stammered out a thin story of the discovery of one mis-sorted letter stuck to the bottom of the bag and…'Yes, boy, that will do. Thank you.' He almost tore the letter out of my clammy hand and shut the door promptly. In that fleeting moment I was sure he for once lifted his gaze from my face and looked out beyond the gate. It was as if he was expecting someone…or not. Uncomfortable to linger on for another moment, I shot home straight, and only later did I realize the reason of my discomfort: the dreadful man himself was dreading something.

The next day, I went to ask my neighbor and good buddy Bluecat for a favor.

***

Bluecat was the son of the plumber of the town, Bobilong, and barely two years older than me, he was already making a name for himself as a better plumber than his drunkard of a dad. Though he's a humble and loyal friend, the best kind you can have in a closely knit town, he's not someone to confide in—he talks to his imaginary pet—a 'blue cat'—all the time! He had it since he got lost in the wild prairie some time when he was four or five, and after he magically made it home, wide eyed and feverish and mumbling—everyone then had thought he was a gone case and already preparing memorial services—he had talked down to the ground since, sometimes seen stroking and tickling air, addressing it as 'kitty kee' or more fancifully, 'master K'. When asked about who he was talking to, the reply would invariably be 'can't you see this magnificent diamond blue cat?' People thought him a little nutty from the incident, but who could ask more from a soul supposedly lost forever to them? So they gave him the nickname and joked and laughed about it, so much so his given name gradually dropped out of people's memory. Bluecat would pause anytime in the middle of his work, in a conversation, snap out of a nap even, to talk to the cat. Most things he said usually made little sense to anyone at all, but through the years Bluecat had also blurted out some things that alerted and puzzled the older folks in the town—they said a young lad like him wouldn't have known those things even if he were literate and cared for books, for they were really old history and some people would rather see them remain buried. Bluecat just shrugged; my poor friend never knew why or how anyway. A wizened gypsy woman who wandered into town every 2 years or so even wanted him to apprentice under her, and if not for Bluecat's mom insisting that he stayed and took care of his young sisters and brothers, he'd have gladly gone to see the world with his feline friend.

***

So I went to Bluecat, asking him to go to the mansion and see the man. I didn't tell him the real reason—god forbid if he should tell that to the cat in the middle of town square!—instead I told him I thought the mansion was in bad shape and might be suffering from termite problems, and it was good for business if he cared to offer to inspect it. I also told him that although the man might seem severe and disagreeable, he was really a kind-hearted soul. Bluecat didn't even think about it twice, said he'd go there after he got a job done in an uptown household, no problem at all, and set off with his satchel.

***

The rest of the day I sat on the front porch, peeling onions and waiting for Bluecat to return. The rain was reduced to a dribble by dusk, and almost stopped completely when it got dark, but no sign of Bluecat even then. Mom called out to me for dinner for the third time, threatening to lose her temper, so I reluctantly shuffled inside, disquietude starting to nibble at my mind—what happened to Bluecat? Is he in trouble? Did that Mr. King see through the tricks and realize the true intention behind? Could he have attacked Bluecat? The last thought almost catapulted me out of my seat, earning a solid warning glance from mom, so I collected myself and finished dinner in record speed.

No, Bluecat can't be attacked, I thought as I sneaked out of the backdoor, thinking how thin but how strong and agile he was, never beaten in a street fight. Maybe he was running other errands after seeing the mansion? …but this was too late. I climbed over the fence and landed into the soggy vegetable bed at the back of their house, and seeing that Bluecat's attic window was still unlit, I pulled down the secret rope ladder and climbed up into his room.

A bunch of us used to play more often in the attic when we were younger, and long time had passed since I last landed there through the window. The room hadn't changed much though, the childhood toys and models in abundant disarray across shelves and sketches of house plans and also of Master K plastered the walls. The bowl of fish cookies for the cat was still by the foot of the bed, some of them even appeared broken and corners nibbled off by sharp teeth—maybe rodents? I picked up a loose paper and quickly drew a few symbols, put it in the bowl and weighed it down by cookies. Now all I could do was go home and wait.

***

…the sycamore outside my window shook and sighed loudly, I looked into its shadow and saw a cat, a diamond blue cat, scratching at the trunk of the big tree. I shooed at it and it turned up its eyes, and I shuddered uncontrollably—its eyes had the most woeful yet most resentful look, and its face was almost transparent, with blue veins crawling under the fur, it was almost like…

TAP! TAP!

I suddenly opened my eyes and realized I had dozed off and this tapping sound must be Bluecat! I hopped to the window and there he was in the garden, picking up small stones and aiming for my window. When he saw me he waved and gestured a few words—'I'm OK, talk to you tomorrow!' and I gestured back through the quiet night and was so relieved.