A Way to the Park of Gardens (Chapter 3)

Chapter Three - Up on Red Hill


He was surrounded by huge fluffy round clouds rolling about in them as if they were made of cotton balls. It felt like he was a new born kitten all over again, reveling in sheer joy.

He lay there drawing in the air smelling of periwinkle and jasmine and was intoxicated.

There was the sound everywhere of nature, in all its glory, calming him; an easiness.

If this is where he'd be for the rest of his life, he was content.

He then heard a voice, faint at first, like a whisper in a brisk wind, but grew in volume until the words were as plain as hearing one's own voice. "The park of gardens" it repeated. He didn't understand what the words meant, but then, like a slap to the face, he did and didn't understand why. It just felt natural.

Then he saw something he had never seen before.

Red

The color associated with danger and injury. Even though his eyes were closed and up to this point he was deriving extreme pleasure in this strange and wonderful place, he saw red. Normally, it’s a color cats don’t see very well, usually diluted and weak, yet here it was and it was blazing. The color filled his vision and try as he might, he couldn't stop himself from seeing it. All the pleasantry and beauty he experienced in his vision vanished because of the red.

It pulsed red.

It screamed red.

“Meow!’ he cried out loud.

His eyes ripped open, snapping him back to reality. It took a few moments for his heart to slow to a normal beat and his eyesight to adjust. He blinked then realized he was sprawled over a silky blanket inside of something. He should have panicked, but at least he wasn’t seeing the red. The darkness calmed him. He tried to stand, but his legs shook and collapsed like paper kickstands, falling back on his side. He scanned his surroundings. What he was inside of was just about the size of his entire body when stretched. He looked above. There was enough room for him to stand, if he could. Behind him and to both sides there was nothing to see. Then he looked forward. It was a metal patchwork window. He realized he was inside the box the woman scrubbed clean. He sniffed. He smelled traces of the odor that came from whatever the woman was using when she had the box under water. Then the box began to sway, sometimes jarringly, sometimes subtle. He tried again to stand. This time he concentrated his gaze through the window.

Outside the cage in front of him he saw something tan and smooth. He looked above the car seats, the sun was fighting its way through puffy gray clouds, making shadows appear and disappear. Miles slid his frame closer to the metal window forcing his nose through. He smelled the man and the woman’s scent. He looked above the leather car seats and saw the back of their heads.

“I still can’t get over how the vet said it was the strangest thing he’d ever seen,” said the woman looking back at the cage behind them. “Miles was in some kind of catatonic state,” she chuckled at the word.

“Great”, huffed the man. “That’s all we’re going to need. I can see Fran calling us in the middle of snorkeling or something.” He looked into the rear view mirror. “We need this vacation, Claria.” He looked back forward speeding ahead. “We just need some time to just relax and not have to worry about things.”

“I know,” the woman sighed. “I don’t want to worry, too.” She paused looking out the side window. “But we knew when we chose a Siamese they were a hard breed to deal with, I mean they told us over and over.” She looked at Pat. “It was our choice and we were stubborn.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Pat snipped. “It was my idea. I’ll take the blame.” He checked the car clock. “Damn, we have to make it to Fran’s place in a blaze. Our schedule’s all screwed up.” He gripped the steering wheel and pressed the gas pedal.

“Just don’t get us there in pieces,” the woman joked half-heartedly.

“King of the road, babe.” he said smiling broadly.

The car ate up the black top. The double lane highway choked with vehicles wound through the suburban scenery; manicured lawns with bicycles strewn about and tidy houses with whitewashed picket fences like out of old paintings gradually gave way to a single lane road devoid of traffic and human activity. Climbing humbling hills and rounding hairpin turns, they drove arduously through tree-covered countryside showing off Spring’s explosive matinee. The thick branches of white oak, gray birch and American hornbeam canopied the voyage as the trunks of paper birch and quaking aspen dotted the landscape with white. Along the roadside multiflora rose, chokecherry and purple-flowering raspberry were showing off their finery. Breathtaking, yet overwhelming, all thoughts were of delivering their cargo quickly and in one piece.

After a sharp curve and steep incline, they turned into a secluded trail marked with a lone sign ‘Red Hill Road’. A quaint gingerbread style house sat in the center of a clearing, craving attention. Three-story in height, the house was painted a soft pastel pink and yellow. Fretwork spandrel framed the roof leading to the gable, which was decorated with langtry. The porch was also covered with spandrel but of the fan variety. Fishscale shingles, lattice work skirting, tall double-hung windows, decorative millwork and corbelled chimneys conveyed a bed and breakfast atmosphere. Everything was pristine and picture perfect.

They drove the car up a white-pebbled driveway. A waft of wind rustled the woman’s hair as she opened the passenger door. The crunch of the tiny pebbles heralded their arrival as the man closed his door and walked to the back of the car.

“I’ll get Miles out, then I'll get the cat litter and all the other stuff from the trunk when we get into the house,” said the man as he opened the back driver’s side door. “Where is she? I’m surprised Fran didn’t hear us drive up. It’s not like there’s a whole lot going on around here.”

“It’s so beautiful,” said the woman as she glanced at the woods surrounding the house. “But I don't know how you can live here all alone. I bet it’s scary at night.” She went up the short stairway and onto the porch taking each step gingerly. She stopped at the paneled door looking through the thin etched window off to the left side hoping to see her Aunt. She was about to knock when she noticed the doorbell. It was in the shape of a fanged-face ghoul with the button insides it’s mouth.

“Okay,” she said under her breath.

She shook her head getting the thoughts of the thing biting her finger out of her mind. She pressed lightly. The bell chimed a soft melody she recognized, but couldn’t remember. She stepped back waiting for her Aunt to open the door. No one showed. She looked at her watch.

“Claria! Isn’t she home?” Yelled Pat as he lugged the cage from the back seat of the car.

“She should be.” She said softly as if yelling back was going to wake her Aunt from a nap or maybe, the dead.

She pressed the button harder hoping the harder you press the louder the chime. The bell chimed the same volume. She stepped to the side and looked through the side glass. For a moment, thoughts of ghosts and ghouls and all things ghastly rolled through her mind. A chill caused goosebumps to appear on her arm. Just as she was about to knock, Pat dropped the cage on the porch behind her making such a noise a tree west of the house erupted in cawing black birds.

“WAAA!” She shouted, jumping ahead almost smashing her face into the door. “What the hell, you scared me to death!”

“Ha, ha, ha...” He laughed. “Sorry, hon. Seems Miles has packed on a few pounds.” He turned away and laughed carrying the carrier of furry luggage back to the driveway and placed it in front of the car.

“Well, it wasn’t funny!" she yelled at him then caught her breath. "I don’t know where my Aunt is.” She pulled her hair from her face. “I mean, I talked to her this morning and she knew we were coming....but where is she?” She looked once again through the side door glass. “I don’t get it.”

Pat walked up the stairway onto the porch and joined his wife peering through the glass. He looked at his watch. “Okay, this is getting serious.” He said getting a bit panicky. “What if she pulled a disappearing act on us.” He began to sweat. “You know how much I hate being late for anything, especially catching a plane.” He pulled in a deep breath and said, “Okay...okay, I’ll check around back. You never know, she might be chopping wood or something.” He jumped from the porch onto a pathway that led around the right side of the house and disappeared behind an azalea bush towards the back yard.

Miles became antsy. It was bad enough being cooped up for what seemed like hours, but now he was panting from the heat. He stuck his paw through the metal window swishing at the air. He meowed. He saw the woman’s legs walking back and forth in front of him. He meowed again and tried to reach out for her. The woman stopped and bent down.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she cooed. “I’m sorry you’re stuck in there. We have to wait to let you out. My Aunt Fran should be coming soon, then we’ll get you something to eat.”

‘Eat’ he heard. He meowed again, this time with authority.

“I know, I know you’re hungry.” She said, feeling terrible. “Just a little bit longer.” She stuck her fingers through the window and scratched under his chin.

He wanted nothing of it. He swiped at her and hissed his displeasure. She pulled back and stood up walking back towards the door. Miles sat down as glum as he could possibly be. How could it get any worse? He was starving, thirsty, hot and just wanted to go run like crazy. He tried to stretch, but his back legs were beginning to cramp. He moaned. He lowered his head onto his front legs looking miserable. He could try and take a nap, but he used up all his napping on the trip up to this place on top of what seemed like the end of the world. Then, a tiny voice from somewhere outside the carrier spoke to him.

“You had best leave, little fangs,” something sang.

This perked him up like nothing else. All his senses heightened. He forced his cramped legs to move himself as close to the front of the cage, pressing his nose through the metal window.

“Who is that?” He voiced as demanding as he could, given the position he was in.

Something light landed on the top of the carrier. “I am called Thistle.” it answered.

“Can I see you?”

“Perhaps,” It teased. “Will I be attacked?”

“I can’t.” Miles feebly replied. “There isn’t a way for me to get out.”

Miles heard tiny scrapping footsteps from the top of the carrier move to the front edge. He craned his neck upwards moving back an inch just in case the stranger had something sinister in mind. Then he saw the small face of a field sparrow. It turned its light brown head this way and that in a spastic, herky-jerky motion taking in Miles incarceration. It flew quickly from the top, turned in mid-air and grabbed the wire window with it’s claws sticking its pink beak partially through the cage door.

Miles moved back, the winged creature’s beak just inches from his nose. He smelled the wildness of the small bird’s feathers reminding him of his man’s boots whenever he was outside moving tree leaves about; a musty dampness of grass and mud. It wasn’t a pleasant odor, but it smelt of righteousness, like what should normally be. It intrigued him, but at the same time made him want to run into his comfortable cat bed back home. He moved further back into the carrier not wanting to smell anymore of this wild winged little beast.

“Ha!” bellowed the sparrow. “You cower like an insect.” The bird flapped its wings in excitement. “I’ve never come across one such as your kind giving off such an air.” He flew from the cage, circling around this strange circumstance chirping a chirp of glee. “A cat in a cage!” It sung. “A cat in a cage!” It swooped and dove, singing at the top of it’s little lungs past the caged cat peering in every moment. He would tell his kin of this miraculous day, of the day he came upon one of those despicable monsters that have haunted the night time stories told when sparrow chicks have nary taken their first breath of earth’s fresh clean air. Nightmare stories that have been told by mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, species that fly and species that don’t. Of cats whose names are connected with that of marauders and murderers, the death that comes silently and quick.

Of this day, Thistle would tell his flock and all attention he will receive with eyes widened and tail feathers a twitter.

Miles hunkered down as Thistle gave the top of the carrier a few jarring raps or came at the front with his claws barred. The bird may be small, but to Miles it was a danger he never faced. Spiders and other insects that invaded his home were easily over matched by the paw or rump of Miles the Executioner, but this flying razor was a whole different matter.

Miles looked for the woman. He needed her to help. Sure, he wasn’t happy he was brought up to this strange land on the top of the world with strange smells and violent birds. Sure, he swiped at his woman’s fingers who’s only reason for being pointed into his sourpuss face was to give comfort. Sure, he was hungry and for some inexplicable reason wanted to take the little brown bird called Thistle into his mouth and rend it’s body into tiny morsels, (although the thought made him want to retch). And sure, he wanted to use what little energy he had left to force the tiny steel bars of the front of the carrier and run to someplace other then where he was now to maybe, like, to the house in front of him, which looks so much better then where he was now.

But no, the woman was still at the door looking to get inside and the man was circling about looking to also find a way inside.

Inside! Inside! Inside!

Why couldn’t they see that he was still inside and the cackling bird making light of his situation was outside where he wanted to be? What to do, thought Miles.

“Where is she?” Wondered Claria. “How can she not be here when we called ahead.” She wished she had the skills to break into the house. “They make it look so easy in the movies,” she thought.

Straining to see inside through the window on the right of the door, she made out a fancy stone fireplace with a mantle covered with every kind of cat doodad made. She could see a metal screen manning the fireplace opening with it’s brass framing and black silhouettes of cats in each corner. Her Aunt did so love to talk about how many cats she owned, raised as kittens into happy adult felines.

As she turned to scan the room opposite the fireplace, she heard the wails of Miles. Turning, she saw the field sparrow swoop down on top of the carrier smacking it hard enough to make a sound. Amazed, she shook her head about ready to laugh. Although the carrier was a good fifty feet or so away, she could see Miles cowering pathetically. She marveled at the sight. Then her motherly instincts kicked in and she ran from the porch waving her hands in the air.

“Get away," she shouted. “Get away from my little man!”

Thistle instantly alighted to the nearest oak finding a branch to perch far enough away from the reach of the human, but close enough to keep an eye on this group of intruders.

“Hon!” Pat called from the side of the house. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she responded as she knelt onto the stony driveway. She lowered her head and looked into the carrier ‘Awwing’ and “Cooing’ her ‘little man’.

For Miles, it was too much. His senses were reaching a critical point. What little stamina he had all but evaporated. Thistle threw him into such a state what with the lack of any water or food and all the heat, the small enclosure began to close in on him and the redness began to take over. With a pathetic moan, Miles fell sideways and blackness enveloped his world once again.