The Illiterate Cat

The Illiterate Cat

“The boy can’t read” tch’d my aunt Polly, watching me throw a ping pong ball at Pickles, my grandfather’s ginger tom. “Probably because he spends all his time playing with that cat.” I had been asked me to read out sympathy cards from faraway well-wishers. I know that people just wanted me to feel included in my grandfather’s funeral. But I stumbled over most of the words and the whole process took too long. Aunt Polly had looked cross the whole time.

“Give it a rest, Polly,” sighed my mother, “it’s your father’s wake. And Alan’s always been fond of that cat. It used to follow them everywhere.” My mother gave Aunt Polly a stern look.

“Yes,” my Uncle Rueben appeared at her side. “It’s not as if Alan needs to read to the cat.”

“Quite right,” replied my mother, “the cat doesn’t understand the wonders of literature. It can’t read either.”

Yes,” replied Uncle Rueben solemnly, “feline illiteracy is the true tragedy here.”

My mother and uncle laughed. I smiled for the first time that day.

My grandfather was old. He was so old, I couldn’t understand how old he was. I know they told me, but I couldn’t understand how someone could possibly be 85.

Last week he climbed the gum tree in his back yard so that I could see how it was done. Pickles followed him to the heart of the tree, where branches forked out and where we dreamed of putting up a tree house. “Some day, you’ll be older than seven and you’ll climb to the tallest branches.” My grandfather said. Pickles looked at us reproachfully, as if to say “not yet, little boy, not yet.”

Uncle Rueben picked up Pickles as he tried to swagger past him. His older sister glared at him. “Why must you make light of everything, Rueben? It’s a solemn day.”

“Because you make dark of everything, Polly,” he replied.

I retreated to an armchair and picked up a book about wheels on buses. It had wheels built into the book for me to turn. I looked at the markings on the page, but nothing made sense for me. My aunt was right. I couldn’t read, even though I was already seven. Pickles came and kneaded my lap with his paws. It was simultaneously painful and comforting.

My grandfather used to read to me. Before he went away, he was teaching me to sound out the letters. But sometimes the letters just didn’t seem right so I would sound them out wrong. Pickles used to sit in my lap then too. Every so often, he would purr just to let me know he was still there.

Uncle Reuben came to sit beside me “Wheels on the bus”, he grinned, “that was my favourite book once too”. He hugged me. I liked Uncle Reuben. He came to see Grandad a lot. Aunt Polly was rarely there.

My mother looked on from where she was serving biscuits to people who had come to “pay their respects”. I didn’t know what they meant, but it seemed nice that they were here. I think Grandad would have liked that.

“Your mum tells me you’ve started second grade,” Uncle Reuben smiled, “that’s pretty exciting, Alan. What do you think of it?” I knew that he was only trying to change the subject, cheer me up. But I couldn’t answer his question. Because I hadn’t been going to school for at least two weeks. I got dropped off at the school, but I always walked out the back into the Reserve.

Two weeks ago, Ms Clare asked me to read some words off the blackboard. I stared at the board of letters but some of them just kept turning around in my head. I fumbled the words and kids laughed. I sat back down at my desk, waiting for the staring and giggling to be over. When the bell rang for lunch, the teacher called out my name but I just ran. I didn’t want to be there anymore. I didn’t want to talk about it, I wanted to go somewhere else. I ran behind the toilet block and started crying. As the tears were streaking down my face, a familiar furry body pressed himself against me “Pickles? How did you get here?” He purred and licked my face. I looked down. He was sitting on top of a black notebook. I didn’t remember it being there before. Curious, I picked up the small, smooth notebook and flipped it open. There were no pictures, only symbols and characters I had never seen before. I knew the alphabet and this wasn’t it. I had a curious tingling in my head. Suddenly, the symbols made sense. I read the first page: “what is your one wish today?” I looked out at the bushes behind the school. “To be left alone, away from school.” I breathed.

I don’t remember much more of that day, Pickles and I tried to catch lizards in the creek behind the school. It all seemed a bit foggy, as if I wasn’t really in my body. I went to Grandad’s after school. I haven’t been back to class since then. I don’t really know why the teachers haven’t looked for me, or why they haven’t called mum about my disappearance for the last two weeks. I guess they just don’t care.

After grandad’s funeral, life went back to normal. Mum went to work, I pretended to go to school. Pickles and I spent the days trying to catch tadpoles or little fish in the creek. It was more difficult, because I couldn’t go to Grandad’s after school anymore, so I had to show up just outside the school gate, hopefully before any of my teachers saw me.

Grandad left us all his worldly possessions – his house, his car and about $100,000 in the bank. Apparently, $20,000 of that was for me. I would have given that money to anyone who could bring my grandfather back.

Mum was sad about grandad too. I saw her crying whenever she thought I wasn’t watching. We went to his house after school sometimes, so she, Uncle Rueben and Aunt Polly could tidy up the house. That was when I heard Aunt Polly talking about selling it, which made me very nervous. What would happen to Pickles?

“Pickles can come and live with us if you like.” my mother said as if reading my mind. Pickles was curled up on Grandad’s armchair, purring enthusiastically. “Yes, please.” I replied, quite relieved. Aunt Polly was there, tching in disapproval, murmuring something about the pound. I started running around the house, gathering his things, his bed, his bowl, his toys. He ran ahead, as if to point out where all his things were. I followed him into Grandad’s bedroom. He must have had a special spot to sleep in there. When I caught up with him, he was seated on the desk, on top of a pile of old books. The books were all bound in rich, solid colours, like rare books in a library. Pickles jumped off as I came in and put a paw on the top book. He mewed enthusiastically. It looked like the same black notebook from the school grounds. What was it doing here? I flipped it open.

“To my family, this is our book. This is the story of the journey in which our forebears learnt to bond with the animals in the land. A spirit animal will appear to help you to find your heart’s desire at all times. Keep your spirit animal close.”

“Alan, what are you doing here?” Aunt Polly appeared at the door. “Oh, your Grandad’s old books. No-one’s certain what they are. Seems to be written in some sort of old language.” She stared at me. I stared at her, clutching the notebook. She narrowed her eyes. “Alan,” her voice became low, “why are you holding that book?” I backed into the wall “I like it” I replied, uncertainly, “the old books smell nice”. In the corner, Pickles had started making a noise - a kind of low, growling noise. I had never heard him make that noise before. Aunt Polly came up to me and reached out for the book. I hung on, so there was some fumbling before the book fell on the floor. As it fell open, I saw in in bold letters the following words:

“Grab this book and run!” I did as I was told. Pickles leapt from his corner and landed on Aunt Polly’s head. It wasn’t pretty. I ran back out of the room, towards my mother – and Uncle Rueben who had suddenly appeared. “What’s going on, Alan?” he exclaimed as I barrelled into him. “The book!” I gasped. “I – “ and then Aunt Polly appeared, holding Pickles in a very firm grip. “This cat,” she spluttered, “is quite feral. I’m afraid it needs to be put down. And Alan has some antiquated notebooks that I have a buyer for” she stared at me again. This time, I saw it. Her pupils had narrowed to slits. Her eyes had changed from green to yellow. She was not one of us. My mother and Uncle Rueben did not seem to notice her facial changes. Mum took the book from me. “Alan, it’s let go of the book.” she said gently.

“But…” I replied, “But you said Pickles could come with us!” I said, seeing that the book was possibly lost, but my cat was not.

“Yes, yes.” My mother wrested the cat from a very reluctant Polly, who continued to stare at me with her yellow slit eyes. Uncle Reuben looked at her and me.

“Alan,” he said, his gaze never leaving Aunt Polly, “Did you open the book?” Silence filled the room, but words and messages filled the silence. Uncle Rueben advanced towards Aunt Polly. My mother grabbed me in a protective grip. “Open the book and read what it says, Alan!” he yelled out as he slammed Aunt Polly into the wall. She screeched. I did as I was told.

“You are the cuckoo, the pretender, the false one! Begone!”

Aunt Polly’s screams escalated as she lost all form and solidity, like a science experiment. Suddenly, there was nothing left but vapour and when the mist cleared, a pile of feathers.

“Well, Alan, looks like you can read.” He laughed. I was still bewildered.

“Aunt Polly was adopted,” my mother said gently, “ My mum – your grandmother – lost a child at birth before we were born. She was distraught, grieving, so they adopted Aunt Polly. Grandad only told me and your uncle about the family book. Who knew Polly would turn out to be an infiltrator, trying to steal our magic?”

Uncle Reuben laughed again, “Sure, we’re a centuries-old lineage of magicians and their familiars but we didn’t see that one coming. By the way, Pickles was your grandfather’s familiar. We would never have given him away. “Then he looked at me seriously. “Alan, only one person in every generation can read the book. The baby that died – she should have been our generation’s reader. You’re very special. That book will help make your dreams come true and keeps this family safe.” Pickles, who had been busy pacing the spot where Aunt Polly had vaporized, came over to rub himself against my cheek. “I guess he’s you’re familiar now if you like.” I grinned.

I went to school the next day with the book in my schoolbag. When I sat down and stared at the blackboard, the squiggles rearranged themselves in my head. Words. They made sense. I looked out the window and saw Pickles sitting in the playground. He washed his paw and stared at me. “Now, little boy” he seemed to be saying, “You are ready to climb the trees”.