The Screams of Dragons #4
“You shouldn’t tell everyone,” Rose said to Hannah. “Definitely not anyone outside Cainsville. But no one here will think you’re crazy.” She nudged Hannah with her sneaker. “Tell him about the black kitten.”
Hannah took more prodding, but when Bobby expressed an interest, she finally stood and said, “He’s sick. Momma Cat is worried he’s going to die. He doesn’t get enough to eat because he’s smaller than the others.”
“He’s not that much smaller.”
“He’s different,” Rose said. “That’s why they won’t let him eat very much. I think he’s a matagot. That’s what we were talking about when you came up.”
“A matagot?”
“Magician’s cat,” Rose said, as matter-of-factly as if she’d said the cat was a Siamese. “It’s a spirit that’s taken the form of a black cat.”
“They say that if you keep one and treat it well, it will reward you with a gold piece every day,” Hannah said.
“Gold?” he said.
Something in his tone made Rose tense—or maybe it was the way he looked at the black kitten. Hannah only giggled.
“It’s not true, silly,” Hannah said. “Magic doesn’t work that way. Not real magic.”
“What do you know about real magic?”
She shrugged. “Enough. I know it can make gargoyles disappear in daylight and tomato plants grow straight and true. I know it can let some people read omens—like old Mrs. Carew—and some see the future, like Rose’s Nana Walsh.”
He turned to Rose. “Your grandmother can see the future?”
“Futures,” she said. “There’s more than one. It’s all about choices.”
He didn’t understand that but pushed on. “If I asked her to see my futures—”
“You can’t,” Hannah cut in. “Not unless you can talk to ghosts. I’m not sure anyone can talk to ghosts. If there are ghosts.” She turned to Rose, as if she was the older, wiser girl.
“There are,” Rose said. “Those with the sight sometimes say they see them. Others can, too. But most times when a person says they’re seeing ghosts it’s their imagination. Even if you can talk to them I’m not sure why you’d want to.”
Hannah nodded, and his gaze shot from one girl to the other, unable to believe they were talking about such things seriously. Kids at school would call them babies for believing in magic. His parents would call it ungodly. His grandmother would probably call them changelings.
“About the cat. The…matagot.” He stumbled over the foreign word.
“We don’t know if it is one,” Rose said. “Hannah says his mother thinks he’s strange. She still loves him, though.”
“As she should,” Hannah said. “There’s nothing wrong with strange.”
Rose nodded. “But we’re worried.”
“Very worried.” Hannah knelt beside the box where the mother cat was licking the black kitten’s head. “Momma Cat is even more worried. Aren’t you?”
The cat mrrowed deep in its throat and looked up at Hannah. Then she nosed the kitten away from her side.
“I think she’s going to drive it off,” Bobby said. “They do that sometimes. With the weak, the ones that are different.”
Hannah shook her head, curls bouncing. “No, she’s asking me to take it.”
“You should,” Rose said. “Your parents would let you.”
“I know. I just hate taking a kitten from its mother.”
The cat nosed the kitten again and meowed.
Hannah nodded, said, “I understand,” and very gently lifted the little black ball in both hands.
The cat meowed again, but it didn’t sound like protest. She gave the black kitten one last look, then shifted, letting its siblings fill the empty space against her belly.
“You’ll need to feed it with a dropper,” Rose said. “We can get books at the library and talk to the veterinarian when she comes back through town.”
Hannah nodded. “I’ll take him home first and ask Mom to watch him.”
They got to the end of the walkway before they seemed to realize Bobby wasn’t following. They turned.
“Do you want to come with us?” Hannah asked.
He did, but he wanted the milkshake with Mrs. Yates too, and if the girls were busy, he’d get the old woman all to himself.
“I told Mrs. Yates I’d meet her at the diner,” he said, not mentioning the milkshakes.
Rose nodded. “Then you should do that. We’ll see you later.”
“Is your family coming for Samhain?” Hannah asked.
“I think we are.”
Hannah smiled. “I hope so.”
“Make sure you do,” Rose said. “It’s more fun when you’re here.”
He couldn’t tell if she meant it or was just being nice, but it felt good to hear her say it and even better when Hannah nodded enthusiastically. He said he’d be back for Samhain, and went to find Mrs. Yates.
On the way home, his grandmother asked about his visit with Mrs. Yates.
She was trying to get him to admit that he’d tattled on her.
Even if he had, he certainly wouldn’t admit it.
His grandmother might say he was too smart for his age, but sometimes she acted as if he was dumber than the Gnat.
Finally, she pulled off the highway, turned in her seat and said, “Did Mrs. Yates ask how things were at home?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That they were fine.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. It was the first time since he’d admitted to the dreams that she’d voluntarily touched him, except to pinch or slap.
“You know it’s a sin to lie, Bobby.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me the truth. Did you say more?”
He hesitated. Nibbled his lip. Then said, “I told her Natalie was being a pest.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “That’s not what I mean.”
“But you asked—”
“Did you say anything more?”
“No.” He hid his smile. “Not a word.”
A month later, as Samhain drew near, he mentioned it over dinner.
“We aren’t going,” his mother said quietly.
“What?”
“Gran feels Cainsville isn’t a good influence on you right now.”
He shot a look at his grandmother, who returned a small, smug smile and ate another forkful of peas.
“Remember what happened when you visited last month?” his father said. “You came home and you were quite a little terror.”
That was a lie. His grandmother had punished him twice as much after they got back, making up twice as many stories about him misbehaving. He’d thought she was just angry because her plan—whatever it had been—failed.
Gran’s smile widened, her false teeth shining as she watched him.
“I don’t care,” the Gnat said. “I hate Cainsville. It’s boring.”
His grandmother patted her head. “I agree.”
He shot to his feet.
“Bobby…” his father said.
“May I be excused?” he asked.
His father sighed. “If you’re done.”
Bobby walked to his room, trying very hard not to run in and slam the door. Once he got there, he fell facedown on his bed. The door clicked open. His grandmother walked in.
“You’re a very stupid little beast,” she said. “You should have told the elders. They’d take you back.”
He flipped over to look at her.
“If you’re being mistreated, they’ll take you back,” she said. “But you didn’t tell them, so now we have to wait for them to come to us. I’ll make sure they come to us.”
His grandmother soon discovered another flaw in her plan. Two, actually. First, that whoever she thought would “come for him” was not coming, no matter how harsh her punishments. Second, that his parents’ blindness had limits.
As the months of abuse had passed, he’d come to accept that his parents weren’t really as oblivious as they pretended.
Nor were they as enlightened as they thought.
Even if they’d never admit it, there seemed to be a part of them that thought his grandmother’s wild accusation was true.
Or perhaps not that they actually believed him a changeling faerie child, but that they thought there was something wrong—terribly wrong—with him.
He was different. Odd. Too distant and too cold.
His sister hated him. Other children avoided him.
Like animals, they sensed something was off and steered clear.
Perhaps, then, the beatings would help. Not that they’d ever admit such a thing—heavens no, they were modern parents—but if he didn’t complain, then perhaps neither should they.
They did have limits, though. When the sore spots became bruises and then welts, they objected.
What would the neighbors think? Or, worse, his teachers, who might call children’s services.
Hadn’t the family been through enough? Gran could punish him if he misbehaved, but she must use a lighter hand.
That did not solve the problem, but it opened a door.
A possibility. That door cracked open a little more when his mother received a call at work from one of the elders, who wondered why they hadn’t seen the Sheehan family in so long.
Was everything all right? His mother said it was, but when she reported the call at home, over dinner, his grandmother fairly gnashed her teeth.
His mother noticed and asked what was wrong, and Gran said nothing but still, his mother had noticed. He tucked that away and remembered it.
Christmas came, and he waited until he was alone in the house with his mother, and asked if they’d visit family in Cainsville. His mother wavered. And he was ready.
“Your grandmother doesn’t think you’re ready,” she said as they sat in front of the television, wrapping gifts.
“I’ve been much better,” he said.
“I’m not sure that you have.”
He stretched tape over a seam. “I don’t think I’m as bad as Gran says. I think she’s still mad at me because we had to move.”
A soft sigh, but his mother said nothing. He finished his package and took another.
“I think she might exaggerate sometimes,” he said quietly. “I think Natalie might, too. I get the feeling they don’t like me very much.”
Of course his mother had to protest that, but her protests were muted, as if she couldn’t work up true conviction.
“If you don’t see me misbehaving, maybe I’m not,” he said. “I do, sometimes. All kids do. But maybe it’s not quite as much as Gran and Natalie say.”
He worded it all so carefully. Not blaming anyone. Only giving his opinion, as a child. His mother went silent, wrapping her gift while nibbling her lower lip, the same way he did when he was thinking.