Anton and Cecil Cats at Sea Part 3

"Right you are! Most wise," said Leonardo, nodding vigorously. He glanced up at Cecil. "She's always got a saying for the occasion. It's quite extraordinary."

Adrianna was surging ahead toward the bow wake when she pulled up as if remembering something. She slowed until she drew even with Leonardo again and smiled up at Cecil, trilling in a high key, like a prophecy, "Where the eye sees the eye." She zigzagged in the waves and began pulling away.

The words rolled around in Cecil's mind like a whirling school of fish. "What does that one mean?" he shouted. He could see that Leonardo was losing interest in him and keen on catching up with his compet.i.tor.

"It is where lost things are found. You must go where the eye sees the eye," explained Leonardo. "But I cannot tell you where that is, precisely."

At that moment, a bolt of lightning stabbed the sea close by, flas.h.i.+ng in the deep black eyes of the dolphins. They whistled a piercing cry and reared up, all together, then plunged under the waves. They were gone in an instant. Cecil was left, soaked and freezing, alone at the rail.

As he tried to stand on his stiffened legs and unclench his petrified claws, Cecil marveled at the strange beauty of the dolphins, and pondered the saying, "Where the eye sees the eye." Sure, he had heard the crazy phrase from some of the older cats back home but never thought it meant anything, at least not for him. Where could such a place be? he thought doubtfully. And if I found it, would Anton be there for me?

Darkness was gathering about the s.h.i.+p. Cecil had never been out on the sea at night, though he had long dreamed of it. In his dreams the sky was bright with stars and a pale full moon, their reflections rippling in a tranquil ocean. This was much different; angry waves pitched the s.h.i.+p callously about and thick clouds crowded the night sky. For the first time, Cecil felt horribly alone. What am I doing? he asked himself bleakly. I'll never find Anton in a sea so immense as this. He wondered how he would even find his way home again.

As he struggled back to his meager shelter, Cecil looked over his shoulder once more, searching for the dolphins frolicking in the storm, but the light was failing and he strained to see through the driving rain. One last flash of bright lightning accompanied by a terrible thunderous boom illuminated the wide, boiling ocean for a long second. Cecil's heart s.h.i.+vered in his chest as he glimpsed, far away but clearly outlined, the immense barnacled tail of a whale slowly disappearing into the deep.

CHAPTER 7.

Teeth and Claws On board the Mary Anne, Anton slunk along the hall and into the storeroom, puzzling over the sudden change in his status. It had something to do with the rat. The sailors were as repelled by the creature as he was, and they seemed to hold him responsible. He recalled Billy's story about the time he'd been so hungry he'd been forced to eat one. Never, Anton thought, would I take a bite of such a malodorous creature. He didn't like sleeping on the same s.h.i.+p with a rat, but he had a.s.sumed it would stay out of sight. Why had that big fellow shown his ugly face? Anton sat looking at the flour sacks. He heard a soft scratching against the floor, but there were so many sacks and barrels and crates lining the walls he couldn't see anything.

Then a rasping voice floated up, poisoning the air. "I warned you, but you're still here, you stupid cat. I'll have to get rid of you myself"-a low chuckle-"when you least expect it."

Anton stood and paced in the small room, his brain working over the problem. He was determined to do something, to make his way in this confusing world of sailors and seas and rats. He sat down and gave his face a thorough cleaning. As he flattened his ears and smoothed his cheeks, a resolution came upon him: he would have to kill the rat.

And he would do it at once. He lifted his head and sniffed the air, rotating his ears from front to back, slitting his eyes while he listened and listened, and then he knew exactly where his prey was and how to get to him. He pushed his way between two bags, leaped upon a crate, then walked across a barrel and another crate. At the far edge of the crate he stopped, stretched his neck out, and looked down. And there it was, the snout twitching ceaselessly and the beady eyes peering up into the darkness, where the rat could sense but not see the danger. It's almost as big as I am, Anton thought. How am I going to do this? But then his shoulders lowered and his head pulled in and a listening stillness ran along his spine from his head to his tail. He could see into the darkness, and his eyes focused upon the rat until there was nothing else in the world but Anton, crouched, and the doomed rodent below. The rat moved its head from side to side.

"I know you're there," it said, "and I'm ready for you." It took a step backward, then nervously looked over its shoulder. "Do you think I've never killed a cat before?"

Anton considered this. Was it possible? Or was this brute of a rat bluffing? Why not call its bluff. "Did you steal some poor kitten from its mother?" he said.

"Come on then," the rat said. "I'll kill you, too."

Anton sprang. Sensing the darkness closing over it, the rat rose up on its hind legs and bared its teeth. Anton caught the rat's snout in one set of claws, the meaty shoulder in the other, and dug in with all his strength. He swung his hindquarters over the writhing back, sinking his back claws in just above the thras.h.i.+ng tail. The rat was strong and it struggled mightily, biting the air and shouting abuse.

"This s.h.i.+p's not big enough for the both of us!" it decreed.

"Have it your way," Anton said, and as he spoke, the rat wrested its head free and sunk its teeth into the soft pad of Anton's paw, which made him yowl and pull away. Thus freed, the rat twisted in its captor's grip.

"You're no match for me!" the rat cried. "You're dead!" With a sudden lurch, it latched on to Anton's throat.

Without fear or anger or so much as a thought, Anton grasped the rodent at the back of its neck and tore it loose from his throat. He had a good grip now.

"Not yet," he informed his opponent. Recapturing the rear end of the rat with his hind paws, Anton flattened the front end with a full set of claws in each shoulder. Then, opening his jaws wide and baring all his sharp teeth, he brought his mouth down at the base of the rat's skull and administered, with accuracy and speed, the killing bite. The sinewy body bucked once beneath him, the tail stood up straight then flopped to the floor. The rat was no more.

Anton bore down for another moment or two as his sense of who and where he was, and what he had just accomplished, filled his brain. Then he withdrew his claws and released his jaws, gagging at the fur and blood that came away in his mouth. He staggered as he stepped back, and the pain in his throat and paw reminded him this victory had come at a cost. He sat back on his haunches and examined the injured pad, going over and around it with his rough tongue. Now what? he thought. How was he to let the sailors know what he'd done?

The dead rat was still. Its s.h.i.+ny eyes had gone dull and flat; it was no longer a threat to anything. It was also, as far as Anton was concerned, not a fit meal either, and he was still groaningly hungry. The sailors were tucked in their cots, all but those on the deck for the night watch, and Cloudy wouldn't make his appearance in the galley until just before dawn. There would be no way to lure him in to see Anton's trophy; no, Anton would have to take the rat to the man and stick around long enough to make sure he got the connection-rat dead thanks to valiant effort of cat.

It was a loathsome business, and it took all Anton's energy to accomplish it. He took the rat's neck in his mouth again and lifted the creature like a kitten, though this smelly and heavy burden was as unlike a kitten as anything could be. Limping from his wounded paw, he carried it out along the hallway to the galley floor. When he had the rat inside the doorway, he dropped it and resolved to go no farther. A few more licks of the paw, and a bit of face cleaning, and then it was time to wait. He looked about the room, feeling hungry and tired. What a battle! If only Cecil were there, Anton would have such a story to tell, and Cecil would know just how fine a feat it was for a cat of Anton's sensitivity. Good work, brother, Cecil would say. Anton smiled at the next thought that crossed his mind, in Cecil's voice: Put the rat on the table. It will say you care.

It would be a struggle, but something made Anton certain it was the right thing to do. To present the rat in this way, to prove his good faith in doing his duty, should earn him the respect, and possibly the fish dinner, he knew he deserved. Anton gazed upon the dead rat. He could get it up on the bench in one small leap, and then it might well be possible to fling himself and his prize onto the big cutting board. Come along, mate, Anton thought, as once again he took the rat's nape into his mouth. We're going to make you look quite appetizing.

Two skillful leaps and it was done. Anton arranged his offering, centered on the board with the tail straight out. Then, tired to his bones, he lay down on the far side of the table and fell instantly into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke to a shout. Cloudy was standing over him, his palms pressed against his c.u.mulous beard, his eyes wide with alarm. "Lord, have mercy!" he said, taking in a long breath.

Anton sat up at once, trying to gauge the tone of this remark. Was it surprise, anger, outrage, grat.i.tude? Cloudy gave his attention to the rat.

"Look at the dreadful beastie," he proclaimed. "He's of a size with ye. I hardly dare touch him for fear of contamination." He turned to the sideboard, took up a cloth and put it over the rat's middle, then picked up the corpse and headed for the deck. "Overboard with the devilish creature," he said.

Anton started to follow, but one step persuaded him he'd just as soon wait to see what happened next; his foot was sore, and he was weary, hungry, and still dazed from sleep. He heard voices above, Cloudy speaking to one of the sailors, then down the hatch appeared the shoes, legs, chest, and head of the cook, who stood for a moment, arms folded over his chest, gazing at Anton.

"But look at you, brave heart, the brute has wounded ye." He approached Anton mewing like a mother cat and brought his fingertips toward the fur on his neck. Anton's first thought was to run, but there was something in the manner of the man, a gentle concern that Anton had never experienced before, and so he steeled himself, as the fingertips came closer and closer, until, tenderly, the cook touched the b.l.o.o.d.y fur on his neck, drew his hand down Anton's side, and examined the deep cut on his paw. "You put up a fight, mate." Anton had to close his eyes, wondering what would happen next. If only it would be something to eat! As if the cook read Anton's thoughts, he turned away, pulled a tin pan from the sink rack, and went rummaging among the cans and bottles in the cupboard above his stove.

"No porridge for you this morning," Cloudy said. He took down a can, punctured it with a blade, poured out the thin white liquid into the tin, and set it before Anton on the table. "That's for starters," he said. Anton bent over the milk, sniffing carefully, then tested it with his tongue. It was good. He hunkered down to lap it up while Cloudy went back to his cupboard and took down another tin. This one he pried open with a different blade, and the aroma that issued from it made Anton sit up openmouthed, so that the milk ran down his chin. It was fis.h.!.+ Bite-size greasy fish such as Anton had never seen before, and Cloudy forked one, two, three into the pan. Their heads were crunchy; the little bones cracked against his palate delightfully-delicious, delicious, delicious. From deep in his chest Anton could feel the rumble of a purr running over his shoulders and down his back. He looked up at Cloudy, who held the tin in one hand, the fork in another, crooning to Anton. "That's to your taste, is it? I thought so, I thought so. Here, have another." When Anton was full, he sat down and slowly ran his tongue around his mouth, enjoying the last bits of the oil.

The hatch door was open and a soft breeze pa.s.sed through the galley, warm and damp as a summer's day on the harbor. Anton closed his eyes, feeling dreamy and gloriously full for the first time in days. Then he heard a sound that thrilled his heart, and he opened his eyes wide, turning his ears to locate the source. A singer with a voice high and sweet began a familiar melody. Anton stood up, strode to the end of the table, and leaped to the floor. His front paw stung him as he landed upon it, and he hobbled a few steps toward the door.

"So you like the shanties, do ye?" Cloudy said, following Anton to the few steps that led to the deck. Anton made his way up cautiously, and as he came out on the deck another singer joined in, and the song, to his great joy, was one of his favorites. Windy weather boys, cloudy weather boys. Anton had no idea what it meant, but the familiarity of it made him forget his fears, his wounds, his battle with the rat, the dark, hungry days in the storeroom-they all disappeared as he stepped out onto the deck to see the sailors gathered at the base of the enormous mainsail, which flapped softly in the warm, unsteady breeze. It was still dark, and the sky was black with a line of soft clouds drifting across the round face of the moon. Anton drew closer to the men and one of them noticed him, crouched there in the dark.

"There's Mr. Gray," Cloudy announced to his mates. "Our mighty little mate who slayed the blackguard stowaway. Let's give him a hand." To Anton's astonishment, the men paused in the song, all directing their gazes toward where he stood, and they began patting their hands together, just as they did at the saloon at the end of a show. Anton drew closer, all his senses alive. The sailors went back to their singing. Stars were fading above; the watery world around him seemed paused between night and day. He sat down near a coil of rope, feeling the change in his whiskers, breathing in the salty air, the sound of the voices in their forceful refrain. When the wind blows, we're all together boys.

Anton felt a shadow fall from above and looked up to see the moon. As he watched, the globe of light narrowed, shrouded in thick, dark clouds like folds of fur. It was like an eye, he realized, a great eye, the pupil long and narrow as a cat's eye, and it was watching him. A breeze rustled the hairs inside his ears, and it whispered to him as softly and clearly as Cecil did when he had a secret to tell. It whispered words Anton both did and didn't understand: "Where the eye sees the eye," the breeze said. Anton looked around, as if someone had spoken, but he was alone. The great s.h.i.+p surged beneath him, the sailors raised their voices, and Anton thought, I'm a sailor now. And this thought was curiously pleasant.

CHAPTER 8.

A Fingerling Mist A pa.s.sing seagull, in the early morning hours, might have mistaken the once grand clipper where Cecil now found himself for a floating white three-ring circus tent missing its tallest center pole, sagging sadly in the middle. But there were no birds in sight, nor any other creatures interested enough to observe the poor s.h.i.+p, which had been dismasted in the storm the night before. With a terrifying crack the gale had snapped off the mainsail mast halfway down. The mast had landed on the starboard railing with a crash that had shaken Cecil awake and left him trembling. We're sinking! he thought miserably, and he resigned himself to the end, waiting grimly for the rising water to take the s.h.i.+p down in the night's complete darkness.

But the gray dawn revealed that they were not sinking after all, and now the crew and captain stood on the deck with their hands on their hips and their faces pinched into frowns, surveying the damage. Cecil crept out from his hiding place under the tarp and tried to take in what had happened.

The mainmast had clipped a spar of the aft mast on its way down and now lay with its topmost tip wedged in the rubble of the railing bars, the broken-off end still tangled in the rigging high above. Sails hung in drooping lengths like ragged laundry from the crossbars. Piles of rope and tarp lay in heaps on the deck, mixed with hunks of shredded wood and bits of seaweed.

The men looked up and down the fallen mast, inspecting it from every angle, shaking their heads. After a while a few of the younger crewmen retrieved boxes containing long curved needles and rolls of thick white thread, and set to work repairing the torn sails. Others slowly began setting things right on deck and clearing the debris. The captain, after much grumbling and cursing, finally pointed to the mast and shouted orders, whereupon the remaining ragtag collection of crewmen started cutting lines of rope off the mast and coiling it on the deck.

Over the next few days, Cecil sensed he was out of favor, distrusted and even reviled, and he stayed far away from the men and out of sight as much as he could. No one fed him, but luckily the storm's huge waves had tossed a fair quant.i.ty of fish onto the deck. Lodged in crevices between bales or behind posts, these were now largely ignored by the men. The sun smothered those on board from a cloudless sky, and there seemed to be no wind at all. Day and night pa.s.sed, and pa.s.sed again, as the repaired sails hung limply from their crossbars and the splintered mast lay on the deck. Scuffles broke out among the sailors, and their quick tempers made Cecil even more skittish. The men pa.s.sed the time working on repairs, or swimming in the warm, flat water around the s.h.i.+p, and endlessly scanning the sky and horizon for some event, though both remained relentlessly empty.

On the fourth day, gray clouds hung low, touching the ocean at the horizon, and a light rain fell steadily. The crew had retreated belowdecks, but Cecil remained above in the drizzle, tucked under a tent of ripped sailcloth. Some fresh water, at least, he thought as he watched the puddles slowly form. Ignoring his rumbling belly, he closed his eyes to nap, but his ears began to pick up another sound over the soft plinking of the rain on the deck, an irregular flapping coming from somewhere above. He peeked out and squinted upward. Wheeling toward the s.h.i.+p was a large dark gray bird, veering from side to side, its wings beating only intermittently. Cecil ducked back under the sail as the bird extended long red legs with black webbed feet to attempt a landing, but instead crashed into the mainsail mast and fell in a heap on the ratlines.

The sole crewman on deck lifted the brim of his hat, glared at the bird, then lowered the hat and went back to sleep. Cecil ventured another look around the edge of the sail. The bird had extracted itself from the ropes and flapped over to perch on the railing, where it fully extended its wings to either side and held them open, sitting very still and looking around. Cecil took careful note of the bird's long, hooked beak and sharp claws. Caution was in order. Birds were unintelligent and unreliable, in Cecil's view, but it had been days since he'd talked to any other creature, and he was desperate for company. He slowly advanced until the bird took notice of him.

"Say there, cat," said the bird, amiably enough. "How do?" Its face was bright orange, wrinkled and featherless except for two short tufts of white feathers that stood straight up above its eyes like fluttering white eyebrows, swaying lightly as it talked.

"I'm fine," said Cecil, though this was far from true. "I'm Cecil. You okay?"

"You can call me s.h.a.g," said the bird. "I'm all right. Trying to dry my wings here, heavy as rocks, and this rain isn't helping much." The little white feathers rippled as he shook his head in disgust.

Cecil kept his back legs tensed, ready to spring away if necessary. He'd never seen a bird this big before.

"Where are you headed?" Cecil asked, trying to sound casual.

s.h.a.g made a clucking sound in his throat. "The darnedest luck. Looking for some supper, saw a big bunch of bluefish moving fast, followed them for a while and lost my bearings in the clouds." He glared up at the sky. "Strength almost gave out, had to land on a crusty old whale, if you can believe that."

Cecil said nothing. I can, he thought.

"My island's still a ways off." s.h.a.g flicked his beak in the direction of the starboard bow. "But I spied this s.h.i.+p just sitting here . . ." He stopped and seemed to notice the way Cecil was keeping his distance. "Say, I'm a cormorant, you know. We don't eat things with legs, if that's what's worrying you." He c.o.c.ked his head. "You're a cat who doesn't know his avian cla.s.sification?"

"As far as I'm concerned," said Cecil, "there are two types of birds: the ones I can eat and the ones who can eat me. Does a seagoing bird like you know much about cats? Have you seen a small gray cat lately?"

The rain had stopped and the clouds thinned out to the west. "Nope, not lately," said s.h.a.g, rebalancing himself on the railing and turning to face the weak sun. "But I've seen plenty of cats. When you come across cats on s.h.i.+ps, you've got three categories. The first is pets and they're pretty happy with their lot. Second, you've got your captives and they're all miserable. And third are the questers, looking for some sort of adventure, or else they're on a mission." He surveyed Cecil with round eyes of brilliant blue, like the harbor at Lunenburg on a sunny day. "So which kind are you?"

Cecil swallowed and looked away. "Questing, I'd say."

s.h.a.g nodded, then lowered his wings and glanced around the deck, which was strewn with pieces of mast and rigging.

"You got a big problem here," he observed.

"They're just about done fixing the mast," Cecil said. "We'll be on our way in no time." He nodded sagely. Saying it made him feel more confident.

s.h.a.g examined one of his talons. "Not in my experience, you won't."

"Oh really?" Cecil asked dryly.

s.h.a.g gestured with his wing at the broken mast. "From what I've seen, a busted mast like that doesn't get fixed." They both regarded the beheaded mast. "And s.h.i.+ps with no sails don't get anywhere." He pointed to the sleeping sailor. "No food, no water. Your sailors will be skeletons soon. I've seen that happen."

Cecil's ears twitched. Skeletons? He sat up straight and studied s.h.a.g, who continued.

"You want my advice, you best get off this s.h.i.+p and I mean p.r.o.nto," s.h.a.g said, lowering his beak and looking fixedly back at Cecil.

Get off the s.h.i.+p? A spark of panic lit inside Cecil for the first time. He had been a.s.suming they'd get going eventually, but what if they stayed stuck? He was a cat, surrounded by miles and miles of ocean. If the s.h.i.+p didn't move, he'd be a skeleton soon, too.

s.h.a.g extended his wings again and beat them a few times to test them out. "Good to go." He turned on the railing to face the sea. "Well, best of luck to you, Cecil."

"Hang on!" cried Cecil. "Can you . . . take me with you? Carry me, I mean?" It sounded crazy, even to Cecil, but he felt desperate.

s.h.a.g turned back and looked at Cecil's generous frame. "Don't think we'd get far, would we?" His eyebrows fluttered in the breeze as he gazed out to the horizon. "Somebody'll come along for you, I'm betting. Somebody smarter than a little old bird." He looked sidelong at Cecil again, then sighed. "Here, I can leave you something to eat, at least." He leaned his head forward and made a coughing sound in his throat, and out of his beak and onto the deck flopped two good-size fish.

Cecil was astounded-this strange bird had been talking all this time with a couple of fish in his craw. "Thanks," he said weakly.

"So long," said s.h.a.g. In one powerful motion he launched himself from the rail.

Cecil watched him go, trying not to think about what the bird had said. The ocean looked endless and he felt lonelier than ever. With the s.h.i.+p drifting like a cork in a water barrel, he could see no means of escape, so he had to put the idea out of his mind for now.

Besides, the fish, it turned out, were still quite fresh.

Two days later, on a blazing hot morning, Cecil went belowdecks in search of a cooler resting spot, always mindful of staying quiet and out of sight. Food and water were running low, and even the mice had disappeared-he had spotted one actually jumping overboard yesterday, shrieking incoherently, an unsettling sight. The repairs on the mainmast were not yet complete, so the s.h.i.+p was still drifting aimlessly.

At the sound of men clomping toward him from just beyond a corner, Cecil pushed past a slightly open door to his left into a small candlelit room. The room contained only a bed, a small desk, and a large, decrepit-looking sea chest on the floor. In the hallway the boots stomped nearer, along with the sound of arguing voices. Cecil slipped under the bed, the only place to hide, just as a man entered the room alone. The man shut the door, stepped to the chest, and, groaning with effort, lowered himself to his knees in front of it. Cecil piled all of his bulk into the farthest dark corner, trying to stay absolutely silent. He could see large rings on the man's fingers and lace sleeves on his coat and knew it must be the captain.

An uncomfortable quiet settled in the little room as Cecil held his breath, concentrating on not being discovered. He could only hear the raspy breathing of the captain and the small clicks of his rings as he placed his hands on the top of the chest. Finally Cecil breathed out slowly and crept forward to get a closer look. The chest was dented and scuffed on its painted surface. On the front face hung a large metal contraption with a loop on top threaded through a bolt, but the captain ignored that entirely and focused on the raised and decorated top. Cecil saw him trace the outline of a painted yellow fish with his finger, then turn his thumb down onto the fish and push. There was a sharp click inside the chest, and the hinged lid popped up and creaked softly as the captain lifted it.

Cecil's head thumped on the underside of the bed as he stretched his neck to see better, but the captain didn't notice as he stuck his hand down into what looked like layers of silky cloth packed into the chest. Gently he pulled out a little red cloth bag and loosened the strings holding it closed. He poured a small object out of the bag into his hand and held it in front of his eyes. It was the size of an acorn but round like a ball, and even in the dim room Cecil could see it clearly because it glowed with a pale light. The captain stared at it with his mouth slightly open, a tiny white full moon between his fingers, and Cecil was transfixed as well.

In the next moment, voices rose to shouting in the corridor and the captain dropped the stone into the bag and down into the chest, shutting the lid with a thud. Cecil skittered backward to avoid being seen. The captain struggled to his feet and whipped the door open, bellowing at the crew in the hall and waving his arms in agitation. Cecil shot out from under the bed and scrambled to the doorway, where the captain's tall black boots blocked most of the way out. Cecil leaped from side to side as the captain stepped back and forth and shouted orders. Finally Cecil backed up, timed his jump, and lunged between the captain's legs. He raced down the hall and up to the deck without looking back, the startled captain cursing him as he ran, which, he thought grimly, probably made a bad situation even worse.

Early in the afternoon, Cecil sat just inside a tipped-over crate near the port rail and pondered the state of things. There was the mystery of the captain's hidden stone, whatever it was, which gave Cecil an uncomfortable feeling as he had found that humans often fought over small, s.h.i.+ny objects. And what of the whale, whom he had not seen since the night of the storm? It had not returned either to rescue him or to finish the job of drowning him, and he didn't know if it wished him well or ill. Cecil felt restless on this immobile s.h.i.+p in the middle of this endless ocean, and he'd never find Anton on a s.h.i.+p that didn't move.

As he sat in the crate sifting through his problems, Cecil noticed small wisps of steam begin to rise up through the air over the water, vanis.h.i.+ng in the sunlight. Is it so hot that now the sea is boiling? wondered Cecil. He roused himself, standing and stretching his back legs one by one, then stepped to the railing. Indeed the water, which had been dead calm since the storm, was simmering with tiny bubbles under the surface. Cecil glanced around to see if the men had noticed, but most of them were below decks taking a midday meal, and they could not man the crow's nest since the mast came down.

The bubbling waves began to make a faint hissing sound, and the steaming wisps became more densely packed, making the air hazy and vaporous. That's actually kind of pretty, Cecil thought, and quite a bit cooler too. One of the sailors awoke from a doze and looked around quizzically, then lumbered over to the below-decks door and called something down. Cecil doubled back and hopped up onto the crate for a better view. The haze steadily thickened, was.h.i.+ng out the horizon line and muting the sunlight, and started to swirl, dancing in currents around the s.h.i.+p. Emerging from below decks, the captain and crew stood and stared. The haze condensed around the s.h.i.+p until it felt as if they were floating inside a cloud.

Abruptly, the younger sailors burst into laughter and slapped one another on the back. They waved their hands in the moist air and ran their fingers through their hair. Giggling, some romped about and held their mouths open as if to drink the air in, and Cecil noticed that he could not even see to the far end of the deck now through the thick haze. He watched the playful sailors, but he also saw the faces of the older crew, which were guarded and, Cecil thought, fearful.

Then an even stranger thing happened. The swirling mist developed long, thin tendrils that slipped through the air and began to wrap themselves around the arms and legs of the men, who pulled up short from their cavorting and glanced around nervously. Some of the men began backing away from the railings, watching the eddies with distrust, picking up their boots and trying to step gingerly out of the clouds. But the mist continued to thicken, and Cecil thought his eyes were playing tricks, for he imagined that he saw figures forming in the densest parts of the haze. The crew seemed to be having the same sorts of visions, whimpering softly and pointing at the empty air.

"What's this, then?" asked an older sailor, his voice high and thin. "Somebody there?"

Another swatted at the mist that drifted around his neck like a scarf. "Somebodies, more like," he grumbled, turning round and round.

"Can't be," snorted one of the younger fellows. "Just fog, mates." All the same he edged away from the fingers of murk reaching around his belly.

Cecil crouched low on the crate as he observed the heightening tension among the men. Foggy swirls had infiltrated every part of the deck and there was no getting away from them now. The white air was clammy and teased Cecil's nose and ears. He began to feel light-headed and thought he'd better move around a bit, but when he looked at the deck next to his crate he stopped short. There in the mist was a shape that very much resembled a large loaf of bread. His mouth watered at the thought. Well! Wouldn't that be nice? But as he gazed at it, the loaf grew legs and changed into the figure of a cat. A cat! That would be less nice, though less lonely, thought Cecil.

The mist cat was completely colorless. It stretched up with its front paws along the crate toward Cecil. He leaned over the top, trying to prepare an adequate greeting for something he wasn't sure was really there, when the cat suddenly extended its misty claws and hissed violently at Cecil.

"Oh, is that how it is?" Cecil said out loud, his voice surprisingly muted in the haze. He flattened his ears, bared his teeth, and took a long, hard swipe down the side of the crate with his paw, only to feel it pa.s.s right through the cat figure's head with a wet breeze. He pulled back and the cat slid up to the top of the crate in a sinewy motion and sat hunched, eye to cloudy eye with Cecil.

"Okay," Cecil said, a.s.sessing the situation. "Crate's all yours!" he called out, and bounded off the other side.

Plunging through the fog on deck, Cecil scampered through the door that led to the officers' quarters. The air was clear down below, and as Cecil strolled aimlessly about he noticed that the door to the captain's room stood ajar. He slipped in and leaped atop the chest. The whole surface was carved with pictures of fish, an entire school of them, and he was momentarily fl.u.s.tered. Which one was it? It was up in the corner, yes, but was it red or green or . . . ? Cecil could hear the crew cras.h.i.+ng above, and he began frantically stepping on the fish with his paws, trying to push down just the way the captain had done. Press, press, press . . . was it the yellow one? Press, click! The chest popped open and flipped Cecil back onto the floor on his head. He quickly recovered to his feet, dashed around to the front, and pushed his nose through the opening. s.n.a.t.c.hing the little red bag with his teeth, he turned and bolted back up the stairs, a black streak with a prized possession.

On deck, the mist still swirled about the sailors, wrapping them in its tendrils and whispering in their ears. The crazed crew ran around batting the misty swirls, picking up hooks, hammers, and buoys from the deck and throwing them at the haze, knocking about other crewmen in the turmoil. Cecil quickly hid his treasure in a coil of rope near the mainsail mast. Ducking the flying objects and staggering crewmen, he looked for the captain and found the poor man rooted to one spot, struggling for control of both himself and his crew.

Holding his arms tightly around his chest, the captain jumped up onto a barrel and shouted, " 'Tis but a fingerling mist I tell you! Stand still, men, or it will drive ye mad!"