Trice, the jester, was getting old. So, he feared, were his jokes.
His joints were stiff and he could no longer do the amusing contortions
that used so to entertain the Earl and his little court. In fact, the
Earl was getting on, too. He looked as though he was falling asleep in
his chair. Next to him the Lady Godwina was mumbling and giggling--not
at poor Trice's feeble quips, but as a result of too much blackberry
wine mixed with mead. She hiccoughed loudly and the Earl opened his
eyes.
He glanced at the Lady Godwina with bored distaste, and then at Trice
the jester. Would that the fellow would cease his tedious clowning and
go to the kitchens! Yet he hesitated to get rid of him altogether.
Having a jester at all in these days was a mark of prestige, and he
didn't know where he'd get a replacement.
Now that King Henry was dead he had fortified his castle like the other
barons. Since feudal pomp had become the fashion he hung onto its
trappings--poor old Trice was one of them. But, ye gods, what stale
jokes! Well, at least they seemed to please the younger serving men,
who must be too young to remember them.
Trice was unhappily aware that his humor was missing the mark. He fell
back on the one thing that never failed to make them laugh. He swung
his bauble and hit himself on the nose. He staggered back with comic
terror. "Hold on!" he cried to an imaginary assailant. "Not so hard!"
He struck himself again, harder. "Stop! Or I shall appeal to my noble
lord for protection!"
The Earl smiled faintly; he didn't want to disappoint the old man.
Besides, his nose was bleeding. It really was rather funny. Curious
about these people: they had almost no sense of pain. Trice, seeing the
smile, hit himself again and again, and feeling the blood, he smeared
it over his face in fantastic curlicues. The Earl closed his eyes
again, and Trice caught the eye of the clerk, a young man who had come
from Normandy. He was sneering. The Lady Godwina was singing a little
tune to herself, and paid no attention.
The old jester shrugged, and turned towards the archway to the kitchens
and offices. Better have supper and go to bed--his head ached and his
nose hurt badly, although the bleeding had stopped. Next to a wooden
stool he caught sight of his cat, Tybalt, staring at him fixedly.
Tybalt. His only friend! he thought to himself. But as he passed him,
the cat, instead of following him out with tail erect to share the
jester's wretched supper, backed cringing under the stool and turned
his head as he went by, keeping his staring eyes on him. Most unusual.
Very un-catlike.
"Here! Tybalt!" Trice said, but the cat backed further away.
* * * * *
Just before he realized what had happened to him, Dax recognized that
the big wooden thing that loomed over him was a stool.
Maybe it was this realization--and the sight of his own paws--that gave
him an idea of his size, and on looking back at the rest of himself
he knew that he was a cat. Something had gone wrong. The flashback
and subsequent rebound must have taken him far into the dim mammalian
past, but for what duration he could not tell. The transition had been
unconscious. At least he did not remember it. But to judge by the style
of the round stone arches of the hall he was now in--and the stonework
looked brand new--the ultimate effect had been according to plan, and
this was the early Middle Ages.
A movement caught his eye and he saw it was the cavorting of an
enormous man, dressed in gigantic tattered motley.
No. He wasn't enormous; it was just the unfamiliar scale of things. The
man was saying something in a booming voice, and Dax began to recognize
it as a form of transitional early English--but with an admixture of
Norman French and some pure Anglo-Saxon phrases. And what an accent!
If this man was typical, how wrong modern research and learned
speculation were! He would have some interesting things to tell the
experts--particularly his tutor--when he got back.
When he got back.... That was supposed to be in three days
approximately, when the inhibiting effect of the chemical would wear
off. Then he would, he hoped, be swept back to his own time and his
own body. But he was a cat. This was disastrous! How could he speak to
people? He could understand them fairly well, but a cat's bucal cavity
and vocal apparatus were not designed for the sounds of human speech.
He decided to try his voice, just on the chance, but stopped, horrified
at the muffled yowl that resulted.
Two rangy hounds, six times his size, roused themselves from the
rush-covered floor and glared growling at the sound with raised
hackles. "Down, Colle! Stop it, Bayard!" a gruff voice commanded, and
they reluctantly sank back again, keeping their fierce eyes on him. Was
this a sample of what he must expect from dogs? He hoped it was merely
his abortive attempt at human speech. Any further communication must be
tried silently.
He looked around the hall. There were other humans too. Several
men-at-arms standing by the walls and a few serving men. At the big
trestle-board were seated five people--one of them clearly the lord of
the castle--it must be a castle--and the one woman sitting next to him
in soiled finery would be his lady. The place reeked with the stale
odor of humans and dogs, and less obnoxiously the smell of wood smoke
and cooked meat. Dax realized that he now had a feline nose, and made
allowances. After all, the well-to-do bathed themselves, in the still
existing classic tradition, and would until the Black Death.
The ridiculous giant in motley stopped his capering and came across
the stone flags towards him. As he passed with ponderous footsteps he
looked down and said, "Here, Tybalt!"
Dax backed under the stool, terrified at the deep, hoarse voice. The
man was probably trying to be gentle. He must keep in mind that he had
a cat's hearing now, and all sounds would seem lower and louder.
* * * * *
How were cats treated in Medieval England? He did not know, and he was
not prepared for this contingency. But at least cats as a species had
survived. He hoped he was one of the lucky ones. He must at all costs
manage to keep alive for three days, because if he were killed before
the drug wore off he would not return.
What would they think at the school? Nothing, of course. He would never
have been there. That would be changing the future ... but you changed
the future every time you exerted your free will, anyhow.
One of his experimental rats had not come back: it had merely
disappeared with a loud pop. Perhaps an early Colonial terrier had got
it. It might be the best thing to do to take to the woods, and wait out
the time safe from the unknown dangers of men and dogs--but what of the
dangers of the woods? It was winter, to judge by the fire in the hall,
on a raised stone platform in the middle of the floor, from which the
smoke found its way out through a louver in the high roof. And the icy
drafts that came across the floor. Although he was a cat, he had little
confidence of being able to hunt like one, or find refuge from the cold
and snow.
He decided to follow the court jester. At least the man had spoken to
him kindly. And he had a name: Tybalt. He must remember to answer to
it.
He got up and began to walk towards the arched doorway through which
the jester had disappeared.
Walking on all fours felt perfectly natural--rather as if he were
following himself. There was no trouble about keeping in step, or,
rather, just out of it. His mouth was dry and he ran his tongue over
his muzzle ... he could lick his eye! Then he did something that also
felt natural, though pleasantly novel: he waved his tail. Then he stuck
out his claws. They clicked against the flagstones and he sheathed them
again.
He had never in his life felt so supple and physically complete. He
felt like running up the tapestry that hung by the doorway.
At the other end of the vaulted corridor that he found himself in he
could see the jester as he went into another chamber that was lit with
a smoky reddish glow. There was an increased smell of cookery, and he
guessed it was the kitchen.
When he got to the door he could see the jester was being given
something in a bowl that steamed, and a large hunk of dark bread. The
man turned and came out again and saw him.
"Come along, Tybalt," he said. "Supper for you and me. Come along, old
fellow!"
Dax followed him across the corridor to a narrow stone stairway in the
thickness of the wall. The winding steps seemed absurdly high. He would
far rather have done the whole thing in two or three long leaps, but
he took the steps one by one. Feline coordination would come to him in
time.
After an almost totally unlit passage they came to a minute room,
scarcely more than a cell. The jester struck a light with flint and
steel to a tallow candle, and sat down on a low straw-covered bed. The
floor was freezing. Dax jumped up onto a small table, but was instantly
pushed off it. His instinctive jump up and then down happened so
quickly that he only realized in retrospect what a feat it was from a
man's point of view. Yet he had landed clumsily. He was not yet quite a
cat.
* * * * *
The jester cut off a piece of dubious-looking meat and threw it onto
the floor. "Wait till it cools, Tybalt," he said, and scratched Dax
behind the ears. Dax was ravenous, which seemed odd considering
he'd had dinner half an hour ago. No, of course not. That was eight
centuries in the future; God knew when Tybalt had last eaten.
Disregarding the admonition he went at once to the meat, which was
pork, and burned his mouth. It smelled glorious. And yet he suspected
that in human form he would have revolted from it.
He looked up at his master. He had a conviction that he belonged to the
jester.
He studied the gaunt, blood-smeared face. It looked as if someone had
hit him on the nose. The cap-and-bells, with its attached wimple-shaped
neck piece, had been laid aside. The gray bobbed hair and bony head
looked anything but merry. There was, however, a shrewd reflective
expression in the eyes, and Dax felt that he might well be in an
advantageous position. Being a jester probably involved a certain
amount of tact and discretion, not to mention ingenuity, so he resolved
to try to communicate with him.
But first he must eat. Would the damned pork never cool?
The jester was already eating his, in great gulps, alternating it with
bits of the evil-looking bread. There was a stoneware pot that smelled
strongly of musty ale from which he drank every now and then. The
stench of alcohol in it was like spoiled garbage to Dax. How had he
ever been able to drink whisky? The thought of it was disgusting. The
meat was cool enough now--in fact stone cold--and he tore it to pieces
with his pointed teeth and bolted it unchewed. It was marvelous.
"Well, Tybalt?" the jester said, putting aside his bowl. "No mice
today? We are not very lucky, we two, are we?" He made a snapping with
his fingers and Dax jumped up onto the pallet beside him. The old man
stroked his back gently, but he had a very strong smell. Dax supposed
he would get used to his new keen senses in time. He hoped it would be
soon. It was very cold in the jester's cell and he intended to creep
close at bed time. In the meanwhile how was he going to make known his
true identity? Obviously speech was impossible; and Morse-code tapping
with his paw was out of the question.
You wouldn't get very far with mere facial expressions, either. Anyway,
to most human eyes a cat has but two: contentment and fear. He looked
around wondering if there were any small movable objects that he could
arrange into the form of the letters of the alphabet--even a piece of
string might do. But he feared that the man couldn't read. Anyway there
was no string to be seen.
Then on the table, which was scarcely more than a high bench, he saw a
rosary with wooden beads.
He got up and stretched--never in his life had he been able to stretch
like this--and jumped delicately over onto the table. The jester
reached out and swept him off it. Not roughly, but it was obvious
he wasn't allowed there. This time his landing was more skillful.
He sat on the cold floor and tried to think how he could get hold of
the beads. If he had them on the floor he could push them into an
arresting shape. A triangle perhaps, or a figure eight, that would
catch the jester's eye. He looked up at a movement and saw that the
man had picked up a small vellum book and was holding it close to his
face. What luck! he could read after all! But how was he going to make
letters? Near the sill of the door were some pieces of straw. He went
over and examined them. He realized that a cat's vision is rather poor
compared to a man's: quick to notice and interpret motion, but in other
respects the over-large pupils, meant for nocturnal hunting, gave an
inferior and uncertain image.
* * * * *
The straw was dirty and smelled of horses, but it ought to do. The
trouble was that when his face was close enough to pick it up with his
teeth he could scarcely make it out. He couldn't tell at first whether
he had one or many in his mouth. He felt that his whiskers should
tell him, but he was unaccustomed to their use. He padded over to the
jester's feet and dropped the straws. He backed off and looked at them,
then with his paw he ineptly pushed them into an A.
He looked up. The jester was lost in his reading.
Dax waited patiently, but the reading went on, and he patted the man's
foot with carefully sheathed claws. The jester glanced at him, though
not at the crude, straw A, and smiled.
"What now, Tybalt? More supper? That you will have to catch
for yourself. See--it's all gone! Share-and-share alike, old
friend. I weigh eight stone. You're but a scant four pound, so
correspondingly...." He returned to his reading.
Dax went and picked out some more straw which he brought back and
attempted to arrange in a B, but gave it up and made an E instead. Then
he made two crosses and a triangle.