Catland - a humorous fantasy

Chapter Fourteen: The Gray Death

"Get him! Take him! Tear him to pieces!"

The big silver-gray cat lunged upward, spittle flying from his open jaws, his claws gleaming in the flickering torchlight. His prey danced away from him, narrowly avoiding the swipe of his left paw, as the gray cat subsided to the ground, arched his back dangerously, and miaowled with murderous intent.

On the viewing-decks and—forgive me—catwalks that loomed above the fighting pit, hundreds of cats craned their necks for a better view and screeched encouragement to their fearsome champion. The big gray cat was a crowd favorite. His prey never eluded him for long.

Down it came again, the poor doomed wretch, and the Gray Death—that was his nom de guerre—surged upward, and this time his quarry reacted a little too slowly, and the jaws were upon him, rending and tearing, and the cotton flew everywhere, and the crowd went wild.

Seated on the catwalk not far from Greg, his rear legs dangling over the edge, Tanner Bowland let out a sigh.

"It just isn't the same," he complained. "When the Bannockburns were in power, it was a real mouse they would tear to pieces. I've seen the Gray Death do it a hundred times. I can still hear them screaming." This didn't sound very pleasant to Greg, but Tanner's tone was unmistakably wistful. "Now it's just a rag stuffed with cotton that they yank up and down on a string. It doesn't even look like a mouse."

Down on the sandy floor of the fighting pit, the Gray Death was rolling around blissfully amidst the carnage of cotton and fabric. The "mouse" had been filled with catnip, to give the cat-gladiator a little extra incentive. Nevertheless, Greg had to admit that, compared to Tanner's account of the grisly spectacles he had witnessed, the whole thing did seem a bit tame.

"Our new king is a weakling," grumbled Septimus. "Doesn't take catnip? Can't stomach a bit of blood? He's a kitten, is what he is. A runt, I shouldn't wonder. If he'd been a littermate of mine, I'd've eaten him."

"Not so loud," hissed Jasper. "You don't know who's listening."

"I don't care," said Septimus petulantly—but he lowered his voice all the same.

Below them, the Gray Death was making his triumphal circuit around the arena, and the crowd, to demonstrate their adoration, was pelting him with fish. Jasper got to his feet. "Would you like to meet the Gray Death?" he asked.

Septimus jerked his head up. "You know him?" he asked, wide-eyed.

Jasper smiled. "I certainly do. You have your fish, Septimus Cordial—and a noble calling that is, to be sure. But not all cats can be fishmongers. Someone has to train the fighters."

With that, he wheeled on his hind paws and strode away, confident the others would follow—which they swiftly did.

* * *

They found the Gray Death in a low-ceilinged underground chamber, on a level with the floor of the fighting pit. The great gray cat had a towel draped around his neck, one rear paw propped up on a bench, and a thick hardbound book in his hand. He was reading. When Jasper led Greg and his companions in, the gray beast looked up at them with mild eyes.

"Hello, Jasper," he drawled. "Brought some visitors, have you?"

The Gray Death closed the book, and Jasper made introductions. The champion's real name, as it turned out, was Graydon Heppingworth, and he was an indolent, heavy-lidded, self-satisfied, courteous creature. The book he was reading was a volume of T. S. Eliot. The big cat positively oozed sophistication, and Greg wondered if he were overcompensating for the brute savagery of his public image.