The Abandoned Garden

The Abandoned Garden


By: Leslie McMurty

Electra smiled pleasantly at the sun peeking over the hazy city scape. She yawned, opening her mouth widely enough to expose her small canines. She looked at the form of Jemima nestled tenderly into a rag pile. Smiling, Electra got into position and leapt onto her slumbering friend.

"Awwgh," Jemima muttered, pushing Electra away with a careless swipe of her paw.

Electra sighed in frustration at the anti-climax and nudged at Jemima's still-sleeping figure. "Jemima," she whispered, shaking the kitten until she stirred.

"Will you stop that?!" Jemima cried with unusual harshness, batting away Electra's paw. Electra sat back, alarmed. Jemima yawned aggressively and fiddled with her ears. " Lectra," she began apologetically, "I'm sorry

Electra licked the inside of one paw casually, though her voice was shaking. "What happened to you?"

"Oh . . ." Jemima exclaimed, looking flippantly in the other direction. "I didn't sleep too well last night."

"Of course you didn't," Electra said irreverently. "I told you not to eat that . . . whatever it was." She sniffed in disgust. "There are certain things Jellicles are allowed to eat. That was not one of them."

"Oh, come on," Jemima complained sulkily.

Electra paused. There was something other than the usual playfulness in her friend's tone. Something more than irritation. "What do you want me to say?"

"Don't say anything," Jemima snapped.

Electra sighed and looked at the other kitten. They had both matured in that year; nearly everyone had, except Etcetera, who remained perpetually young and naive, and perpetually infatuated with the Tugger. Even Victoria, who was the same age as Electra, had matured so much and had even gone as far as to become the mate of Mistoffelees, her long-time crush. And now she was the mother of a kitten! It seemed vaguely impossible.

Electra had no doubt that Etcetera would wait for the Tugger for the rest of her nine lives, if need be, but what of Electra? She smiled faintly. No prospects yet, but there would be. But what of Jemima? She was prettier and more dexterous than any of the kittens had ever been, and yet she remained unattached. Like an ethereal light placed too high to reach, Jemima--though young and vibrant--still had the serenity of an unearthly creature.

Jemima's eyes were fixed resolutely on some imaginary point when she uttered detachedly, "You're being very contemplative today."

Electra snorted in a laugh. "One would have to be with your mood today." Immediately she clapped a paw over her mouth and winced, waiting for Jemima's fractious comment.

Instead the kitten shook herself, her wide, clear eyes like that of a world-weary traveler. "Can you take it upon yourself to listen to me now?"

Electra's mood changed at once. "Of course, dear." Though alarmed by the younger cat's sobriety, she was willing to do anything to help her flagging spirits.

Jemima seemed ready to speak, but she gasped. "Not here." It was as if she were talking to herself, the aloof manner in which she got up and trotted off.

"But . . ." Electra cried, "Shouldn't we . . . ?"

"It'll just take a moment," Jemima tossed over her shoulder. Not knowing what else to do, Electra followed. They walked behind the Junkyard and through a narrow alleyway, scattering pigeons as they leapt up rooftops and then down them again. Suddenly they were in the middle of a garden, though one overgrown by silvery-green weeds. Jemima dove onto what had once been a sundial and motioned for Electra to sit below on a crumbling garden wall.

"What is this place?" Electra asked.

"The Abandoned Garden," Jemima answered. "That's what I call it. It's where I go to be alone." She smiled at some private joke. "I can always see the moon from here."

Electra nodded, more to herself than to her companion. Jemima had always loved the moon; it seemed to have some mysterious pull on her. Electra had been told the moon controlled the tides on the ocean far away, and so it seemed with Jemima. She loved to find her way by moonlight, and often, Electra believed, saw dawn before the rest of the world.

"Would you tell me now?" Electra couldn't believe how small her voice seemed in the strange garden.

"Yes," Jemima said. " Lectra, you're my friend. Now I'll tell you my secret." Electra drew in her breath silently. If Jemima could keep a secret like the garden hidden, what else might she also have concealed? Jemima sighed audibly and closed her eyes, as if mortified with her own words. "I'm in love."

Electra let out that breath she'd been holding. "Is that all?"

Jemima was visibly amused with Electra's blatant admission of relief. "I haven't told you who with."

Electra smiled. "That's not important!" Then, at length, she stared at Jemima's distant eyes. " . . . Is it?" Electra scowled and sighed. The worst came first to mind. "Macavity?"

Jemima laughed, startling her concerned friend. "No. Of course not." Electra looked relieved, though she dared not advertise it. "Someone worse."

Electra tensed and grew incredibly perplexed. "What?"

Jemima buried herself into a tight ball on the sundial. "A human."

Electra gasped softly at the deep longing Jemima's voice held. A bizarrely compelling yearning made the air shimmer with the taut and frank confession of the kitten. "How--how is that possible?" she tried, unable to offer any word of comfort.

Jemima looked very sad, as if her very heart strings had been yanked so hard they had ripped. "Tell me, please," Electra added. "I'll do my best to help you if you tell me."

Jemima smiled and dove from the sundial and into the weeds. Electra tried not to be frightened by Jemima's lack of composure and waited impatiently for her to emerge from the weeds. She did soon, bearing a round mirror trimmed in worked silver and a surface of shiny, unmarred glass. She set it down between them and did not wait for Electra's inevitable inquiry. "I found it here some time ago."

"What does it do?"

"Look at it." Electra followed the suggestion. The glass shimmered and reflected like a puddle. A supernatural blue glow tickled their eyes as the mirror became less and less a piece of glass but an organic object, confusing in its own beauty.

"I don't understand," Electra confessed. "What does this have to--?" Jemima lifted Electra's paw and placed it on the mirror, which immediately transformed into a sand-like substance, through which Electra's hesitant paw fell. She jumped back, giving a screech. "What is it?!"

Jemima shrugged. Electra's fear heightened. "I'm going," she muttered. "I can't--this is--"

"Don't be afraid," Jemima said beseechingly. She tossed the mirror into the weeds. "I'll tell you now, all of it."

Electra's eyes were still wide with fear, but she sat down. "It's a doorway," Jemima pronounced, motioning to the discarded mirror. "To something I can hardly understand."

"You mean you've . . . gone through it?" Electra winced with every word.

"Yes," Jemima answered, enraptured.

"That's where you met . . . him?"

Jemima nodded wistfully. "Listen and I'll tell you this tale of mine, Lectra. It's like none you've heard before . . ."

***

The portal led through something undetermined by time and space, Jemima said. It led her to a time where cars had been replaced by horses, and the humans had changed every facet of their fickle culture. Whereas the Jellicles had hardly altered in hundreds of years, the humans had totally different rules.

Fascinated by this strange world, Jemima had left the Junkyard at night for clandestine journeys for the Abandoned Garden and into the mirror. Night after night she managed to disappear from her friends and learn the ways of the humans. She had found a new group of Jellicles she had begun to believe were her ancestors. But they were closed-minded to her attempts and shunned her in the ironic way Grizabella had been (or would be, as it seemed).

Therefore Jemima turned away from the cats and focused on the customs of the humans. That's how it began, she told Electra. One day she entered the mirror and was no longer a cat, but had taken form as a human. From then on there seemed to be no turning back . . . . . . . .

***

Jemima had enjoyed her day as a human in the world of the mirror. Despite her commendable knowledge on the mannerisms of the place--she had known enough not to lick herself, for it was rude; but she was not flexible enough to do so anyway--she had felt bewildered.

She knew where all the best haunts were, but she felt particularly uneasy at the assembly at Almack's, being uninvited and yet having the vouchers suddenly appear in her reticule. She knew that the servant who had examined them probably though she had stolen them, but that was that.

Still, she had loved, at the end of the day, going to Gunter's and purchasing a bowl of vanilla ice--which she though tasted pecularily like fresh cream--and paying for it with money that had, again, magically appeared.

It was by chance she heard the discussion nearby, proclaiming there was to be a ball that evening. Jemima, unable to help herself, listened intently to the directions babbled by the dowager and took careful note.

Thus it was that by eight o'clock she showed p at the doorstep of 15 Clarges Street, trying to madly conceal the fact her gown was an afternoon dress and far too plain for the occasion. It was with a great deal of fear she ascended the steps of the building, knowing she had not been invited and praying she would not be too disgraced.

Perhaps it was her uncommon beauty, perhaps they were too weary, perhaps they had drunk too much; whatever the reason was the footmen at the door forgot to Jemima, she would not question it. She quickly stepped in the door.

A dazzling array of Bacchanalian delights assaulted her eyes aggressively, with a dance floor so vibrant it defeated the splendor of the Jellicle Ball. Well, almost.

The society heads were all there, dressed in magnificent colors and plumage. Picking out a certain one was like attempting to pull just one grape off the stem containing a tantalizing assortment of them. The candles dripped hot wax and filled the air with a heady, sultry light. The dancing couples hopped and twirled with inhibited delight; Jemima saw it as a vain imitation of the dances she knew so well.

There was a smell that reminded her vaguely of kitty litter, and she realized it must be the hygiene-deficiency: these humans bathed rarely and changed their underwear only occasionally.

That was another thing; the clothes. At first she had found them obtrusive, but she had soon molded them to her sleek body. These people, she concluded, lived interesting but constrained existences. While her tribe might go about with only their fur and no material to hinder their movement or the expression of affection, the humans were repressed; stuffed into bulky and suffocating gowns and suits in colors that, Jemima was sad to admit, did not suit them.

But, by witnessing the ball, Jemima was glad the people did wear clothes, for few of them possessed the physique she expected. Cats were equipped with much more lithe bodies, but she was compelled to confess the human form had its own beauties.

She had thought her plain gown and lack of acquaintances would have kept her sufficiently hidden for the evening, but she was mistaken. At length she noticed a couple of people talking in her direction. They were looking right at her and made not attempts to conceal that fact. She supposed they did not think she could hear or see them. Fortunately for Jemima, her excellent feline eyesight and hearing had remained unaltered.

The man and woman looked very similar, so she assumed they were related rather than married. The woman was prettier than the man was handsome, with long, dark brown hair and a half-smile Jemima liked. The man would have been very handsome except that his nose seemed too large and his eyes too close together. Jemima knew nothing of the human measurements of beauty, only of her own initial musings.

She liked the, though, for they seemed young and lively, unlike many of the room's occupants, who were heavy with their own pride as if leaded with it. Aware what she was doing might be considered eavesdropping, Jemima nevertheless focused on the conversation.

"If you're taken with her, you'd better ask her," the woman said.

"I didn't say I was taken with her, I said I liked the way she looked." The man said it earnestly but not unkindly.

"That means you're taken with her." The woman jammed her fists on her hips in condescension.

"Well . . ." the man fumbled, "that doesn't mean I have to dance with her."

"John, yes it does. You haven't danced at all tonight and I find it extremely rude. She's the first you've taken note of, so I suggest you ask her." The woman's lovely eyes winked in effusive propriety.

John mumbled something and started off in Jemima's direction. Then he stopped and ran back to the woman. "Who is she? I don't know her. I don't think I've ever seen her before."

"John," the woman muttered, "you've said that three times already. I haven't seen her either." She looked at him as if he were a complete ignoramus.

John frowned at her and advanced toward Jemima, who immediately turned away. She hoped this might deter the gentlemen from accosting her, but she heard him cough behind her.

Jemima's heart was like a dramatically fluttering canary, though she smiled politely and bowed. "My dear lady, I have not been shown the benefit of learning your name yet." John spoke gently, for coming nearer to the mysterious young lady had only increased her beauty. The fact that the dark-haired, tiny slip of a woman with magnificent eyes was dressed modestly only seemed to multiply the grace and loveliness her figure held. He had been with her one minute and already he was glad of it.

Jemima swallowed and blurted her name. "Jemima?" the man uttered, a little perplexed. Then he laughed in a way Jemima became very attached to the moment the sound sprung from his mouth. "Do you have a surname? Because if I were to call you just Jemima' would be very improper."

"Jellicle," was all Jemima could think of and she said it quickly.

Again the man's eyebrows rose, and Jemima suddenly wished cats had eyebrows so they could achieve his amused look. "Jemima Jellicle?" She nodded. "Miss Jellicle, I am delighted to make your acquaintance." He extended his hand and caught Jemima's hesitant palm and kissed it.

Jemima had never felt a hand; she had never felt a kiss. For a moment she didn't trust herself to speak. Then she uttered, "And your name, sir?"

There was something amusing the man found about this and he laughed quickly. He gave her a sideways glance before answering with a determinedly un-straight face, "Hesperus."

Jemima tried not to look confused. "Is that your surname or Christian name?"

The man seemed to be enjoying a joke at his lovely companion's expense. "Neither. Just Hesperus. Nothing more, dear Miss Jell--"

He was interrupted by the woman wedging her elbow into his stomach. "Excuse me," she said to Jemima, "but you'll have to forgive my brother. He can be a little odd at times."

"As can she," he mumbled, nursing his rib.

Jemima tried her hardest not to smile. The woman introduced herself as Frances Murdstone and her brother as John Fields. Jemima offered her name but Mrs. Murdstone did not seem to accept it. She grimaced at it as if it were some unhealthy piece of food. But she seemed kind enough, though Jemima knew she was surprised at the plain gown.

"My dear brother," Mrs. Murdstone said, "wished to ask you to dance. Would you be inclined to do so?"

Her face grew a grey color when John Fields said defiantly, "No, I didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Wish to ask her to dance," John said earnestly.

Mrs. Murdstone seemed unable to believe what she was hearing. "John, you are making a fool out of yourself, me, and the girl!" she cried under her breath.

"Mrs. Murdstone," Jemima intervened, "I did not mean to dance."

"Oh." Mrs. Murdstone looked completely baffled. "Then I shall leave you two to your leisure." She did so.

"I should hope I did not offend your pride," John said honestly to Jemima. "I hate to dance, though I can't imagine why you should. You have the grace of a cat; did anyone ever tell you so?"

Jemima had to laugh at this one; she made an effort to hide it. "Thank you, but I'm quite content to watch."

"As am I," John admitted.

"But, tell me," Jemima asked, "if you do not dance, why did you attend this ball?"

John Fields was used to being treated separately to lovely faces or astute comments, but when Jemima Jellicle offered him both he was intrigued. By rule the normal did not interest him and so he became even more engaged with the girl. He laughed. "Excellent question. Mostly because I have a weak will and a strong sister." "Oh," Jemima said. "Does Mrs. Murdstone not care to dance?"

"She is in a delicate condition."

Jemima had no idea what this meant. "I am sorry to hear Mrs. Murdstone is ill--"

"Ill?" John Fields asked. "Only ill in spirit, Miss Jellicle." He looked at her carefully, seeing no glimpse of understanding. He found it very curious that a woman did not know that he meant his sister was with child. "Never mind. What were you going to say?"

"Oh, only that Mrs. Murdstone should not drag you unwilling to a dance if she herself will not participate." Jemima blinked, fearing she had said too much.

John was quiet for a moment, considering the same question. However, he made no note of Jemima's transgression. "And why, may one ask, Miss Jellicle--do you know, that sounds like dear little'--did you come to this ball if you were not to dance?"

Jemima looked steadfastly at John though she had nothing to say. At last she whispered, "I choose not to answer."

"You choose not to answer?" John repeated incredulously, his voce a mix of surprise and enjoyment. He laughed. "Do not worry, my dear Jemima, I find that unconventionality is entertaining."

Jemima spoke suddenly and without consideration. "Does that make me merely an entertainment to you?"

"Of course not," John said candidly. "Upon my word as a gentlemen. I may be a strange one, perhaps a ludicrous one, but I am a gentleman. And you are delightful for more reasons than entertainment."

"I think Hesperus is a better name for you," she answered.

"You're the first." John smiled. "Would it be improper if I asked you to be our guest tomorrow? Join us for some afternoon amusements?"

Jemima felt slightly light-headed after John's proposal. She had begun to like him immensely but she was afraid he would know at once if she did something out of character. And she did not want him to be angry with her. But she could not refuse him either, with that look on his face of placidity and joy. She had a strange desire to touch his eyebrows, for she was fascinated with the way they dictated his emotions.

"I would love to," she finally stated, "if you would be so kind as to give me directions there."

John laughed. "You didn't know? This is our house. And our ball."

Jemima was frightened. "Then you mean--you knew I--wasn't invited?" John nodded and Jemima felt doubly grateful. However, at the same time, she realized that the night in the Junkyard was probably nearly over and she had to catch some sleep before returning to reality. "What time is it?"

John glanced at his watch. "Past nine-thirty. Why?" He smiled greedily. "Don't tell me your mother wishes you home before midnight, Cinderella."

Jemima did not know why she was being called by that name, but she knew she was normally supposed to be back by ten! Panic broke loose in rivulets inside her. She began escaping to the door, noticing with some gratification the pained expression of her companion. "Where are you going?"

"I must leave," she pleaded. "I will be back tomorrow afternoon."

John looked ready to say something but shrugged and let Jemima leave. Her catnap was a short one but her elation had no bounds that day.

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