We had been good friends for awhile now, the moon and I. Good friends, because neither of us could find a more suitable companion. Good friends, because hers was the only face I saw night after grime-infested night. You may be human and I may be cat, but surely we may both fathom the unutterable despair of interminable loneliness. Obviously, this pariah lifestyle had not been my choice. It had been my mother's. The reason had always been garbled in my mind, but it had something to do with my father. My father, who I'd never known, whose name I had never heard, had caused my mother to leave her home for that great and untraveled void, collectively known as The Rest of the World. She never told me why. The one thing my mother did tell me was this: "Beware all Jellicle Cats," for this much I knew: my father was a Jellicle Cat. What's a Jellicle Cat? You may now ask. Why is it different than a regular cat? The explanation answering that would be a long and complicated affair so I won't discuss it now--surely if you're reading this you must have some idea. Suffice it to say we did steer clear of Jellicle Cats--whatever they are--which allowed me to grow up in a kind of isolation ill-befitting a kitten.
My mother's name, by the way, was Gibberish--no, really, that was her name--for the simple reason that the Ones Who Bring Us Food We Will Not Eat and Discourage Us from Making Good-Natured Messes and Who Find Themselves Rather Clever but Are Not Really That Clever--humans, you might call them--thought "Gibberish" was what she was saying when she tried to communicate with them, monstrous oafs.
Excuse me that criticism on the human race; it's simply that I haven't had the best experiences with them. Of course, in the beginning they were our saviors--rescuing the skinny Siamese who had just walked out on her Jellicle in-laws and walked into The Rest of the World. They were very good to us in the beginning, obliging as well as they were able to the necessary needs of an unassumingly proud cat--humans are notoriously clueless in this area--and to Gibberish's sightless, deaf kittens.
But too soon--when my brothers and I were almost grown--our benefactors decided to split up the family, sending all three of us to different households. This took some adjusting, especially with the abundance of caterwauling young humans in my new home, but it was a placid existence nonetheless. However, when the young humans grew tired of pulling my tail and getting a swat with a paw in the face--well, what did they expect?--it was announced I was being replaced with a "puppy."
So . . . goodbye fire on a rainy night . . . goodbye sometimes tasty but always satisfying food . . . goodbye protection from screaming automobiles . . . welcome to a cardboard box dropped off on a street corner somewhere amidst that unsubstantial chaos of The Rest of the World.
The rest, I think you can imagine.
Gibberish despised her human-appointed name, bemoaning it often to me, but lacking the creativity to furnish herself a new name. Instead she did her best to fight what the humans had called me--Missy; I know, terribly imaginative--and christen me Selene. It was appropriate, too, for Selene means "the moon."
And so Gibberish had been a Siamese--that much we know. But my father? How would I ever know him if I came upon him? I had many a night to think about this, searching--often unsuccessfully--for a scrap of meat or a tiny mouse for a meal. After seeing my reflection often in a pool of water--the coat of cream and the sketchy patterns of chocolate spots and stripes etched into my limbs and tail and the darkened points on my ears and face--I had to deduce my father had been striped.
That did not really narrow my search parameters very much, but it gave me hope; hope, for a better existence.
And so it came to pass, after many nights of hunger and sorrow--for contrary to belief, we cats may suffer as humans do, perhaps even more so, because we cannot express our grief--I did find what I was looking for.
The Junkyard--a metropolis of human discards, a heap of dysfunctional stoves, broken chairs, unused tires, and jungle gyms of other human trash--was my destination, though I could not know that until I had reached this improbable haven.
It had been a considerably lovely day, though, despite the fact the sunset had been obscured by the hazy and almost hatred-dripping cityscape. The night blew in on a torrent of darkness, like the many times I had watched it before, alone. I had managed to fill my belly with an incautious sparrow, but there were other needs--I should hope you know--that had gone on so long without nurturing.
I prowled the charcoal West End, the clouds dissipating slowly, allowing my friend, the moon, one more glimpse to her subjects. I scuttled down an alleyway, dodged a mongrel dog, and carefully stumbled(if it is possible for a cat to stumble) through a maze of wooden crates, which lead to the Junkyard.
I did stare a long time at the moon. She was perfectly round, her pale length dressing the Junkyard in a snow-like light. Searching for a reasonably secure resting spot, I found a very old, almost disintegrated fancy wooden cabinet, which I snuck into.
As soon as I had settled myself within the confines of my hiding-place, I found I was not alone! Faintly, softly, almost caught in the feathery hum of the wind, were a pair of whispers. Well, to be more accurate, it was a high-pitched giggle and a distant shushing.
Quietly I peeked through the box and observed a pair of cats carefully and purposely making their way from the outskirts of the Junkyard to its center. The moonlight twisted their shapes so I could hardly make them out from each other. The smaller one mumbled, "Finally! I got me Woolworff pearls back!" The other one merely hushed her.
As they advanced, a pot clanged against what had once been a sink. The two cats stopped, the female one's "pearls" catching the moon's rays like a self-contained flame. There was another smash and a hiss or two. The two cats, stricken, tried to escape back into the rubble, but it was too late. Another cat rushed out of the wreckage, pursuing the two brigands.
I lost sight of them then, but the air was filled with yowls and hisses. Cats erupted from every piece of refuse, running madly to and fro. The snarling became intense as objects were bashed around and every moment someone intoned fearfully, "Macavity!", whatever that meant.
When the fighting seemed it had paused, I dashed out of my hiding-place, not desirous of being discovered amidst this wild brawl. Suddenly a furious growl from behind me sent me scurrying between some piping. There, hidden by shadows, I saw a pair of eyes. Frightened, I arched my back and fluffed my tail.
But the other cat mistook me. It was the male cat I had first seen. "Rumpleteazer," he said to me. "This way." And he picked his way in front of me through the piping. Perplexed, I did only what I could--followed him through the labyrinth.
When another cat roared through the pipe superstructure, the male cat scampered back, passing me. He stopped beside me, uttering a baffled "meow." He came back to me, sniffing the air, and I felt the warmth in the tunnel begin to grow. Holding my cat breath, I waited, feeling his body against mine. I experienced a strange fear, though whether it was from being discovered or being near someone so . . . . so . . . . .
"Aha!" a cat cried above us, lifting the piping away to reveal the male cat and me. Soon we were surrounded by a ring of cats, looking somewhat displeased. Flurried, I saw my fellow prisoner make the most heart-warming but earnest pout I had ever seen.
"So Mungojerrie," our captor asked wryly, though not really angrily, "what did you pilfer away this time?"
Mungojerrie--if that's what his name was--clutched his bag of loot protectively. "It's nuffink that weren't rightfully ours."
"Ah, truly?" the interrogator pursued. "Then does this kitten belong to you also?" And suddenly every pair of golden eyes were fixed on me. Any thought of going quietly evaporated. Some of the cats hissed, others backed away, others drew closer for a better look.
Mungojerrie recoiled. "But Aye thought--Where's Rumpleteazer--?"
"I'm over ere!" the female cat sputtered, being held back by some of the other cats, whose grip she was flailing half-heartedly against.
Before I could utter anything, the incarcerator took my paw and lead me, bewildered, out of the piping and into the center of the cats. There was something vaguely familiar about his appearance and his melodic voice--something comforting and yet stoic. He was a large grey tabby with zig-zaggy black stripes. Those stripes looked familiar, like a memory from a dream.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trespass," I mumbled, avoiding the eyes.
He was affable. "Since you did not know, there is no harm. You've helped us catch some wayward Jellicles and for that we're grateful--"
I felt the fur on my ears prickling. "Jellicles?" I blurted. "You are Jellicles?"
"Of course! Isn't everybody?" asked a grey-blue kitten.
"Oh please, you must listen to me!" I cried desperately. "My father was a Jellicle!"
The grey tabby said softly, "Well, tell us his name; perhaps we know him."
I looked down at one paw scuffing the rubble. "My mother did not tell me his name."
"And your mother, was she a Jellicle?" asked a motherly-looking spotted dowager cat.
"No," I said, and the dowager exchanged looks with the tabby.
"What's your name?"
"Selene," I said directly. "My mother was called Gibberish." There was a stirring among the older cats, and the tabby and the dowager nodded at each other. "Did you know her?" I asked anxiously. The tabby turned to me.
"I am Munkustrap," he said quietly. "And Gibberish was my mate. You are my kitten."
If cats could cry, I might have done so. I had found the Jellicles and my father, all in one moment. I rubbed the side of my head lovingly against my father's arm.
Suddenly I found I was being reached for by the all the cats. I looked at the wealth of bright eyes and black and white fur, taking in each cat's unique appearance. They rubbed heads, sniffed me, and offered their names.
As the grey-blue kitten batted his paws at mine, boasting his name was Skylight and he was the kitten of the Conjuring Cat Mr. Mistoffelees and the elegant Victoria, I searched vainly through the cat crowd for Mungojerrie, one of the good-natured thieves. I did not see him, and I was disappointed, for though I was surrounded by handsome toms of all sorts, he was the only one I had really taken note of. I kept remembering, half with trepidation and half with a self-conscious purr of pleasure, the moment of warmth in the tunnel...
"Where do you two think you're going?" Munkustrap demanded playfully. Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer froze in mid-escape, making incredibly adorable melodramatic grimaces as two cats called Alonzo and Tumblebrutus tossed their loot away.
Rumpleteazer stubbornly took hold of her pearls. "I'm saving these!" she declared resolutely.
"No, I am!" Mungojerrie demanded, grabbing them back from her. Suddenly the string broke, and the pearls scattered all over the ground, spinning wildly like tiny moons crashing from the sky. As if drawn like waves to the moon, the scattering pearls saturated the ground beneath my paws.
Some of the kittens chased the spheres, Mungojerrie heading the bunch. He skidded to a halt just before he would have crashed into me.
He rose on his haunches with mesmerizingly masculine grace. My breath caught in my small cat chest as I looked at his eyes. The moon could spin for all eternity, I could care less--the moon was nothing to him.
I reached for him, but he retreated hurriedly into Rumpleteazer's arms.
"You've arrived just on time!" Munkustrap announced, leading me to a spot of honor on a giant tire. "Tonight is the Jellicle Ball!" And all the cats let out a jubilant collective sigh.
"Jellicle Ball?" I asked.
"Jellicle Cats meet once a year," he sang merrily,
On the night of the Jellicle Moon, when we all rejoice!
And the Jellicle leader will soon appear
And make what is known as the Jellicle choice;
When Old Deuteronomy, just before dawn,
Through a silence you feel you could cut with a knife,
Announces the cat who can now be reborn
And come back to a different Jellicle life.
For waiting up there is the Heavyside Layer
Full of wonders one Jellicle only will see.
And Jellicles ask, because Jellicles dare,
Who will it be?"
Thus commenced the Jellicle Ball, where the cats celebrated in the light of an incandescent Jellicle Moon and offered up each other for the Jellicle choice.
The Gumbie Cat, Jennyanydots--the motherly dowager--was a possible candidate. Attended by wayward cockroaches and mice, she was the matriarch of her household who slept all day long and kept everything organized. As she performed an entertaining tap-dance number with her cockroach comrades, she was interrupted by the arrival of the Rum Tum Tugger.
The Tugger was an attractive, slightly wild tom who loved nothing more than to parade somewhat arrogantly about while the young females fawned obsessively over him. The adults were somewhat concerned with his rash and frolicking behavior, but they were indulgent over his obstinateand rebellious attitude. He tried to gain my affections like the other young cats', but, truth be told, I'm afraid whatever heart I possessed was already accounted for.
Bored by my indifference, the Tugger retreated to his faithful subjects. Bustopher Jones, the Cat About Town, appeared triumphantly in the lights of the Junkyard. Bustopher received the interested attention of the Jellicles with a mixture of pleasure and supercilious pride. The descriptions of some of the food Bustopher took for granted made my stomach contract.
Mistoffelees announced the advent of Old Deuteronomy, the Jellicles' benevolent leader, their loving patriarch. Munkustrap explained the leader had been around since Queen Victoria's reign (how long that is depends on when you read this). The great Jellicle sovereign sat beside me on the tire, a commentator for the remainder of the Ball.
Munkustrap was narrator for a show of The Lamentable History of a Glamour Cat, which, everyone swore, had happened exactly one year before.
It was a hilarious production, for each cat played the cat they were least like, so Mistoffelees played the Rum Tum Tugger (and vice versa). I found it to be highly entertaining, though perhaps unlike the infamous Aweful Battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles they had put on the year before.
Gus the Theatre Cat stumbled on stage, his poor paws gyrating furiously, though throughout his tender monologue of his glory days as Firefrorefiddle he grew more relaxed. Of course it ended in sniffles for everyone because, confidentially, my friend, I think you know we cats are very attached to the theatre.
Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat, took careful pride in keeping his train running smoothly. He met every train-station catastrophe with a clear head, even when the other cats were playing friendly pranks on him.
Demeter and Bombalurina, a pair of beautiful she-cats, narrated the story of Macavity, an evil Mystery Cat who had once terrorized the Jellicles, but now had been banished and not seen for nearly a year.
A blast of light and smoke signaled the coming of Mr. Mistoffelees, who performed various vanishing tricks of such dazzling majesty I thought I might never recover. His son, Skylight, who had inherited his father's power, tested it out and crated a gigantic explosion that sent everyone sprawling into various junk.
In the end, the two dozen cats danced in the light of the silvery moon, spinning and leaping, exhibiting the hypersensual, aloof, taut grace that only cats can. They stretched, they twirled, they used their tails to balance as they attempted fantastic moves in the air. They dove, they somersaulted, they cartwheeled and cascaded as liquid felines. They walked with a firm gentility, ran with an elegant superiority, spun like only a crazy cat would. Exhausted, they piled together, sticking out their paws to be selected by Old Deuteronomy.
Old Deuteronomy took the thin, threadbare, palpitating paw of Gus in his own. Gus looked up at the grand Jellicle leader with an effervescent, genuine smile--neither happy nor sad, but triumphant and dignified.
"At last," Gus said with a weak simper; "at last will I reach the place where actors never grow too old to play their favorite parts: the everlasting theatre in the sky." And there was many a wink and nod, and hardly a long face, as Gus was gently helped up to the tire by Old Deuteronomy.
And out of the sky like a massive tear in the fabric of the night, the stairway to the Heavyside Layer descended, a golden arm glittering more splendidly than a crown of diamonds issued on a silver platter.
A faint periwinkle smoke pervaded about the tire as it rose higher and higher into the celestial habitat. Behind the stairway the sky glowed more vividly than the most vibrant of orange-red sunsets. And as Gus alighted the passage with a beaming smile upon his face, the stairway lit like a torch to heaven.
I gazed in awe as the Junkyard was bathed in a tremendous metallic glow and kept my eyes open until the very last trace of sparkling shimmers had left and the Jellicle Moon remained alone. I, like all the other cats, could only wonder what lay within the confines of the Heavyside Layer.
After this, all the cats curled up together for a long, long cat-nap. The next day they would depart to their respective homes.
For some, that would mean keeping watch over the Junkyard until next year.
For others, this would mean retreating into their posh flats or their cozy mansions, or perhaps they could persuade their humans to take a country excursion, which could go one of two ways: either the cats would be left at home and be allowed to wreak havoc on the household, or they would be taken along, and would have the adventure of their lives in the country.
For me it was rather straight-forward--I would be staying with my father and a few of the other cats in the Junkyard. I was overjoyed as I settled inside the circle of cats, for I had found what I had been searching for--a night spent with someone other than the moon. I had a father, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, each of them entertaining and intriguing in their idiosynchric ways. But there was one thing I still lacked, and I didn't mean to be ungrateful, but...
Not nearly as exhausted as my friends, who had danced the night away, I awoke quickly at the sound of rustling and rumbling. Not wishing to recreate the earlier fiasco, I snuck silently from my sleeping-place beside my father.
In the back, behind a broken bicycle, I could see the orange-tinted silhouette of Mungojerrie rummaging hurriedly through what looked like the contents of a wastebasket. Smiling to myself, I reached behind the wooden frame of what had previously been a chair, pulling out his bag of loot (I happened upon it when Skylight's unharnessed flash of magic had created a burst of force that sent half the cats flying into the outermost extremities of the Junkyard).
I kicked the bag to his feet. He looked up, puzzled. "Looking for this?" I asked fondly.
A little sharply, he scooped it up and slung it over his back.
"Leaving so soon?" I asked.
"Actually, it's a little late," he said coolly. "Usually we're gone fore it ends."
"But you stayed," I said breathlessly, mostly to myself. "You stayed."
"Yeah, we stayed," he added, like an out-of-place after thought.
"I'm sorry if I got you--two--in trouble. I didn't even mean to be here. And I'm sorry if I . . ." --Cats cannot blush, as you know, but their ears may burn in mortification-- "I deceived you in the tunnel."
He looked at me for a moment before smiling bemusedly. "Do yer fink we've never gotten in trouble before, then? We're not called notorious' for nuffink!"
A little disconcerted, I looked distractedly away. "You live in Victoria Grove, don't you?" I pursued. "Don't take that for granted, a home. Such a thing as that . . . it's as inconstant as . . ." I smiled to myself, "as the Tugger's mood."
"We don't need a 'ome," he muttered. "We're cat burglars. We come and go as we please. We--" And for some inconceivable reason, he laughed and stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth.
This unexpected expression sent me into a reflex action of sudden giggles--a sound I had not heard myself make in so long it grew dim in my memory. He started to walk away. Hoping I could stop him, I said ruefully, "I've never had what you have. I've been searching for the whole of my life. And now I've found it. I've found my father, acceptance--A --Everything . . ."
"Well, congratulations," he said sarcastically.
"But I'm selfish," I explained breathlessly. "I'm selfish because there's still one thing I want."
"Yor already a Jellicle," he interrupted. "Yer've always been a Jellicle."
I laughed. "That . . . that's not it. Would you care to know?"
For a moment there was only the soft and impetuous rays of sunlight dawning on the horizon over the Junkyard. I nodded at Mungojerrie, though I didn't know why, feeling the tentative sunlight enveloping the nearest junk. He scowled at me for a long time, and I could hardly control the disappointment dropping my heart into a pit of cat claws and shredding it.
Then he uttered a funny little noise between a growl and a purr and rubbed the back of his head against my shoulder. "Only if it involves me," he said at last.
Lovingly, I took his paw in mine. "Selene."
"Huh?"
"Selene. It's my name," I whispered.
Provided, of course, it did eventually take a lot of explaining to a pouting Rumpleteazer. There is more, but I somewhat doubt you would like to explore the precarious world of feline flirtation.
So . . . that is how I became a Jellicle. Of course, the story does not end there, but all the rest may come out in its time. And, contrary to popular belief, there was a point to this narration. Simply put, it is this: dreams may come true, while hope is still a smoky reminder. So if you see your cat looking distractedly at the sky when the moon is full and bright, or when they stay out for nights at a time, they're only searching for what I found. Help them find it, for no one--neither cat nor human--deserves to be left with only the moon as sociable company.
As one of the more insightful humans said,
"Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart
Oh, give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars."
And so, my friends, I leave you with the words of Old Deuteronomy, "This is this and that is that.
THE END
Author's Note: The verse at the end is from a song by Loreena McKennitt called "Dante's Prayer" in her latest album "The Book of Secrets." It is used without permission because I thought, while I'm infringing on the copyright of the Really Useful Group, why not do the same to Quilan Road Music Ltd? Anyway, it's an interesting album and well worth your perusal.
That's some food for thought. Take me home please.