Christine was allowed to choose one kitten, Ian the other. Mother was surprised when Christine insisted that the scrawny all-black kitten with the gold eyes was the one and only cat for her. "He was waiting for me," she explained. So he appeared to have been, for he ran to the door and squalled to be picked up the moment she came in. Ian, not yet three, clutched the rotund, yellow-orange kitty who slept in the nest-box. It yawned with all the animation of a damp towel and showed a mouthful of sharp baby teeth. Mother smiled, shrugged, and agreed. The five of them went home to introduce the newest members of the family to Daddy. Daddy took one look at the kittens and pronounced them Punkin and Bat.
The names stuck, and the kittens answered to them from the first. Christine changed the black kitten's name on an average of three times a month, totally without success. Ian, a late talker, probably had a different name for his. But Punkin lolled through life, lovable, loving, and barely animate. Bat lacked only leathery wings and a penchant for sleeping while hanging head downward by his back feet. Outdoors, he spent most of his time in trees, on high walls, or roofs. Indoors, he could be found on the top of the fridge, the top of the draperies, and the top shelf of the bookcase.
Punkin could have been anybody's cat. Fortunately, Ian was unaware of this lack of discrimination. Thus, when the little boy's attention was riveted to Bert and Ernie and Mr. Rogers, someone else could take care of "his" cat. Bat was Christine's cat, and he allowed no one to forget it. He accepted the children's parents with the regal indifference normal to cats, invariably ignored or eluded Ian, and rarely bestowed favors on visitors.
Bat knew Christine to be his human. He and Punkin had, after all, experienced incarnations in three alternate realities while searching for her and waiting until she showed up. Only Bat's genuine affection for her countered his previous annoyance at her tardiness. Punkin was unaffected: all nine lives had to be lived somewhere/somewhen.
Had the family lived in these other times and places, Christine's instant claim of so unprepossessing a kitten would have confirmed a reasonable conclusion. She was, after all, left-handed, red-haired, and green-eyed. She couldn't be called pretty, but her appearance left little doubt that she would be strikingly beautiful as an adult. Her personality, in common with a special category of people, combined independence and sensitivity, intelligence and empathy. In her own world, a description might include that most unfortunate phrase-the child who doesn't quite fit in. Part of this stemmed from her unfettered imagination. She believed things nobody else would-or could-and insisted, to the point of crying herself ill if anyone attempted to convince her otherwise, that her imaginings were fact. Her parents hoped that having a kitten would help to tie her to reality, but Bat's arrival seemed to stimulate her fantasy life. Each evening, Christine regaled the parent who put her to bed with a tale she said Bat had told her about a former life. However, as the family lived in the here and now and were churchgoing Christians, the term witch never came up.
Bat knew. Or, it is fairer to say, he knew what she would have been if she had not, unfortunately, been born into this world, one essentially inimical to magic. If she had not come for him in kittenhood, he would have, when a bit older, dragged Punkin by an ear and set out to find her. Denied his rightful place as her familiar, he took up the position of her pet.
Punkin knew, too. (Cats do.) But his involvement was with Ian, with whom he shared all kinds of preferences: love and affection, lots of good things to eat and drink, a warm, soft place to sleep, and semi-continuous attention.
As the two cats grew-and they did grow, prodigiously-Bat turned into a large, strong, shiny-sleek beast who reminded one of a black panther. Punkin loomed even larger than Bat, and the red-gold of his coat rivaled new pennies. Were he asleep on one of the children's pillows, one could not tell where their hair stopped and his began.
When Bat was about a year old, Christine insisted that he told her to get him a leash and harness so they could go on walks together. Mother, who usually enjoyed her daughter's vivid imagination, smiled to herself and bought the inexpensive equipment. She did not expect it to be used. She was mistaken. Bat required no training. His leash-manners were impeccable.
Circumstances in the modern world being as they are, neither of the children was ever without adult supervision for a moment. But Christine insisted that as long as Bat was with her, she was always safe and well cared for. Being informed, however, that Bat would be given to the Humane Society if she ever, ever went off with only a cat for company, she accepted the restriction. She never entirely accepted the necessity. However, she decided that her most intensely-defended disagreement with her parents-that she had, once, been left alone in the house for a period of perhaps hours-had, as they always maintained, been a dream. Bat, she admitted to her mother, told her straight out that the incident had been only a very clear nightmare, and Bat was always right. He had also told her that she must apologize to her parents for doubting their word.
Wishing herself believed to be as infallible as the cat, Mother accepted the apology without further comment. She wished, as a matter of fact, that Bat would tell Christine to forget all about the dream. Her own worst nightmare was that Christine might repeat the story to someone who'd believe it.
Punkin did not like to walk on a leash. He did not enjoy riding in automobiles, either. Bat loved cars. Originally, he was a problem because he preferred to sit on the dashboard directly in front of the driver. Only with difficulty was he persuaded that the back window, on the old shag rug, was the proper carseat for a cat. The children's mother permitted Bat to come along on short drives provided he did not have to stay alone in a car. He learned early that if he wanted to take the daily trips to preschool, then to kindergarden, he must not try to get out of the car or behave badly on the way home. Mother even let him accompany her on short errands without the children. She did not mention it to anyone, but if Bat was along, it seemed as if the most demented of the dangerous drivers stayed home. She required his presence if she chauffeured one of the school field trips.
Christine asked Mother please to drive when her class went to the Pumpkin Farm so the children could choose Halloween pumpkins. "Be sure Bat comes," she instructed. "He'll help me pick the right ones." Mother had been looking forward to the trip for almost as long as Christine had, and Bat was on his rug before the door was open far enough for Ian to get in and climb into his carseat.
They found Ian's pumpkin first-a huge, round one that had a definite resemblance to Punkin, or so Christine said Bat said Ian said. Christine's jack-o-lantern-to-be was harder to locate, but, after much effort and consideration, she and Bat were satisfied with their selection. "She put a lot more time and thought into choosing it," Mother told Daddy that evening, "than she did when we went to get the kittens."
Daddy grinned. "It wasn't trying to climb her jeans and yowling to be picked up," he explained. He observed the giant vegetable with some rue. "Not that she could have."
Mother grinned back. "Guess not," she agreed.
When the family got together to carve the faces, Christine insisted that the cats pose for their portraits. Daddy, who was skilled with his hands-and something of an artist, as well-agreed. Punkin was easy to capture. "Yawning Cat," Mother dubbed the result. Sleepy eyes, gaping mouth with too many sharp teeth. Ian giggled. Punkin flowed fatly onto the top of the lantern, arranged himself so that the smoke hole was not covered, and went to sleep. The whole family laughed-and continued to snicker whenever they saw him there. He appeared to be attached.
Bat's jack-o-lantern portrait did not yawn. Its mouth gaped open in a fearsome, silent snarl. Ian screamed and hid his face when Daddy put a lighted candle inside. The head seemed a real and menacing presence on the dark porch. Even Daddy regarded his handiwork with mild unease. Mother thought of several correct titles. She decided not to share them with the children. Christine shuddered, but she would not let her father change a stroke of the knife. "He's guarding us," she insisted. Looked at that way, the carving took on a somewhat less threatening aspect.
Despite their appearance, Christine treated the jack-o-lanterns as if they were alive. She always addressed them by name, showered them with affection, and shared her life with them. She supplied their parts of conversation, changing her voice a little for each personality. One who only overheard her play might have believed the child to be one of triplets. Mother found this mildly amusing, but she did not let on. Why shouldn't her little girl have playmates who always wanted her more than anybody else?
Halloween, that year, was on Friday night. Christine and Ian dressed up in their costumes early in the afternoon and came very close to driving their mother into the nearest asylum. "When can we go trick-or-treating? Can't we go now? Isn't it late enough yet?"
Trying hard to remember what it was like to be three years old-or six-Mother held on to the last wisps of her temper and assured the children that they would go trick-or-treating after Daddy got home, the moment it got dark.
Daddy arrived about four, but dark took forever and seven days longer. Mother put on her makeshift costume, a mishmash of gypsy skirt and every piece of costume jewellery she could lay hands on, a black cape and hat she'd bought at the theater costume sale, and a particularly gruesome mask that Daddy intended to wear to the costume party they'd be attending later.
The family went out to the porch to watch Daddy light the candles in the jack-o-lanterns. Ian had learned not to look at Bat's lantern. He waited at the foot of the steps, steadfastly staring at the pumpkin Punkin. Punkin followed them out the door. He yawned, then curled himself in the slight hollow in the top of his lantern. He rubbed his head against the little boy's side in a surprisingly reassuring gesture.
Ian wanted Punkin to come along, but Punkin yawned again and was asleep before he exhaled.
"Do you think we should blow out the candle?" Mother asked. "I wouldn't want him to get singed hair."
"Bat says it's all right," Christine informed her parents. "He says Punkin only looks stupid. He's not, really."
Over the children's heads, Daddy mouthed that he'd keep an eye on the cat, and Mother set out with Robin, the Batboy, and Tina the (Bat)Tamer. Bat (the cat) led the way on his leash.
The only other trick or treaters making the rounds this early in the evening were no older than Christine, and everyone had a jolly time. Bat made a great hit as a circus big cat, and Christine's star-status as his trainer was almost enough to make up for the times she'd been left out. Mother stood on the sidewalk with her flashlight, shining its beam to light the children's way up the front walks. Other mothers, doing much the same, struck up conversations.
"We're lucky to live in this neighborhood," one woman said. "Where I used to live, gangs would make things really scary on Halloween. Not the shoot-'em-up kind of gangs, or at least I don't think so. But they got a big kick out of frightening little kids and egging houses and writing on car windows with wax. Got so bad last year that the cops came."
Silently, Mother thanked the combination of their hard work, good fortune, and good planning that meant they could buy a house here. Halloween should be fun, not awful, not for little kids. Not, really, for anyone. Never having been that kind of child, she didn't have much understanding or sympathy for teenagers whose idea of fun was making malicious mischief. It occurred to her to make certain that their cats were locked safely indoors when they got home. Recently, the news had been full of the stomach-turning animal mutilations of Satanists.
Because it was Friday, Christine and Ian got to stay up late enough that they could see the costumes of the elementary school contingent who came by after the Carnival closed. But nine o'clock arrived, and the porch light was turned out, and the costumes had to be taken off and hung up. Ian was asleep before Daddy pulled the covers over him, which was all for the best. He'd come to expect Punkin, his soft, warm, living pillow, to purr him to sleep. But despite the intent and efforts of Mother and Daddy, neither of the cats was indoors. Exactly where they were was not clear, as they weren't on the lanterns, on the porch, or, for that matter, anywhere in the immediate neighborhood.
To her parents' ill-concealed astonishment, Christine was not at all concerned. Where else would Bat be but guarding the house from a hidden vantage point? He'd come in through the cat door after he was sure everything was all right. Mother, who'd been sure she would have a hysterical youngster to deal with, tucked her confusing daughter into bed and kissed her good night. She hoped Christine was correct.
No other sitter would do on Halloween night than Grandmother, and Daddy picked her up, as scheduled, at nine-thirty.
"Both asleep," Mother said. "They're really tired."
"We won't be too late," Daddy told her. "About two."
"Run along, dears. Have a good time. I'll watch TV, then go to sleep on the couch. Don't wake me when you come in."
"Please keep an eye out for the cats. Neither of them is in, and it's no night for a black cat, particularly, to be out."
"Bat can take care of himself," Grandmother said. "But I'll watch for them."
Grandmother was awake when Mother and Daddy got home, and she told a tale of noises and nastiness up and down the street. "Both children slept through it, I'm glad to say. And the cats came in soon after it got quiet outside."
All seemed well.
In the morning, when every other jack-o-lantern on the street had been thrown, with much high-strung, overloud laughter, into the middle of the street, smashed, and jumped upon, Christine's and Ian's lanterns stood unharmed, if not in the same positions as they had the night before. "Of course," Christine said. "Bat and Pun-kin wouldn't let those bad boys hurt our friends."
Fortunately, Daddy was taking Grandmother home, for, thoughtlessly, he might have tried to convince his daughter that no such situation could have occurred. Mother, who got her mouth shut in time, found herself wondering if Christine's belief might not, possibly, have some truth in it, though she couldn't figure out either how or how much.
The next night, she was even more perplexed when Daddy told her that, during her evening out, a very angry man with a pimply-faced teenager in tow had banged on their door and demanded that they get rid of the puma and the panther and pay for all the damage the dangerous beasts had done or he'd call the cops. Introduced to Bat and to the sleeping Punkin and shown the damage and destruction caused by the boy and his friends the night before, the man transferred his irritation to his offspring.
"Good thing," Daddy said. "I'd have called out all the neighbors whose kids had their jack-o-lanterns wrecked." He grinned.
"But how did the boy get the idea we had a puma and a panther?" Mother asked.
"Great story," Daddy said. He sat down and, to both people's slack-jawed astonishment, Bat leaped onto his lap, stretched out, and purred. Daddy stroked, rather as if afraid that if he didn't, he'd regret it. He got his story back into line.
"The guys were taking turns running up onto the porches and grabbing the lanterns, heaving them out into the street, then kicking what was left into slop with their boots. When this kid came onto our porch with a friend, the other guy got Punkin's lantern. He insists that it closed its jaws on his hand, dug in with its teeth, and wouldn't let go. He screamed bloody murder and clubbed with his other fist, but nothing helped. Pimple-puss tried to pull the pumpkin off the other kid's hand, and he couldn't. He swears it growled at him and he could feel hair and hot breath. He turned around and grabbed up Bat's pumpkin-I gather to use as a weapon-and nearly lost his whole arm. Or so he says. I don't know where he got the marks, but they sure do look like cat bites. Five times too big to have been made by our cats, of course. But you have to credit him with a lot of imagination."
"Yes," Mother agreed weakly, "I guess you do."
"Anyway, once the two jerks were really caught, the other guys came over to see what was going on. They are all absolutely positive-according to the one who came here with his dad-that we had a puma and a panther on our front porch."
"Oh, sure," Mother said.
"Well, I guess somebody up there must like us. None of the punks was really a hard case: no guns or knives or bicycle chains. They all ran like rabbits."
"Leaving their friends to be eaten?" Mother asked.
"I guess. They're sure they would have been, too, if they hadn't tried putting the lanterns down and backing off. No problem. Once the pumpkins were safe, the teeth let go. The other kid lashed out with a boot-and I understand he has slashes six inches long right through the leather."
Mother grinned. "Couldn't be our cats, then."
Father stopped petting. He regarded Bat very soberly. Then he shook his head.
Mother was not normally telepathic, but she was almost sure her husband was thinking, "Not now, anyway." But, of course, he couldn't be, and if he was, never, never would he admit to having had such a ridiculous thought.
Bat yawned. He'd had more fun last night than he'd had in his three whole lives and one part-life put together. But he was so sleepy he felt melted. Shape changing took energy. Guess he ought to follow Punkin's good example and get some shuteye. He purred.
He'd convince them all, even if it did take solving the problem of a teen gang on Halloween to set the adults on the right track. Christine already knew he was here to take care of her-and the things she cared about, like those silly vegetables with holes in them. Ian talked silently to Punkin all the time, and to Bat, sometimes. He'd soon start speaking aloud in complete sentences. His grown-ups would faint from shock. Even if they convinced him that he really hadn't had conversations with cats, he'd always believe anything Christine told him. Mother was another of the odd ones-left-handed, red-haired, green-eyed, too smart for her own good, and one step to the reft (or lown or some other direction normal people couldn't enter). Hmm. Perhaps he should see to a "pet" for her, too. And Father? Well, Bat was mildly embarrassed at how long it had taken him to realize that Daddy was a wizard unaware: who else could so easily convince the ordinary populace of this continuum that everything was ascribable to ordinary, reasonable causes? Even a puma and a panther on the porch.