Munkustrap – Part Four

Our little brawl at the warehouse hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. It was featured in the newspaper the next day. I woke that morning to a knock on the door, still lying on the couch in the entranceway. The moment my eyes opened I was staring at the face of my mother's painting, and jumped back with a little cry of surprise. Stupid...I growled. The knock sounded on the door again.

My head ached from the after-effects of the wine, my clothes were wrinkled, my hair stuck in odd directions, but I answered it anyway. A boy no older than twelve stood there, eyes wide at my appearance.

"Yes?" I asked groggily, my throat dry.

"A Mistah down the street asked me t' give this to ya," the boy said, holding up a rolled newspaper. I frowned, my forehead throbbing. Bustopher? But I was in no mood to be bothered. I took the paper and thanked the boy by handing him the first dollar bill I grabbed from my pocket. It was a twenty. Eyes bulging even more, he dashed off down the hallway of the apartment building. I went back inside and made doubly sure I slammed the door.

On the second page, filling up the middle column, I was certain Bustopher had the paper delivered, for the article had been circled in a bright yellow highlight. The title was irrelevant. It was the article that caught my interest.

...one guard was found dead, David Borako, who was suspected to have tried to stop the smugglers of illegal guns when they arrived at the warehouse to pick up the cargo. He will be given a hero's funeral at...

I tossed the paper down. Nothing. No news of werewolves, werecats, or the slightest noise of gunshots fired. The public was clueless, and would remain so. For a moment I wondered about how difficult it must have been for shapeshifters through the centuries to keep themselves hidden. Throughout superstitious Europe I doubt it would have been that hard...plagues, little technology, how spaced apart people were...quite the opposite of today. Today they had autopsies, records of every person born, such forensic technology it would be easy to prove such creatures existed. The only thing keeping us safe and hidden, probably, was the lack of people willing to believe werecats and vampires existed. It made me wonder...so I delved into the history books.

My father's journal was packed full of information about werecats, from the songs, to tiny tidbits of artifacts, what museums they could be found in, and famous people in history who were werecats, wolves, or vampires. Some I knew, some I didn't, and several outright surprised me. For the sake of their reputation I won't say who they are, but let it be known that there were werecats in existence since 25,000 BC, when the drawings on prehistoric caves depicted humans with the heads and tails of cats.

The library that covered the walls of the study contained an entire section devoted to occult, and retiring to the room in only my robe with a thermos of iced soda, I searched through each and every book. Tons on werewolves and vampires, but very little about werecats. Why so? The explanation Bustopher had given me was that vampires and werewolves were the two groups hurt the least in the Great War, thus there were more of them to be discovered and written about. Jellicles had been devastated. But there was one book, pages yellowed and leather cover soft with oil, titled Anthology of Felix Sapiens* (I suppose a scientific name for werecat) that had been first published in 1567 in Paris. Translated, perhaps, but full of stories. And the version I held had been republished in 1980, a few stories and articles added. There was one tale in particular that caught my attention. In 1809, it told of a Navajo Indian who shirked his nightly work to spend his time with two beautiful girls, who in fact were witches and would turn into cats. After reading the tale through twice, I sat back and wondered.

If the story were true, and these two Native American girls were werecats, how could I, who had no Native American blood whatsoever, share the same gift? Most of my family came from Britain, Ireland, Scotland, perhaps France or Germany. Was the story true? Where did Jellicles originate? Egypt? How could I find my kind's origins if I didn't fully believe them myself? What could I believe, and what was the fantastical imagination of a peasant farmer? All these questions...some of them still not answered.

My search took me almost the entire day. Books that failed to turn up anything stacked on the corners of my desk one after another, creating a tower higher and higher that threatened to topple onto me any moment. At about eleven o'clock it finally did.

The crash of the books against the floor jogged me from my mechanical energy that kept me going at my task, eyes aching, hands stiff, drink long since gone. My throat was parched and my stomach rumbled. With no maid or manservant of any kind I had told myself I could fix my own meals, but then actually doing it was a different task. So I pulled myself from the study and retrieved a glass of milk from the kitchen. Sipping its cool sweetness, I stepped out onto the balcony from the study for some fresh air.

Before you start making assumptions, milk had not changed in texture, taste, or importance to me in any way. It was milk. I think the relation between real domestic cats and milk is greatly exaggerated. I've done some reading, and the truth is that a lot of milk for any cat could make them sick. Sort of the same with dogs and chocolate, though not half as severe. But then again, cat digestive tracks vary as much as humans. I drank the milk as I would any other day, leaning against the stone railing of the balcony.

The city spread out under me as it did every night. Nothing was different. The same lights blinked, the same horns blared, the same people walked the streets. It took a moment of silent watching for me to hear the yelling below my feet.

The couple beneath my penthouse, the Rainesfords, fought constantly. Sometimes I could sit on the balcony and hear them below, arguing. He would hit her, yell at her, and when she would leave to go to her friends' for recovery he would invite over his many mistresses. I doubt my father was ever relaxed enough to hear them, but I did. I ignored it. It wasn't any of my business...until now.

"Get up!" he was screaming. "Get off the d**n floor!"

"I can't!" she screamed back. One could tell by her voice that she was crying.

"Get up, or I'll give you somethin' to scream about!" A loud smack followed.

That did it.

Rach'arl...

It flamed up again, not as hot as before in the warehouse, perhaps because of my human shape, but the moment I sped along the balcony my feet turned to paws beneath me and I transformed even as I leaped onto the rail, leaning over with only one hand keeping me balanced on the cold stone. A living gargoyle. Eyes slitted, my werecat senses could hear the two even through the thick glass door. The rach'arl already acted as a stimulant for my nervous system, but when I heard another gut-wrenching smack and the woman's reaction scream my breathing ran ragged.

A swish of my tail cutting the air was the only sound as I hurled myself over the balcony, twisting as I fell, and landed on all fours on the rail of the one below. My slitted eyes whipped to the double glass doors leading into the apartment, the light spilling from it silhouetting the two figures on the other side. I saw the man, bent over his wife with a handful of her hair yanking her head back. My fangs bared themselves. This wasn't right! It was probably the only thought in my head as I charged the glass: it wasn't right. Women shouldn't be beat by their husbands.

A scream in imitation of Admetus's broke from my throat a second before my claws slammed into the glass, shattering the entire pane. Several shards embedded themselves in my paws, the sting of them only pushing my anger further. Mrs. Rainesford was tossed away, not looking at me, but her husband...

With that ear-piercing screech, my claws stretched out long and lethal, powerful feline legs launching me into the air. The drunk man whirled around stupidly, and could only let out a strangled gurgle as I passed the high point of my leap, landed directly on his chest, and sank my long, cat-like fangs deep into his throat. There was a crash as we fell, knocking over the dining room table. The man landed with a sickening thump on his back, and I felt the warm liquid fill my mouth as I bit down with all my might.

Blood...

I wanted it.

There was little struggling.

I lifted my head, breathing in raspy pants, licking the blood that ran from my black lips and whiskers. The dizzy intoxicating scent of blood flooded my mind. I closed my eyes, relishing the taste of it as though a vampire myself. I'm certain I would have given over to the predator in me and proceeded to tear at the man's dead flesh if Mrs. Rainesford hadn't gasped behind me.

I whirled to face her, mane bristled but not menacing. She was backing away slowly, scooting on the polished floor, eyes wide and mouth open in fear. Her gaze was fixed on me and her dead husband. Totally unaware of my intent, I remained on all fours and padded slowly towards her. She let out a small sob of fear as she found herself backed against a wall, my face looming not a foot from hers. She opened her mouth to scream.

"Shhhh..." I said lightly, staring at her eyes. The sound died in her throat before it could rise. Then I did a strange thing...I started purring.

It's hard to describe the effect the purring had on her. The scent of fear seeping through her pores was suddenly gone, the horror in her eyes replaced by a strange admiration. I daresay longing. When she reached out to stroke the fur on my head I didn't question it. I kept purring. A small sigh of "thankyou" passed her red lips, and with a tender lick of her hand I turned to leave. I don't think she wanted me to go.

It was later when I mentioned to Bustopher the purring that I finally learned what I had in fact been doing. When a werecat purrs, he said, or talks sweetly in human form, it acts as a sort of weak mind control over the human they are addressing. As long as it is kept up, the human will do anything the werecat says—to a certain point—and shower the Jellicle with affection. But it doesn't last forever, and won't work on other Jellicles, werewolves, and vampires. Wonderful, was my first thought. I'll have to try it sometime.

I was still a werecat as I climbed back into my own penthouse, a small trail of blood trickling from my hands and mouth. I tried shifting back to my human shape, but the scrape of flesh as it shrank and changed against the glass embedded in my palms was too agonizing. Claws I found were a much easier tool than tweezers. Bending over the sink, I ran water and picked out the few small shards with my bare claws, finishing it off by wrapping my wrists and hands in clean white bandages when I finally did shift back to Hunter. The rest of the night was spent cleaning the stains of red from the balcony and carpet. After that was done, I made the proper phonecalls to report "some disturbing noises downstairs."

The police didn't know what to say. I think they blamed it on the Rainesfords' golden retriever, saying it got protective when Mr. Rainesford started to beat his wife. They asked what I heard, and I told them. The death was ruled as uncertain, the closest being animal attack or self defense, and shortly after Mrs. Rainesford moved to Washington state. I'll never forget the look on her face when I told her goodbye just as she was leaving for the airport. The bandages on my hands were gone, no scars remained, but the expression that passed over her face was that of recognition. As if she knew I was the strange creature she'd told no one about. I never saw her again.

Bustopher and I sat on the stone edge of the clocktower overlooking Manhattan, the nightscape of city spreading out before us. As though purposely, the flashing lights drew both our eyes up to the World Trade Center. We sat among the stone gargoyles, both in our werecat forms but resting assured that we wouldn't be found. The orange floodlights shone off his glossy coat, his white tail tip twitching lazily as we gazed out.

The city is no place for a cat. Or any animal for that matter. The smells, for one. Sewer stench, dog droppings, car exhaust, greasy food, rotting trash...it's awful. I can hardly walk down a single street decked in my stripes without wrinkling my nose at one stinking thing or another. The humans are lucky in that aspect, I suppose. They can't smell as well as a cat. They complain about felines leaving droppings on sidewalks or parks that stink, when they don't bother to consider what they flush down the toilet every day.

The noise is even worse. Incessant clamor day and night...night and day...never-ending. Squealing brakes, cursing humans, honking taxis, working construction machines. It's maddening. How I've been able to stand it so long it a miracle in itself. If it weren't for the safety faults, I'd much rather be deaf.

Even when in human form the sounds, smells, and sights around me I could detect as well as any cat. It's taken me awhile to get used to it, and in a city as big as Manhattan I can tell you: it is not an easy task to stand. Even as Bustopher and I stood on the top of the enormous building, the happenings going on down in the streets were as plain as day: the sights, sounds, and smells as though we were standing right there. I was caught up in studying these things..the bustle of a woman's skirt, the steam rising from the hotdogs of a streetside vendor, the pattern sewn into the back of a young man's leather jacket. All these things fascinated me. I hardly noticed even when I spoke...

"Do you have any children?"

He must have been as wrapped in thought as I, for his response was merely turning to face me with a lifted brow. "Pardon?"

"You said part of our duty as Jellicles was to breed. Do you have any children?"

He chuckled lightly. "Yes. Several. All Jellicles, all from the same queen, and all illegitimate."

"B.J.?!" I gasped in astonishment.

"Don't be shocked, Hunter. Jennyanydots and I have been Jellicle mates since before you were born. Our children reside with her, ranging fifteen to seven. I have others, but they have all grown and started their own families elsewhere."

"But you don't live together...?"

"Think for a moment, Hunter, how strange it would be for someone of my stature to wed a poor woman who runs a homeless shelter. Rest assured, I meet her every night. We love each other, and I fully support them all...emotionally and financially."

I didn't understand, and said so.

"You just wait, Master Blakeney," he smiled gently. I didn't like the tone of his voice when he called me that. "To be a successful Jellicle tom, you must at least have a mate and prosper. You'll find one someday."

To tell the truth the thought had never occurred to me. Hunter Blakeney? Married? It seemed as though it had been ages since I'd thought of Sara, or most any female, for that matter. There was Bombalurina, whom I had met, but her fiery disposition had never struck me as the type to actually get "married." But that was a human thing, wasn't it? Like Bustopher had done: he had a mate, the Jennyanydots who ran the homeless shelter. I had seen no children in my time there, but that didn't mean they didn't exist. Bustopher's black eyes turned back to the city, but I looked at him for a long while.

Bustopher Jones, faithful friend to my father, mentor to me. I would have been lost without him. Father dead, not knowing any other werecats existed, where would my mind have gone? I was grateful to Bustopher for everything, for being my friend when he knew what a brat I was, for pushing on when I wanted to turn my back on everything. I wondered if there was ever anything I could do to show my gratitude. Nothing came to mind.

"It's getting late," he finally said. "I should go see Jenny before the night's over."

I watched him shrink down into a domestic black and white cat and pad away, the flaps of his underbelly swaying side to side. I should have thought more of it at the time. I still curse myself today for not saying anything about the sight of the graying hairs around his muzzle.

Time passed quickly for me. Not because I was happy...far from it. But I was busy. Constantly hustling from party to meeting to Jellicles. This was probably a good thing, for being so busy kept me from thinking. My first major act as master of the Blakeney penthouse was to redecorate the entire place. Excepting the desk and cushioned chair that sat in the study where my father used to sit, everything was replaced. Even my father's bed. I stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame and staring at it: the gold banisters leading up to a rust-brown canopy, the frilly blankets of golden fall apples glistening in the sunlight streaming in the high windows, the white sheets underneath rustling from the breeze of the air conditioner. Behind me the hustle of the workers moving furniture and talking with the decorators echoed throughout the apartment house, but my eyes remained fixed on the bed. Changed, the entire room, the entire house save the study, and still I couldn't find it in myself to sleep in there. I spent that night in my own room again.

You may think that my first three years as a Jellicle were filled to the brim with nothing but fun, excitement, and danger...and you would be wrong. The emphasis Bustopher and the others put on killing werewolves and vampires was greatly exaggerated. They spoke as if you spent every minute of your life searching the dark alleys for coffins, gazing into other peoples' eyes for the spark of lycanthropic flame, waiting tensely to throw off your jacket and attack in full werecat fury. It was nothing like that. Life fairly went on as usual, only a greater knowledge went with it. Only rarely did a fight between Jellicles and our enemies erupt, especially with soft-going Gus as the new leader. He preferred to concentrate on increasing our numbers. Not like Admetus, who would have organized a Hunt at the drop of a hat. But even Admetus had a son. I couldn't help but feel sorry for Plato: both his parents dead and he having not even gone through his Age of Change yet. I, on the other hand, had the luxury of that last night with my father. At least the letter, if nothing else. Another reason Jellicle life was far from exciting was because I was still a kitten by their standards, even at twenty.

I want to try and describe some of the Jellicles that made up our Manhattan Tribe. Not just for your benefit, but for theirs. My father had taken the liberty to record a number of historic Jellicles down into his journal, but none of them he had known personally. I didn't want that. I want the Jellicles I knew then and still do today to be remembered as I remember them.

Admetus, Bombalurina, Tugger, Alonzo, and Skimble have been somewhat accounted for already. There were others. Plenty.

Asparagus, or Gus as most called him, had been appointed the position of Jellicle Leader after Admetus's death. Twice Admetus's age, even older, he was the most likely candidate. At a first glance, though, one wouldn't guess it. Fur already thin and graying with age, the only traces of the deep brown and black it had once been could be seen along his back and flanks. He had a kindly old face, withered and worn by time, that betrayed the wisdom that came with age. He was an actor on Broadway, almost sixty years old, but still playing major roles in plays of Shakespeare, musicals, as well as maintaining a steady reputation as one of the fairest stage show critics. I'm not going to give his human name, or those names of many other Jellicles, for several of them are still around and would rather not be revealed. Instead, their cat identities will suffice.

Coricopat and Tantomile were identical twins who lived in the run-down slums of Manhattan, keeping largely to themselves. I rarely saw them, and when I did they were always together. Bustopher always said that it was good they kept away from the rest of the tribe, for they were both insane. Allow me to clarify this: Coricopat and Tantomile were what you would call Gifted. Among Jellicles there are a few extraordinary things that we may all do that further separates us from humans, but even more scarce are Jellicles who can see the future, communicate by thoughts, and have all-around magic. The Twins (as Coricopat and Tantomile are often referred to) were two such Jellicles. They could speak to each other without words, knew each other's thoughts and feelings, and even see the future...though not as much as possible. Incredible, yes, but with these Gifts came a price: insanity. Jellicles such as I are fortunate in that matter, for the insanity is not an eternal madness. Rather, it is a lurking creature in the minds of these poor Gifted souls, waiting at any emotional moment to take over. I have seen what a Jellicle is reduced to when these periods of insanity come, and it is not pleasant.

Cassandra was about my age as well, thin and sleek with her dancer's grace and the glint in her eye of aloofness. I was told she was Gifted as well, but I've yet to see any proof of it. But she was exotic in her own way. The Twins, whose matching coat patterns were somber shades of gray tainted in flecks of black, white, red, and yellow, had not the furry extensions most other Jellicles (myself included) on their wrists, shins, manes, and tails. Nor did Cassandra, whose werecat coloring was simple brown with cream-colored undersides. Even in human form her slanted eyes spoke of Oriental origin, so it is often that the rest of us Jellicles refer to her as "a Siamese."

And then there were what Asparagus called the "Newbies." Trust an actor to come up with a term like that. Newbies were what he called the Jellicles who had not yet gone through their first change. It is hard to describe how I knew a Newbie Jellicle when I saw one, but I could. Perhaps it was their scent, or the glint in their eyes that distinguished them from other humans. From what I knew there were quite a few of them, most younger than I.

Bustopher's children, of course. The three youngest, two sons and a daughter, were twelve, eight, and seven, and I doubted that they would know about the rest of us Jellicles for some time yet. But then there was the oldest, fifteen, who had just gone through his Age of Change. Something I could not understand, even though Bustopher told me seventeen was natural, was why so many Jellicles had their first change at early ages—even Tugger, who had changed at fifteen—when mine was seemingly at a later age. Bustopher also said that each Jellicle was unique, special in their own way. He was very proud of Mistoffelees, and had every right to be. The young man was extremely special.

Colored nearly identical to his father as a cat, Mistoffelees lacked only the aristocratic air about him that would have separated him from his mother Jennyanydots. I really wouldn't have much contact with him until his mother taught him more about his nature, but I had my eye on him. You see, Mistoffelees was Gifted with magic, but had yet to show any signs of the insanity. Even he probably didn't realize it, but among the older Jellicles I could hear it whispered. Magic, they said. As he grows and learns it will develop. There's no telling how powerful he may be! Coricopat and Tantomile would most likely tutor him, but these things wouldn't come until later.

And lastly there was Plato: a cat very much after my own heart. Still sixteen yet, he had not changed. He was already tall for his age, and if I hadn't seen Admetus killed with my own eyes I would have sworn he had regained his youth. Plato as a human had dark brown skin just as his father did, the same flashing eyes, the same well-built frame. Until his Age of Change I knew I should keep my distance from him, but I couldn't help stealing down in civilian clothes once and awhile to lean at the streetcorner and watch him make his way from school to where he lived with his aunt and uncle. He always walked alone, face fixed on the ground, hands shoved into his pockets. But there was always that air of ferocity that surrounded him...that gentle independence that made itself known when he encountered the neighborhood bullies harassing a youth, or helped an old lady with her bag. I would certainly keep my eye on him.

These were the Jellicles that made up our Manhattan Tribe. Quite numerous, considering the low population our kind had been reduced to. I would get to know them all very well in time, and they would all play a role in my later life.

Three years passed before I knew it, and the night came for my third Jellicle Ball: the annual dance when I would no longer be a kitten.

The Jellicle Ball.

The best writer of them all couldn't begin to describe the rushing feelings sent hurtling through one's blood at the mere sight or sound of the great annual dance; the fluid movements, the static energy, the heat of the emotions. They couldn't begin to describe what grace and strength the Jellicles used in their natural movements as they dance in the wildness of the full moon's light. Not even close...

But, then again, I doubt the best of those writers are Jellicles. I'm Munkustrap, and I am a Jellicle.

I could have gone slower and described in all the extravagant detail the wonders of my first Jellicle Ball. I'd arrived with Bustopher, and was swept away. But that's the thing...it's hard to describe it in words. I doubt I could attempt it more than once. So here I go...

The third Jellicle Ball is a thing a Jellicle kitten will never forget. It's the turning point of their new life: that Rite of Passage into adulthood. All Jellicle Balls are identical, orderly, chaotic, routine, but I have yet to lose my sense of wonder in them. The third Ball I attended was as amazing as the first, if not moreso even.

Just outside New York City, past the Bronx somewhere, is an enormous junkyard abandoned by most humans—save the odd few homeless that have to be driven away in advance. Filthy, dark, secluded: a decent place for twenty-odd werecats to gather for a night of revelry. The moon was round as a fish's eye. It shone down bright and clear as the night for the Jellicle Ball began. Bustopher and I slipped in with stealthy silence in our cat forms. Our noses could detect the taint in the air of anticipation, that magical lightheadedness that drew us by instinct to the exact spot. We slipped through and over junk like shadows ourselves...and we weren't the only ones. In twos and threes other shadows, stealthier, moved silently through the junk like a living river, flowing between the dark heaps so that only a flash in the moonlight shafts could be seen.

Our destination was a clearing deep in the junkyard, lower than the surrounding area by being set in a deep hollow among the garbage. Ghostly shapes and shadows appeared out of the night as the Jellicles reached the clearing. From where Bustopher and I crouched beneath a tarp, I could see Gus stalk out slowly. He crouched, moving stealthily on all fours. Silently he padded up the hill and into the center, looking around with his gold flashing eyes. His ears and whiskers pressed forward as he slowly rose to his hind legs as a werecat and looked around, sniffing the air. After a tense moment, his body relaxed and he turned to the darkness around him, as if speaking to no one he called, "All is well! Let the Ball begin!"

There was a whooping screech and cry, then the yard sprang to life as the tribe of Jellicle Cats came rushing from the dark depths of the forest, anxious to start the Jellicle Ball. I was among them, growing larger as I dashed at Bustopher's flank. The screeching soon died as the entire tribe sat in respectful silence around Gus, who stood tall and proud in the center. The Jellicle leader smiled, then began to sing in his deep voice.

"Jellicle Cats come out tonight. Jellicle Cats come one, come all.

The Jellicle Moon is shining bright. Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball."

With his stage of the song completed, according to Jellicle tradition, the other Jellicles stood one at a time, each singing their catch of the song. Some squirmed, tails lashed, not one of us could remain still with the mounting excitement. I knew the song well, having read it several times from my father's journal.

"Jellicle Cats are black and white. Jellicle Cats are rather small.

Jellicle Cats are merry and bright, and pleasant to hear when we caterwaul.

Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces. Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes.

We like to practice our airs and graces, and wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.

Jellicle Cats develop slowly. Jellicle Cats are not too big.

Jellicle Cats are roly poly. We know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.

Until the Jellicle Moon appears we make our toilette and take our repose.

Jellicles wash behind their ears. Jellicles dry between their toes.

Jellicle Cats are white and black. Jellicle Cats are of moderate size.

Jellicles jump like a jumping jack. Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.

We're quiet enough in the morning hours. We're quiet enough in the afternoon.

Reserving our terpsichorean powers to dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.

Jellicle Cats are black and white. Jellicle Cats as we said are small.

If it happens to be a stormy night we will practice a caper or two in the Hall.

If it happens the sun is shining bright you would say we had nothing to do at all.

We are resting and saving ourselves to be right for the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball!"

To complete the last verse, the entire tribe leaped to their paws and sang together, a large, harmonious choir of beautiful voices. I strained upward towards the moon overhead, tip-toed, tail lashing, crowing at the top of my lungs. The tension was snapped, and the cats burst forward in a flood of energy for the annual dance.

"Jellicle Cats come out tonight! Jellicle Cats come one, come all!

The Jellicle Moon is shining bright! Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball!"

Chaotic and mystifyingly organized is the best oxymoron I can think of to describe it. The energy that bound all of us Jellicles together, limb for limb, mind to mind, hearts beating in a single body, welled up inside me as a growing stream of pressure, ready to burst the moment my furry legs moved. It was a madness that took over my mind, wiping out all thought but to dance, to sing, stifling my thoughts with an unheard music that pounded my temples. That music we all heard. It was the beat of our hearts, the rustle of our fur through the wind, the tinkle of our paws over the junk. That was our music. And we danced.

I was insane. My paws were naught but a blur as I cavorted, dwarfing the steps I took that day in Bustopher's apartment, that night in the ball room of my own penthouse. I swept alongside Tugger, who, as we had in the alley on the night of that Hunt, was as swept up as I in the whirl of motion. We were brothers tonight. We were all united in the maniacal wonderful lunacy of it all.

I found myself swept away, spinning, only to stop face to face with Bombalurina. But our movements never slowed. Taking her hand, we moved in synch. Our hips swayed, our tails looped, our footpaws kicked and carried us in perfect balance over the junk. In a sudden whirling motion she changed the flow of direction and was up against me, her red fur shining like fire under the moonlight. But the spell wasn't broken by her closeness. We continued to dance, my paws first on her shoulders, moving down to her waist, feeling the glide of her dancer's muscles under the fur there. The fire that ignited in my gut was not even enough to stop the dancing, but enough to make me draw her close and nuzzle her in a feline manner without knowing what I was doing. It was a mutual action.

I couldn't help it. It was werecat nature. Our duty: to increase our numbers. I know that now. But at that moment the urge to mate with her was overwhelming. I was a werecat. I was a male. I don't blame myself for feeling that way, but I wish I didn't. She didn't push me away. In fact, she encouraged it. Her eyes stared into mine deeply before I licked her soft neck as any cat would. Her claws delicately raked up through my arm fur, digging into my shoulders in tiny pinpricks of pain that I relished. We entwined, ready to make love at any moment. But I wasn't alone. Had I not been under the spell of the moon, I would have noticed that around me, other pairs of cats were doing like actions, nuzzling, rubbing shoulders. Some pairs had been mates for years, some were kittens like me seduced by the rush of sensation. I had begun to take Bombalurina to the ground when we were stopped.

It really is amazing how much like cats we Jellicles really are. Competition among males, not really taking a mate but mating with a number of females freely, the urge for solitude...all these things effect us at one time or another. Even rich brats. I didn't love Bombalurina; I barely knew her even after three years (by nature Jellicles aren't the most social animals, even moreso with one of my status), yet here I was on the verge of siring her kittens. Tugger's claws found my side and ripped me from her grasp, and took my place quickly. Bombalurina didn't seem to notice the change. Pure cat. But this enraged me. Competition, that's what it was. Among males of any species, even moreso among Jellicles, for the adrenaline of the moon heightened all our emotions, our passion, our hate, our rapture. I counterattacked my rival, snarling, and in a haze of fury we fell to the ground, biting, clawing, and slashing. Fighting over a female. I remember catching a glimpse of Bombalurina in the midst of our scuffle. She was grinning.

I don't remember what broke Tugger and me apart, but Bombalurina slipped away with him by the time the Moon Madness had loosened its hold on the Jellicle Tribe. Not entirely, otherwise we all would have dropped dead from exhaustion, but enough to where we could at least speak, think, and rationalize our actions. It was a good thing, too. I had to sing.

I don't know what made me choose to sing for my solo that year, the moment that would signal the beginning of my adulthood, but as natural as dancing seemed to me, it didn't sound very appealing. The cats settled down in their groups or pairs among the crevices and ledges of the junkyard, and I stood center, raising my muzzle to the sky. Closing my eyes, I sang:

"Memory, turn your face to the moonlight,

Let your memory lead you: open up, enter in.

If you find there, the meaning of what happiness is,

Then a new life will begin."

Memory, the song I found and translated in my father's journal, captivated my mind since I first experimented with by singing it out loud. My father had left a few notes indicated the meters and rhythms of the songs he wrote down, but for Memory none were needed. The song was smooth as water, flowing with equal ease, and each note of my deep tenor voice rang perfectly pitched on the night air. I wasn't even listening to myself. I was singing.

"Daylight, I must wait for the sunrise.

I must think of the new life, and I mustn't give in.

When the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory, too.

And a new day will begin."

I let loose with the same energy I danced with when the night was young, lungs ready to burst, voice pulsing with life:

"Touch me! It's so easy to leave me

All alone with the memory of my days in the sun.

If you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is.

Look, a new day has begun!"

I held the last sound, throat rolling, until my lungs were empty of air and the sound died with a gasp.

There is something you must understand about Jellicles. It is embarrassing for me to admit, really, but it is the truth. One such as Tugger could admit it with ease, but I'm not Tugger. Ignorance is bliss, but knowledge is power...choose whichever you think fits best. You must understand that Jellicle duty is to breed. Not only our assigned duty, but our nature. There it is again: that similarity to real felines. Not a day passed when I didn't feel it. That urge for females as had come so often in my dreams was now reality. Even I was astonished at their intensity and frequency. It made me wonder why Jellicle population never increased rapidly, as much as I felt these urges. For a long while I would pace my penthouse restlessly, waiting for them to pass, until finally I sought Bustopher and with all reluctance told him.

"Get used to them," was all he could tell me. "They'll be with you the rest of your life."

I don't think I ever could get used to them. Of course there were alternatives to spend the energy, but I would never lower myself to their requirements. I gritted my teeth and bore them alone, continuing my restless pacing.

Even after my song was done Bombalurina was on my mind, and so was one of the urges. As much as I danced continuously afterwards it would not go away. The moon was low in the western sky when I finally resolved to seek her out, perhaps just to speak to her to ease the burning. As I padded away from the gathered tribe I wondered: do Jellicle queens feel these same urges? In my later years I found that: yes, they do have urges, even moreso. Again they are like cats. I am not certain what the time pattern is, but every once in a while (some long, some short), a Jellicle queen will go into Heat. Yes, werecats are like that. As is our duty and nature, female Jellicles are extremely fertile, and during their Heats they involuntarily put off a scent—as any normal female cat would—and the rest is obvious. Those scents accompanying the urges can be the most maddening thing of all, to the point where even Bustopher could be possibly accused of assault. No one ever said life as a Jellicle is an easy one.

There seem to be so many things that can drive a Jellicle to madness. Urges, Gifts, the moon...but I suppose that's all we are: creatures of madness. No human could possibly know passions such as my kind feels. Vampires are not plagued by the urges because "they're not like that." Werewolves put little emphasis on breeding, for their numbers are in no such danger. Sometimes I find myself wondering: out of vampires, werewolves, and Jellicles, which species is the worst off? I have yet to draw any conclusions. Vampires have their immortality (which most Jellicles consider a curse) and their only was of surviving being to kill innocents. Werewolves have their lack of society and morals as well as their lack of any magic or Gifts whatsoever. And Jellicles...we have our madnesses. Add these to the problems that everyday humans face and you will have our disadvantages. In that aspect, we are all equal.

I did eventually seek out Bombalurina among the scattered filth of the junkyard, but curled up alongside her and both sleeping was Tugger. As quickly and quietly as I'd arrived, I left again, cursing myself for thinking to even go after her. I could control these urges as sure as I could control my shifting forms. I belonged to the night, a creature of the moon's making and design. In both human and Jellicle standards I was at last an adult. I was a man now. And to prove it to myself, I slept in my father's old room that night, and have every night after.

* = As far as I know, this book does not exist. If it does, it is purely coincidental.