The Cat Who Knew How to Cry

8. HATE-YOU-ALWAYS (part 4)

"Sit here for a minute, and I'll see what I can do with that sponge."

"Eh, it's too bad you can't shed your skin!"

Darting outside, Irson looked ill-humoredly at his spotted hands. What a disgrace – falling into such a primitive trap! I'm losing my skills, the Tanae thought and ran towards the nearest lamp. Ironically, this particular street lamp was in the form of a snake standing up on its tail, bug-eyed head thrown back and jaws opened painfully wide, struggling to swallow a huge speckled egg. Irson unscrewed the dome cover, felt around for the flanged wheel on the snake's brow, and lit the lamp to its brightest setting.

The magical flame drew in the dark clumps, like iron shavings to a magnet, and with every second Irson felt less and less like a leopard python. The Tanae turned this way and that until he'd "washed away" most of the spots. Only a few of them remained with him, or rather, with the enchanted items he had on him. Considering a moment, he took off his belt, medallion and a couple of rings, and tossed them into the dome cover with a plunk. Tucking it between some roots, Irson dashed off in the direction of the gazebo.

The thick carpet of fallen leaves felt springy under the Tanae's feet, like little bridges popping up with each step. The leaves lashed at his face, as though ordering him to focus. Excitement slowly overtook him. Flying over a pile of cut-off branches with a daredevil hiss, the Tanae bolted across a rickety bone bridge, skirted a compost pit in which something was stretching and sighing, dodged a cluster of rabbit's feet hanging for some reason on the branch of a mountain ash, scrambled across an acacia bush, and finished at the gazebo.

Inon lay in the grass at his feet, and looked to be in very bad shape. The priest had somehow shriveled, with skin that stretched tightly across the bones of his face, thrown backwards, and hands that spasmodically clenched into fists.

"How are you?" Irson asked, bending over to remove a sharp stone from under Inon's side.

"Alive," the priest responded sullenly. "She pulled back. I don't know why."

"Maybe she decided that if she didn't stop fighting you, it might catch the Merciful's attention, and she needs his attention like a hole in the head?" Talia's halting voice came from the gazebo.

"Probably," Inon nodded.

"Can I do anything to help you?"

"Better help me instead!" Talia snapped. "Everyone forgot about my poor pampered highness. What's your heathen friend got in there, a sledgehammer or something? Do something already!"

Irson straightened up and raised his hands, preparing to demonstrate to the grumbling vixen a little something from the "modest" arsenal of a Lindorg mage. But the plan backfired yet again.

"Don't you even think about showing off, or the BMSS[1] will flock here from all over the city!" Talia admonished him in a strident tone. It was as if she'd read his mind.

"You sourpuss!" Irson laughed. "You just said we should burn this thing up with something Harnian!"

"I wasn't thinking straight. I'm a young, silly kitten, anyway. Empty-headed, tail curled and ears twisted like a pretzel."

Lopsided on her crystal perch, she went on for a long time grumbling under her breath, but Irson wasn't listening. He was "baking eights": with hands folded as if for washing, twin clouds of pale light were materializing one after another between his palms. Growing the infinity-shaped manifestation to half its full size, the Tanae quickly examined it and then, sticking out a finger on each hand, poked both halves. After this manipulation, the figure eight began to wane and bulge, its belly coming alive with faint crimson sparks. Finally it turned into something resembling an hourglass with a glowing bloodworm swarming about inside its bulbs. When he had completed about a dozen of the thingamabobs, Irson deployed them into the gazebo. One after another they embedded themselves in the ceiling and the sponge sucked them right up, swallowed them hook, line and sinker.