It was a cat, clinging to her for dear life. It had marmalade fur and huge green eyes. “I thought I was a goner,” it said.
“A goner?”
“Done. Dead. Finito.”
“I read that cats have nine lives,” Liberty said.
“That was a typographical error in the history books. What cats have are nine lies. In ancient days, cats could trick anyone with their lies. Who do you think told Brutus to betray Caesar?”
“I don’t know.”
“A cat. Who tricked Cleopatra into using a poisonous asp?”
“A cat?”
“You learn quickly. Then, in Rome, the sorceress Thea put a spell on cats to limit their ability to deceive. If they exceeded nine lies, terrible things happened.”
“Like what?”
“Fleas, ear mites, and hair balls the size of Texas.”
“Really?” Liberty stroked his soft orange fur.
“A bit of an exaggeration. But big enough to choke off their meow! Then there was an era, which I call the Ignoramus Period, where cats were thought to bring bad luck. I’m a bit of a historian.”
“Have you run out of lies?”
The cat gave a cat smile. “Years ago.”
A low moaning sounded. “Waaaa.”
Liberty glanced around to see who was crying, but the only people in the park were far away, flying a kite. She pulled her feet slowly from the mud. It seemed the lifting soda had finally worn off. I’d better be careful with that stuff, she thought. Flying is fun, but there’s no control.
A red bird darted down from the branches. “Can’t catch me! Can’t catch me!” it taunted the cat, then flew away.
“That nasty bird lured me out onto a weak branch. When you shook the tree, it snapped, and down I came,” the cat said. “Never trust a cardinal. That goes for both kinds.”
“Both kinds?”
“The bird kind and the church kind. I used to live in the church. The priest made me a nice place under the altar and I slept all through services and never made a peep. But the cardinal came and said it was a sacrilege. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. But it can’t be good, because I was put out.”
“Waaaa.”
“Do you hear that?” Liberty asked.
“It’s the tree. It’s a weeping willow, so it cries. It does get old.”
“Does it ever speak?”
“Nature doesn’t speak. It makes music. The banyan tree twangs. Grass hums. Lilies chime. Dogwood trees bark. Clouds sound like harps, which is why humans associate that music with heaven.”
“I never knew that.”
“How strange that you understand me. You must be the first intelligent human I’ve met, although you, like the others, use only two legs when you could use four.”
Liberty explained about the comprehension cream. “I’m afraid it will wear off. The lifting soda did, although I still have more of that in my pocket.” She tapped her pocket to make sure the bottle was still there. “I don’t suppose you know where the Sullivan School is?”
“I know where Peggy’s Pet-Training School is. I’ve flunked out of there twice. Too much individuality, they told me. But no Sullivan School. You might ask someone in town.”
“I guess it’s worth a try.”
“What’s your name?” the cat asked.
“Liberty Aimes. What’s yours?”
“No name.”
“Everyone should have a name.”
“That is my name. No is my first name and Name is my last. The priest named me. His housekeeper had other names for me, but they don’t bear repeating in polite company. She’s as bad as the cardinal.”
“Waaaaa!”
“I wish I could make it feel better,” Liberty said.
“It’s the tree’s destiny to weep, just like it’s mine to be a homeless historian. What’s your destiny?”
“I’m not sure,” Liberty said.
“Better figure it out. Otherwise, you’re like a blind man walking through a forest of moving trees.”