Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [40]
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Chapter 9
Chick was trapped.
And the humiliating thing was that he’d been trapped in a basket. When Chick was a kitten he had gone on journeys in a similar basket with a scrap of blanket in the bottom for him to sleep on. His mother and his brothers and sisters had been carried away to new homes in such a basket. Then, later, he sometimes had to go into the basket and be taken to the place of many animals where he had to stand on a table and the humans had put stinging thorns into him.
Once, when he had been possessed with a fever, he had been transported to the place of many animals and the stinging thorn had been put into him and the fever had receded soon afterwards. As ridiculous as it seemed, after that incident Chick had been haunted by the suspicion that the stinging thorn had something to do with the departure of the fever. How could that be? Humans were so lacking in perception. They were strange automatous unaware creatures who couldn’t breathe the pollen on the night air or hear a mouse move in the attic or taste the glorious richness of an enemy’s blood. They were so estranged from nature it seemed ridiculous. How could they have the power to heal? Yet in Chick’s experience, they did. He grudgingly and gradually came to accept the notion. The humans had deliberately stung him to heal him.
And Chick slowly came to regard the place of many animals as benign. He came to accept being put in a basket and taken there when he was ill. Now once again he was in a basket, like some helpless, big‐pawed kitten, surrounded by unyielding twigs which prevented him escaping. He rubbed his shoulders against the twigs, pacing this tightly circumscribed world. He howled with impatience. If he had been back home in the garden these twigs would have given way at his probings and let him prowl through the bed of shrubs down to the dry fountain and the big gate which led onto the road where the dangerous creatures roared past.
At night the creatures became less frequent and sometimes Chick slipped out through the gate and explored the street, cautiously watching for the huge shining eyes which signified the approach of one of the road creatures. To get through the gate Chick had to stretch his lithe slim body and slip between cold hard twigs like the ones which confined him now.
But this set of twigs had been cunningly planted close together so no cat could escape past them. Chick drew his small furred cheeks back, baring his fangs and snarling in frustration. Beyond the hard twigs he could see the open door of the building. Outside moonlight glowed on stones and flower‐beds and, best of all, the small pond.
Chick longed to be out in the moonlight strutting and exploring, perhaps joining combat with another tom. The thought of battle made his strong small heart surge and sharpened his perception. He circled in the cold confines of the basket, impatient to be released and to set about his business. He wished he was back in the rich expanse of garden that was his home.
He knew how the moonlight fell on the contours of that garden. He knew its shadows and secret places. The garden was a whole world to him, from the hollow where the foxes emerged by the edge of the woods to the hole in the brick wall, concealed by weeds, where the Siamese cat sometimes came in. Chick took great pleasure in ambushing the Siamese, so much so that he occasionally let the cat pass unmolested. He didn’t want to scare him so much that the game would come to an end.
Chick tried to slip through the twigs again but it was no good. The twigs in the gate at home were made of the same strange wood, cold and smooth and unscratchable. But that was where the resemblance ended. The twigs in the gate were larger and grew further apart they were easy to slip between. They were more easily deceived than these sly, closely planted twigs.
Chick sighed with regret and curled up in the corner of the strange basket. He wished he’d stayed at home. He could be patrolling the vast moonlit lawns right now, a miniature jungle in which