Motherstone by Maurice Gee Page A

bared. It was enough. The cat flicked with a back leg, with claw unsheathed like a gutting knife, and cut her throat. Slarda fell, and rolled over once, and beat her shins on the sand. She lay dead. It was very simple, very quick. The cat turned from its landing place. It walked to her, and sniffed, and sat down and licked its back paw clean.
    ‘Slarda,’ Susan whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Slarda.’ She closed her eyes. She was so tired, so worn out in her feelings, that she was not able to move or think. She did not even open her eyes again. She felt the cat coming close. She felt it sitting in front of her, looking, waiting. She had no idea what it would do, and did not care. Then it seemed to her she slept a while. When she opened her eyes the cat was there, resting too. Slarda’s body sprawled indistinct on the sand. A narrow shadow pressed at the foot of the dune. Susan’s face and torso lay in it, but her legs were burning in the sun. She looked at the cat. She did not think it would be wise to move. ‘Cat,’ she whispered. It opened its eyes and looked at her. They seemed cooler, and the pupils, though shrinking in the light, were blunt at the tips.
    ‘Cat,’ she said, ‘I’m getting up.’
    It watched her while she stood, then it stood too.
    ‘Cat, if you’re going to kill me, do it now.’
    The animal twitched its tail, but gave no sign.
    She said, ‘Do you remember the arena? And Ben? And me taking off your collar?’
    The cat looked bored. It yawned again. It seemed fond of yawning, this cat. She knew she was not getting through to it. ‘Cat, how do I talk to you? Why aren’t I scared? Are you my friend?’ She took a step towards it. That made it act. It stiffened, showed a flash of tooth under its lip. ‘No, not yet. Not friends.’
    She tried to think what to do. Jimmy had talked to Ben in pictures – and she too had learned to show, not tell. So … Carefully, keeping it simple, she made a picture of the arena: banks of spectators, tongue of stone over the drop, the dais, the High Priest. And the cat gave a screech. It leaned at her, trembling. It had memories, that was plain. She made more pictures, in a hurry: herself unbuckling the collar, freeing the cat. And the cat running, leaping up the steps of the arena, while the priests parted frantically to let it through. And the leap from arena to cliff-top, and the jungle beckoning. That was it. She flashed it like a series of slides for the cat to see. And it saw. Somehow it saw. It relaxed. The tension went out of it. It settled more easily on its legs.
    ‘Cat,’ Susan said, ‘I set you free.’
    As if in answer, the cat closed its eyes, and opened them. It was, she saw, a sign of trust. But she could not help wondering what would happen when the animal grew hungry. Would the slide-show work?
    Her head was aching and her mouth was dry. It was not easy making these pictures. They must take a lot from her, for when she moved she seemed to have no strength. ‘Water,’ she said. ‘Cat, I need water.’ She looked at Slarda’s body, and though she did not want to see it close walked towards it. The cat gave a growl, but she made another picture: a pool of water. That quietened it. She came to Slarda’s body and was glad it was lying face down. She did not want to see the woman’s throat. She unfastened her water flask from her belt and drank from it. The water was warm, but ran down her throat sweet as honey. She drank deeply, then poured a little water in her hand and offered it to the cat. The animal turned its back. It strolled away and lay on the sand.
    Careful, Susan told herself, not too fast.
    She unstrapped Slarda’s food pouch and retrieved her knife from where it had fallen. The woman’s leather cap had fallen off and her hair was spread on the sand. Brown hair, pretty hair. What had turned Slarda into a killer? What was it in her, and the others, that allowed them to kill so easily, and enjoy it? She belted on the knife and