THE CAT'S MAW

CHAPTER XI (Part 2)

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At bedtime, Billy opened the window in his room and called to the cat. The plum-sized June-bugs buzzed by the eavestrough, and blinking fireflies did loops and figure eights over the blackberry bushes. But there was no sign of his feline friend in or outside the house. The boy resigned himself to a lonely session of research.

He had a real clue now, and the flyer for the county fair gave him hope that this wasn’t just a case of too many cheeseburgers and a dash of sunstroke. Something was happening. If the clown’s message was right, then the next puzzle piece was in one of three books at Billy’s bedside.

In the ‘Big Cats’ book, Billy searched for information on white tigers. He learned that their Latin name was Panthera Tigris Tigris, that they were exceedingly rare, larger than all other tigers, and some — the true ‘albinos’ — didn’t even have stripes. Apparently, there were many legends surrounding them, the most enduring one being from Chinese mythology. It said that a white tiger was seen as ‘The Guardian of the West’, and only appeared when the world was on the verge of a lasting peace.

In the book on ‘Dreams’, tigers seemed to represent a lot of different things. A tiger in your dreams could mean strength and courage, rage and hunger, or just the basic fear of being eaten. But one section stressed how some cultures believe that the big cat is an important symbol of health. According to the book, a tiger held the power to heal the dreamer from a great injury.

The boy saved ‘Blood and Stones’ for last. It was a history book, so maybe it could help him sleep. The cramped blocks of text droned on about the first settlers in coma-inducing detail. There were notes on their countries of origin, the contents of their ships, and the family names on their registries. But there was drama to be found as well. He read accounts of fires and floods, of famine and of plague, and grisly tales of clashes with the natives over land, food, and religion.

Billy was getting tired, so he thumbed through the pen-and-ink illustrations the book featured every few pages. There were several recreations of architectural designs from the 17-1800s, complete with margin notes for the original builders and stonemasons. Billy found detailed sketches of old churches and schoolhouses, forts and other military outposts, and some of the more notable homes from the time.

He soldiered on through the pages, absorbing everything he could about thatched roofs, and retaining walls, and earthen cellars, and water wells, and bell-towers, and millwheels, and foundation stones from the 18th century. When he had had his fill and his eyelids grew leaden, he closed the book.

But before he did, he marked his spot. 

Billy knew it was ‘wrong’ to bend back the top of a page and dog-ear a book (every parent, teacher, and librarian alive will be happy to remind you of that immutable truth), but he dog-eared it anyway. For him, sometimes the smallest rebellions felt like the biggest victories.

That’s when it appeared, square in the middle of that triangle of folded paper. It was right there, same as the one on his leg, just like the clown-magician had asked for.

The symbol of the cat. The key.

Billy flipped the page and flattened out the fold he had made. The symbol was in the upper corner, and part of a sketched block of stone. That stone was itself part of a larger design — a foundation — for a home that was to be built in 1777. 

On the opposing page were rough sketches – designs for a retaining wall and split cellar – along with handwritten notes. Billy read of a plan for a water well that would be fed from a neighbouring marsh, which was itself supplied by a nearby river.

There was one more faint sketch in the bottom corner, perhaps the roughest of the lot. It was for an arch made of stone, with the following note:

‘It is to be built betwixt the well and the north wing of the abode, oriented in such a way that would allow one (when standing beneath it, upon the Solstice of Summer) to witness the sun’s rising above the spot where they rest.

A small tribute, on a small hill, to the first brave and Godly family of the New World.’

 

Billy closed the book, and got out of bed.

He limped to the window, ignoring the pain, and stared out at the horizon. Behind him stood a very old house. Beside it was an arch made of stone. And in direct view of it, crowning the closest hill?

A colonial cemetery.

It was time to cross the road again and meet with Mrs. Thomas. It was time to speak of more than apple pie and cats.