 |
There came the time when Damon and Pythias were parted by the solemn fates of the desert. Prince Rupert's end was ghostly as befitted the bird's adopted role. I shall not expand upon the details. One fine evening, perfectly still, Gian Carlo had departed on his mission and Prince Rupert, contrary to his custom, walked rather rapidly out beyond the protecting walls of the patio. A full moon rode high and the flat land was literally washed in its mellow light. The sad little black figure moved farther out, stopping to peck here and there, until he was only a tiny dot, though still quite visible. The three of us were watching and commenting on this unusual hardihood of his when, without sound, a soft shadow about fifteen feet over our heads slid down an invisible track in the air, aimed unerringly at the unfortunate Prince, and before we could shout or say a word, the strike had been made. There was absolutely no sound. The cruel talons must have pierced Prince Rupert through and through, killing him instantly. The muffled wings of the great owl then bore the burden aloft, and as he passed back over our heads and across the white face of the moon, he seemed like the spirit of serenity itself. Only from his grip hung a small black form. Thus we sat - paralyzed and as still as the night itself. After a moment Candida ran into the house and slammed her door shut. We two sat mute and marvelled at life, at nature, and the works of God.
17 There was now a little marker out in the desert. The next day Candida had followed the bird's tracks out to the fateful spot and there where they disappeared she had erected a rock cairn. She wanted something especially solemn written, so I spelled out for her the following legend in schoolboy latin which she carefully scratched on the topmost stone.
AVIS AMATA This, I translated for her as "A BELOVED BIRD, A CROW, HIS NAME PRINCE RUPERT, A FRIEND OF THE UNBLEMISHED CAT GIAN CARLO AND OF CANDIDA." Candida was particularly intrigued by this inscription because it introduced her to the etymology of her own name, and this seemed to bind her closer to the remaining one of the pair. The cenotaph was in full view of the patio, and was daily adorned with whatever desert flowers bloomed, or by olive-colored sage branches when these failed. It was fascinating to watch Gian Carlo now. Not finding his companion at the box that first night, he came into Candida's room and dozed away at her feet. He arose early and sat quietly in the morning beside the box in the patio corner. He retired for his siesta as usual. In the late afternoon he seemed much the same, but with dinner time he became confused. His kingly demeanor never departed from him, but some irritation and restlessness were to be read in the constant slashing of his tail. He obviously felt deserted and seemed to blame his absent friend. There was no great robbery this time for the intriguer was gone. Gian Carlo refused tidbits when we handed them down to him, but ate half-heartedly if we put them up on the sideboard where the bird had practiced his part in the deception. His night excursions were now lengthened as if, besides hunting, he were also seeking his lost companion. Eventually he settled down into an acceptance that his corvine friend had gone off to parts unknown, but the regimen he now adopted varied considerably from his former habits. A new and equally wonderful facet of his personality now came uppermost.
18
I am a trifle puzzled how to accurately characterize this change. First of all, if anything, he loved us more than ever but his affection was budgeted, as if he had become aware of weighty things demanding his energies and time. He became grander. If before he had the air of Louis XIV, now he was Jove himself. He ceased to perform those breath-taking leaps for our edification; his pace was now the long determined stride of the puma and his movements had the glorious deliberation of a being perfect in his physical self. Yet somehow he had also become more aloof. His nocturnal expeditions lasted longer, until finally they filled up the entire course of the desert night. His slumbers during the day lengthened correspondingly. At the evening table he no longer begged for morsels but sat very quietly beside my chair and received what I handed down as a monarch receives tribute. He would now sleep in my lap sometimes during the day - a thing unheard of before - and occasionally he would turn up his cerulean eyes to me like the summer skies, surveying me with a kindly, quizzical regard, raucously purring and patting me with his paws. In all this we had the feeling of a premeditated and extended farewell. By now Candida was also affected by the increasing change. It became fully apparent once when they were dancing together in the evening. Something happened, and in play Gian Carlo unsheathed his claws, sharpened by many able encounters in the desert. He had never scratched Candida before. Candida said nothing but bound up her wound sorrowfully. Was it that he was being drawn closer to the true wildness of the desert? Was Spirit shaping new ends for him? Had his friend the crow taught him necessities other than those of living with men? These thoughts were in our minds, but we did not enunciate them to each other. Then one evening the conversation awoke. "Mommy, Punker's different." "It's funny, isn't it? He seems to have changed." "Since Prince Rupert died." I put my book down and entered the conversation. "My opinion is that Gian Carlo is going native. I think we may be giving him too much rope. What do you say to keeping him in at night?" My wife would not hear of the latter suggestion, though admitting the wisdom of it. "We can't do that now, having allowed it this long. It would be cruel." Candida seemed on the fence. Trying to probe the subject further, I said, "He certainly has changed; no doubt of it. And perhaps it isn't that he's becoming more savage. If he were a human being, I'd say that he was growing up, becoming wiser ..." Candida immediately and loudly objected. "He's smarter than a person, Daddy; you've said that yourself, often. And I think so too. He's learned so much he seems different." "What's going to happen when we leave Taos next spring and go back to Illinois?" This question I threw out to the winds for anyone to answer. There was no answer. My wife then revealed one of the more significant changes. "Have you noticed that Punker hasn't been bringing any more animals back in the morning? I wonder if he isn't catching them!" Candida clapped her hands at the discovery. "That's it, Mommy, I knew something was different." There was an answer to that. "He eats them now." A long moment of surprise, then both my ladies demanded to know what I meant by that laconic statement. "Several times in the last two months over there west of the house, where I've been watching those ant nests, I've found his tracks, and twice the remains of lizards and mice." "Then that's why he isn't eating such big meals here!" said Candida, her eyes wide open. She sucked in her breath at the implications of the fact. "That's it." If Gian Carlo had been an ordinary cat, such things would not have challenged our thoughts. But Gian Carlo was not an ordinary cat, and where we could not fathom meaning about him, there always remained mystery - just as in the human soul. Whatever was changing inside his heart was big and portentous, but serene too.
19 Taos was going to have a fiesta, one of those mixed Spanish and Cowboy shindigs common in the Rocky Mountain area. There was to be a mock entry of the Mountain Men and a fandango; some old carts were being covered to mimic the Santa Fe traders in from Independence, the Taos Mission church was to be attacked again and burnt (burnt only in the minds of the beholders), Kit Carson was to ride again and his real grandson from up in Colorado was to put in an appearance. But of course the big effect was to come in the rodeo and the parade. Some of the school children were to be given ponies and were to enter the grand parade down the main street, gotten up in whatever outlandish fashion they chose. Candida was selected to be one of those fortunate few, and many evenings were spent in trying to dream up unique or appropriate garb for her and the pony. After thinking of many and rejecting them all, we finally and with some reluctance gave in to Candida, who said that what she wanted to do was a secret and that she would like carte blanche in the preparations. For all we knew she might appear as an aerialist in pink tights or a skin diver in aqualung and flippers (this last being her current craze) but we let her have her way. From this moment until the parade her room was locked and all manner of sounds issued forth, hammerings, tearings, and even howlings from Gian Carlo, who of course had to investigate. Came the great day, crystal clear and sunny. We left the house hours early so as not to see the equipment of the pony, which had been brought over by an Indian boy, and when the time came we were among those cheering hundreds who lined the streets of Taos awaiting the event. And what a surprise! After the cowboys and the Indian chieftains and princesses and the Mountain Men and the Spanish hidalgos, came finally our Candida mounted on her steed. One could see very little of the pony for he was completely covered with long strips of thick brown wrapping paper, cunningly cut to resemble dried palm fronds. Here and there in this mass of tropic foliage was a splotch of red, which we presumed, were artificial hibiscus flowers to heighten the exotic effect. Candida herself had on the strangest assortment of things! Afterwards she proudly told us what she was and then we could see the resemblance, but at the time it looked like a complete hodge-podge. On her head was a tall, terraced gold edifice, and there curled up from her shoulders what looked like very short wings. Her dress was covered with gold-paper stars and bangles. She was, it seems, a Siamese princess. In front of her on a small podium built over the saddle horn was a large cage, very airy, made with small wooden slats and adorned on top with a Siamese head-dress like hers, only taller. And in the cage was, of course, Gian Carlo. What a hit she made! No one had the slightest idea what she was trying to represent, but the effect was so mystifying and the presence of the cat so unlooked-for, that the crowds went mad with joy. Gian Carlo answered every ardent shout with one greater and his mighty voice dominated the cavalcade. His blue eyes blazed, his handsome dark face cast about energetically in every direction and his tail lashed about him with the most ferocious effect. He did indeed look wild, and he was obviously in his element. This was theater such as he had never dreamed of. He was magnificent! The effect on the Indians from the pueblo was astounding. The older ones grunted feverishly when Gian Carlo came by, and the young ones chattered excitedly. Two of the younger Indian lads whom I recognized as being celebrated already for their hoop-dancing, burst out together and danced along beside the pony pirouetting and beating the ground with incredibly rapid feet. As Candida triumphantly passed from our sight, to delight those farther down the street, I noticed Deers-Running pressing towards us through the crowd. "You let girl bring cat pueblo now. We show women. Good for soul." What Deers-Running meant by Gian Carlo being good for the souls of the Taos Indian women, I haven't the slightest conception of, but it was evident that Gian Carlo was in peculiar favor with these silent people. The pueblo dwelling is a bit outside of town, so we took Candida and Gian Carlo in a jeep after the parade broke up, while one of the Indian boys cantered the pony carefully (so as not to disturb his interesting rig) after us. The rest of the Indians who had been in town high-tailed it back in every manner of conveyance, some in old jalopies, some on horseback, some in wagons, and many trotting on foot. It looked like an invasion and the road gave up to the lovely heavens an enormous pall of dust. Word had preceded us. On the outskirts of the pueblo Candida remounted the pony with Gian Carlo in his cage and Deers-Running leading them. Thus the three of them - for we all now hung well behind - entered the bare area in front of the stepped-back dwellings. The Indians were tense and excited, and I noticed that some of the oldest, rheumatic and white-haired, were dancing mutely about as if overcome with a feeling not revealed to us . Deers-Running came up to us and smiled for the first and last time in his life I am certain. He had a request to make. Would we let the animal descend from the cage and walk about a little? Knowing that this would give Gian Carlo the chance of his life, we consented. Candida, who herself had never been so important, handed the cage down from the pony, and Deers-Running set it reverently on the ground, opened the little door, and stepped back. A low, hissing sigh broke from the Indians as they stood, eyes glued on the cat. This was a scene to remember. The Indians, mostly women and children now, made a vast circle around the cat, allowing him a great space. In this circle of adoration Gian Carlo first stood a while, yawning and stretching, then walked archly towards one side. He came to a standstill before a fat squaw and looked up into her face. The two stared at each other for a long time. He then rubbed himself against her legs and howled hideously. Pandemonium broke loose, for the woman promptly fainted! A general flight ensued. In the twinkling of an eye only Deers-Running and some of the oldest men were left in the area. Gian Carlo moved over towards Deers-Running, who backed away before him. Gian Carlo was perplexed, and, feeling that the show was over, he waited patiently until we stepped out and picked him up. From the pueblo came the low hiss of a hundred hidden throats. The pony we left there, near the Catholic Church, for it was in the charge of an Indian boy. The three of us got back into the jeep, and waving at Deers-Running we backed out and left. We took Gian Carlo home where he restlessly roamed about the rooms. He too had been excited and his hair was slightly bristled from time to time. But towards evening he settled down. On the mantle-piece he sat and we noticed that he was staring away into space - cross-eyed! For several days after this Gian Carlo was his genial self, and then he slowly took up again his recent habits of living by night and eating his catches under the milky light of the moon.
20 Time sped on to its issue, and finally the last day came. As we reconstructed it later, it was in reality no different from almost any of the others, but we pretended later to find in it a special flavor. Gian Carlo had slept the last few hours of the morning with Candida, and then awoke hungry, which was unusual for him. It probably meant that his exertions of the night had been unsuccessful. Candida fed him his breakfast by hand; then she made him dance with her. As she had been cutting out certain items from old newspapers, she and Gian Carlo had a stately romp among the scraps. After that he went to sleep on top of the mantle and remained there during the heat of the day. When we finally routed him out, he expressed loud enjoyment and entered into a half hour conversation with me as I sat at my typewriter. He patted my face and gently chewed my ear, which seemed to give him something of an appetite for the exertion he promised himself later. A storm was working up and flashes of faint pink lightning pulsed up at intervals from behind the Sacred Mountain, but in the west the sky was clear and gilded with indescribable glory. We took a short walk outside the house, and then Gian Carlo sat on the patio to await night or the storm, whichever came first. Gian Carlo first favored us with a conversation, carefully washed himself, and then addressed himself to the great emptiness before him. Because of the storm coming up, Candida wanted to keep him in, but he had always returned well before any downpours, so this suggestion was vetoed. Like a very majesty among cats he paced slowly out, past Prince Rupert's marker, and our last sight of him was a practice pounce upon some insect or other under a stunted bit of sage. All seemed very usual, and only the now audible rolling of thunder dressed up the stage for this, his final exit. Gian Carlo never came back. An hour after he left, one of the worst storms in the history of that part of the desert descended upon us. Pillars of dust and uncounted tons of water, furious bolts of lightning, and the vibrating voice of the wind - all mingled together in a veritable panic of nature. Inside the house, with all doors and windows barred, we sat thinking about our beloved Gian Carlo, and it was a sad threesome which finally turned in at three in the morning after a fruitless vigil. When day broke, the world sparkled in rain-washed ecstasy. All nature seemed to burst with infinite joy. In a sense it was like a benediction, and I should not have wanted it any other way.
21 We tried for weeks to discover what untoward event had taken our Gian Carlo away. Had he been washed away in the sudden spates which must have roared down the desert gullies? Had he been forced far out beyond his regular stamping grounds to become hopelessly lost? Had he perhaps been picked up by distant ranchers? Or Indians? We left no stone unturned to find out. Candida and I spent hours each day combing the desert, afoot, on pony back and in my rickety jeep, visiting farms and ranches, and of course the Taos pueblo. In the autumn one small clue came our way, if indeed it was a clue at all. A neighbor told us one day that she had overheard in one of the motels just south of Taos a tourist speaking to an unidentified person and saying something about having seen a "black monkey" with "funny" eyes. At first our neighbor had not even registered this bit of conversation as in any way significant, but it came to her later that it might have reference to Gian Carlo. We moved heaven and earth to trace that tourist but totally without results. I went back to the pueblo and tried all manner of persuasion with Deers-Running to probe deeper into the matter, meeting only with grunts and shakes of the head. I went to the priest and exhorted him to try to discover what, if anything, could be behind it. But his charge consisted only of the care of the souls of these wonderful people, and he could not endanger the little rapport he had with them by pressing this upon them. I made it a point to ply the Indian lads with small change and kindnesses, but it only seemed to frighten them. I even climbed to the top of the Sacred Mountain in a wild attempt to find out I know not what. For my pains I secured a view second to none in New Mexico, but nothing else. There the matter rests, and I think we can write finis to the story. I personally believe that Gian Carlo was drowned out in the desert, and my wife agrees with me. Candida has thoughts of her own which she does not divulge. Gian Carlo has left our lives the way he had entered them. Perhaps his bones lie picked and bleaching under some desert plant, or perhaps he is worshipped as a god in the cool and inaccessible interior of the pueblo, to which no white man has ever been admitted. Perhaps he has selected a new home for himself, or perhaps he just roams about. Little shadows out in the night always make us jump and peer now. In October Candida began another desert marker, very near the one for Prince Rupert. It was an imposing one, and I was drafted to bring in the larger stones. One particularly large flat slab was erected in the center of the pile to carry the inscription. For days I thought of various fine latin quotations and appropriate sentiments. Finally I elaborated one of Ciceronian elegance. I went out to the pile one afternoon to scratch it on the slab, but I returned with that work undone. Candida had forestalled me with an ever finer sentiment. Scrawled in large shaky letters was simply this: GIAN CARLO
 |
For one thing Gian Carlo was now older. Already behind him he had a remarkable series of experiences: a youth completely unknown to us, an episode of uncertain length in southern Italy, a gay post-kittenish existence in Illinois, a discovery of the desert, and finally that wonderful feral friendship. What was to follow was high summer for Gian Carlo, the last act of his life as we knew him.