Catopolis. Part 8

by Jana Paniccia.

Around noontime on Election Day, it was as if a dozen still-living mice began to squirm in my stomach. To try to settle the feeling, I left my aides behind at the E-Day headquarters and pattered down to the bluffs behind City Hall. After raining all morning, the sun was peeking through the clouds, casting a rainbow over the forested river bank opposite. Awe tingled through me, spreading down my back all the way to my toes as I watched the rays of color illuminate the sky.

A sign of destiny?

By the time darkness leached the light from the sky, all the votes would be counted. One way or another, my path would be marked.

"Mr. Churchill. Mr. Churchill!" I twitched my nose, catching the scent of Diefenbaker, my campaign manager, as he barreled around the bend leading from the front entrance of the munic.i.p.al complex, his white and brown coat all ashambles.

Something official, then. If he'd been coming from the victory-I hoped-party set-up, he'd have come up the path toward me and not approached from behind.

"What's happened?" I demanded. I kept my tail steady, not willing to show any sign of uncertainty. The first thing I had learned early in my career was that good carriage was important even when your nerves felt as if they'd rake your fur into p.r.i.c.kly points. I dug my claws into the stonework of the wall protecting unwary visitors from the sheer drop to the river below.

Someone's seen through my facade. They're going to cede the election to Whittington. My life is ruined.

There was no way to keep such fears from tumbling through my thoughts. After all, everyone trusted Whittington. His namesake had had a cat after all-one with posture and poise-a true n.o.ble. It didn't matter that Whittington was only a name chosen to give my compet.i.tor credibility. Thanks to that blasted story, his moniker was legend.

Certainly, my namesake was revered also. Yet, try as I might, Whittington had the upper paw with voters. Maybe if we were in a time of war, it would be different.

The truth was, the real Whittington's cat had been of n.o.ble background, and my compet.i.tion was as well. He could trace his lineage back to the old country; his ancestors had come over among the first settlers. No wonder the ma.s.ses were drawn to him. The populace always voted for those with a pedigree.

If they've learned the truth, I won't even have a chance...

"Protestors, sir!" Diefenbaker panted. "Down where the vote's being counted!"

"Thank goodness for rats." I said, casting aside my doubts in favor of dealing with Diefenbaker's dilemma.

"No sir. Birds."

Birds?

Crinkling paper caught my attention as an old tabby curled up in a nest of rags and newspaper perked his ears. With his patchy fur set against the muddled shade of the munic.i.p.al buildings, I hadn't noticed him before.

Wish we could get more of these alley cats off the streets and into good homes. If I get elected...

I couldn't think about that yet. I had to get the office first, which meant dealing with the birds right now, whatever they were up to.

"They've surrounded the Chief Elections Officer and are holding up the vote," Diefenbaker continued, his gold eyes wide.

I sighed. It wasn't easy to plan an E-Day. Picking a time when few humans would notice the absence of their "pets," or the rise in the numbers of felines crossing the city as they hitched rides to their polling locations, was a struggle at the best of times. If protesters were up in paws, or claws, we'd never be able to keep our activity from the other communities at large. Someone would notice. Someone would start asking hard questions.

"What's Whittington doing?" I asked, knowing my fellow candidate would be taking advantage of the situation in any way possible.

"He's already speaking to them, telling the leader that when he gets reelected, he'll be sure to bring their concerns to the City Council. That if they let the voters through to the polls, he'll make certain they get a chance to plead their case."

"And do the protesters believe him?"

"No, sir," Diefenbaker grinned. "As one put it, 'You're a great talker. Too bad you're not so great at keeping promises. ' "

Good. At least they won't be using him as leverage.

This protest could not have come at a worse time. If the votes didn't get through and counted, the election would be discounted and postponed until next year. It would take that long to set up another ballot and get the word around.

Maybe I shouldn't have put all my catnip in the same place. I'll never keep my secret another year...

I swept my tongue over my chest, thinking. A hollow ache tugged at my stomach, reminding me of lunch. I hadn't eaten all day, what with making last minute cat-calls to influential voters.

Birds. Most cats considered them fair game, especially the ferals, who had no steady food source. I'd even chased them a time or two, all in good fun. But I'd never hurt one intentionally.

Now Whittington... I could easily imagine him pulling a bird out of the sky. I glanced up at the rainbow, still a shimmering arc against the blue. Soon flowers would bring a similar spread of colors to the forest, and the pedigreed and wealthy upper cla.s.s would make for their country vacation homes. Whittington's ilk liked to hunt. When the summer came, they'd all be out chasing birds with vigor.

That's it! Banning the annual bird hunts-now that was something I could promise that Whittington never would.

It's a sport of the wealthy anyway. Most cats disliked the hunts almost as much as I did. There was a huge difference between chasing for fun and killing for sport, after all.

If I promised to ban them, there were sure to be rumors. Jennings and every one of his newshounds would be out for blood. My blood.

No wonder the news has gone to the dogs. No cat in his right mind would lose his sense of objectivity like that.

But it wasn't the first day of the election contest. It was E-Day, the final day. Surely, I could hold the hounds off long enough for the vote to be counted.

Banning the hunts could be enough to slip me past Whittington...

Turning toward Diefenbaker, I neatened my fur again. "I'll have to put in an appearance. We have to get the protesters to move. If the humans notice, there'll be more publicity than any of us want."

"What are you going to do?" my aide asked, his nose coming up as if to scent my response.

"I'll go down there myself. Go give my regrets at our lunch engagement, then meet me there. I want to get the lay of the land before I make my final decision. I think we can offer something worth making voters back us..."

"You shouldn't go alone, sir. What if they notice you?"

I flexed my front claws against the stone wall, this time with purpose. "Do you think they will if I want it otherwise?"

Getting to the site of the protest meant winding around the few humans collecting in front of City Hall. At least whatever they were doing with their loud music made an excellent distraction. I pressed on.

Maybe they won't notice the birds, I hoped.

The central voting booths were along the ca.n.a.l just in front of the university. It was always a quiet place in the early spring, making it perfect for our needs. Humans biked or jogged along the waterway; they didn't linger as they did in the height of summer. It was a safe place for voting. Or it would have been if birds weren't trying to attract attention. Hiding the voters bringing mouse ballots was bad enough; hiding flying protestors, especially vocal ones, would be impossible.

At least everyone's eyes would be on the protesters.

The hounds won't be after me right away.

And while my silvery coat might look distinguished in the munic.i.p.al chambers, down here I'd pa.s.s as a mottled gray street cat, at least as long as no one got close enough to read my collar.

There were more birds than even I could have imagined.

As I came out of the line of trees cutting between the heart of the city and the river, my eyes caught on the hundreds-no, thousands-of pigeons swarming our voting station, a rough-cut stone building. The ca.n.a.l hadn't been used commercially in over a decade, so the wheelhouse was perfect for our purpose. Central, yet unnoticed.

No hope of that, now.

On the other side of the thin iron walkway crossing the ca.n.a.l, a crowd of newshounds barked questions at birds sitting on the fence behind the wheelhouse even as McClung, a Persian and the Chief Elections Officer, also tried to bring calm to the chaos. On my side of the ca.n.a.l, a hundred cats lined the water, several playing with their ballots while they waited. One fat calico appeared calm and contented as she watched the flight of birds overhead, a thin tail dangling out the side of her mouth.

Knew there'd be a problem with edible ballots. Tried to tell them.

As I padded down the incline toward the voters, a young vote counter on the other side of the ca.n.a.l snapped at a pa.s.sing pigeon, capturing a mouthful of white and gray feathers. A loud squawk filled the air as the indignant bird broke away.

"You're an official. Act like one!" McClung scolded the youngster, her ire apparent. If anyone could settle this crowd, it was the Chief Elections Officer. She hated inequitable treatment, even of birds.

"Please, this is no time for arguments. You know that the votes must be counted today or there will be no hope for an election for at least another year." That was Whittington's silky voice. "Do not judge the future until the mice have been counted. This public display is unconscionable." I found him tucked right in the middle of the newshounds.

Of course. Fat cat can't help seeking the limelight.

"They'll learn. Learn when they see this ruckus. You cats will be stopped. Stopped. One way or another." The bird that spoke was fog-colored and speckled, with one wing a dull brown. An ugly thing, no wonder he looked confident as he settled down on the fence right next to Whittington. No pedigreed cat in his right mind would be interested in taking him out, not unless he wanted a bad case of indigestion, and scorn from his companions at nabbing the ugliest member of the flock.

"Why doesn't everybody just leave the birds alone?" a nearby voter said. "It's not as if most of us need to fend for ourselves. Not even alley cats go for fresh pigeon, unless they're starving."

"That's because those pigeons have helped the strays more than the politicos ever have," an elder cat big enough to be part Maine c.o.o.n responded. "Always on the lookout for fresh fish. I've heard they worked out a deal."

"Good for them. It's not like the fat cats will ever do anything."

"Maybe Churchill'll bring change-I have a feeling about him." My ears p.r.i.c.ked. This time it was a cat further down the line.

"A bit quiet-doesn't seem the type to rock the boat," another said.

"I..." My voice trailed off before I could gain their attention. They didn't understand. I wanted to change things. I wanted to get the alley cats off the streets. I wanted to ensure all cats could get medical attention. I wanted to make a difference.

I needed to.

I knew until the election was over, I couldn't give the newshounds something to fight over. I had to act the pedigreed cat, the one who won votes just by existing. Any hint of controversy...

But if what they all want change? What if they want someone who will speak up?

Maybe the real voters were interested in something more than posturing.

Maybe they wanted to know what I thought, too.

It was a strange notion, and one I immediately cast aside. The moment I voiced my thoughts, I'd give myself away. I couldn't do that. I couldn't. I was close to winning. At the last poll, Whittington and I had been neck and neck.

Did I want to stir up trouble?

I'm better off just seeing where the ball bounces. It's too close. These couple of hundred voters standing right here could be the tipping point.

No. I couldn't do it.

Once I was mayor-then- then I could start being honest.

"Please. Do we need another year of campaigning? Nothing will get done if you do not let the votes get through. I promise I will do what I can."

As Whittington continued his appeal, I noticed Diefenbaker coming up behind the newshounds. Birds fluttered backward upon sight of my campaign manager. They would know I was close.

Bet they're looking forward to it, too.

Two candidates facing off at a polling station would be the day's top story.

Before the results are in, anyway.

"And where do you sit?" Jennings questioned Diefenbaker. The newshound would sniff the truth out in no time given the chance. He had an excellent nose.

Can't give him the time.

"The other candidate doesn't even see this as a priority, or he'd be here himself. Unlike if I win. If I win, I promise I will do what I can," Whittington said, pushing between the beagle and Diefenbaker.

That was my cue.

"Do what you can?" I said, slipping between the cats I had overheard and padding my way to the walk overlooking the ca.n.a.l. I ignored the yowls of surprise as I pa.s.sed. "Does that include discontinuing your own practice of hunting when you're off at your summer house near Central Park?"

Whittington wasn't going to stop hunting the birds; it was a truth I knew from three years serving together on council. Maybe I could make this about him and not have to choose sides at all.

"If you got in, you'd drag your paws all winter long waffling over the issue, maybe set up a commission to study the matter further, and then be right back hunting in summer," I accused.

"I keep my word," my compet.i.tion said, tilting his head so he could meet the eyes of some of the voters. His long black coat sparkled with an elegance I didn't have.

"So why are we even here? If you'd kept your promises, the birds wouldn't have any issues, would they?"

It was as if we were back in the council chambers, with the ca.n.a.l serving the purpose of the Speaker.

"Well, Churchill, all you do is run for office by complaining about my policies. The voters don't even know what you stand for."

Anger burned in my stomach as every voter's eyes focused on me. I could feel the accusations there. They were agreeing with Whittington.

Have I been too quiet? Too complacent?

By hiding my lack of pedigree, have I hidden all my dreams also?

The uncertainty made me pause, whiskers trying to feel out the position of those watching and coming up short. If I wasn't honest, I still had hope. I could force the argument back toward Whittington. I'd lose a few votes, but I'd still be in the game.

If I told the truth, I could be slaughtered.

The moment stretched as I peered at Diefenbaker, visible beyond Whittington's small frame. What would he want me to do? His stance gave away nothing, no hint of worry.

He trusts me.

Maybe he was the only one who did. No one else gave off that innate feeling of trust. If anything, most of the voters appeared resigned, as if they were waiting for me to dodge the argument.

I had a pa.s.sion to make a difference in the world-and the voters didn't expect me to do a darned thing.