The Adventures of Caterwaul the Cat Read online

  The Adventures of Caterwaul the Cat

  Feline Pie

  By

  Damon Plumides & Arthur Mark Boerke

  The Adventures of Caterwaul the Cat: Feline Pie

  © 2010 Damon Plumides and Arthur Mark Boerke. All Rights Reserved.

  www.caterwaulthecat.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First edition.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  Published in the U.S. by BQB Publishing Company

  www.bqbpublishing.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-937084-19-6 (p)

  ISBN 978-1-937084-20-2 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011940285

  Book cover and interior illustrations by Daniel Edwards

  Book interior by Robin Krauss, Linden Design, www.lindendesign.biz

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated with love to the memory of Ann M. Boerke, Michael George Plumides Sr., and Diana Boerke. We miss you all. We’d also like to dedicate our work to Arthur’s recently passed mentor, Dr. Owen “Mike” Connelly, who stoked a fire in Arthur to create and become both a professor and a writer. Last but not least, as they say, this book is also dedicated to the newest addition to our Caterwaul family, Michael Damon Plumides, a.k.a. Wiggles Paisan.

  ~ Arthur & Damon ~

  Acknowledgments

  Working on this book was a labor of love for the both of us. It was a true collaboration that neither one of us would have been able to produce without the other. For some parts, Damon would come up with the basic plot and characters, and Arthur would flesh out the story and the dialogue; in other parts, Arthur would cut loose with a run of storyline, and Damon would swoop in to help polish it off and tweak some of the humor. When all was said and done, however, the end result proved to be a story woven with heart and soul—ours—and of which we are extremely proud.

  Some of the wonderful people who either helped us directly in bringing this work to light or by inspiring us creatively include Daphne Aycock and John Fuller, without whom we might still be dreaming of finding an outlet for our creative expression; our publisher, Terri Leidich of Boutique of Quality Books, whom Arthur met at a book convention in Columbia, South Carolina; as well as Lisa Schindler, our daily contact with the publishing company, who helped keep us on track and connected us with other creative people. Our thanks also go out to Lori K. Lee and Jeff Plucker of BQB, who are parts of the great team dedicated to bringing this book and all BQB authors’ works to the general public.

  A very special thank you goes out to our editor, Martin Coffee, who helped us polish off this manuscript while leaving our voice and vision untouched. Martin, we will work with you anytime! Special thanks go out to Dan Edwards, our cover and interior illustrator, for doing such a fine job on the artwork. We would also like to extend our gratitude to Patrick, Psychonaut13, Coffield for designing our web page for us.

  Our great appreciation goes out to our friends and family, who were so supportive from the beginning. These include in no particular order: Roger Skaw; Derek Chiarenza; Michael George Plumides Jr.; Rhiannon Hendren; Anne Saunders; Kat Taylor; Lauren and Sophia; George Plumides; Ali Plumides; Justin Kates our photographer; Jack Boerke; Scott Moore for some inspired interpretations of our hero Caterwaul; Robert “Robbie” Lewis for his constant encouragement; Fred Bisogno Sr. for the Italian lesson; Fred Bisogno Jr. for more than thirty years of friendship; Donna and Ken Reese; Anastasia Hendren; Robin Penley Jones; Brett Jones; Robin Sharpe; Jeremy Hendren; Kim Gallant Revels; Katherine Gallant; Tonya Douglass Beth Stevenson; Louanne Smith; Stacey Steifel; Kevin “Mickey” Boerke; Tracey Waters; Tonya Kelly; and Megan and Ben Magri and the Magri Family for their support very early on.

  The authors also want to acknowledge anyone who read part or all of the manuscript in its evolving form, who offered suggestions or support in any way, and anyone who has watched this project grow from an idea into the novel that is in your hands now. There is no way that we could possibly list you all and, for that, we apologize. Just know that the authors appreciate all the support you have given us along the way, and we hope that you enjoy the story.

  The Tale of the Tail

  I first met Damon Plumides many years ago when he was the singer in the Myrtle Beach-based, hard rock band called Dead Cut Tree. At the time, I was an owner and talent buyer for the legendary Columbia, South Carolina, nightclub Rockafellas’. I used to book Dead Cut Tree to play shows at Rockafellas’ on a regular basis. Over time, we became the best of friends.

  Years later, we would share a house together in Charlotte. I was now a university history professor, while Damon worked as a wine consultant. Both of us still had our creative juices inside us, but needed something to get them flowing again. Then one day Damon came to me with a few pages hand-scrawled in pen on yellow legal paper. Busy with grading or some such chore, I at first wanted to shove the pages in a pile. Boy, am I glad I didn’t, because what he had written on those several pages was a rough outline of a fantastic children’s story. He wanted me to help him to turn it into something much more. This was the beginning of the collaboration that would give rise to The Adventures of Caterwaul the Cat: Feline Pie.

  This novel is in every way a dual effort with the characters, jokes, and plot scenarios created by both of us. The sum reward of our creative partnership on this book would never have been possible for one of us without the participation of the other. We sincerely hope that you enjoy reading about our world as much as we enjoyed creating it for you.

  ~ Arthur Mark “Art” Boerke ~

  Table of “Cat”tents

  Prologue

  Part I: On the Outside

  1. Cathoon

  2. The Cat Arrives

  3. Life in the Castle

  4. Vanity’s Curse

  5. The Parliament of Possums

  6. While the Queen’s Away the Cat Will Play

  7. To the Hollow Oak

  8. The Poison Dart Frogs of Bug Stool Creek

  9. Knight Takes Pawn

  10. A Whole New Paint Job

  Part II: Heroes and Villains

  11. To Harsizzle

  12. Gerhard

  13. A White Cat

  14. Jailbreak

  15. A Cage Full of Cats

  16. Interludes

  17. The Party at the Old Windmill

  18. The Party Crashers

  19. Very Bad Kitties

  20. What Goes Around

  21. The Crooner

  22. Back at the Castle

  23. Feline Pie

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The black cat tiptoed silently as he slid past the green glowing globe. His furry body hugged the cave wall as he moved. It appeared as though the sheen of his coat absorbed the pale light as he went, preventing the casting of his shadow in the dimness.

  Caterwaul planned his escape more than a year ago, moving slowly and methodically to avoid suspicion, learning about anything and everything he might need on the outside.

  Funny that he chose the expression “on the outside.” He thought about it a moment and allowed himself a sort of half-smile. After all, he hardly remembered what his life was like as a kitten, before she’d gotten hold of him, so he really couldn’t know what to expect.

  Peering back over his shoulder, he saw the old
woman who had been his companion these last few years. She was frail and ancient-looking. She sat, as she often did, asleep in her favorite rickety chair. Her head slumped back against the broken mesh of woven grass, mouth open to reveal a collection of yellowed and missing teeth. He was sure she was asleep because her left eye was open and completely motionless. A cloudy, white film worked to obscure the eye’s natural brown pigment. Occasionally, a high-pitched snore would escape her open maw, and every so often, she’d make a gurgling sound before resuming her routine.

  Over time, Caterwaul learned quite a bit about conjuring from watching the old woman work. A lot of it was what might be put down as simple garden-variety stuff, but there were some spells among his gleanings that could only be called sorcery.

  He had filled a pack with whatever he imagined he might need: spells he’d written down, potions and powders, roots and reagents, tokens, and talismans. Once free, he had no plan of ever returning to that cave.

  Arriving at the entrance, he noticed that the door had been left slightly ajar. The cat squeezed his frame through the narrow space between the door and its jamb and sprinted up the earthen ramp in the direction of daylight. What luck it was that the rat left it cracked as he had. His heart began to race, and he unconsciously increased his speed as he approached the cave opening.

  He caught the eyes of several small cave creatures, but they were too involved with their own business to cause him any trouble. The one potential problem was the rat. The rat was unpredictable.

  Caterwaul prayed the filthy bugger was off in a ditch somewhere, intoxicated, sleeping off the effects of some over-fermented hunk of fruit he’d been saving for a special occasion.

  Luckily there was no sign of the rodent, or any other resistance, as he emerged into the cool of the early evening’s breeze. “So far so good,” he whispered.

  Now outside, his best course of action was to follow a shallow creek leading away from the cave. As he crept along the stream, a small turtle popped his head from the water and sneezed. This startled the cat, and he slipped, his forepaws ending up in the muddy water.

  “Sorry about that, chief,” the small turtle said apologetically. “I know your kind doesn’t usually care for water.” He swam toward the creek’s edge and sat down on a slab of water-polished slate. He had a face that was painted with yellow and black stripes and a lacquered, orange underbelly quite intricate in design.

  “So you’re headed up along the creek, eh?” he asked Caterwaul. “Not sure if that’s such a good idea at the moment.” The turtle put a claw to his lips as to signal for silence. “Something, or someone, has those frogs up in arms again.”

  “Frogs?” Caterwaul asked him. “What frogs?”

  “What frogs? . . . You’re joking!” The turtle was laughing. “Well then, it’s a good thing that I just happened to sneeze when I did. Because, my friend, you’d be skewered like a shish kebab before you walked even another fifty feet in the direction you’re going.”

  The cat cocked his head slightly to show that he clearly did not understand.

  “Ol’ Fairfax is on maneuvers, mate. Haven’t seen ‘im this riled up in a long time either. This,” he said paddling at the water, “is Bug Stool Creek. Everyone knows that Bug Stool Creek is guarded by that blighter general and his army of poison dart frogs.”

  Just then a high-pitched whizzing sounded above Caterwaul’s head. Looking up, he saw a sharpened quill, as if from a porcupine or hedgehog, sticking out of a tree trunk.

  “Well, they know you’re here now, mate. Sorry . . . but you’re on your own.” The turtle dove off his rock and disappeared beneath the water.

  Another dart flew by Caterwaul and then another. He ducked down just in time to dodge a fourth dart that actually parted his fur as it sailed over his head.

  After that, he took off like a thunderbolt. He could see them, forming ranks all around him. They were everywhere, small frogs with colorful markings, armed with what he thought looked to be . . . wishbones? Were they actually using bows made out of wishbones?

  Whatever they were, they were dangerous. Each of the frogs seemed able to reload and launch a minimum of three or four of the poisoned quills per minute. Caterwaul was in serious trouble. He had to get away . . . now! He pumped his legs faster than he thought possible. There was no way he was going to die here in the mud next to some filthy stream called Bug Stool Creek.

  Then he felt one of the barbs pierce his right side. He was terrified. He had no idea what type of poison was on the tip of the arrow. He imagined it was some form of neurotoxin or a muscle inhibitor, like curare or something. He’d often heard that frogs were able to generate toxins within their own skins. A second quarrel hit him in the right hind leg and then a third, in the right shoulder. Still he ran. He was distressed, but he did not dare let up.

  Yanking the barbs free of his flesh, he continued to run. Scared as he was, it did not occur to him that the poison appeared ineffective.

  Finally, after about half an hour, his legs gave out, not because they were paralyzed, but from sheer exhaustion. Slumped over and gasping for breath, the cat lay trembling, propped up against a dead branch resting on the ground. He was so close to the edge of consciousness that he hardly felt the large reptilian paws lifting him up to carry him away.

  The sun wasn’t down an hour when the rat crawled back up the muddy rocks to the cave entrance. It had started to rain, and he was covered in muck. His coarse, wiry fur jutted out from his body in all directions.

  “It’s done,” he said. “I did it . . . just like you told me to.” He was laughing. “I swear I don’t think ol’ Fairfax has had that much fun in years.”

  “You made sure to tell the general not to hurt him?”

  “Absolutely, ma’am. The frogs were all shooting blanks. If they hit him, all he’d have felt was a little prick. Kind of fitting, if you ask me.”

  “You are positive? You know what I will do to you if I find that you are not being truthful.”

  The rat swallowed hard. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I swear to you there was no toxin on any of ’em. After all, there’s plenty enough frogs out there in this wood already. But if you don’t mind my askin’ . . . why d’ya let the ungrateful little fur ball go? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  The old woman lowered her hood back onto her shoulders. Her hair was matted, and her eyes were red. It was obvious she had been crying.

  “Of course it doesn’t Edsel,” she answered curtly before turning to go back down to her home. “I never expected you to understand.”

  Part l

  On the Outside

  1

  Cathoon

  Barely an apple’s throw from Harsizzle Road stood the castle of Cathoon. It was a dark and empty place, the likes of which you only find in the best of fairy tales. It was the kind of place that no decent sort would ever call home. So, for that reason, it was a good thing that the castle’s occupant could never be called decent.

  In that bare and chilly place lived Queen Druciah, a heartless creature who took delight in the misery of others. Just the sound of her name brought the tiny hairs to attention on the back of the neck.

  Tall and gaunt, it was apparent that she had once been a woman of great beauty. Nearly six feet tall, her body draped in blue velvet finery, she still shone with the glow of power. She moved gracefully and with an elegance fitting her royal position. A golden crown set with only the most precious of jewels rested on her brow, her fading auburn hair tied up in a bun.

  Druciah looked down from her perch in the hills, watching her subjects as they came and went. It was harvest time, and the village folk were busy. Farmers and their elder sons took their crops down Harsizzle Road to market, while their wives and children handled much of the daily grind. She wrung her stiffening hands together as she watched them through her spyglass.

  Clawing mournfully at her thinning hair, she looked with hate upon the young men who went about their courting of the young and lovely village
maids.

  This made the queen angrier than anything. Seeing the attention that was lavished on beautiful young girls made her blood boil. It wasn’t because she hated them. It was because they diverted the attention that she wanted for herself.

  Unfortunately, Druciah was cursed with the sin of vanity. The one thing she hated most was that she was getting old, and seeing all those young men and women together only drove that point home.

  Though aging was a natural part of life and the way of the world, the queen could not accept that it was happening to her. Every morning she rose from her bed, knowing that there would be a new wrinkle here or a crow’s foot there.

  She expected at least one new addition daily. Her once pristine skin was becoming loose and mottled. Small moles appeared where there were none before, and the worst insult of all was the hairs, which seemed to appear as if from out of nowhere. It was these stray hairs, more than anything else, which drove her mad.

  It seemed like every day there was a new hair. First, one would show up on her cheek, and then another would sprout from her nose, and the next one from the side of her ear. And heaven forbid if one of the hairs happened to protrude from one of the moles? Well . . . there was really no point in going there . . .

  “Why is all of this happening to me?” she shrieked, grabbing her ruby-handled tweezers. With a tug, she plucked the unsightly whisker from her cheek and wept into her hands. It seemed there was nothing she could do to halt the march of hated time.

  She sent for the land’s best and brightest, offering a fortune to anyone able to create a potion for keeping her young. With their mortars and their pestles they tried out a thousand combinations. She hired astronomers and astrologers, chemists and alchemists, but none could provide her with the answer she lusted for. She just kept getting older and more obsessed.