Post by Wolfjet on Aug 23, 2007 15:01:47 GMT -5
Hey guys.
I was thinking of how to ‘get to know’ Gus and Skimble better, so that I might role-play them, when inspiration struck. I was reading Ritzkin #7 (“The Protector”) at the time, and promptly contacted Spider to see if I could write this. She gave her approval (I believe her exact words were, ‘HELL YES!’), so here it is. Basically it’s the story of what happened immediately after the events in ‘The Protector’, and Gus’s views on the whole thing. Be warned; it’s very dark. Thanks for reading!
****
Shattered
******
No parent should ever have to bury their child.
So thought Gus the Theatre Cat as he dug into the earth with his shovel and lifted it, throwing the heavy dirt downward, into the large square hole in front of him. The hole where his son, Simbol, now resided, where he had been laid to rest in one of the many boxes found around the junkyard. His eyes had been closed and he looked at peace, a smile just visible on his unmoving face. His chest fur had been matted and bloody; Jenny had cleaned it best she could, but the remains of her mate’s battle with the Monniks had still been clearly visible.
It had probably been the only battle he had ever lost.
Gus grunted and dug the shovel into the earth again. The manual labor forced him to concentrate and shoved all other thoughts out of his mind, which was exactly the Theatre Cat’s intent. He didn’t want to think about anything right now; all that mattered was the task in front of him. He didn’t want to think about Simbol being carried back to the junkyard, torn and battle-scarred but safe in the gentle arms of Milton the police dog ... he didn’t want to think about Munkustrap, the Protector’s young trainee and now the Protector himself, hurrying to lead the dog forward, anguish written all over his face ... he didn’t want to think about Simbol’s family, rushing to him, grief causing them immeasurable pain ... he didn’t want to see himself staring down at his son, his son, whom he loved... his son, whose breathing had been labored and irregular and then had slipped away like the last light of a sunset ... his son, whose lifeless body had been surrounded by his family, who had done their best but had been unable to bring him back from the brink of death....
“Dad... Oh, Dad...”
“Let’s get him inside. He needs a healer.”
“Simbol! No... Simbol!”
“Jenny...”
“He’s not dead yet, Jenny. Maybe we can do something!”
“Dad? Is that Dad? Is he all right?”
“Daddy! Daddy Daddy Daddy! Catti’s asleepying and not wakey-wakeying! And everyone’s cryin’! Daddy! Daddy!”
“Shh, Tumble. Calm down... I’m here... now...”
Silence.
“Daddy, you’re bloody.” A sob.
“I know. Shh.”
Gus flung the shovel down and turned away from his son’s grave, bitter tears coursing down his face and pooling at his feet. Nothing could be done... Cattivo had been beyond saving, and so had Simbol... But their deaths could have been prevented... The ambush back at the theater seemed like decades ago... Simbol’s son was murdered, carelessly, thoughtlessly murdered... And so was Simbol, he had been taunted and tortured until nothing could be done to save the cat that meant so much to so many, the cat whom everyone in the tribe counted on, looked up to, even loved...
Gus kicked at the shovel hatefully, blindly, and the clanging he heard as it tumbled away from him gave the Theatre Cat no happiness whatsoever. He doubted he would ever truly be able to feel happiness again. The thought agonized him, tortured him, weighed upon him until he finally couldn’t take any more and sat down on an overturned tin can, burying his face in his paws, more tears mingling with the fur.
“Simbol...” he sobbed. “Oh, Simbol... Simbol...”
I should have done more for you, the Theatre Cat thought as he wept. I should have been there for you... I should have put up more of a fight... I should have died in your place...
Three large cats were circling him and his grandsons. Two of them charged, and he raised a paw to thrust one of them aside, whirling around to see the one-eyed cat charge him. Plato leapt between them and swiped at the cat’s good eye; Cattivo and his father, Skimbleshanks, vaulted into the fight, and Alonzo — where was Alonzo? Gus whirled around again, frantic, looking for his third grandson. Where was Alonzo? His split second of delay cost him dearly, and he suddenly felt a large weight hurl itself into his aging back, slashing into it, ripping the fur to shreds... pain like he had never imagined blossomed from the wounds and he dimly heard Skimbleshanks’ roar as the scene began to fade before his eyes... his last sight was of Plato, tussling with the one-eyed cat, and Cattivo, running to assist his brother ... Cattivo ... Cattivo...
“No...”
That had been the last time he had seen his grandson alive...
“No...”
He couldn’t even remember the last time he had spoken to Simbol...
“No!...”
Simbol, whom he could have saved along with Cattivo, if only he had managed to stop the Monniks... Simbol, who was now lying motionless in the grave behind him, becoming one with the earth that was being piled upon his body...
“NO!” Gus tore his face from his paws and looked upward, at the night sky, which seemed so inviting at every Ball but was now only cold and bleak, with no moon to accompany the dimly twinkling stars. “Simbol, Cattivo ... why did it have to be you?” he shouted at the sky, angrily, irrationally. “Why couldn’t it be me? I’m old; I’ve lived my life! It wasn’t ... your ... t-time...”
He buried his face in his paws again. “It should have n-never ... been ... your time...”
He was clutching Simbol’s paw, holding it so hard it almost hurt, as if by grasping it he could keep Simbol’s life inside of him. The Protector was lying in the midst of his broken family, his youngest son’s face bloody as it mingled with the wounds on the great cat’s chest. Simbol’s eyes were flickering, his breathing slowing ... Jenny was crying as she nuzzled her mate, willing him to stay with them, with the ones who needed him ... Simbol’s paw was going limp, and Jenny’s voice was rising in a mournful wail...
“Why couldn’t you have remained, Simbol?” sobbed Gus, his voice the only sound that echoed round the clearing. “Y-your family ... they needed you ... with Cattivo gone, they needed to stay s-stronger than ever ... you were their strength, Simbol, you were Jenny’s strength and you were Alonzo’s and Plato’s and Admetus’s and the tribe’s ... Simbol, you were ... you were my strength...”
There was no answer, no sound from the empty junkyard, save for the whistling of the wind as it blew through the clearing. The shovel turned over a bit and would have blown away, but Gus wiped away the remaining tears, bent down, and grabbed it, before it tumbled out of his reach. I must finish what I have started, he thought, and drew a shaky breath. I owe that to Simbol.
Simbol. His Simbol. His son.
*****
“You were magnificent, father!” came the voice from a large gold-and-white blur that tackled Gus to the ground in an attempt to give the Theatre Cat a solid hug. Surprised, Gus obligingly fell backward until Simbol realized his mistake and helped his father up. The tom, who had been the Protector for little more than a year now, looked sheepish, an expression rarely seen on his features. “My apologies.”
Gus smiled and ruffled his son’s head-fur, having to reach up a little to do it; though it was worth it for the laughably annoyed expression that crossed Simbol’s features. “Perfectly all right,” the Theatre Cat smiled, before the significance of his son’s presence dawned at him at last. “Simbol, what are you doing here?” he asked, slightly worried. Were there Pollicles afoot?
But Simbol just smiled and put a paw on Gus’s shoulder. “Isn’t it obvious? I came to see you.” He gestured around them, to the auditorium that was home to so many of the Theatre Cat’s performances. The backstage area, where they were now, was full of humans, as they mingled and chatted about the show they had just seen. None of them seemed to give notice to the two cats, one of whom had been onstage, talking in the corner, though that was fine by Gus. The one person who did matter to him had noticed him, and that was enough. Gus smiled and turned back to Simbol.
He opened his mouth. He wanted to say something, to thank Simbol for coming, but the emotions he felt at the fact that Simbol had put all of his duties as Protector on hold just to come and support him, to come and see him, left him wordless, and so Gus closed his mouth and smiled again. Simbol laughed; he seemed to have understood. This meant more to Gus than he could possibly tell his son.
“Things are fine back in the junkyard, just in case you’re wondering,” said Simbol, who seemed to have read Gus’s mind, and now gave him a sly smile. “I could tell you were worrying. You needn’t; Old Deuteronomy knows where I am and has Skimbleshanks temporarily in charge. It’s true he’s not around much, but when he is, he is an excellent guardian...”
“Good to know, that is,” commented Gus with a chuckle, and he and Simbol began to head to the theater’s exit, being careful to keep close to the wall so that their tails would not be trod upon by careless humans. Soon they were outside, in a nook not too far away from the junkyard, the hot afternoon sun lighting their way as they headed back to the Jellicle habitat. “How are you doing as the Protector?” asked Gus, changing the subject.
Simbol hesitated a moment, then answered, “...Fine.” The look Gus gave him told the younger cat plainly that this answer would not suffice, and so Simbol elaborated. “Things are ... okay. Most of the younger cats answer to me, and those who don’t are unsettled enough by Tantomile and Coricopat that they think twice. But ...” he hesitated again, “...some of the older cats ... they seem to resent me being chosen as the Protector. And they’re determined to let me know it.” He sighed. “It’s hard to protect a tribe that willfully places itself in danger just to get you riled up.”
Gus frowned, but then a memory of a recent incident suddenly came to mind, and he grinned knowingly. Simbol did not miss this, and stopped, looking at him. “What?”
“These ‘older cats’,” Gus began, trying his best not to laugh, “does one of them, in particular, seem to resent you more than the rest?”
Simbol shuffled uncomfortably. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, father...”
“Oh, Simbol, I think you do,” laughed Gus. “I think it is one queen in particular whom you are having trouble with - a queen not much older than yourself, I might add - and she happens to go by the name of Jennyanydots.”
“She teaches mice to knit!” Simbol said despairingly, apparently forgetting his lack of specifics. Gus bit back another laugh as his son continued, “She has a whole family of human pets and she stays in their house at night to instruct cockroaches on tap-dancing! Isn’t there something fundamentally wrong with that?”
“I was under the impression that a Protector has contacts of all kind, including police dogs, pigeons, rats and, yes, insects,” said Gus, raising an eyebrow. “As such a Protector should have no trouble associating with said colonies.” His voice grew serious as he leaned in toward his son. “Something else about her is bothering you, Simbol. What is it?”
Simbol didn’t reply, only darted his eyes about in a shifty manner, refusing to meet Gus’s gaze. The Theatre Cat clapped his paws together in sudden delight and understanding. “Of course!” he exclaimed happily, “You fancy her, don’t you?”
“Father!” said Simbol, blushing underneath his fur. “If you could please keep your voice down...”
“We’re not yet near the junkyard, son,” smiled Gus, “and as for the object of your affections, she is currently residing in her den there. I believe she is developing a nice new floral pattern for the mice today. It was the talk of the whole tribe.”
“It must have been a slow news week...” Simbol muttered, still not meeting his father’s gaze.
“Well, Simbol, if you want to inform Jenny of your, ah, infatuation with her - that is, I am assuming that’s what you want to do?” he added, glancing at his son, who was still slightly red under his fur.
“Perhaps in a less committing fashion, but, yes,” Simbol said uncomfortably.
“Then I assure you that you are going about it entirely the wrong way,” said Gus conversationally, putting an arm around Simbol’s shoulders. “You see, there is an art to asking a queen if you may have the pleasure of her company.”
“Oh, here we go...” muttered Simbol, rolling his eyes.
Gus saw this, but took it in stride. “You get down on your knee,” he instructed, doing so in front of Simbol, who looked highly uncomfortable now, “you present her with flowers,” he produced an imaginary bouquet and handed it to Simbol, bowing theatrically, “and then you ask her, ‘Might I dance with you under the light of the next Jellicle moon’?” He looked back up at his son and stood up, looking a little sterner now. “You do not,” he instructed, poking Simbol in the chest, “respond to any teasing she might throw at you, nor do you attempt to rid yourself of your infatuation with her by finding faults with her ways.”
Simbol looked a little confused at this, so Gus simplified. “Simbol, if she deliberately tries to push your buttons, then it’s probably a sign that she feels the same way about you.”
Simbol’s eyes lit up. “You really think so?” he asked quietly.
“I know so,” Gus grinned. “I have had a bit of experience in these things, you realize.”
Simbol smacked him lightly with a paw. “You’re not that old, father...”
“Old enough to be a father,” Gus countered, as the two of them rounded a street corner and saw the junkyard in the distance. “And hopefully, that is a claim that you yourself will be able to make one day.”
“Right,” said Simbol, as they reached the gate and the Protector steeled himself to talk to Jennyanydots. “No pressure, though, surely?”
“No pressure at all,” Gus laughed, placing a paw on Simbol’s shoulder. “Go get ‘em, Protector.”
Simbol blushed and made to find Jenny, but hesitated and turned around. “Father...” he started, and Gus raised his eyebrows, “...thank you.”
The large gold-and-white cat stepped forward, and he and Gus shared a hug, gruff and manly but all the same endearing. “I love you, son,” Gus murmured, patting Simbol’s back.
Simbol pulled back and smiled. “Love you too, Dad,” he said, then patted Gus on the shoulder and disappeared through the gate.
Gus stared after him. Dad ... he hadn’t heard Simbol call him that since he was a wide-eyed kitten. Gus grinned. No matter how much he grew, Simbol would always be his son. His Simbol.
Simbol. My Simbol. My son.
*******
Gus patted the last of the earth into place, then flung the shovel to the side. There. It was done. Finished. He panted heavily; the task had left him exhausted and sweating, and his still-injured back protested painfully. Though the pain he felt now, as he looked down at his son’s completed grave, was nothing compared to any wounds he may have had.
Things had come full circle now. He had raised Simbol, raised him from his innocent kithood, to boisterous young tom, to finally the Protector of the tribe ... and he had buried Simbol, condemning him and his past to the unforgiving elements of the earth, leaving him alone, leaving him to feel nothing. Gus cast his shimmering eyes at the stars again. Oh, how he wished that it was he who could feel nothing.
He couldn’t stand this, this inability to separate himself from his emotions, this inability to not feel the grief that was pressing down upon him, suffocating him, suffocating his heart. Gus stepped backward and sank down upon the overturned can once more, wrapping his arms around his shabby coat. His breathing was harsh and ragged, and he began to shiver; though it wasn’t from the cold chill of the night air.
The Theatre Cat’s teeth chattered as he stared down at Simbol’s finished grave. He gazed at it without seeing it; his eyes glazed over and his mind wandered once more. Simbol, playing tag with him as a kitten ... Simbol, running the Guardian training field with his friend Skimbleshanks, laughing lightly with the future Railway Cat ... Simbol, gazing at the junkyard from above the center tire, determined to fulfill his new role as Protector ... Simbol, curled up atop a car with Jenny, fast asleep with his head nuzzling that of his new mate’s... Simbol, reaching out to Old Deuteronomy from his deathbed in the dresser, conversing with the Jellicle leader in pained, shaky whispers ... Simbol ... not moving ... Simbol ... Simbol...
What were my last words to him?
Gus squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to remember. He raised his paws to his head and rocked back and forth on the can, not noticing the can’s squeak in his concentration. What did he say? What did I say?
The Theatre Cat sobbed and cursed himself, cursed his failing memory, cursed everything and everyone that had taken Simbol away from him. I must remember ... please, let me remember ... I must ... I must...
“I must...”
“...Father, I’m worried about you.”
“You needn’t be, son. There’s still much energy left in these tired old bones.”
A pause. Then —
“You’re certain?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Another uncomfortable pause. “It ... seems that there are rumors going around among the guardians. Apparently Deuteronomy is going to select you to ... ascend to the Heaviside Layer next.”
A light laugh. “Deuteronomy is much smarter than that, my son. He will pick a cat who truly deserves it, and needs it, as always.”
“You’re certainly one to deserve it, Father.”
“But I’m also needed here, with the tribe.” Another laugh. “After all, someone has to help you raise those grandsons of yours, am I right?”
A light chuckle. “That you are, father.”
He remembered.
Words hadn’t been needed at the dresser. Words hadn’t been needed as Simbol lay dying in front of him. Words hadn’t been needed to communicate what the two of them said with their eyes, and the grasp of their paws; a wordless exchange that Gus would remember for the rest of his life. As long as he lived, he would always remember.
And now he was needed more than ever. Simbol was gone, Cattivo was gone, their family was broken and battered. Jenny had been taken away, and her sons had been left in the junkyard. Munkustrap had done his best to take them under his wing, particularly the youngest, Tumblebrutus, but there were some things that he wouldn’t be able to provide. Gus had to be there for his grandsons, and the other survivors. It was the least he could do; the least he owed Simbol.
Slowly, shakily, Gus stood up, and the can rattled from underneath him as he pushed off of it. He stumbled a bit, feeling slightly woozy, then cast his gaze down at Simbol’s grave one last time. He kept his paws wrapped around himself as he stared. The sheer sight of it seemed to send a deep coldness through his body; a numbing chill that seeped through his bones and encased his shattered heart.
“Asparagus?”
Slowly Gus tore his eyes from his son’s grave and turned around. A shadowy figure was approaching the Theatre Cat in the darkness, its steps hesitant, almost unsure. Gus squinted, and as the figure came into better light he saw that it was Skimbleshanks. The Railway Cat’s eyes were sorrowful and dark, yet he held himself with a quiet, dignified composure that guarded his emotions. Gus, however, had known Skimbleshanks for years, and was not thus easily fooled.
“I’m sorry,” the Theatre Cat said quietly, placing a paw on Skimble’s shoulder. “I know how much of a friend he was to you.”
Skimble blinked, and those dark eyes seemed to glisten for a moment, before he nodded and looked from Gus to the grave. He stared at it for a minute, as Gus had, before saying, “It was done well.”
Gus nodded. “It was something I had to do alone.”
“I understand.” The Railway Cat still hadn’t taken his eyes off of his friend’s final resting place. “I am sorry for you as well, Gus,” he said quietly. “He and Cattivo both meant a lot to you. To us.”
Gus’s throat seemed to tighten as he picked up the shovel he had cast aside. Skimble, stepping away from the grave, noticed that the Theatre Cat seemed to be struggling to say something. He moved toward him, concerned, but Gus suddenly gasped, “If we could have stopped them —”
“No,” Skimble said, and it was his turn now to place a paw on Gus’s shoulder, “there was nothing we could have done. You know the Monniks, Asparagus. They never hold back.”
“But we could have —”
“No,” Skimbleshanks repeated, dropping his paw. “I thought so myself too, at first.” He hesitated. “But ... Jellylorum told me that the two of us were, for all intents and purposes, dead, when Simbol decided to go to save his sons. I wouldn’t have expected him to do anything different.” He dropped his eyes from Gus’s. “My only regret is that we weren’t well enough to assist him, but even if we were ... he would have refused help. He wouldn’t have wanted to put any of the tribe in danger; Munkustrap is proof of that. He told us that Simbol had wanted him to stay out of things, but he eventually just ... couldn’t.”
Gus blinked, then acknowledged, “It was probably the only time he ever disobeyed an order.” He fiddled with the large shovel in his paws for a moment before continuing. “I do believe he’ll do Simbol proud.”
Skimble nodded. “As do I. He will fulfill the role of Protector admirably.”
Gus toyed with the shovel once more, and silence descended upon the pair; Skimbleshanks gazed at Simbol’s grave again, and heard Gus eventually whisper from beside him, “They’ve been reunited, haven’t they, Skimbleshanks?”
Skimble turned to Gus with a questioning look. The Theatre Cat has cast his gaze upward and was staring at the stars, which were reflected in his solemn eyes. “Simbol and Cattivo. They’re together now. In Heaviside.”
Skimble blinked, then nodded. “Of course. Simbol’s still our Protector, in addition to Munkustrap.” Slowly the Railway Cat smiled, the first time he had smiled in quite awhile. “He just has a different viewing point now.”
Gus gave his own shaky grin. “Hopefully I’ll be joining them one day.”
“Yes,” Skimble agreed. “But not anytime soon. You’re needed here more than ever now, Asparagus. Old Deuteronomy understands that.”
“I know,” the Theatre Cat murmured, still looking at the stars. “I know.”
The two of them stayed like that for a moment, each gazing up at the dim, starry sky, before Skimble placed an arm around the older cat’s shoulders and wordlessly began to lead him away. At last Gus closed his eyes and turned, taking his gaze away from everything — the stars, the surrounding night, Simbol’s grave. He turned away from all of it, and let Skimbleshanks lead him through the junkyard, back to his family. They needed him — and he needed them.
Tomorrow, there would be mourning. There would be wails of sorrow — displays of grief that would echo round the junkyard. But for now, there were just memories. Memories of Simbol, memories of the son whom he had loved, memories that Gus promised himself would never be forgotten. He would pass them on, and future generations would pass them on, so that all future Jellicles would know of the great Protector, who had done so much for so many.
Goodbye, Simbol ... my Simbol ... my son.
I was thinking of how to ‘get to know’ Gus and Skimble better, so that I might role-play them, when inspiration struck. I was reading Ritzkin #7 (“The Protector”) at the time, and promptly contacted Spider to see if I could write this. She gave her approval (I believe her exact words were, ‘HELL YES!’), so here it is. Basically it’s the story of what happened immediately after the events in ‘The Protector’, and Gus’s views on the whole thing. Be warned; it’s very dark. Thanks for reading!
****
Shattered
******
No parent should ever have to bury their child.
So thought Gus the Theatre Cat as he dug into the earth with his shovel and lifted it, throwing the heavy dirt downward, into the large square hole in front of him. The hole where his son, Simbol, now resided, where he had been laid to rest in one of the many boxes found around the junkyard. His eyes had been closed and he looked at peace, a smile just visible on his unmoving face. His chest fur had been matted and bloody; Jenny had cleaned it best she could, but the remains of her mate’s battle with the Monniks had still been clearly visible.
It had probably been the only battle he had ever lost.
Gus grunted and dug the shovel into the earth again. The manual labor forced him to concentrate and shoved all other thoughts out of his mind, which was exactly the Theatre Cat’s intent. He didn’t want to think about anything right now; all that mattered was the task in front of him. He didn’t want to think about Simbol being carried back to the junkyard, torn and battle-scarred but safe in the gentle arms of Milton the police dog ... he didn’t want to think about Munkustrap, the Protector’s young trainee and now the Protector himself, hurrying to lead the dog forward, anguish written all over his face ... he didn’t want to think about Simbol’s family, rushing to him, grief causing them immeasurable pain ... he didn’t want to see himself staring down at his son, his son, whom he loved... his son, whose breathing had been labored and irregular and then had slipped away like the last light of a sunset ... his son, whose lifeless body had been surrounded by his family, who had done their best but had been unable to bring him back from the brink of death....
“Dad... Oh, Dad...”
“Let’s get him inside. He needs a healer.”
“Simbol! No... Simbol!”
“Jenny...”
“He’s not dead yet, Jenny. Maybe we can do something!”
“Dad? Is that Dad? Is he all right?”
“Daddy! Daddy Daddy Daddy! Catti’s asleepying and not wakey-wakeying! And everyone’s cryin’! Daddy! Daddy!”
“Shh, Tumble. Calm down... I’m here... now...”
Silence.
“Daddy, you’re bloody.” A sob.
“I know. Shh.”
Gus flung the shovel down and turned away from his son’s grave, bitter tears coursing down his face and pooling at his feet. Nothing could be done... Cattivo had been beyond saving, and so had Simbol... But their deaths could have been prevented... The ambush back at the theater seemed like decades ago... Simbol’s son was murdered, carelessly, thoughtlessly murdered... And so was Simbol, he had been taunted and tortured until nothing could be done to save the cat that meant so much to so many, the cat whom everyone in the tribe counted on, looked up to, even loved...
Gus kicked at the shovel hatefully, blindly, and the clanging he heard as it tumbled away from him gave the Theatre Cat no happiness whatsoever. He doubted he would ever truly be able to feel happiness again. The thought agonized him, tortured him, weighed upon him until he finally couldn’t take any more and sat down on an overturned tin can, burying his face in his paws, more tears mingling with the fur.
“Simbol...” he sobbed. “Oh, Simbol... Simbol...”
I should have done more for you, the Theatre Cat thought as he wept. I should have been there for you... I should have put up more of a fight... I should have died in your place...
Three large cats were circling him and his grandsons. Two of them charged, and he raised a paw to thrust one of them aside, whirling around to see the one-eyed cat charge him. Plato leapt between them and swiped at the cat’s good eye; Cattivo and his father, Skimbleshanks, vaulted into the fight, and Alonzo — where was Alonzo? Gus whirled around again, frantic, looking for his third grandson. Where was Alonzo? His split second of delay cost him dearly, and he suddenly felt a large weight hurl itself into his aging back, slashing into it, ripping the fur to shreds... pain like he had never imagined blossomed from the wounds and he dimly heard Skimbleshanks’ roar as the scene began to fade before his eyes... his last sight was of Plato, tussling with the one-eyed cat, and Cattivo, running to assist his brother ... Cattivo ... Cattivo...
“No...”
That had been the last time he had seen his grandson alive...
“No...”
He couldn’t even remember the last time he had spoken to Simbol...
“No!...”
Simbol, whom he could have saved along with Cattivo, if only he had managed to stop the Monniks... Simbol, who was now lying motionless in the grave behind him, becoming one with the earth that was being piled upon his body...
“NO!” Gus tore his face from his paws and looked upward, at the night sky, which seemed so inviting at every Ball but was now only cold and bleak, with no moon to accompany the dimly twinkling stars. “Simbol, Cattivo ... why did it have to be you?” he shouted at the sky, angrily, irrationally. “Why couldn’t it be me? I’m old; I’ve lived my life! It wasn’t ... your ... t-time...”
He buried his face in his paws again. “It should have n-never ... been ... your time...”
He was clutching Simbol’s paw, holding it so hard it almost hurt, as if by grasping it he could keep Simbol’s life inside of him. The Protector was lying in the midst of his broken family, his youngest son’s face bloody as it mingled with the wounds on the great cat’s chest. Simbol’s eyes were flickering, his breathing slowing ... Jenny was crying as she nuzzled her mate, willing him to stay with them, with the ones who needed him ... Simbol’s paw was going limp, and Jenny’s voice was rising in a mournful wail...
“Why couldn’t you have remained, Simbol?” sobbed Gus, his voice the only sound that echoed round the clearing. “Y-your family ... they needed you ... with Cattivo gone, they needed to stay s-stronger than ever ... you were their strength, Simbol, you were Jenny’s strength and you were Alonzo’s and Plato’s and Admetus’s and the tribe’s ... Simbol, you were ... you were my strength...”
There was no answer, no sound from the empty junkyard, save for the whistling of the wind as it blew through the clearing. The shovel turned over a bit and would have blown away, but Gus wiped away the remaining tears, bent down, and grabbed it, before it tumbled out of his reach. I must finish what I have started, he thought, and drew a shaky breath. I owe that to Simbol.
Simbol. His Simbol. His son.
*****
“You were magnificent, father!” came the voice from a large gold-and-white blur that tackled Gus to the ground in an attempt to give the Theatre Cat a solid hug. Surprised, Gus obligingly fell backward until Simbol realized his mistake and helped his father up. The tom, who had been the Protector for little more than a year now, looked sheepish, an expression rarely seen on his features. “My apologies.”
Gus smiled and ruffled his son’s head-fur, having to reach up a little to do it; though it was worth it for the laughably annoyed expression that crossed Simbol’s features. “Perfectly all right,” the Theatre Cat smiled, before the significance of his son’s presence dawned at him at last. “Simbol, what are you doing here?” he asked, slightly worried. Were there Pollicles afoot?
But Simbol just smiled and put a paw on Gus’s shoulder. “Isn’t it obvious? I came to see you.” He gestured around them, to the auditorium that was home to so many of the Theatre Cat’s performances. The backstage area, where they were now, was full of humans, as they mingled and chatted about the show they had just seen. None of them seemed to give notice to the two cats, one of whom had been onstage, talking in the corner, though that was fine by Gus. The one person who did matter to him had noticed him, and that was enough. Gus smiled and turned back to Simbol.
He opened his mouth. He wanted to say something, to thank Simbol for coming, but the emotions he felt at the fact that Simbol had put all of his duties as Protector on hold just to come and support him, to come and see him, left him wordless, and so Gus closed his mouth and smiled again. Simbol laughed; he seemed to have understood. This meant more to Gus than he could possibly tell his son.
“Things are fine back in the junkyard, just in case you’re wondering,” said Simbol, who seemed to have read Gus’s mind, and now gave him a sly smile. “I could tell you were worrying. You needn’t; Old Deuteronomy knows where I am and has Skimbleshanks temporarily in charge. It’s true he’s not around much, but when he is, he is an excellent guardian...”
“Good to know, that is,” commented Gus with a chuckle, and he and Simbol began to head to the theater’s exit, being careful to keep close to the wall so that their tails would not be trod upon by careless humans. Soon they were outside, in a nook not too far away from the junkyard, the hot afternoon sun lighting their way as they headed back to the Jellicle habitat. “How are you doing as the Protector?” asked Gus, changing the subject.
Simbol hesitated a moment, then answered, “...Fine.” The look Gus gave him told the younger cat plainly that this answer would not suffice, and so Simbol elaborated. “Things are ... okay. Most of the younger cats answer to me, and those who don’t are unsettled enough by Tantomile and Coricopat that they think twice. But ...” he hesitated again, “...some of the older cats ... they seem to resent me being chosen as the Protector. And they’re determined to let me know it.” He sighed. “It’s hard to protect a tribe that willfully places itself in danger just to get you riled up.”
Gus frowned, but then a memory of a recent incident suddenly came to mind, and he grinned knowingly. Simbol did not miss this, and stopped, looking at him. “What?”
“These ‘older cats’,” Gus began, trying his best not to laugh, “does one of them, in particular, seem to resent you more than the rest?”
Simbol shuffled uncomfortably. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, father...”
“Oh, Simbol, I think you do,” laughed Gus. “I think it is one queen in particular whom you are having trouble with - a queen not much older than yourself, I might add - and she happens to go by the name of Jennyanydots.”
“She teaches mice to knit!” Simbol said despairingly, apparently forgetting his lack of specifics. Gus bit back another laugh as his son continued, “She has a whole family of human pets and she stays in their house at night to instruct cockroaches on tap-dancing! Isn’t there something fundamentally wrong with that?”
“I was under the impression that a Protector has contacts of all kind, including police dogs, pigeons, rats and, yes, insects,” said Gus, raising an eyebrow. “As such a Protector should have no trouble associating with said colonies.” His voice grew serious as he leaned in toward his son. “Something else about her is bothering you, Simbol. What is it?”
Simbol didn’t reply, only darted his eyes about in a shifty manner, refusing to meet Gus’s gaze. The Theatre Cat clapped his paws together in sudden delight and understanding. “Of course!” he exclaimed happily, “You fancy her, don’t you?”
“Father!” said Simbol, blushing underneath his fur. “If you could please keep your voice down...”
“We’re not yet near the junkyard, son,” smiled Gus, “and as for the object of your affections, she is currently residing in her den there. I believe she is developing a nice new floral pattern for the mice today. It was the talk of the whole tribe.”
“It must have been a slow news week...” Simbol muttered, still not meeting his father’s gaze.
“Well, Simbol, if you want to inform Jenny of your, ah, infatuation with her - that is, I am assuming that’s what you want to do?” he added, glancing at his son, who was still slightly red under his fur.
“Perhaps in a less committing fashion, but, yes,” Simbol said uncomfortably.
“Then I assure you that you are going about it entirely the wrong way,” said Gus conversationally, putting an arm around Simbol’s shoulders. “You see, there is an art to asking a queen if you may have the pleasure of her company.”
“Oh, here we go...” muttered Simbol, rolling his eyes.
Gus saw this, but took it in stride. “You get down on your knee,” he instructed, doing so in front of Simbol, who looked highly uncomfortable now, “you present her with flowers,” he produced an imaginary bouquet and handed it to Simbol, bowing theatrically, “and then you ask her, ‘Might I dance with you under the light of the next Jellicle moon’?” He looked back up at his son and stood up, looking a little sterner now. “You do not,” he instructed, poking Simbol in the chest, “respond to any teasing she might throw at you, nor do you attempt to rid yourself of your infatuation with her by finding faults with her ways.”
Simbol looked a little confused at this, so Gus simplified. “Simbol, if she deliberately tries to push your buttons, then it’s probably a sign that she feels the same way about you.”
Simbol’s eyes lit up. “You really think so?” he asked quietly.
“I know so,” Gus grinned. “I have had a bit of experience in these things, you realize.”
Simbol smacked him lightly with a paw. “You’re not that old, father...”
“Old enough to be a father,” Gus countered, as the two of them rounded a street corner and saw the junkyard in the distance. “And hopefully, that is a claim that you yourself will be able to make one day.”
“Right,” said Simbol, as they reached the gate and the Protector steeled himself to talk to Jennyanydots. “No pressure, though, surely?”
“No pressure at all,” Gus laughed, placing a paw on Simbol’s shoulder. “Go get ‘em, Protector.”
Simbol blushed and made to find Jenny, but hesitated and turned around. “Father...” he started, and Gus raised his eyebrows, “...thank you.”
The large gold-and-white cat stepped forward, and he and Gus shared a hug, gruff and manly but all the same endearing. “I love you, son,” Gus murmured, patting Simbol’s back.
Simbol pulled back and smiled. “Love you too, Dad,” he said, then patted Gus on the shoulder and disappeared through the gate.
Gus stared after him. Dad ... he hadn’t heard Simbol call him that since he was a wide-eyed kitten. Gus grinned. No matter how much he grew, Simbol would always be his son. His Simbol.
Simbol. My Simbol. My son.
*******
Gus patted the last of the earth into place, then flung the shovel to the side. There. It was done. Finished. He panted heavily; the task had left him exhausted and sweating, and his still-injured back protested painfully. Though the pain he felt now, as he looked down at his son’s completed grave, was nothing compared to any wounds he may have had.
Things had come full circle now. He had raised Simbol, raised him from his innocent kithood, to boisterous young tom, to finally the Protector of the tribe ... and he had buried Simbol, condemning him and his past to the unforgiving elements of the earth, leaving him alone, leaving him to feel nothing. Gus cast his shimmering eyes at the stars again. Oh, how he wished that it was he who could feel nothing.
He couldn’t stand this, this inability to separate himself from his emotions, this inability to not feel the grief that was pressing down upon him, suffocating him, suffocating his heart. Gus stepped backward and sank down upon the overturned can once more, wrapping his arms around his shabby coat. His breathing was harsh and ragged, and he began to shiver; though it wasn’t from the cold chill of the night air.
The Theatre Cat’s teeth chattered as he stared down at Simbol’s finished grave. He gazed at it without seeing it; his eyes glazed over and his mind wandered once more. Simbol, playing tag with him as a kitten ... Simbol, running the Guardian training field with his friend Skimbleshanks, laughing lightly with the future Railway Cat ... Simbol, gazing at the junkyard from above the center tire, determined to fulfill his new role as Protector ... Simbol, curled up atop a car with Jenny, fast asleep with his head nuzzling that of his new mate’s... Simbol, reaching out to Old Deuteronomy from his deathbed in the dresser, conversing with the Jellicle leader in pained, shaky whispers ... Simbol ... not moving ... Simbol ... Simbol...
What were my last words to him?
Gus squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to remember. He raised his paws to his head and rocked back and forth on the can, not noticing the can’s squeak in his concentration. What did he say? What did I say?
The Theatre Cat sobbed and cursed himself, cursed his failing memory, cursed everything and everyone that had taken Simbol away from him. I must remember ... please, let me remember ... I must ... I must...
“I must...”
“...Father, I’m worried about you.”
“You needn’t be, son. There’s still much energy left in these tired old bones.”
A pause. Then —
“You’re certain?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Another uncomfortable pause. “It ... seems that there are rumors going around among the guardians. Apparently Deuteronomy is going to select you to ... ascend to the Heaviside Layer next.”
A light laugh. “Deuteronomy is much smarter than that, my son. He will pick a cat who truly deserves it, and needs it, as always.”
“You’re certainly one to deserve it, Father.”
“But I’m also needed here, with the tribe.” Another laugh. “After all, someone has to help you raise those grandsons of yours, am I right?”
A light chuckle. “That you are, father.”
He remembered.
Words hadn’t been needed at the dresser. Words hadn’t been needed as Simbol lay dying in front of him. Words hadn’t been needed to communicate what the two of them said with their eyes, and the grasp of their paws; a wordless exchange that Gus would remember for the rest of his life. As long as he lived, he would always remember.
And now he was needed more than ever. Simbol was gone, Cattivo was gone, their family was broken and battered. Jenny had been taken away, and her sons had been left in the junkyard. Munkustrap had done his best to take them under his wing, particularly the youngest, Tumblebrutus, but there were some things that he wouldn’t be able to provide. Gus had to be there for his grandsons, and the other survivors. It was the least he could do; the least he owed Simbol.
Slowly, shakily, Gus stood up, and the can rattled from underneath him as he pushed off of it. He stumbled a bit, feeling slightly woozy, then cast his gaze down at Simbol’s grave one last time. He kept his paws wrapped around himself as he stared. The sheer sight of it seemed to send a deep coldness through his body; a numbing chill that seeped through his bones and encased his shattered heart.
“Asparagus?”
Slowly Gus tore his eyes from his son’s grave and turned around. A shadowy figure was approaching the Theatre Cat in the darkness, its steps hesitant, almost unsure. Gus squinted, and as the figure came into better light he saw that it was Skimbleshanks. The Railway Cat’s eyes were sorrowful and dark, yet he held himself with a quiet, dignified composure that guarded his emotions. Gus, however, had known Skimbleshanks for years, and was not thus easily fooled.
“I’m sorry,” the Theatre Cat said quietly, placing a paw on Skimble’s shoulder. “I know how much of a friend he was to you.”
Skimble blinked, and those dark eyes seemed to glisten for a moment, before he nodded and looked from Gus to the grave. He stared at it for a minute, as Gus had, before saying, “It was done well.”
Gus nodded. “It was something I had to do alone.”
“I understand.” The Railway Cat still hadn’t taken his eyes off of his friend’s final resting place. “I am sorry for you as well, Gus,” he said quietly. “He and Cattivo both meant a lot to you. To us.”
Gus’s throat seemed to tighten as he picked up the shovel he had cast aside. Skimble, stepping away from the grave, noticed that the Theatre Cat seemed to be struggling to say something. He moved toward him, concerned, but Gus suddenly gasped, “If we could have stopped them —”
“No,” Skimble said, and it was his turn now to place a paw on Gus’s shoulder, “there was nothing we could have done. You know the Monniks, Asparagus. They never hold back.”
“But we could have —”
“No,” Skimbleshanks repeated, dropping his paw. “I thought so myself too, at first.” He hesitated. “But ... Jellylorum told me that the two of us were, for all intents and purposes, dead, when Simbol decided to go to save his sons. I wouldn’t have expected him to do anything different.” He dropped his eyes from Gus’s. “My only regret is that we weren’t well enough to assist him, but even if we were ... he would have refused help. He wouldn’t have wanted to put any of the tribe in danger; Munkustrap is proof of that. He told us that Simbol had wanted him to stay out of things, but he eventually just ... couldn’t.”
Gus blinked, then acknowledged, “It was probably the only time he ever disobeyed an order.” He fiddled with the large shovel in his paws for a moment before continuing. “I do believe he’ll do Simbol proud.”
Skimble nodded. “As do I. He will fulfill the role of Protector admirably.”
Gus toyed with the shovel once more, and silence descended upon the pair; Skimbleshanks gazed at Simbol’s grave again, and heard Gus eventually whisper from beside him, “They’ve been reunited, haven’t they, Skimbleshanks?”
Skimble turned to Gus with a questioning look. The Theatre Cat has cast his gaze upward and was staring at the stars, which were reflected in his solemn eyes. “Simbol and Cattivo. They’re together now. In Heaviside.”
Skimble blinked, then nodded. “Of course. Simbol’s still our Protector, in addition to Munkustrap.” Slowly the Railway Cat smiled, the first time he had smiled in quite awhile. “He just has a different viewing point now.”
Gus gave his own shaky grin. “Hopefully I’ll be joining them one day.”
“Yes,” Skimble agreed. “But not anytime soon. You’re needed here more than ever now, Asparagus. Old Deuteronomy understands that.”
“I know,” the Theatre Cat murmured, still looking at the stars. “I know.”
The two of them stayed like that for a moment, each gazing up at the dim, starry sky, before Skimble placed an arm around the older cat’s shoulders and wordlessly began to lead him away. At last Gus closed his eyes and turned, taking his gaze away from everything — the stars, the surrounding night, Simbol’s grave. He turned away from all of it, and let Skimbleshanks lead him through the junkyard, back to his family. They needed him — and he needed them.
Tomorrow, there would be mourning. There would be wails of sorrow — displays of grief that would echo round the junkyard. But for now, there were just memories. Memories of Simbol, memories of the son whom he had loved, memories that Gus promised himself would never be forgotten. He would pass them on, and future generations would pass them on, so that all future Jellicles would know of the great Protector, who had done so much for so many.
Goodbye, Simbol ... my Simbol ... my son.
