The season had gone from frigid fall to freezing winter, and with the arrival of the first frost came the inevitable change of age. Certain pieces of junk that had rested in the junkyard for as long as anyone could remember began to decay and fade away; Skimbleshanks’s old joints began to hurt him so that he spent the chilly mornings inside; all of the cats in the junkyard grew a thick winter coat that made them look more like bears than cats; but the most obvious change of all was in Mistoffelees.
When he had first arrived at the junkyard in early fall, he was but a tiny, weak kitten who was often sick. Now, though, he was quite a strong young cat with bright blue eyes and muscles that rippled faintly beneath his velvety coat when he pounced on the withered leaves that blew across the junkyard. His voice, though seldom heard, had deepened from a squeaky mew to a soft, purring sound that was pleasant to hear. He was still as small, shy and withdrawn as ever, and the others doubted he would ever outgrow that, but as long as he kept out from underfoot they were contented to let him go his own way.
The wind was particularly biting one night, the air especially icy, and most of the cats had fallen asleep in groups, huddled closely together under boxes and behind pieces of furniture to block the wind and keep warm. Misto picked his way around and over the masses of furry bodies, hopping madly from foot to foot and crossing his paws over his chest in a futile effort to circulate his frozen blood. His teeth chattered loudly despite his efforts to keep them clenched tight.
He spotted the Rum Tum Tugger amidst a pile of female bodies and leaped gracefully over Etcetera to get to him. “Tugger,” he whispered loudly. “Tugger!”
“Whazzat?” the tom replied, sitting up and looking around drowsily.
“Can I sleep over here?” Misto asked, rubbing his arms frantically with his paws. They had long since gone numb, a new and unpleasant feeling to the young Jellicle.
“Nah,” Tugger yawned. “There’s no more room. Sorry, Cassandra.” With that he laid back down and exhaled a snore.
Misto growled and stepped over the tom, hopping over to where Munkustrap and Demeter were sleeping. Their bodies were entertwined so that you could not tell where one ended and the other began. Demeter’s head rested on Munkustrap’s flank, and his on hers. Both were purring loudly. Misto decided against waking them and stood miserably, scanning the junkyard for other Jellicles. Alonzo, Tumble- brutus, Coricopat and Tantomile dozed in a jumble of arms, legs and tails which looked quite warm indeed, so Misto made his way to their spot, behind an overturned sofa. He curled up somewhere between what he thought was Tantomile and Tumblebrutus, but was literally kicked out of the group by Alonzo, who had awoken and stretched. “Get lost,” he muttered to Misto, who hissed in return and stalked away.
“I’m freezing to death and no one cares,” the blue eyed cat called in a singsong voice. His words echoed around the junkyard, but were favored with no response. With a heavy sigh he wandered off, searching for a place that might hold warmth and comfort. The best he was able to do was a cardboard box that had blown over on its side. It was facing so that the full force of the wind hit the inside of it and with every gust it scooted forwards an inch or two, but with a little effort Misto was able to flip it over, away from the gale. He entered the box and stretched out with a shiver on its floor.
But even then sleep was kept away, for his eyes had not been shut a full minute before someone kicked him lightly in the ribs. He opened them again, startled, and found himself staring up at Victoria. She was rubbing her arms with her paws in much the same way that he had done. “Who’re you?” she asked. He sat up so that the moonlight fell on his face and smiled. “Oh, it’s you. Good. Move over.”
He complied, and she curled up next to him. “It’s like an icebox outside,” she complained. “I was sleeping by Tugger, but Bombalurina took up too much room.”
“I tried that, but there wasn’t enough room for me either. He called me Cassandra,” Misto said with a chuckle. Victoria giggled.
“That sounds like something he’d do,” she remarked, interrupting herself with a languid yawn. “Good Heaviside, I’m still cold.” She moved closer to Misto. He laid his head on her back and closed his eyes again.
“You know, I wonder if it ever gets this cold in Pall Mall,” she said. He opened his eyes slowly and peered at her.
“Why on earth do you want to know?” he asked.
“That’s where Bustopher Jones is right now. I heard Jellylorum talking about it. The fat old thing; he’s probably eating caviar in some sunny restaurant.” Though the thought of a sunny restaurant appealed to Misto, the mention of caviar, which he had eaten once after it had sat in his old owners’ fridge for two weeks, made his stomach turn.
“Who cares?” he said, closing his eyes for the third time. “That’s fine for him. I’d rather be in the junkyard than anywhere else on earth.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you have no sense of adventure,” Victoria persisted, rolling over so that Misto had to move his head. “There’s got to be someplace you’d rather be.”
“You tell me where you’d rather be first,” Misto replied, settling back down without opening his eyes. Victoria draped herself over his back in a most uncomfortable position and then quickly rearranged herself on his other side. He was becoming annoyed and wished she would just stay put, despite the fact that her company was desirable in defense against the cold.
“Hmmm,” she thought aloud, kneading her claws against his face. He squinched his eyes shut to keep from having them poked out and winced when her claws made contact with the flesh of his cheek. “I’ve heard Paris is nice this time of year.” It wasn’t true. She’d never been to Paris, nor did she know anyone who had, but she’d always wanted to go.
“Maybe we’ll visit there someday,” Misto yawned. “How about you?” Victoria asked, returning the yawn. Her eyes were growing heavy.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to see the countryside.”
“Which countryside?”
“Any countryside.” Their words had become slow and sleepy, and the sound of the purring which always occurs between sleeping cats soon reverberated off the walls of the box.
“I’m being difficult?” he mumbled, not moving his head from its resting place atop his paws.
“Honestly, you’re as stubborn as a Pollicle,” she whined, yanking his tail. He growled and snatched it away from her, tucking it under his body so she couldn’t get at it again.
Victoria was undaunted. She took hold of his feet from under his haunches and towed him slowly out of the box. She succeeded in getting his hindquarters out of the box when she spotted Tugger coming towards them, flanked on either side by his female companions. “Tugger, help,” she complained, dropping Misto’s feet, which were instantly vacuumed back into place under his body.
“Step aside, girls,” Tugger said with a grin. His flock moved away and watched in admiration as he spat on both his paws and rubbed them together. He took hold of Misto’s feet and yanked him quickly out into the sun, leaving deep ruts in the bottom of the box where the black cat had frantically tried to grip with his claws.
“Can’t you let a tired cat get some rest?” Misto exhaled wearily. “I was up all night, first trying to find a place to sleep and then putting up with squirmy here.” He motioned with his head towards Victoria, who glared at him.
“It’s not my fault you’re lumpy,” she argued. “I couldn’t get comfortable.” She turned to Tugger. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad there are some agreeable cats in this junkyard.”
Tugger bowed and swaggered off, followed by the cooing flock of females. “He thinks he’s so... so...” Misto searched for the word. “Perfect,” he finished.
“Well,” Victoria sighed. “He’s not. Come on, let’s go.”
“Go where?” Misto replied, rubbing his eyes with the back of his paw.
“To Paris. You said we’d go,” she said, as if it were no big deal.
“I never said that. I said we might go, one day, but not today.”
“All right, I give in. I’m hungry,” she changed the subject abruptly as she was apt to do. He rolled his eyes and held out his paws. She took them and pulled him to his feet. “Honestly, Mistoffelees! You’re not an old cat!”
Breakfast at the junkyard consisted of scrounging in trash cans and under pieces of junk, a process which was usually unwieldy because most of the cats hoarded what they found and would not share. Jennyanydots had once tried to start a sort of food pantry in the stove where she and Jellylorum shared residence, but the food that did not spoil was gone within a matter of days, eaten by the Jellicles who were too lazy to find their own, so the idea was abandoned.
“Nothing in this one,” Misto called to Victoria, balancing dangerously on the rim of the last trash can in the junkyard.
“Darn,” Victoria said, whacking the side of the can with the flat of her paw. The can wobbled and Misto fell inside, landing with a loud clank at the bottom of it.
“Oh, wonderful. Thanks, Vickie,” he muttered, making a few mad leaps for the rim of the can. On the last try he succeeded in catching it with his claws, and with a tremendous amount of strength pulled himself up and out of the can.
“Now what are we going to do?” she asked him. “The cans are empty. We’ve scoured every last inch of the junkyard. We’ve tried bribing Tumblebrutus. I’m still hungry.”
Before Misto could answer her, Skimbleshanks came running up with an excited look on his face. “Munkustrap’s called a meeting!” he exclaimed, his glass green eyes flashing.
“That’s great, Skimble. Will there be refreshments?” Victoria asked sarcastically.
“I don’t know, lass. All I know is that it’s important.” He smiled quickly at Misto before darting off in the direction of the broken down automobile which marked the entrance to the junkyard. He and Victoria exchanged curious glances and followed.
The usual crowd of cats had gathered at the base of the big tire that served as a podium from which speeches were delivered from either Munkustrap or Old Deuteronomy. The tire was used only for very urgent purposes; otherwise, meetings were held in the yard of Munkustrap’s domicile. Everyone except for Bustopher Jones was there, sitting close together to preserve heat, for the feeble winter sunlight provided light but not warmth. When Misto and Victoria arrived at the tire, Munkustrap was standing on the wide tread of the tire and preparing himself to speak. He cleared his throat loudly, and the waves of fervent whispering that washed over the crowd ceased.
“I, uh, have an announcement to make,” he said, wincing at the “uh” that had wormed its way into his introduction. He was usually an excellent speaker, but the gravity of his message affected his countenance. “We have received word from the Rumpus Cat that he needs our help. It appears that he has been captured.”
A burst of mixed conversation came from the group of cats. Several of them shouted out things. Misto caught snatches of words and phrases: “Doesn’t exist!” “Not possible!” “Who’s going to...” “Must be joking!”
Munkustrap raised his paws to silence the shouts. “I know what you’re all thinking,” he said, looking helplessly at the crowd. “But I have thought very deeply about the matter. I realize that it could be a fraud, a practical joke.” His eyes sought out Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer in the crowd, but their faces wore a puzzled expression. “I realize, too, that it could be a trap, a trick laid out by Macavity.” This suggestion was greeted by a collective gasp from the audience. “Despite these dangers, it is our duty to come to the aid of our fellow cat, even if he is presumed to be a myth. The message was brought to our attention by a mouse who claims to have been caught by Rumpus Cat while in captivity and released on the premise that he deliver it, which he did. This story not only adds to the myth of Rumpus Cat but may also prove his existence.”
“Who are you going to get to go after him?” someone asked. Munkustrap cleared his throat again.
“I was hoping for, ah, some volunteers,” he said, scanning the crowd hopefully. No one spoke up, but many laughed at the absurdity of such a suggestion. Who among them would be stupid enough to endanger their very lives for a cat no one was sure even existed?
“I’ll go,” Victoria said, standing up.
“Vicki, are you nuts?” Misto hissed at her, grasping her paw and trying to pull her back down. She took advantage of it and yanked him to his feet.
“And Misto will, too,” she added, grinning at Munkustrap, who suddenly looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. Misto looked imploringly at the tabby and shook his head firmly from side to side, tapping his temple with his claw to show that his companion had temporarily lost her mind.
“Does anyone else,” Munkustrap sighed, running his paw through the fur on his head, “want to volunteer?” He was greeted by silence. Everyone was too stunned by Victoria’s proposition to speak. “Anyone?”
“Come on, Munkustrap, give us a chance,” Victoria insisted, fixing him with a level stare.
“You kids have got to be joking,” Tugger said with a laugh.
“Well, Tugger, I didn’t see you volunteer,” Munkustrap said with a frown. “All right, Victoria, you may have your chance.” She grinned at him and turned to Misto, who had turned a shade of green beneath his fur and was a little wobbly all of a sudden. “But,” he added, “I’m sending someone with you two. Tugger! Won’t you do me a favor and escort these brave young cats on their escapade?”
The smirk vanished from Tugger’s face, appeared on Munkustrap’s, and was replaced by a look of horror that masked all trace of Tugger’s previous good humor. “Aw, Munk!” he stammered.
“That’s right. Go on, now, it’s important that we act as soon as possible. The mouse, Metisaldo, can be found at the warehouse outside the city. He can tell you more. Meeting adjourned,” Munkustrap said with a wry smile. He hopped down from the tire and went to Victoria. The rest of the cats, still shocked at the outcome of the meeting, dispersed in silence.
“I’m impressed,” the tabby said to the white cat, who stared at him with pride. “That took guts. Keep Tugger in line and make sure he does his job. I’m sure you’ll be all right as long as you avoid rats and Pollicles and plan things carefully before jumping into action.” Victoria nodded and shook his paw with the vigor of a tom.
“I need to sit down,” Misto said, and did so with an audible thump.
Tugger came running up with the same horrified look on his face. “You can’t be serious,” he said to Munkustrap, who merely gazed calmly at his friend. “Munk, the guy doesn’t exist, for the Heaviside’s sake!”
“We don’t know that for sure,” the tabby protested. “You’re going to find out. Whether you want to or not.” He turned and sauntered away, leaving the imperious she-cat and the unbelieving toms to their voyage.
