{"product_id":"the-wild-road-isbn-9780345423030","title":"The Wild Road","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn the grand storytelling style of \u003ci\u003eWatership Down\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eTailchaser’s Song\u003c\/i\u003e comes an epic tale of adventure and danger, of heroism against insurmountable odds, and of love and comradeship among extraordinary animals who must brave The Wild Road . . .\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSecure in a world of privilege and comfort, the kitten Tag is happy as a pampered house pet—until the dreams come. Dreams that pour into his safe, snug world from the wise old cat Majicou: hazy images of travel along the magical highways of the animals, of a mission, and of a terrible responsibility that will fall on young Tag. Armed with the cryptic message that he must bring the King and Queen of cats to Tintagel before the spring equinox, Tag ventures outside. Meanwhile, an evil human known only as the Alchemist doggedly hunts the Queen for his own ghastly ends. And if the Alchemist captures her, the world will never be safe again . . . | \"Absolutely magical . . . Always intriguing.\"\u003cbr\u003e--Richard Adams\u003cbr\u003e     Author of Watership Down\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A magical quest fantasy--a Watership Down for cat lovers.\"\u003cbr\u003e--The Daily Telegraph (London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A diverting fantasy tale.\"\u003cbr\u003e--USA Today | A lifelong cat lover, Gabriel King has shared a home with every variety of feline, from stray to pedigree. He lives in London. |         Among human beings a cat is merely a cat; among cats a cat is a \u003cbr\u003e        prowling shadow in a jungle.\u003cbr\u003e        --Karel Capek\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey called the kitten Tag. They fed him, and he grew. They put a collar \u003cbr\u003earound his neck. They entertained him, and the world began to take on \u003cbr\u003eshape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was his world, full of novelty yet always reliable, exciting yet \u003cbr\u003esecure. He was a small king; and by the time a week was out, he had \u003cbr\u003eexplored every inch of his new kingdom. He liked the kitchen best. It was \u003cbr\u003ewarm in there on a cold day, and from the windowsill he could see out into \u003cbr\u003ethe garden. In the kitchen they made food, which was easy to get off them. \u003cbr\u003eHe had bowls of his own to eat it from. He had a box of clean dirt to \u003cbr\u003escrat in. The kitchen wasn't entirely comfortable--especially in the \u003cbr\u003emorning, when things went off or went around very loudly without \u003cbr\u003ewarning--but elsewhere they had given him a large sofa, covered in dark red \u003cbr\u003evelvet, among the scattered cushions of which he scrabbled and burrowed \u003cbr\u003eand slept. He had brass tubs with plants and some very interesting \u003cbr\u003efireplaces full of dried flowers, out of which flowed odors damp and sooty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUp a flight of stairs and into every room, every cupboard and corner! It \u003cbr\u003ewas big up there, and full of unattended human things. At first he \u003cbr\u003ewouldn't go on his own but always made one of them accompany him while he \u003cbr\u003einspected the shelves stuffed with clean linen and dusty books.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Come on, come on!\" he urged them. \"Here now! Look, here!\" They never \u003cbr\u003eanswered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey were too dull.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA further flight up, and it was as if nobody had ever lived there--echoes \u003cbr\u003eon the uncarpeted stairs, gray floorboards and open doors, pale bright \u003cbr\u003elight pouring in through uncurtained windows. Up there, each bare floor \u003cbr\u003ehad a smell of its own; each ball of fluff had a personality. If he \u003cbr\u003elistened, he could hear dead spiders contracting behind the woodwork. Left \u003cbr\u003eto himself up there he danced, for reasons he barely understood. It was a \u003cbr\u003eterritorial dance, grave yet full of energy. Simply to occupy the space, \u003cbr\u003eperhaps, he leapt and pounced and hurled himself about, then slept in a \u003cbr\u003epool of sunshine as if someone had switched him off. When he woke, the sun \u003cbr\u003ehad moved away, and they were calling him to come and eat more new things.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey called him Tag. He called them dull.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Come on, dulls!\" he urged them. \"Come on!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey had a room where they poured water on themselves. Every morning he \u003cbr\u003ehid outside it and jumped out on the big dull bare feet that passed. Nice \u003cbr\u003ebut dull, they were never quick enough or nimble enough to avoid him. They \u003cbr\u003enever learned. They remained shadowy to him--a large smell, cheerful if \u003cbr\u003emeaningless goings-on, a caring face suspended over him like the moon \u003cbr\u003ethrough the window if he woke afraid. They remained patient, amiable, \u003cbr\u003eeasily convinced, less focused than a tin of meat-and-liver dinner. The \u003cbr\u003edulls were for food or comfort or play. Especially for play. One of his \u003cbr\u003eearliest memories was of chasing soap bubbles. The light of an autumn \u003cbr\u003eevening shifted gently from blue to a deep orange. Up and down the room \u003cbr\u003erushed Tag, clapping his front paws in the air. He loved the movement. He \u003cbr\u003eloved the heavy warmth of the air. Everything was exciting. Everything was \u003cbr\u003egolden. The iridescence of each bubble was a brand-new world, a brand-new \u003cbr\u003eopportunity. It was like waking up in the morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBubble! Tag thought. Another bubble!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe thought, Chase the bubbles!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs leggy and unsteady, as easily surprised, as easy to tease, as full of \u003cbr\u003edaft energy as every kitten, Tag pursued the bubbles, and the bubbles--each \u003cbr\u003ewith its tiny reflected picture of the room in strange, slippery \u003cbr\u003ecolors--evaded him smoothly and neatly and then hid among a sheaf of dried \u003cbr\u003eflowers or floated slowly up the chimney or blundered without a care into \u003cbr\u003ea piece of furniture and burst. He heard them burst, in a way a human \u003cbr\u003ebeing never could, with a sound like tapped porcelain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvanescence and infinite renewal!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAny cat who wants to live forever should watch bubbles. Only kittens \u003cbr\u003eshould chase them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTag would chase anything. But the toy he enjoyed most was a small cloth \u003cbr\u003emouse with a very energetic odor. It had been bright red to start with. \u003cbr\u003eNow it was rather dirty, and to its original smell had been added that of \u003cbr\u003efloor polish. Tag whacked it around the shiny living room floor. Off it \u003cbr\u003eskidded. Tag skidded after it, scrabbling to keep upright on the tighter \u003cbr\u003eturns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne day he found a real mouse hiding under the Welsh dresser.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA real mouse was a different thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTag could see it, a little pointed black shape against the gray dimness. \u003cbr\u003eHe could smell it too, sharp and terrified against the customary smell of \u003cbr\u003efluff balls and seasoned pine. It knew he was there! It kept very still, \u003cbr\u003ebut there was a lick of light off one beady eye, and he could feel the \u003cbr\u003ethoughts racing and racing through its tiny head. All the mouse's fear was \u003cbr\u003etrapped there under the dresser, stretched taut between the two of them \u003cbr\u003elike a wire. Tag vibrated with it. He wanted to chase and pounce. He \u003cbr\u003ewanted to eat the mouse: he didn't want to eat it. He felt powerful and \u003cbr\u003epredatory; he felt bigger than himself. At the same time he was anxious \u003cbr\u003eand frightened--for himself and the mouse. Eating someone was such a big \u003cbr\u003estep. He rather regretted his bravado with the pet shop finches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe watched the mouse for some time. It watched him. Suddenly, Tag decided \u003cbr\u003enot to change either of their lives. His old cloth mouse had a nicer smell \u003cbr\u003eanyway. He reached in expertly, hooked it out, and walked away with it in \u003cbr\u003ehis jaws. \"Got you!\" he told it. He flung it in the air and caught it. \u003cbr\u003eAfter a few minutes he had forgotten the real mouse, though it probably \u003cbr\u003enever forgot him--and his dreams were never the same.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat afternoon he took the cloth mouse with him up to the third floor \u003cbr\u003ewhere he could pat it about in a drench of cool light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he got bored with this he jumped up on the windowsill. From up there \u003cbr\u003ehe had a view of the gardens stretching away right and left between the \u003cbr\u003ehouses. However much he cajoled or bullied them, the dulls never seemed to \u003cbr\u003eunderstand that he wanted to go out there. It fascinated him. His own \u003cbr\u003egarden had a lawn full of moss and clover that sloped down toward the \u003cbr\u003ehouse, where a steep rockery gave way to the lichen-stained tiles of the \u003cbr\u003echeckerboard patio. Lime trees overhung the back fence, along which--almost \u003cbr\u003eobscured by colonies of cotoneaster, monbretia, and fuchsia--ran a dark, \u003cbr\u003enarrow path of crazy paving. Cool smells came up from the garden after \u003cbr\u003erain. Wood pigeons shifted furtively in the branches all endless sunny \u003cbr\u003eafternoon, then burst into loud, aimless cooing. At twilight, the sleepy \u003cbr\u003eliquid call of blackbird and thrush seemed to come from another world; and \u003cbr\u003ethe greens of the lawn looked mysterious and unreal. Dawn filled the trees \u003cbr\u003ewith squirrels, who chased one another from branch to branch, looting as \u003cbr\u003ethey went, while birds quartered the lawn or hopped in circles around the \u003cbr\u003emossy stone birdbath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTransfixed with excitement, Tag watched them pull up worms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat afternoon, a magpie was in blatant possession of the lawn, strutting \u003cbr\u003earound the birdbath and every so often emitting loud and raucous cries. It \u003cbr\u003ewas a big, glossy bird, proud of its elegant black-and-white livery and \u003cbr\u003emetallic blue flashes. Tag had seen it before. He hated its bobbing head \u003cbr\u003eand powerful, ugly beak. He hated its flat, ironic eyes. Most of all he \u003cbr\u003ehated the way it seemed to look directly up at him, as if to say, My lawn!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTag narrowed his eyes. Angry chattering sounds he couldn't control came \u003cbr\u003efrom his throat. He jumped off the windowsill, then back up again. \u003cbr\u003e\"Wrong!\" he said. \"Wrong!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the bird pretended not to hear him--though he was certain it could--and \u003cbr\u003eunable to bear its smug proprietorial air, Tag sat down, curled his tail \u003cbr\u003earound himself, and closed his eyes. After a while, he fell asleep, \u003cbr\u003ethinking confusedly, My mouse. This seemed to lead him into a dream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe dreamed that he was under the Welsh dresser, eating something. Somehow, \u003cbr\u003ethe dark gap beneath the dresser was big enough for him to enter; he had \u003cbr\u003efollowed something in there, and was eating it. The soft parts had a warm, \u003cbr\u003eacrid, salty taste, and he could hardly get them down fast enough. Before \u003cbr\u003ehe was able to swallow the tougher bits he had to shear them with the \u003cbr\u003ecarnassial teeth at the side of his jaw, breathing heavily through his \u003cbr\u003emouth as he did so. That was enjoyable too. Just as he was finishing \u003cbr\u003eoff--licking his lips, snuffing the dusty floor where it had been in case \u003cbr\u003ehe had missed anything--he heard a voice in the dark whisper quite close to \u003cbr\u003ehim, \"Tag is not your true name.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe whirled around. Nothing. Yet someone was there under the dresser with \u003cbr\u003ehim. He could almost feel the heat of its body, the smell of its breath, \u003cbr\u003ethe unsettling companionable feel of it. It had quietly watched him eat \u003cbr\u003eand said nothing. Now he felt guilty, angry, afraid. His fur bristled. He \u003cbr\u003etried to back out from under the dresser, but now everything was the right \u003cbr\u003esize again and he was stuck, squeezed down tight in a dark space that \u003cbr\u003esmelled of wood and dust and blood with a creature he couldn't see. \"Tag,\" \u003cbr\u003eit whispered. \"Listen. Tag is not your true name.\" He felt that if he \u003cbr\u003estayed there any longer, it would push its face right into his, touch him \u003cbr\u003ein the dark, tell him something he didn't want to hear ...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Tag is my name!\" he cried, and woke up--to a loud, rapid hammering noise \u003cbr\u003enear his ear. While he slept, the magpie had flown up from the garden. It \u003cbr\u003ewas strutting to and fro on the ledge directly outside the window, \u003cbr\u003escreeching and cawing, flapping its wings against the glass, filling the \u003cbr\u003ewhole world with its clamor. Now its face was right next to his, and its \u003cbr\u003echipped, wicked beak was drumming against the glass and it was shouting at \u003cbr\u003ehim.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Call yourself a cat? Call yourself a cat?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd he fell off the windowsill and hit his head hard on the floor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything went a soft dark brown color, like comforting fur. When he woke \u003cbr\u003eup again, the bird was gone and he could hear the dulls preparing their \u003cbr\u003efood downstairs, and he thought it had all been the same dream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTag had lived in the house for two months. It seemed much longer, a great \u003cbr\u003estretch of time in which he was never unhappy. He never wanted for \u003cbr\u003eanything. He doubled in size. His sleep was sound, his dreams infrequent \u003cbr\u003eand full of kitten things. All that seemed to be changing. Now, as he \u003cbr\u003ecurled up on the velvet sofa, he wondered what would happen when he closed \u003cbr\u003ehis eyes. Each time he slept, he lived another life--or fragments of it, a \u003cbr\u003elife of which he had no understanding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn one dream he was walking beneath a sliver of yellow moon, with ragged \u003cbr\u003eclouds high up; he heard the loud roar of some distant animal. In another, \u003cbr\u003ehe saw the vague shape of two cats huddled together with heads bowed, \u003cbr\u003ewaiting in the pouring rain; they were so hungry and in such trouble that \u003cbr\u003ewhen he saw them, a grief he could not understand welled up inside him \u003cbr\u003elike a pain. In a third dream, he was standing on a windswept cliff high \u003cbr\u003eabove the sea. There were dark gorse bushes under a strange, unreal light. \u003cbr\u003eThere was a sense of vast space, the sound of water crashing rhythmically \u003cbr\u003eon rocks below. In the teeth of the wind, Tag heard a voice at his side \u003cbr\u003esay quietly, \"I am one who becomes two; I am two who become four; I am \u003cbr\u003efour who become eight; I am one more after that.\" It was the voice of a \u003cbr\u003ecat. Or was it?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Tintagel,\" it said. \"Tag! Tag! Listen! Listen to the waves!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll the dreams were different, but that voice was always the same--quiet, \u003cbr\u003epersuasive, companionable, frightening. It wanted to tell him things. It \u003cbr\u003ewanted him to do things.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll the dreams were strange; but perhaps this was the strangest dream of \u003cbr\u003eall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe dreamed it was evening, and he was sitting on a windowsill while behind \u003cbr\u003ehim in the room, the dulls ate their food, talking and waving their big \u003cbr\u003earms about. Tag stared out. It was dark. There were clouds high up, \u003cbr\u003eobscuring the waning moon, but the moonlight broke fitfully through. \u003cbr\u003eSomething was happening at the very end of the garden. He couldn't quite \u003cbr\u003esee what it was. Every night, he sensed, animals went along the path down \u003cbr\u003ethere, entering the garden at one side and leaving at the other. They were \u003cbr\u003eon business of their own, business to enthral a young cat. It was a \u003cbr\u003ehighway, with constantly exciting traffic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the dream there was an animal out there, but he couldn't see it clearly \u003cbr\u003eor hear it. For a moment the moonlight seemed to resolve it into the shape \u003cbr\u003eof a large black cat--a cat with only one eye. Then it was nothing but a \u003cbr\u003eshadow again. He shifted his feet uneasily. He wanted to be out there; he \u003cbr\u003edidn't want to be out there. Clouds obscured the moon again. He put his \u003cbr\u003eface close to the glass. \"Be quiet!\" he tried to tell the dulls. \"Watch! \u003cbr\u003eWatch now!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs he spoke, the animal out there seemed to see him. He felt its eye on \u003cbr\u003ehim. He felt its will begin to engage his own. He thought he heard it \u003cbr\u003ewhisper, \"I have a task for you, Tag. A great task!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBehind him in the room, the dulls laughed at something one of them had \u003cbr\u003esaid. Tag shook himself, expecting to wake up. But when he looked around, \u003cbr\u003ehe was still in that room, and he had never been asleep. As if sensing his \u003cbr\u003econfusion, the female got up and, putting her face close to his as if it \u003cbr\u003ewanted to see exactly what he was seeing, stared out into the darkness. It \u003cbr\u003eshivered. \"You don't want to go out there,\" it said softly. \"Cold and \u003cbr\u003edangerous for a little cat like you. Brrr!\" It stroked his head. The purr \u003cbr\u003erose in Tag's throat. When he turned back to the garden, the one-eyed cat \u003cbr\u003ehad gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEarly one morning, before the household was awake, Tag saw the sun coming \u003cbr\u003eup, carmine colored, flat and pale with promise. A few shreds of mist hung \u003cbr\u003eabout the branches of the lime trees. Soon, three or four sparrows and a \u003cbr\u003erobin had alighted on the lawn and begun hopping about among the fallen \u003cbr\u003eleaves. This was all as it should be. Tag hunched forward to get a better \u003cbr\u003elook. My birds! he thought. But then they flew up suddenly, to be replaced \u003cbr\u003eby his enemy the magpie, who strode on long legs in a rough circle around \u003cbr\u003ethe birdbath, shining with health and self-importance. It stopped, \u003cbr\u003estretched its neck, opened its beak to reveal a short thick purple-gray \u003cbr\u003etongue, and let forth its abrasive cry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Raaark. Raaark.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh yes? thought Tag. We'll see about that!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut what could he do? Only jump on and off the windowsill in a fever of \u003cbr\u003efrustration. At last he heard the dulls getting up, and there was \u003cbr\u003esomething else to think about. He raced down the stairs and stood by his \u003cbr\u003ebowl in the kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Breakfast,\" he demanded. Chicken and game casserole! \"In here. Put it in \u003cbr\u003ethis bowl. Breakfast!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChicken and game!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was a smell he would remember later on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo minutes after he had got his face into the bowl, one of the dulls \u003cbr\u003eopened the back door without thinking. Tag felt the cool morning air on \u003cbr\u003ehis nose. It was full of smells. It was full of opportunity. And the \u003cbr\u003emagpie was still out there, strutting around the lawn as if he owned it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy lawn! thought Tag. Breakfast later!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd he was out in a flash, straight between a pair of legs, across the \u003cbr\u003elawn--scattering leaves and hurling himself at the bird, who turned its sly \u003cbr\u003eblack head at the last moment, said clearly, \"Not this time, sonny,\" and \u003cbr\u003eflew like an arrow through a hole in the fence, leaving one small white \u003cbr\u003ebody feather floating in the air behind it. Tag, enraged, went sprinting \u003cbr\u003eafter, his hind feet digging up lawn and flower bed. He heard the dulls \u003cbr\u003eshouting after him. Then he was through the fence and into the garden next \u003cbr\u003edoor. The magpie was sitting on a fence, regarding him amusedly from one \u003cbr\u003ebeady eye. \"Raaark.\" Off they went again. Every time he thought he had \u003cbr\u003ecaught it, the bird only led him farther afield, until, when Tag looked \u003cbr\u003eback at his house, he couldn't see it any more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe hesitated a moment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Call yourself a cat?\" sneered the magpie, almost in his ear. \"This is \u003cbr\u003ewhere you belong, out here in the wild world--not a toy cat on a \u003cbr\u003ewindowsill!\" But when Tag whirled around, ready to renew the chase, it had \u003cbr\u003evanished into thin air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTag sat down and washed himself. He looked around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNew gardens! New gardens that went on forever. Through one and into the \u003cbr\u003enext, forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOut! he thought. I got out!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe forgot the magpie. He forgot his home. For the rest of that day he was \u003cbr\u003eas happy as he'd ever been. He explored the new gardens one by one, moving \u003cbr\u003efarther and farther away from the dulls and their house. There were \u003cbr\u003egardens overgrown with weeds and elder, in which the sun barely struck \u003cbr\u003ethrough to the earth and the dusty, powerfully smelling roots. There were \u003cbr\u003egardens so neat they were just like front rooms. There were gardens full \u003cbr\u003eof rusty household objects. Tag had a look at all of them. They were all \u003cbr\u003einteresting. But by late afternoon he had found the garden of his dreams. \u003cbr\u003eIt was wilder than his own, a narrow shady cleft between old brick walls, \u003cbr\u003esagging wooden trellis, and overgrown buddleia bushes, into which reached \u003cbr\u003elong bright fingers of sun. It was full of ancient flowerpots and white \u003cbr\u003emetal garden furniture green with moss. At one side was a bent old damson \u003cbr\u003etree, its sagging boughs held up by wooden supports; at the other a \u003cbr\u003ewell-grown holly. Tag sat in the sun between them, cleaning his fur. A \u003cbr\u003efamily of bullfinches piped from the branches of the damson. A bee hummed \u003cbr\u003epast! After it he went, whacking out with his front paws until he could \u003cbr\u003eclutch the stunned insect inside one of them. He put the bee carefully \u003cbr\u003einto his mouth and let it buzz about a bit in there. What a feeling! Then \u003cbr\u003ehe swallowed it. \"Not bad,\" he told himself. \"Good bee.\" For a while he \u003cbr\u003epatrolled an old flower bed now overgrown with mint, in case he got \u003cbr\u003eanother. After that, he went to sleep. When he woke up, he was hungry. It \u003cbr\u003ewas late afternoon, and he had no idea where he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo hours later, he was huddled--hungry, cold, and disoriented--on someone's \u003cbr\u003eback doorstep. Afternoon had given way to evening as he made his way from \u003cbr\u003egarden to garden, recognizing nothing. At first it had seemed like a great \u003cbr\u003egame. Then the fences had got higher and harder to jump, the tangled rose \u003cbr\u003ebriars harder to push through, the smells of other cats more threatening. \u003cbr\u003eHuman beings had shouted at him through a window--he had run off \u003cbr\u003ethoughtlessly and got turned back on himself, ending up in the garden he \u003cbr\u003ehad started from. Now he was so tired he couldn't think. He knew it wasn't \u003cbr\u003ehis own house. But he was grateful to sit on the doorstep anyway. He was \u003cbr\u003egrateful for the old damson tree, spreading its branches over the white \u003cbr\u003egarden furniture glowing in the dusk. These things were familiar, at \u003cbr\u003eleast. He gave a little yowl now and then, in case someone came home and \u003cbr\u003elet him in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs he sat there, the light went slowly out of the sky. The sun was a great \u003cbr\u003ecool red ball behind the garden trees. Rooks began to settle their evening \u003cbr\u003equarrels--\"My branch, I think.\" \"No, my branch!\"--the whole ragged ignoble \u003cbr\u003ecolony of them whirling up into the sky to wheel and caw before settling \u003cbr\u003eagain, one by one into silence. Suddenly the air was colder. Shadows crept \u003cbr\u003eout of the box hedges. The garden seemed to change shape, becoming shorter \u003cbr\u003eand broader. The lawn, the shrubs in their borders, the lighted windows of \u003cbr\u003ethe houses yellow with warmth and company--everything seemed closer and yet \u003cbr\u003efurther away. The apple trees faded to a uniform gray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNight had come. Tag had never been out in it before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe knew the night only from warm rooms behind double-glazed windows. Then \u003cbr\u003eit had seemed exciting. Now it was only menacing and strange. As human \u003cbr\u003eactivity decreased, the real sounds and smells of the world came through: \u003cbr\u003ethe sudden low twitter of a bird disturbed, the slow tarry reek of leaf \u003cbr\u003emold from under the hedges, the bitter smell of a rusting iron bucket, a \u003cbr\u003edog barking somewhere down at the end of the road, thickly woven odors of \u003cbr\u003esnails eating their way through the soft fleshy leaves of the hostas. And \u003cbr\u003ethen, suddenly, from the gloom at the very end of the garden, came a smell \u003cbr\u003ethat made Tag's heart race with fear and excitement! His head went up. \u003cbr\u003eAlmost despite himself, he sniffed the air. Something moving down there! \u003cbr\u003eIt was a highway, like the one that ran along the bottom of his own \u003cbr\u003egarden! Something was trotting down there, fast and purposeful, its paws \u003cbr\u003emoving silently across the broken, lichenous old flagstones as it made its \u003cbr\u003eway from left to right along the tunnelly overgrown path between the \u003cbr\u003eflower bed and the sagging board fence. Tag could barely keep still. He \u003cbr\u003ewanted to make himself known. He wanted to hide. Every part of him wanted \u003cbr\u003eto say something. Every part of him wanted to stay silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the end, though, he must have moved, or made some sound, because the \u003cbr\u003eanimal on the highway stopped. It sniffed the air for him. He heard it. \u003cbr\u003eTerribly afraid, he huddled into the doorway. Too late. It was aware of \u003cbr\u003ehim. He could see a dark silhouette, a thick black shadow with four legs \u003cbr\u003eand a blunt muzzle, its head turning this way and that. A single bright, \u003cbr\u003epale, reflective eye that seemed to switch itself on suddenly, like a \u003cbr\u003elamp. It was looking at him. There was a long pause. Then a wave of scent, \u003cbr\u003ea sharp, live, musky reek in the garden air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Little cat,\" it said in a soft voice. \"Your true name is not Tag. Do you \u003cbr\u003ewant to discover your true name? If so, you must undertake the task which \u003cbr\u003elies before you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe shrank back in the doorway until his head was pressed so tightly into \u003cbr\u003ethe corner his face hurt. To no avail. The thing that inhabited that \u003cbr\u003eshadow could see him whatever he did. There was a low, grunting laugh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't be afraid,\" said the voice. \"Come with me now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIts owner took a pace toward him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe cowered into his doorway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a sudden impatient sigh, as if the creature had been \u003cbr\u003einterrupted. It paused to listen, then, purposeful and urgent, it loped \u003cbr\u003eoff into the night without another word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTag huddled on the doorstep until it was light again. Exhaustion made him \u003cbr\u003eshake; anxiety kept him awake. Every sound, familiar or not, seemed to \u003cbr\u003ethreaten him, from the abrupt shriek of an owl to the patient snuffling \u003cbr\u003eand rootling of a hedgehog in the next garden. He was afraid to make any \u003cbr\u003enoise of his own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToward dawn he fell into a restless sleep, only to dream of the animals on \u003cbr\u003etheir highway. Tag could never be sure what he saw--what he sensed--moving \u003cbr\u003ealong it. They were cats, certainly, although in the dream they seemed \u003cbr\u003emuch larger than a cat should be, and they had deeply disturbing, shadowy \u003cbr\u003eshapes. They moved in their own powerful stink--vague, slippery, \u003cbr\u003eindistinct, always angry or excited. Their voices came toward him from a \u003cbr\u003elong distance, in the echoing yet glutinous speech of dreams.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A task,\" they told him, \"a great task.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next morning he was stiff and tired, but the sunshine made him feel \u003cbr\u003eoptimistic. Breakfast! he thought. He sat up, stretched himself, and gave \u003cbr\u003ea huge yawn. \"Chicken and game!\" He jumped on top of a fence and looked \u003cbr\u003eacross the gardens. They lay before him: a lawn as precise as a living \u003cbr\u003eroom carpet, bordered with regiments of red flowers; then rusty objects \u003cbr\u003epropped against a shed; then bedsheets flapping on a line. He jumped down, \u003cbr\u003enosed around. There, on the concrete path as it warmed up in the sunshine, \u003cbr\u003ewas his own smell from yesterday, faint but distinct!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFollow myself home, he thought. No problem.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut it was a problem.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChasing the magpie, he had taken an alarmingly random course, zigzagging, \u003cbr\u003eturning back on himself, often going in circles. In the night, other \u003cbr\u003eanimals had passed; other scents had overlaid his own. While it was a good \u003cbr\u003eidea, the attempt to follow himself was doomed from the start. High old \u003cbr\u003ebrick walls, espaliered with fruit trees, blocked his path. Abundant crops \u003cbr\u003eof nettles forced him to divert. He blundered into another cat--or rather \u003cbr\u003ethe insane face of another cat was thrust unexpectedly into his own, \u003cbr\u003escreaming at him so loudly that he jumped in fear and ran off under some \u003cbr\u003ebushes and came out disoriented twenty minutes later to find himself \u003cbr\u003etrapped in a place that didn't even seem to be a garden. The spines of \u003cbr\u003edying foxgloves mopped and mowed against a tottering wooden fence. What \u003cbr\u003ehad once been an open space was now a jungle: fireweed seeding down to \u003cbr\u003eashes, a choke of brambles and old rose suckers bound together in the \u003cbr\u003edusty heat by convolvulus and grape ivy. The air was thick, still, and \u003cbr\u003eoppressive, full of the sleepy drone of insects. Eventually he pushed his \u003cbr\u003eway out. He was hot and tired and out of temper. The house in front of him \u003cbr\u003ehad blue shutters, peeling to show the gray wood beneath, and a blue door. \u003cbr\u003eNot much else could be seen through the skeins of honeysuckle and wiry \u003cbr\u003eclimbing roses colonizing its pebble-dashed walls. Its windows were of \u003cbr\u003erippled glass, dim with dirt. Compressed between the wilderness and the \u003cbr\u003ehouse, the remains of its garden--the patch of yellowed lawn on which he \u003cbr\u003estood, the beds overgrown with rubbery hostas, the tottering wooden shed \u003cbr\u003ewhich had also at some point been painted blue--would soon be engulfed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTag sighed and sat down suddenly in the shade of some terra-cotta pots \u003cbr\u003efull of dead geraniums. It was already noon, and he still hadn't eaten. He \u003cbr\u003ecrouched down, tucked his front paws neatly under him, and let his nose \u003cbr\u003erest on the ground. Not knowing what else to do, he slept. When he woke, \u003cbr\u003ethe magpie was perched on a broken pot in front of him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Raaark,\" it said \"On your own then, Kit-e-Kat?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't call me that!\" said Tag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe magpie laughed. \"Call yourself a cat?\" it asked. It added \u003cbr\u003emysteriously, \"I don't know why he bothers with you. If he could find them \u003cbr\u003eon his own, he wouldn't.\" Then it put its head on one side, regarded him \u003cbr\u003ewith one beady eye, and said with measured nastiness, \"Oh yes, you're on \u003cbr\u003eyour own now, Kit-e-Kat!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTag was enraged. He jumped up and rushed the magpie. \"My name's Tag!\" he \u003cbr\u003ecried. \"I am a cat, and they call me Tag, not Kit-e-Kat!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe magpie only bobbed its head wickedly and took flight. It flapped with \u003cbr\u003ea dreamy slowness up from the lawn and into the rowan tree. As it flew it \u003cbr\u003elooked less like a bird than a series of brilliant sketches of one. For an \u003cbr\u003einstant--while it was still rising but almost into the tree--it seemed to \u003cbr\u003ewear its own wings like a black, shiny cloak. Then it perched, quickly \u003cbr\u003eruffled its feathers, and looked down at Tag, its head tilted on one side \u003cbr\u003eto show a bright cruel eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"They call me One for Sorrow,\" it said. \"And you won't forget me in a \u003cbr\u003ehurry.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlone, thought Tag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe tested this idea until sudden panic swept through him. He ran around \u003cbr\u003eand around the lawn until he was tired again. He licked his fur in the \u003cbr\u003esunshine for ten minutes. He couldn't think what to do. He jumped up onto \u003cbr\u003ea windowsill and rubbed both sides of his face on the window pane. \u003cbr\u003e\"Breakfast!\" he demanded. But clearly it would not be feeding him today. \u003cbr\u003eSo he jumped down and tried the same with the back door. No luck. Clearly \u003cbr\u003eno one would be feeding him today.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had a new idea. He would feed himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEat a bee, he thought. Eat more than one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd he tore off excitedly across the lawn, the little bell on his collar \u003cbr\u003ejingling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn hour later he had chased four houseflies, a blackbird, two sparrows, \u003cbr\u003eand a leaf. He had caught one of the houseflies and the leaf. The leaf \u003cbr\u003eproved to be unpalatable. No bees were about. All this effort made him \u003cbr\u003ehungrier than before. He went back to the house and jumped up on the \u003cbr\u003ewindowsill again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yow!\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing. It was silent and empty in there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stalked a wren, which scolded him from a safe place inside a hedge. He \u003cbr\u003etried it on with two squirrels, who bobbed their tails at him and sped off \u003cbr\u003ealong the top of a board fence at a breakneck pace, vying with each other \u003cbr\u003efor the lead and calling \"Stuff you!\" and \"Stuff your nuts, mate!\" as they \u003cbr\u003eran. Then he tried a thrush, which kept a lazy eye on him while it shelled \u003cbr\u003eits breakfast--a yellow snail--against a stone, then rose up neatly as he \u003cbr\u003epounced, and with no fuss or fluster cleared his optimistic jaws by four \u003cbr\u003einches and left him clapping his front paws silently on empty air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nice technique,\" said an interested voice behind him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Pretty stupid cat, though,\" answered another. \"Anyone could have caught \u003cbr\u003ethat.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTag thought he recognized one of the voices, but he was too ashamed to \u003cbr\u003eturn around and look. For the rest of that day, he ate flies. They were \u003cbr\u003eeasy to catch and, depending on what they had eaten recently, even tasted \u003cbr\u003egood. In the middle of the afternoon he bullied some sparrows off half a \u003cbr\u003eslice of buttered white bread two gardens along the row. Finally, he went \u003cbr\u003eback to the place where he had argued with the thrush. There he caught \u003cbr\u003esome snails. They didn't taste in the slightest bit good, but at least, he \u003cbr\u003ethought, he was denying them to the thrush.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToward evening it began","brand":"Del Rey","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338554093797,"sku":"NP9780345423030","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345423030.jpg?v=1769572665","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-wild-road-isbn-9780345423030","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}