The Half-Hidden (Part Four)

By Marc-Yves Tumin

Keats was a creature of extraordinary size, if one gave credence to the credulous. He was said to have had "thick rough fur," "outsized fangs," and "huge speaking eyes." The under-gardener insisted that the spectral cat appeared at dusktide and had pounced on and tilted a slate slab sidelong to the orangery, which meant that "it weighed on the order of two stone seven" (i.e., 35 pounds). However, upon examination, it's evident that these descriptions were fanciful formulations, concocted from information supplied by the elusive interloper's benefactor, Miss Danielle. None but the child had witnessed this stupendous scruffy scratcher.

It seemed she fed rumors that the peerless padfoot was a fast friend. Keatsie - the child's diminutive appellation for her make-believe confidante - fancied reclining atop the garden wall, near the étagère. Sometimes, when he was tardy, Danielle would borrow a ladder from the library, clamber up the wall, and summon him. Then, when he emerged, she'd ply him with cates and dainties, regale him with elaborate stories, and brush his big head. According to Danielle, he rarely descended into the garden by day because he was disinclined to venture where his presence was unwelcome.

Apparently, Keatsie and Danielle spent many a happy hour together. Murphy, the head gardener, kept an eye on the reclusive colleen, and set out an assortment of clay pots for her use, and she planted an elfin orchard of herbs and spices. Each day, she could be glimpsed in her bonnet, pacing the battlements of fragrant flora, wielding a watering can, and conversing with an invisible confrère secluded in the cronewort, sage, and catnip, which some, it seems, found especially delectable. In the late afternoon, Danielle would serve tea and read to her numinous neighbor, and he in turn would tell tales of the tribe of the tiger, or so she said.

Bear in mind that beyond the vergeside of her private Eden, Danielle was adamantly uncommunicative. Inside its sanctuary, however, not only was she voluble, she was absolutely eloquent. The child averred that Keatsie had overcome terrible obstacles in life. According to the imaginative infant, her goblinish guest's great-grandfather had been rescued from a trash heap, after surviving the drowning cage (provided for his benefit by the Humane Society).

His grandparents had dwelt nigh the din of a construction pit in the Bronx. And his parents had sheltered in a slaughterhouse nearby, where he was born. All his siblings had met untimely ends, and, eventually, His Nibs was left for dead by a lorry.

However, an ancient woman, tottering past the abattoir, happened upon him, discerned that there was breath in him yet, and restored him to health.

Then, tragedy afflicted the carefree tenants in the privileged purlieu of the DeMontmorencys. One morning, Danielle found herself incapable of mustering the strength to dress for breakfast. She appeared to have succumbed to catalepsy and was carried to a hospital and summarily clapped inside a machine called an iron lung.

Her physicians declared that she was suffering from infantile paralysis and that the prognosis was grim. Weeks passed with no improvement. And there she lay, immobile, viewing the room from a mirror suspended above her head. A cruel nurse told the child confidentially that death was imminent.

Then, one afternoon, according to Danielle, she heard a sound above the noise of the breathing apparatus. Her phantom cat had appeared. The child called out to it sadly and tried in vain to move. The visionary visitant crouched in the casement, surveying the equipment, while Danielle wrestled with the demons of paralysis. Then the enormous apparition ascended the night table and whispered in a strange language in her ear.

On the morrow, Danielle told the nurses of her caller, but they maintained that it was a reverie. The child persisted. She said that the furry phantasm had cleansed her perfervid forehead and encouraged her with accounts of its ancestors on the rubbish tip, including one struck by cobblestones that had lost the use of its limbs and recovered. Few paid her heed.

Day after day, Danielle struggled to move. Alas, only the curtains stirred. Then, one dawn, while the benighted beastie observed her intently, the child lifted her small finger. Time passed and she wiggled another, and, finally, she closed her hand. No one noticed and she said nothing. Ultimately, one afternoon, as an orderly bustled about the chamber, after momentarily unhooking Danielle from the trammels of the respiratory device, the determined demoiselle sat up. A nurse heard a clink, turned around, and fell to the floor in astonishment.

There was general commotion. Danielle's parents were rushed to her bedside. A flock of physicians examined the child and announced a revised diagnosis. At last - due in no small part to their indefatigable ministrations - there was hope. The patient had contracted a mild paralysis, and her prospects for recovery were excellent, indeed. Danielle steadily emerged from her mortified state, was supplied with aluminium crutches and leg braces, and returned to her beloved house and garden, colossal companion in tow.

(Continued next week)