Free The Nine Lives of Montezuma by Michael Morpurgo

harvest drought. The sky fell lower over the farm and turned a translucent lead. The flies vanished suddenly, and dogs everywhere disappeared under tables at the first dull distant rumble of thunder. In the farmhouse the electricity went off as thelightening struck and candles were brought out. Everyone went to bed early that night, there was little else to do; but they were awakened around midnight by a frantic knocking on the door. Matthew was first down. It was Mr. Varley from the end of the lane.
    â€˜Sorry to disturb you so late,’ he said, ‘but I thought I should tell you soon as I could.’
    â€˜What is it?’ said Matthew, tying up his dressing gown. ‘Is something wrong?’
    â€˜It’s your cat, Matthew,’ he said. ‘You know you asked me to keep an eye out for him. Well I did, and as I was coming home from the meeting up in the village, I think I found him.’
    â€˜Montezuma? You found Monty?’ His mother and father had joined Matthew and the three of them spoke almost as one.
    â€˜Where is he?’ Matthew asked. ‘Where d’you find him?’
    â€˜He’s in the car outside,’ said Mr. Varley. ‘ButI’m afraid he’s dead.’
    â€˜Dead?’ Matthew found tears in his eyes for the first time since he was a child. ‘Not Monty. He’s not dead, can’t be.’
    His father pushed by him. ‘You sure, Mr. Varley? You sure it’s him?’
    â€˜Looks to be the same cat to me,’ he said. ‘I feel sure it is, but it’s your cat and you’d know best. You’d best come and look for yourself – that’s the only way to be sure.’
    They shone torches into the boot of the car while the rain lashed down on their backs. ‘It’s him right enough,’ said Matthew’s father. The dead cat was soaked to the skin, his fur matted and dark, but there was no doubt it was a ginger tom with crumpled ears. Matthew picked him up in the blanket he lay in and carried him into the barn adjoining the house. He laid him down gently on the worktable and they all looked again, just to be sure.
    â€˜Not been dead long, I shouldn’t think,’ said Mr. Varley. ‘He was warm when I picked him up. Been knocked down I shouldn’t wonder, trying to get home. He’s all broken inside. I don’t think he suffered.’
    â€˜That white patch doesn’t seem the same,’ said Matthew. ‘Looks a lot smaller than Monty’s patch to me.’
    â€˜It’s him all right, lad. No question,’ said his father, his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘No use clutching at straws, not now. It’s Montezuma, and you’d best believe it.’
    â€˜That’s him Matthew,’ said his mother. ‘I’d know him anywhere. Poor old thing.’
    Matthew nodded slowly. ‘I’ll bury him tomorrow,’ he said, covering the cat in the blanket. ‘I’ll bury him out in the orchard and then that will be that.’

THE EIGHTH LIFE
    FOR SOME DAYS MONTEZUMA WAITED under cover of the woods for his friend to come back. Each evening at dusk he would emerge from the shadows and make for the fishing hut; it was always deserted and silent. He would sniff around the old fish bones and prowl the fishing bank calling the old man back, but he never came. So it was that one evening he did not return to the woods but instead made his way up through the buttercup field towards the farmstead beyond. After all this was the way they had taken Old Syd.
    He approached the buildings cautiously, sneaking through the long grass and the docks and the thistles, all the while taking stock. His nose told him that this was the way his friend had come, but as he came up the lane and into the farmyard the scent vanished totally. He thought for a moment that he should return to the fishing hut by the river. Home, he knew, lay somewhere the other side of that river that he could not