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Testament

by VINCENT SAN GUERE

Three of them, wrapped in a small covert and shivering from the cold. I yearned to find those hidden ones.

I am the last of the Vespuccis. There were siblings at one time, but they all perished in the war. One day I woke up and all my brothers and sisters were dead, and all I could feel was this unexpected sense of relief, that what I always knew would happen had finally occurred.

Diamonds, pearls and rubies. That is what I thought of, seeing their glittering heads emerge from the shower, shiny and new. Of the three, one took water and food almost immediately. The other two, what I now I believe are the males, would not trust me. I persuaded and tried to make my case but they stared at me through little eyes.

You have to socialize them. I read this in some jaundiced anthropological survey of bad habits when it comes to autochthons. To speak to them in anything other than a directive fashion is ultimately beneficial to neither of you.

My cat's name is Daniel Vespucci. He's a birman with the dark face typical of the variety and white otherwise. He has massive radiant ears, and his excretions are absolutely disgusting.

I spoke formally to the girl, since she seemed to be adapting the best, possibly because of different maturity cycle. The males eventually had to be sedated, and I had to argue to several concerned parties that they should be salvaged at all. They were, and gave themselves over much more readily than the girl.

Ha ha! Not in that fashion. They all three smelled worse than Daniel Vespucci, honestly. (I never chose a middle name for the beast; it seemed overly presumptuous.) The boys spoke some pidgin, made great use of their hands. The girl learned more quickly at first. As I said, I spoke formally to her.

I said, "Maybe you know who put you here."

"Yes," she gasped.

"Tell me then," I said (this was not the first time I had uttered these words), "and spare no guilty party."

"I see, I see," she murmured, her face whiter than Daniel Vespucci's tail. I spoke of various personality types. I told her that to decide to obey was a very charged decision. She should think it over and get back to me if she did not accept completely.

In her cabin I found a little diary. It gave me a start, and I thought I was prepared for it. She had some kind of pre-rescue relationship with one of the boys; he considered it incest but she did not.

I fed her exclusively: carrots, lettuce, a nutritious grey paste. Initially on a whim, I served her artificial protein, frozen on sticks. She loved those skewers. I gathered women had not been permitted meat in her last biome.

The boys would not eat the sticks unless cajoled, and they hid other food. After some heady research I presented them both with Daniel Vespucci's so-called offspring - to nurture, not to digest. They had taken to the cat more than the girl did, and they loved those little kittens, I'm telling you.

The two kittens could be distinguished primarily by their coloration. The darker of the two was far wilder, and enjoyed jumping on the girl's bed, tearing pages out of her diary and eating them like delicacies. I came upon her some days after the males had received their pets, pen to paper, her awkward digits gripping the implement like a staff. When I asked her what she was doing, she said, "I'm telling that kitten to stay away."

Much, much later, she asked if I ever thought of keeping a diary. I told her I had not.

All three of them, after making a kind of bizarre offering to what they perceived I enjoyed, told me they desired to assume my last name. Wasn't I their father?

I explained that really, they did not belong to anyone. If they wished to take my name, then they certainly could. I would not object.

Vincent San Guere is a writer living in Vancouver. Testament is an excerpt from his novel-in-progress.

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