Liches Get Scritches: A Cat Cultivation

Overhead, the moon was a waxing silver sickle. Cuddled next to the warm stones of the chimney I could see it peeking out from between the branches of the great oaks that overshadow the cottage. By my estimation I had three or four days until it was full. Plenty of time but for one problem: I was fairly sure I needed to cross the river to reach the glade with the hollow log.

There were no marshes anywhere near my cottage. Perhaps it was only fitting that I should first pass this test of courage and physicality before I could learn more? What could I do? I added extra leaps to my usual routine of stretching, washing, patrolling, sleeping and climbing. Already, if I ran at full speed I could soar through the air a great distance. Would it be enough?

Unsure, I jumped, and jumped and jumped till my muscles ached, each one more powerful than the last. I ate, drank, sharpened my claws, jumped some more! The days and nights slipped away, my jumps grew higher, the moon grew bigger, and the shadows grew deeper.

Soon the time was upon me.

I sat upon the windowsill gazing out at the last fading rays of the afternoon sun. After making sure my Maud was tucked safely in her nest, I slipped out through the kitchen window and padded off through the forest in search of a teacher.

The ground was awash with scent. It was most distracting. I crossed the trails of mice, a vole, and one absolutely reeking fox. There was also the glimmer-glamour-salt smell I associate with the Folk. The last made me sneeze. The scent of Folk often went straight up my nose and lingered, like that time I licked my Maud’s black pepper. I think they did it so I didn’t want to hunt them.

I was tempted to follow their tracks, because I had never seen so many together before, but now was not the time for an extra adventure. Forcing myself to focus, likewise, I did not stop to eat the mouse, or to challenge the fox to a running match: I had a log to find.

It was proper deep dark now.

Owls hooted in their trees. Bats dipped and dived, snatching insects out of the air. The moon peeked out above the horizon, casting soft grey patches between the branches. They bounced and danced with the breeze. I did not bounce or dance because I could hear the water rushing, and my stomach had tightened into a twisty ball.

I slunk as low on my belly as close to River as I dared.

The spirit was humming and basking over the valley, smashing her form onto the rocks with a giggle then reforming back up her course. Her water continued to flow in a continuous loop. A flash made my paws twitch. A fish! Silvery scales in the moonlight.

Putting the fish out of my mind, I concentrated.

Cross the water. Don’t get wet, don’t drown. My muscles bunched. I exploded from my crouch, dashing down the slope, faster, faster, into the gully, faster, fast, ferns and bushes streaking by, smacking my nose and my flanks, fast, fast, fast.

I hit the stones and the bottom, and leapt into the sky.

For a brief moment I was one with the moon.

We hung together, serene and untouchable, smiling at each other as the water rushed past beneath us. River’s mouth was open in surprise, her eyes following me as I flew. Then she smiled and waved her dripping arms.

My paws landed sure and steady on the opposite bank.

I was away between the trees as quick as a speeding raindrop, and the sounds of damp complaining followed me into the woods. River flicked at me with wet, grasping fingers. Elongated, her arms travelled up the slope, but I was well beyond her reach, already padding away through the forest. Ha. Foolish River, thinking she could trick me into drowning.

I slid to a stop only when I was sure I was safe.

Drawing a deep breath to slow the beating of my heart, I carefully licked a few hairs that had come out of place back into position. Everything fixed, I set off, looking for the marsh. I only had to follow my nose.

Mama had told me marshes are damp, boggy places, not fast flowing like River but full of foetid standing water and rotting plantlife. And very, very tricksy Folk. It was close by, I could tell. My ears twitched as I wound between unfamiliar trees. The same as the forest on the other side but…different. Everything here was like and yet…not like, a little colder, the shadows a little darker.

A screeching cry rent the night, followed by a great rolling howl that sent goosebumps up and down my spine. Every hair on my back flew upright. I made myself as small as possible. Then I thought better of it, I needed to be high and safe. Leaping into a nearby birch, I hugged the trunk, squeezing my body into a comforting hollow of the branch.

Another roar followed, then some kind of high pitched screaming. Lean shadowy bodies dashed past below, so quickly I could not make out more than the flash of movement between the dappled leaves. Whatever it was was gone as soon as they arrived. Whatever it was was faster than me. Much faster. Whatever it was was bigger than me. Was it a wolf? Or something worse? Mama and Maud had told me of wolves, and I did not like the sound of them. Should I go home? No.

I waited as long as I dared.

Nothing else appeared. Nothing loomed out of the darkness to grab me. Nothing else howled or roared or screamed. Ears pricked, nose scenting the air for danger, I slipped down the trunk and set off, darting from shadow to shadow. This was the first time I had ever felt like prey in my forest, and it was not an experience I enjoyed. On the other hand, I knew it was temporary, and nothing would be able to catch me.

I flitted between the trees. The forest was full of movement, and I was part of it. Small noises, rustling, birds, insects, creatures, all of it made me jump, so frayed were my nerves. My ears practically swivelled as I listened hard for howls.

Some of the Folk, little scraggly brown men with pine cone hats, tittered at me as I passed by their pine. One of them threw a mud-pie at me. It missed and I continued on my way. The wind gusted overhead, shaking the branches. The moon was already rising high, fat and yellow by the time I located the marsh.

Here, I began to seriously regret my decision not to turn back.

With every step my paws tried to sink into the squishy ground. It was wet and soggy with such overwhelming odours I struggled to distinguish anything. Gleaming wisps the size of fireflies loomed up in every direction. They called my name with spitting hisses, darted like buzzing flies to pinch me when I ignored them.

“Jenkinsssssssssssssss! Jenkins, come here!”

Once I heard Maud calling me, but I knew Maud was far away, safe in her cottage.

The wisps flew fast, angry at my refusal to drown in the marshes, then hung idly, uncannily still for long moments. Like small, spiteful stars. It was tempting to bat them out of the air, but I was late. Also, their tiny teeth looked sharp and there were many, many of them. I was only one small cat. It was a crushing realisation.

I swore under my breath that I would come back one day and eat them all. I would eat them, all the birds, all the rabbits, all the wolves and the murderous man that put me in the sack. And anyone else I wanted too. But for now I concentrated on making it across the marsh safely, and with feet as dry as possible. The ground was as tricksy as the Folk. What looked firm was sometimes soft. Upturned, half rotting tree trunks and submerged roots made the going difficult.

At last I made it to the otherside.

Once I was sure the way was safe I galloped across the delightfully firm ground to make up some time. Up ahead I spied a black and white grove of birches. Surely I was nearly there? It felt like I had been travelling all night, but it had not actually been that long. The full moon stained the ground silver, as I investigated several glades before, at last, finding the right one.

It was unmistakable: a fallen log lying on its side at the centre of a large, moon-soaked space and surrounded by a circle of more toadstools than I had ever seen together in one place. More shrooms sprouted from the log, and the ground around it, which looked almost as sticky as the marsh.

I galloped into the clearing, worried I was late, and skidded to a halt before the log.

The ground was not as flat as I had thought, inclining up in a slight mound. I misjudged my arrival and fell on my nose. A score of lithe-bodied Folk with gossamer dragonfly wings burst into tinkling applause. I had not noticed them before, and got up with as much dignity as my position allowed. I had no care for rude Folk. Where was my teacher?

There was no one there. Just the fairies, watching with glittering eyes.

For a moment my heart sank. Perhaps this was the wrong log after all? Or I was too late, I thought, glancing up at the moon overhead. No, I was sure this was the right place, and it was the right time. It was not I who was at fault here.

I investigated the log thoroughly. It was substantial: an elderly moss and lichen covered giant, gently decomposing on the forest floor. The dried up roots were partially visible, with the bulk of the trunk lying on its side. There was nothing particularly special about it, other than its size and the fact that it is surrounded by that curious ring of toadstools. Each one of which was now occupied by a cross legged member of the Folk. They appeared to be eating snacks.

Leaping up, the log was firm but fuzzy beneath my pads. The moss was deep and cushioning. I sat, wrapping my tail neatly around my rump, and surveyed the glade for prospective teachers. The thought that I had travelled all this way only to find nothing was too disappointing to bare thinking about.

I could see no likely candidates, just the ring of merrily chattering Folk. Just in case, I observed them closely. Could it be that my teacher was one of the Small Folk? I had never seen them act like this? Around my cottage they slipped in and out of the shadows, and generally kept a low profile, disappearing as I passed.

At this point it occurred to me that the log might be hollow, and my teacher might be napping within. I hopped down, shaking my paws as I went, for the ground around the log was squelchy soggy. I poked my nose and whiskers into the dark interior. Within was a bunch of beetles, all of whom scurried in every direction at my intrusion, and three bulbous toads, green and squat. Some slugs slither along the rotting bark.

I stared at the toads for a while, just in case.

They stared back, their eyes bulging and blank, one, two, three. The nearest opened its mouth, a quick tongue scooping up one of the slug to munch. She didn't break eye contact.

“Hello?” I said, hopefully. My voice sounded dull and muffled within the log.

No flicker of intelligence crossed those dull, protruding eyes.

I withdrew my head with a sigh.

“Is there anyone here?” I yowled to the heavens.

My voice was far louder than I intended, echoing around the glade and cheered on by the Folk’s hoots and whistles. Off to one side of the forests, some birds took flight.

I shifted uneasily.

The taste of the air changed with the sharpness of a summer storm, from earthy forest to…something I have never smelt before. Or have I? Before I could puzzle it out the ground beneath my feet pulsed.

I stumbled, then ran for the dubious safety of the fallen log, but the log was quivering too.

Inside I could hear the toads plopping around and squawking. Or laughing?

With a great tearing noise, the grassy glade lifted itself into the air, the log riding with it. I streaked away, moving so fast my paws barely touched the ground, sprinting between the jeering row of Folk. The toadstools seemed to mark the range of disturbance.

At the treeline I turned back, my hair fluffed in every direction. The Folk were faced inwards, intently watching the incredible bulk of a toad the size of a small hill rise from beneath the ground. Turf ripped wide open. Rocks and roots and earth were all laid bare to the moon’s naked gaze.

The entire glade was resting atop the toad's broad back! The log rose with the spirit-beast, pale mushrooms swaying precariously, higher, higher, grass coated to knobbled, spongy flesh. An enormous throat inflated, momentarily blocking my vision. Then it deflated emptying of air.

Two lazy eyes, domed pools of slitted, glistening menace, swivelled open.

They fastened on mine, and narrowed even further.

“And just who are you?”