Liches Get Scritches: A Cat Cultivation

I added extra meditation to my long list of activities - in the sun and out of it. Not that it was a chore to bask in the sun, it was still my absolute favourite activity. After I was done climbing trees for the day it was immensely pleasant to spread myself out amongst the daisies, my body stretched as long and happy as possible. We all lifted our heads to the warmth.

As I breathed in and out, my irritation faded away to be replaced by the rich scent of freshly turned earth, heated pollen and the more acerbic pong of the ever present nanny-goat. All the smells of home. Over the buzzing of the nearby bees I could hear Maud humming as she completed some chore. Today she sounded like a big bee. I curled my toes in happiness. The qi flowed around me in lazy waves, and I watched it, heavy lidded. Everything would be fine. Everything was quite wonderful.

Somehow I lost track of time.

I might have slipped into sleep. Hours passed peacefully, until an almighty BANG crashed overhead. The world flashed white. My eyes flew open as a fat raindrop landed on my nose with a corpulent plop. More energetic rain splattered from the heavens.

I streaked into the cottage to take shelter under the dresser cupboard. From there I glared balefully and grumblingly out through the darkening panes. Since it didn’t seem like it was going anywhere I settled down to lick all my hairs back into place, one by one, muttering all the while as the storm continued to batter the shutters.

Time to work on my breathing exercises inside.

I sat under the cupboard and did my best. Tucking my feet comfortably, tail around my rump. Darkness inside my eyelids and shadows under the cupboard. Darkness outside in the garden. Darkness, darkness, darkness. Scary horrid darkness, drowning darkness. My eyes tried to see - exploding stars and bursts, remembered cinders sparking on cloth of dark red night.

Pictures tried to form, despite my best efforts - skittering bugs and squiggles. I ignored them all. I put them aside. Then, one by one, I put all my troublesome thoughts aside likewise. Breathing. Easy. In and out. But my mind was so busy worrying, it wanted to think about scary noises, and water, and murder men with sacks, and a hundred other things. Doggedly, I kept on.

With a yowl I excited the cupboard.

It was no good. I needed sunlight. I would never be ready to go back to the glade and rub the toads’ faces in my abilities!

“Jenkins, what’s wrong?”

My Maud was sitting in her chair knitting. She looked so concerned that I jumped on her lap and graciously let her fingers knead the tension from my back. The storm had died down to a low rumbling now. The cottage was still dark, with only a low light coming from the hearth and the single tallow candle next to my Maud. The embers of the fire glowed a comfy orange, caressing me with their heat.

I supposed I could try again.

Curling I breathed slow measured breaths, pushing the intrusive thoughts aside, one by one. This time I was successful. Qi swirled around me, warping and flowing like currents in a slow stream. Once again I saw all the colours of the world. Success! I watched them lazily for a while. Was it because of the firelight? I thought it must be. I had an affinity for light, fire was light of a different kind. It liked it, and I could tell it liked me. Together we were warm and cosy, and a little bit angry.

Throughout the next few days I worked hard, experimenting with location and light source. Meditation in the bright sunshine was still my favourite, and after a week or so it became so natural that I only had to lie down and shut my eyes - moments later I could sense qi. It did not seem to matter whether I was inside or out, only the presence of sunshine mattered. I found some good spots, and rotated through them as the sun moved.

The firelight was good but not quite as easy. At night, and in darkness it was still impossible.

I put all thoughts of returning to the glade out of my mind, until I could master this. The sound of those scornful toads and tittering Folk was burned into my brain.

When the time of the full moon rolled around once more I used the light as best I could to practise. It felt better to be higher, for some reason. Even the paltry height of a tree or roof made a difference. The moonshine was weak compared to that of the sun, and less intense than the fire. Colder than both. Cold and pale, and disinterested in me, the most beautiful cat.

Huddled on the cottage thatch I let the pale, ghostly light of the moon wash over me with pale, rumpley fingers. It was so unlike the sun which was happy and warm. I could feel the sun’s approval. The moon did not care about me. Why would it? So far away, with so much to look at. Still, I forced myself to shut my eyes and breathe. It was not cosy, and the wind nipped at my rear. The back of my neck felt exposed, as if some big, giant bird was going to swoop down out of the sky and scoop me up.

Around me the forest was loud, I did my best to ignore the night noises no matter how badly I wanted to go and play. I drew in a massive breath of dark, forestry air through my noses, and pinched my eyes shut. One at a time the pictures behind my eyelids left. One at a time the images stilled, the sounds of the forest receded, till there was only me and my breath. Me and my breath, and the cold empty space behind my neck.

Dejected, I open my eyes. It feels like hours have gone by but judging by the position of the icy moon above the treeline it has not been all that long.

“Hello little shadow! Are you lost?”

I nearly fell off the thatch.

The voice is as clear as a bell within my head. Was the Moon talking to me? No, I already knew if the Moon spoke to me, it would not sound like that.

My eyes travelled from side to side, sweeping the rooftop but I could not find the speaker. Then I saw it, and there can be no mistake: a giant moth sitting on a solitary extended branch, its wings fluttering pale and ghostly. They are almost gleaming under the light of the full moon. No, it was gleaming, shining with a hazy light of its own, almost as if it was sucking up the moon’s rays. Soft pastel yellow with overtones of green, the edges fading to pink. Twin markings on its wings give the impression of eyes. They were false eyes? Probably. I know from all the times I have eaten butterflies. My toes twitched.

This one was the biggest moth I had ever seen. And it was talking to me.

“I am not lost,” I said. “I am meditating.”

An ethereal tinkling laugh echoed across the air between us.

The giant moth took flight, flitting across the clearing to land on the chimney stack, wings aquiver. Now he was closer, he was even bigger than I had thought. My toes twitched again - but no. I should not eat things that speak to me. At least not yet.

“A curious place to meditate,” said the moth, conversationally.

“Do you think so?” I glanced up at the moon, then back at the softly glowing moth, unsure what to say. The giant moth seemed to have no such compunctions.

“I want to know the moon,” I said at last.

“If you would commune with the moon,” he said, “you have to understand her radiance.”

“Her radiance?”

The wings fluttered, the gleaming light suffused against the greyed out straw of the roof.

“Her radiance, her beauty, her purpose. Think on your purpose, little shadow. The sun may be your delight, but compared to the moon the day queen’s rays are harsh and coarse. There is subtlety in the Moon’s majesty. There is wisdom in her changing form. Sometimes she embraces the darkness, other times she is a mirror-” The giant moth stretches his wings wide, tilting upwards as though drinking in the soft, silvery light of the lunar sphere. “If all you seek of the universe is warmth and comfort you will make a poor cultivator indeed…”

I straightened.

“You are a cultivator?” I asked in excitement. “Do you know the moon-toad?”

But the giant moth had taken flight.

One, two beats of its wings and it was gone, fluttering high into the air. Moments later a mere glimmer between the branches, then, once more, I was alone on the cottage roof.

I glared back up at the moon.

The moth had said a whole lot of nothing. Pretty words! But still, I understood. The moon could sense my distaste. We had to learn to love each other. Fine. It was not as though I was lacking in charisma, beauty or charm. More difficult would be finding things I liked about the glacial orb that hung above me, so mockingly, so…so round. Like a ball of tantalising wool that I could not bat out of the sky.

I stuck my leg out and thoughtfully washed it as I contemplated this wisdom, splaying my toes wide to make sure I cleaned out all the crevices between each pad. Then I squatted down once more and stared up, staring, staring, while the wind whispered around me.

After some hours I gave up and went to bed. But I was back again the next night, and the next, and the next after that.

What would I think if I was a cold ball of pale light living in the sky? What would I dream of? What would I like?

The moon gave me no answers.

The next evening I brought the moon the plumpest mouse that I could find. I held it up to the tail and let it dangle, seductively, as I presented it.

It would seem the moon did not care for mice.

Or for birds, no matter how big or fat. No presents then. Stupid moon.

“WHAT DO YOU LIKE?” I yowled at the top of my lungs as I paced the ridgeline in frustration. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

Was that a faint stir of interest? A shifting of …of something? Of attention?

“DO YOU LIKE IT WHEN I SHOUT?” I shouted. Maybe the moon was deaf? Maybe the moon was lonely. The thought pierced me through the heart. I knew what it was like to be lonely. A faint stir once again.

Hope leapt in my chest.

I shouted, I yowled, I sang at the top of my lungs! I pranced across the roof, I leapt, I jumped, I twirled! Faint amusement surrounded me and I redoubled my efforts.

The echoes of my song bounced back across the clearing. The night creatures stopped in their tracks, entranced by the glory of my song, bewitched by my dancing. Shutters banged down below as my voice thrummed from deep to high, vibrating, exploding through me in an ecstasy of emotion. I told the moon all my hopes and dreams. I sang, I danced for her entertainment. She bathed me in her radiance, a hesitant affection, but affection nonetheless.

“Jenkins, by the goddess will you get down and be quiet, what is wrong with you?”

My Maud was standing in the garden in her nightdress, her hair a wild tangle, a scowl on her face as she looked up at me.

She was jealous that I shared my songs with the moon.

Her jealousy was unbecoming so I ignored her. This was between the moon and I. It was our bond, and ours alone, and did not lessen my love for Maud one bit. Eventually she gave up and went inside.

I danced and sang till I was exhausted, and then when I could sing no more I collapsed into a pile by the chimney and breathed in and out.

Soft, shy, silvery light surrounded me.

I saw moon-qi.