The Magic Cat

“La, la, la, la, la.” The old cat hummed softly to herself as she walked slowly along the road.

She had been beautiful once, with fur of mottled grey and brown and black on top, and pure white underneath. But her most striking feature were her great green eyes, rimmed with black fur like kohl and set above a pink nose. She had only a short, twisted stub of a tail, like all of her breed. Now she was very old, but her fur was still soft and sleek as a kitten’s. She wore an old red cloak, torn and soiled, and over her head there was a battered blue kerchief. Her companion, who most saw as an old horse, was as shabby and unkempt as she. He pulled a cart with flaking paint and wilting bouquets, and appeared to be quite blind for he often stumbled into the potholes that everywhere filled the road. But once he too had been quite handsome, with his pure white coat, and the lovely pink horn in the middle of his forehead. The two traveled the highways and byways, going from village to village and selling their bouquets. They had seen better days, and for the most part the modern villagers had no time for them, an old cat, a shabby horse, and wilting bouquets.

But for those who had eyes with which to see, the old cat was much more, and so was her faithful companion. Oh, if only those villagers had known then, how well they would have treated her. How they would have feasted her and cared for her and lodged her in the finest of rooms, and they would have found the grandest stables for her companion. But they had grown blind to her magic, so none of those things happened. As often as not, the villagers avoided her, dirty, shabby old thing. It was rumored by some that she had fleas, and well meaning Mothercats clung to their kittens, keeping them out of harm’s way.

In one village a group of eager young boycats threw rocks at her, and laughed at her tears when they hit her. How sad she felt as she hobbled through that village. She did not even attempt to sell any of her lovely bouquets. It was at times like these that her companion tried to comfort her. He would stand close to protect her from the rocks, and would whinny softly in her ear to protect her from the cruel things the villagers said.

The world seemed to have lost its ability to wonder, and there was no place left for the two faithful friends. A tear rolled down her cheek as they shuffled along, eking out a living, begging or buying a crust of bread from surly bakers and innkeepers. At night the two curled up together and slept by the wayside.

Occasionally she would come to a village where the inhabitants were more tolerant or perhaps not so blind. A smiling young housecat would glimpse just for a moment a shining beauty in the old cat, and would buy a bouquet to set on the table that night. Or an aged grandcat would hear a lovely waltz in the old cat’s tuneless humming, and would buy a blossom to remind her of her youth. And then the old cat would be gone, rounding a bend in the road and disappearing from their sight forever, vanishing before those lucky few had a chance to thank her. For you see, the old cat was not what she seemed. Her flowers and her bouquets were filled with magic. They came from her garden in the castle by the sea, and each flower had its own special faerie, who would happily grant you a wish.

No sooner would the old cat be gone then the young House Cat would admire her bouquet, and think to herself, “What a lovely bouquet.” And indeed it was a lovely bouquet filled with fragrant gillyflowers, mimeenahs, and pink roses, tansy and yarrow and wood anemones, fritillary and corncockles, and lavender and larkspur and fennel. They were all flowers which spoke of magic, and which brought to the weary young House Cat’s mind visions of grasslands and woodlands and meadows where faeries and elves danced at midnight. “I only wish I had a feast as lovely,” she would say, and a feast would appear on the table as quickly as the thought. Oh, what a lovely feast it would be, with everything the young House Cat could imagine or desire. Tureens of soup would dance about with fat stuffed turkeys on golden platters. Silver trays of pickles, and nuts and fresh fruits would settle next to fine puddings and hams. China dishes rimmed in gold would lie beside fine silverware, and dainty teacups would wait for tea to be poured from piping hot flowered teapots. Then the young House Cat would laugh with delight and run through the village crying, “Stop that old cat. Buy her bouquets! They are magic!”

Or the old grandcat would think, “My, what a lovely flower.” The fragrance would soothe her, and awaken her old senses. The color would remind her of dresses she wore in her youth, lovely dresses of lace and lawn. “Oh, if only I still had my thick, lovely fur, I would tuck it behind my ear, and dance all night,” she would sigh. Suddenly soft music would float through the air, and she would be dancing on paws that had barely carried her about the day before. The old grandcat, filled with a new joy, would dance out into the street and stop the villagers. “Follow that old cat! Buy her flowers! They are magic!”

Oh, if only all the villagers had known, they would have paid dearly for even one of the magic flowers. But they didn’t know, for they were too blind to see. Once the old cat had passed through the village, she was gone forever. That, you see, was part of her magic. She only passed by each cat once, and if that cat could not see her magic, then the opportunity was gone forever.

And so she and her faithful companion hobbled on, humming happily, until they came to a tiny hamlet at the very edge of the kingdom. The hamlet lay on a cliff overlooking the sea and they stopped as they came to its edge.

She gazed out to sea, remembering a time that now seemed lost forever. It was a beautiful and magical time, a time when she had danced in the moonlight with her true love, the handsome prince. How they had whirled and twirled through the grand ballroom, and out into the summer garden, dancing lightly on the smooth lawn, their paw prints leaving no more marks than that of a soft wind.

Those had been happier days. She remembered now the garden full of beautiful flowers that bloomed in riotous bright colors and in soft pastel shades. There were primroses and nasturtiums, carnations and lilies. And there were her own special little pink roses, and cheddar pinks, and gentians and lady slippers. And of course, the lovely mimeenah flowers brought here by her ancestors. It was a garden filled with flowers and faeries, in a castle by the sea. But now the castle was gone, and her true love had long since crossed the Rainbow Bridge. Now only a few bouquets were left from that magical garden. A few bouquets, and one special old faerie, Pink, who lived in the last pink rose. Pink was her friend, and the old cat would not part with that rose.

As she stood there remembering, the sun sank into the sea, turning the sky red and gold, and casting a soft glow over the land. A cool breeze sprang up and the old cat shuffled on into the village. Here the villagers were not quite so modern and up-to-date. Here life went on at a much slower pace, being far away from the center of the kingdom. And so perhaps this was why the innkeeper saw her as she really was, a beautiful old princess, walking beside a lovely unicorn, who pulled a gaily-painted cart filled with flowers.

“Welcome, Grandmother,” he said. “We have long awaited you.”

And the old cat smiled, and her great green eyes blazed with laughter, and her faithful companion whinnied and danced. That night in the tiny village, there was a wonderful feast, given in her honour. The inn was filled with laughter and singing and dancing. The old cat gave away her last few bouquets, for she knew she would need them no more. She kept only the lovely pink rose, and Pink the Faerie sprinkled magic dust over all and sundry.

Afterwards, the town fathers and mothers showed the old cat a lovely little cottage, with a snug warm barn for the unicorn and the cart. There was even a small garden filled with pink roses where Pink the Faerie could live. The old cat was very happy for she knew she had at last come home to her beautiful Catuary. And so she settled in the village, and there she lived happily ever after.

Marquesa Rambley-Bambley Hatshepsut Milliken
Head Historian
Catuary by the Sea