Demensions - On Little Cat Feet

     Ewan sat on the dusty floor, looking stupidly at his wife's lifeless form. The stench of burned oats rose from the cauldron hanging over the peat fire, mingled with the spoor of violent death. Ewan's drink-curdled stomach rebelled at the noxious combination and emptied itself on his lap; he glanced incuriously at the mess and resumed his study of Johanna's swollen face.
     The cottage was so quiet he could hear the footfalls of her cat.
     Pit-pat-pit.
     A patch of shadow slipped around the corner, stepping daintily to avoid splatters of blood and vomit. Moving with the improbable mix of fluidity and fastidiousness that only a cat can manage, it veered neatly past Ewan's legs and made its way to the battered corpse.
     It paused to sniff at Johanna's outstretched hand, wrinkling its nose at the acrid fear-scent clinging to her wrist like rare perfume. Her cracked, peeling nails were painted with the dull crimson of drying blood, bits of torn flesh wedged underneath. Strands of reddish hair spilled like costly silk thread from between her work-roughened fingers, and she wore a purpling bracelet of thumb-shaped bruises, mate to the necklace of fingerprints circling her throat. Ewan, staring into her vacant eyes of black and blue and green, thought her lovely still.
     The cat made a soft sound - mrroww - and Ewan could plainly hear the question in it. When Johanna didn't answer, the cat leapt onto her chest and sat, looking down at her ruined face with a puzzled expression. Patting her cheek gently with one paw, it gave that inquiring meow again.
     "She cannae hear ye anymore, cat." Ewan's voice was thick with grief and whiskey.
     The cat turned and blinked at him with round, yellow eyes.
     "She's dead, cat, can ye nae see that? She's dead, dead, DEAD!" Ewan pulled his knees into his chest and rocked back and forth, blubbering. "Oh, Johanna, my Johanna! Oh, what'll I do wi'out ye?" Slobber joined the gathering of bodily fluids that had already convened on his patched tunic. "I loved her, cat, do ye understand? I loved her!"
     Aye, loved me right to death, ye did.
     The voice floated on the peat smoke - misty, insubstantial ... familiar.
     "Wh-who said that?" Ewan raised his head and peered around the room through bleary eyes, but saw only the cat. It gave no indication it had heard anything, placidly washing the blood from Johanna's face with slow rasps of its tongue as if preparing her for burial.
     Who do ye think, Ewan?
     He'd heard that acerbic tone every day for the past twenty years. Doubt crept through the haze of malt and misery hanging over Ewan's awareness. He looked at the broken remnants of the woman he'd married, searching for some overlooked trace of the life he'd been sure was fled. "J-Johanna?"
     Yes?
     The cat finally turned and looked up at him with round, green eyes, cocking its head to one side in a gesture that sent a trickle of cold sweat down Ewan's back. He stared at the cat. It stared back. He shook his head, blinked furiously, and looked again. Its eyes were still green, its head still tilted in the exact same way as...
     "Nae, it cannae be! It's the drink, that's all. The drink, playin' tricks on me mind."
     The cat flicked its ears derisively. What mind?
     "Johanna? But ... but you're..."
     Dead? The cat stared at him a moment longer, then began grooming itself with a deliberate casualness. Ye'd be the one to know, Ewan.
     "I never meant to harm ye, Johanna, as God is me witness! It was a mistake, an accident! If ye had nae fought me..." He traced a shaky finger along the deep scratches in his cheek; probed gingerly at the small, throbbing bare patch in his copper-and-silver hair. "Ye never should have done that, Johanna." His voice was truculent now. "Ye know better than to rile me when the drink's in me."
     Oh, so now it's me own fault, eh? Scorn added solidity to the ethereal words. Ye come stumblin' home past dawn, the reek of whiskey and the musk of whores followin' ye like a dog, and what have ye to say for yer sorry self? "Come here, lass, an' give me a kiss!" The cat bounded to its feet, tail lashing, ears laid flat. A kiss? What ye deserved was a clout on the head! And when I was nae minded to hike me skirts and spread meself for ye right here on the floor, ye grabbed me and ye hit me; ye threw me down, and ye put yer hands around me neck and-
     "Ye had nae right to deny me, Johanna! Nae right! Yer me wife, damn it!"
     The cat arched its back and hissed at him, fur bristling. Your wife! Your property, ye mean, to do with as ye please! Is that nae how ye see it? When Ewan didn't answer, the cat sat back down, coat restored to inky smoothness, tail arranged precisely across its paws. Well, ye're wrong, Ewan. Dead wrong. Remember Fergus?
     Ewan remembered Fergus all too well. Fergus had beaten his wife to death last spring after a night of drinking and carousing. The laird had executed him for it, and at the hanging, he'd issued a warning to the rest of the men. The women of this village may be your wives and daughters, he'd said, but they are my property. And any man who damages my property hangs. The men had all looked at one another nervously; the women had looked at the men speculatively. And then the laird had slapped the rump of the horse, sending it bolting out from under Fergus, and the rope had snapped taut, and someone - a woman - had said, laughing, that at least old Fergus had finally learned to dance. Ewan winced, recalling that twisting, spastic jig.
     Chill laughter rippled through the air, raising the hairs at the back of Ewan's neck. I see ye've caught my meaning. The laird will hang ye for this, Ewan, just like Fergus. Remember how his tongue puffed up all black like a truffle after he'd swung a day or two? That'll be yer tongue this time, Ewan. Think ye the pigs'll eat it?
     A thin worm of panic wriggled its way up through the mud of whiskey and regret clogging Ewan's mind. He'd damaged the laird's property right enough, and if the laird found out, he'd hang for sure. Ewan swallowed hard, already feeling a phantom noose constricting his throat. Then his sodden consciousness seized on a single word, a frayed spot on the rope. If the laird found out...
     "I'll ... I'll throw yer body off the crags, say ye got lost in the fog and fell o'er! It happened to Duncan's boy; it could happen again! And how would the laird ever know any different?" Ewan sounded quite pleased with his own cleverness, but the cat looked unimpressed.
     Ach, come now, Ewan. Of course he'll know. The cat jumped from the corpse, landing lightly and padding with unconcerned slowness toward the door. I'll go tell him meself. I wonder if ye'll dance as fine as Fergus did? It waved its sooty tail at him insolently as it passed.
     "I'll be damned if I'll let a bloody cat send me to the gallows!" Ewan lurched to his feet and made a grab for the cat but it darted nimbly between his legs and scooted back toward the hearth. Spinning around, Ewan lunged again. Although the blood-and-vomit slicked floor had presented no challenge to the supple grace of the cat, Ewan was not the most agile of men even sober. Drunk as he was now, it might just as well have been ice.
     The cottage was so quiet he could hear the snap of his neck when he hit the floor.      Pit-pat-pit.
     He could no longer feel the soft weight of the cat as it landed on his chest. He could no longer raise his arms to push it away when it nuzzled his face, stealing the last of his breath from between his slack lips. He could only blink as moments passed, counted off by the slowing beat of his heart. The cat yawned, stretched, and curled up on his stomach.
     Ewan, Ewan, Ewan. The amused chuckle sounded very far away. Ye thought the laird would listen to a cat? Ah, well, ye never were the sharpest arrow in the quiver. The cat yawned again and closed its yellow eyes.
     The cottage was so quiet...
     The last thing Ewan heard was a low, contented purr.

On Little Cat Feet

© 2001 Donnamarie Thiel-Kline