The Cat That Made Nothing Something Again
James D. Maxon
The Cat That Made Nothing Something Again
~~~
by James D. Maxon
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The Cat That Made Nothing Something Again
Copyright © 2008 by James D. Maxon
Original Edition 2008
Second Edition 2009
ISBN: 1440485275
EAN-13: 9781440485275
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[email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. References to the biblical characters Samuel and Hannah are mentioned, but other names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover background image: © Andrea Danti - Fotolia.com. Cat image: © 34rl - Fotolia.com. License for use of images was purchased by the author.
https://www.thecatthat.com
Contents
_________________
Book One – The Journey
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
_________________
Book Two – The Way Home
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
________________
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my mother who kept asking, “When are you going to finish that cat story?”
Special thanks to Evelyn Hall and others for their great suggestions and editing expertise.
Deepest gratitude to the creator of life in whom all things are possible.
BOOK ONE
The Journey
Chapter 1
A dense, hazy mist hung over the tops of shapeless houses and shabby shops, which stood motionless beneath a pale, dead sky. The ground was barren, like sandpaper that could scrape the moisture out of anyone who dared walk with bare feet, and the air was thin and dry. Indeed, in this town, there was no moisture at all.
Each morning, when the town bell struck nine, the people would emerge from their homes and scuttle, aimlessly, like fallen leaves blown in the wind. Not a wrinkle could be seen on their faces, for they rarely changed their expressions or bothered with the weary motion of talking, smiling, or frowning. Nothing—not kindness nor anger—changed their daily routines. And to engage in any deep thought would be absurd. How could one ponder the mysteries of life when nothing unusual ever took place and no mysteries ever appeared?
Not only were the people dry, like sun-baked sand left on a deserted beach, but even the birds had forgotten how to sing. The trees had no leaves, flowers never bloomed, and the lakes and ponds were only empty holes in the cracked, barren ground. There were clouds, but they never produced any rain. Had it not been for the town’s deep well, they wouldn’t even have enough to drink.
But it wasn’t always this way. Many years ago the people had been moist and fervent—they laughed and sang and quarreled. The men tipped their hats to the ladies who returned the courtesy with a curtsy. Travelers had visited often to trade goods, and the town had prospered.
Then the sponges came, and sucked up all the moisture. It seemed as if they had consumed the rays of the sun, the shimmer in the stars, and freshness of the air. They removed the laughter of the children and even the twinkle in the eyes of the grandfathers. Everything they touched was drained, and when at last they departed, the town was left empty and dry.
That is, except for one crafty cat who had no name. He foresaw the intent of the sponges, so he acted as if he was already dry. It never occurred to the sponges to rob an already drained cat. He spent most of his days lying in a corner, sleeping, unmoving. His black fur kept him well hidden, even with the splotch of white on his face, so he was easily forgotten.
It was to the cat’s advantage once the sponges left, for people began to feed him at five o’clock sharp each and every day—unlike before when they would laugh and talk and forget until many hours later. The mice forgot to run so they made for easy targets, and the nameless cat’s family no longer cared when he jumped on the counter, nor yelled when he tested his claws on an unsuspecting chair. For many years the cat lived in utter contentment.
But eventually he became bored of the sameness of every day, and tired of the dry nothingness of the village. No one played with him anymore or engaged in conversation. Catching mice that didn’t run wasn’t much of a challenge—or much fun. Worst of all, no one in the village ever read anymore, so there were never any open books laying about for him to nap atop. And though cats hate to get wet, he began to yearn for the life-giving rain to return. So he took it upon himself to see the dry mayor.
When brought before the mayor, the cat stopped and gazed up at the man’s tall wooden desk. It was covered in paperwork so high that the mayor had to sit upon many books just to reach the top of the pile.
“What is it you want, cat?” the dry mayor asked, not moving his eyes from his papers. “I’m very busy with nothing and have no time for something.”
“There are troubles about,” the nameless cat meowed, “that need your attention, if you please.”
“What?” the mayor asked, scratching his head through his white, curly wig. “I cannot hear you clearly. Speak up you curious feline.”
“Perhaps you should put down your paper,” the cat said in a raised voice, “and listen to what I have to say.”
The dry mayor heard, and turned a distracted glance down from his tall wooden desk.
“You need to send a messenger,” the cat continued, “to find those old sponges and take back the moisture they have stolen.”
“What do you know of dry people’s ways? You’re just a cat and have no understanding of important matters,” the mayor replied. “But do as you wish. If it is a messenger you want then you it will be. I have too many nothings I must attend to. Now leave.”
The cat kept still and stared up at the dry mayor. “Very well, I shall go myself. If it weren’t for my very boredom I wouldn’t be concerned, but it seems that going may be something, and that is far better than nothing.”
The mayor took no notice that the nameless cat still remained. He continued to read the dry paperwork while scratching at his curly wig.
The cat turned, trotted to the door, and then shook his paws clean as if removing dirt stuck from between his black toes.
Chapter 2
The nameless cat remembered that the sponges had departed to the west, so he figured going in that direction would be the best place to start.
“The sooner I go the sooner I get petting,” he said aloud. “But it’s already ten to five and it would be a shame to miss dinner.”
He returned home for his evening meal, and as always it was presented to him on time. When finished, he licked his paws, back and shoulders. Once spotless, he curled up against a clean white towel for a nap—after all who doesn’t enjoy a mouthful of cat hair when wiping one’s face on a towel? br />
When the cat awoke the village bell was chiming nine in the morning—so much for a short nap. The bell finished and the dry people emerged from their homes just the same as the day before.
The cat joined them on the streets, only he didn’t intend to scuttle around the town as they were. He would leave this town and the people behind in hopes of changing their ways. Several dry people nearly stepped on him, but he was quicker than their careless feet. Thankfully it wasn’t long before he made it to the other side of town. Without giving it too much thought the cat turned and looked back at his home one last time. Now was the time to turn back, but turn back to what? No, something had to change and he seemed to be the only one to do it.
There were no signs of life on the path, just a few wilted trees and sorry looking bushes. The land was flat, as if the hills forgot how to stand, and the ground was dry, so much so that the cat could feel it sucking the moisture from his paws. His feet pattered against the ground as clouds of cool mist streamed out of his nose and the corners of his mouth. It felt as if the air was trying to take the moisture from him as well.
He would have checked his reflection in a puddle to be sure his fur was spotless, but there weren’t any around. It occurred to him that he should have found a way to carry some water with him, but turning back now seemed like a waste of time. He would have to be content with the idea that he looked his best, and that he would find some water to drink along the way.
Many hours went by, and nothing changed—no water in sight and the scenery just continued in its monotonous display. It all looked the same, and at times he wasn’t sure whether he gained any distance at all. In the back of his mind he wanted to ask for help, knowing that the creator of life had the ability to intervene, but there was something that told him it would be useless. Had the creator been there from the start, then why were the sponges allowed to drain the village to begin with? No, he was determined to find his own way.
Suddenly, something sharp jabbed his paw. He looked down and saw what appeared to be a seed.
“What are you doing in such a poor place?” the cat asked the seed.
“A farmer dropped me here,” the seed said. “And I expect to grow.”
“But you are in the way,” the cat replied. “And when you grow tall you’ll be cut down.”
“I didn’t think of that!” The seed shuddered.
Just then a crow swooped down and grabbed the seed in its beak. The bird clumsily fluttered its wings, dropped the seed into a nearby patch of thorns, and cawed loudly as it flew back to the sky.
The cat approached the area in the bushes, being careful not to brush his coat against the thorns.
“Now I can grow and always be protected!” the seed exclaimed.
“Only for a while. You may grow big, but the thorns will rip you to shreds.”
“Oh woe is me,” the seed whimpered. “What shall I do? I don’t wish to be slashed to bits! What a sad life I have.”
“Don’t worry,” the cat said softly, feeling a sudden and unusual urge to help. “I will set you free.”
He crouched down and stretched a paw under the bushes, feeling beneath the thorns. At the tip of his pad he could barely touch the seed. It was like another cat lying comfortably out of reach, knowing full well that someone wanted to pet him—something the nameless cat had done many times himself.
“I cannot quite reach you,” the cat said, grunting as he stretched.
Just then a gust of wind blew the seed off the ground, through the thorns, and set it down on a nearby rock.
“At last I have settled!” the seed shouted happily.
Standing back on all fours, and licking the dirt from his paw, the cat once again instructed his helpless acquaintance. “How shall you grow without a place for your roots?”
“But there must be a way,” said the flustered seed. “I cannot worry about that now. If I don’t get to work soon, then I will never bloom.”
“But there is no moisture on that dry rock. You will be unnourished and wither away.”
After thinking about it, the cat realized that there wouldn’t be enough moisture for the seed to grow in normal conditions anyway, and since he was hungry, and there was no hope for the seed, he ate it.
Chapter 3
The cat began to get tired, so he found a comfortable spot to settle down for a nap. If you’ve ever watched a cat nap, then you know catnaps can last almost an entire day, but this time the ground was so dry and uncomfortable that he could feel it sucking the moisture right out of him.
The sponges must have passed by here, he thought. I need to keep going, or I will become emptied like everyone else.
He got up and trotted along the path until he came upon a village of bicker people.
“Oh look, it’s a dog,” one of the bicker people shouted.
“That’s not a dog,” another disagreed. “It’s a Guinea Pig.”
“That’s not a Guinea Pig,” the first villager retorted. “Clearly, it’s a dog.”
“What do you know about dogs? You have never even seen one.”
“I’ve seen more dogs than you’ve seen Guinea Pigs.”
“Oh, sure, like you would know.”
This went on for quite some time until they realized the cat was walking away. Upon noticing, they started to argue what day of the week it was instead. The nameless cat knew full well he wasn’t going to get any petting from these bicker people, but it was worth looking around for some food and water.
The village was peculiar: Houses were painted in hues of red, black, violet, blue, orange, pink, green, and just about every color combination one can think of. But that wasn’t the strangest part. It was the fact that none were painted the same that caught his attention. In fact, nothing and no one was the same. One bicker person’s clothing was stripped, another’s spotted, another’s printed with stars, and yet another’s had triangles. Each person wore a hat, which seemed common enough, but none of them were the same and each one seemed odder than the last. He stared at one of the hats which looked to be made from a box. It sat awkwardly on the bicker person’s head, with two eye holes cut out for him to see through.
Some of the people wore shoes with heals, and other’s with none. One had pointy curling toes that stretched over six inches. With each step the toes extended and struck the air like a whip. But even that wasn’t so bad—the worst part was listening to the way they talked to one another. All the bicker people seemed to think their way was right and were constantly trying to prove why. It made the village very loud with their constant shouting and hollering, as they were all trying to be heard above the other, but not a one listened to what the other had to say.
They must like the sound of their own voices, thought the cat. But it was too much for him. All the noise made him dizzy, so he ran out of the village with his ears laid back on his head.
Chapter 4
The path was no longer flat as a pancake. It had become rocky and bumpy, with tree roots sticking out of the ground. Misshapen bushes garnished the edges of the trail and the trees looked as if some strange force had warped them from their original appearance.
The cat proceeded, sleek and dainty as possible considering the conditions, and hopped from rock to rock and pounced over this root and that. After a while he heard a faint humming noise. It grew louder and louder until words took shape:
“It’s all a game.
Sugar and sweets
are all that I eat,
it’s all a game to me.
No stuffy old job,
or things to be robbed,
forever and always free.
To giggle and twiggle,
and de’ whittle wee,
it’s all a game to me.”
There were other variations and words to the song, but the nameless cat could barely understand the ones he heard.
He watched with disgust at the lack of dignity the singer possessed, and cringed when it wiggled and giggled and hopped and bopped
all over the place. Then suddenly, it tripped over a rock and fell flat on its face.
Bells jingled from its funny looking, forked hat, as the singer wiggled back to its feet. It patted at the dust which covered its baggy, loose clothes, and then rubbed its large, red, pointy nose.
“Hello there kitty,” it giggled, starting once again to hop and bop, but all in one place. “I am a fool. It’s nice to meet you. Isn’t it pretty?”
“To what do you refer?” the nameless cat asked, annoyed.
“To everything, or nothing,” the fool said. “It’s all how you see, and that’s what will be.”
The cat sat still not uttering a reply. He was feeling dizzy watching the fool dance around. Knowing he wouldn’t be rid of him without finishing the conversation, the cat spoke again. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I can’t remember . . . from a book, or on a hook, by a brook, or in a nook. That’s where I know what I mean.”
“Where have you come from?” the cat asked, hurrying the conversation as best he could.
“From far west,” the fool said. “Where I had jest. From the palace of the King, is the news that I bring. I performed and tried to give cheer, but his advisers the sponges drew near. This fool knows better, and is really quite clever. I jumped through the window and escaped their swindle.”
Now the cat was very interested in what the fool had to say. “Can you tell me how to get there?” This ‘King’ must be in cahoots with the sponges, he thought.
“The journey is only as long as you desire. The distance is always the same. It’s to the west; I don’t remember the rest. I just danced and pranced all the way.”
The cat sensed that the fool wasn’t very dependable when it came to important things, as if he had his head in the clouds, and rarely thought of anything but himself. At least the annoying thing had given him some useful information.
The cat excused himself, and the fool just hopped and wiggled and giggled on his way, while continuing his bizarre song:
“Where to next?
Some place to jest.
Without any cares,
