Catland - a humorous fantasy

Chapter Twenty-Five: Another Visitor

Time passed in the little cell in the bowels of the palace, but there was no way to mark its passing. Glimmerind did not reappear. The torches in the wall-brackets burned low and burned out, and at some point someone replaced them, but Greg was asleep when it happened, so he saw no one except Leopold, and Leopold saw no one except him. They passed the time as best they could, telling stories and playing childish little word-games to dispel the thick silence of the dungeon—but whenever they stopped talking, if only for an instant, the silence seemed to grow louder than ever, and before long they gave up striving against it and let it settle over them like a heavy, muffling blanket made of stale air and bleak dark thoughts. Greg felt his mind becoming dull and slow in the unchanging half-light. He was becoming a part of the dungeon. He was almost too numb to care.

At some unspecified hour between noon and midnight (or vice versa), Greg heard a gentle padding coming from way off down the corridor, and he saw a vague play of shadows on the wall opposite their cell. Swiftly, he roused Leopold, and the two of them plastered their faces against the close-set bars, trying to catch a glimpse of the approaching figure.

For a long time they could see nothing. The muted steps grew slowly, but steadily, louder. The shadows thickened and darkened on the blank wall facing them.

Then, suddenly, there it was: a shape, indistinct against the torchlight, moving purposefully towards them on four smoothly-pumping legs. The thing moved like a beast, low and sleek and feral, and Greg felt a superstitious chill take hold of him. There was something eerie—uncanny—about this apparition. Was he dreaming? Was he, after all, losing his mind?

The creature drew to a halt a few paces from their cell, sat back on its haunches, and gazed at them placidly. In the light from the nearby torch, they could now see it clearly. It was a cat—a very plump, fluffy, well-fed-looking cat, with orange-and-black fur and a dove-white belly. Its eyes were big and wide and vacuous. It looked at them with its head slightly cocked to one side.

"Meow," said the cat.

"Oh, for God's sake," muttered Leopold.

"Meow," said the cat.

"This is adding insult to injury," said Leopold, turning to Greg. "Glimmerind has sent this tame simpleton here to mock us. Mark my words. He wants us to catch a glimpse of what we'll become if his tortures and deprivations succeed in robbing us of all intellect and will. A desperate, mewling, pathetic creature like this poor soul. It makes my blood boil just to think of it; truly it does."

"Meow," said the cat.

"Meow indeed," said Leopold bleakly. "Meow indeed."

Leopold turned away then and lay back down in his corner of the cell, staring up at the ceiling with an air of languorous resignation. Greg turned back to the fluffy cat, who was still staring up at him with big, inquisitive eyes.

"Listen," said Greg, slowly and distinctly. "I don't know if you can understand me. But we need help. You see? To get out of here." He made vague, broad gestures. "To get ... out ... of here."

"Meow," said the cat.

Greg tried again. "You'll be rewarded," he said. "Handsomely rewarded. That one there"—he gestured at Leopold—"is a king. You understand? King? Very powerful. Very much wealth. Uh ... kibble. Much kibble. All the kibble you want. If you help us. Okay?"

"Meow," said the cat.

Greg sighed. He decided to adopt a new tactic.

"Here, kitty, kitty," said Greg in a strained falsetto.