The heat had been gnawing at Molly the cat from within. It was not the first time, but fifteen days earlier she had stumbled upon the remnants of a lowlying herb, already wilted and brushed by the first, timid frost of the season. Molly devoured every bit she could find, digging her teeth down to the very roots buried in the hard earth. The relief was swift; she almost forgot how badly she had suffered. Yet the blaze returned.
The herb could no longer be found, and it might never have helped her again. Still, such a plant could at least dull the fierce, consuming heat that smouldered deep within the lower chambers of her belly and spread down to her gut.
Who ever claimed a cat has nine lives? She possessed only onea small, unnoticed, yet warm and enveloping current that wrapped around those the cat managed to love. That life could not be reborn, but it could be given away, a gift if the cat so desired.
Molly wanted that. She clung with every paw to her tiny, fragile existence and would not simply surrender it to eternity. She began to scour the streets for the Lostpeople who had already misplaced their lives.
They seemed no different from any other folk: they walked, talked, ate, and slept. Yet what anchored them to the earth had slipped away, dissolving into the void and the passage of time. When that anchor vanished, another life ceased. The bereaved turned into the Lost
Those who had lost a child, a lover, parents, or been abandoned by their dearest friends. Disillusioned with life, with God, with everything they once trusted. They merely drifted on, turned into automatons, hollow shells that could speak and swallow food but nothing more. Humans failed to notice them, but cats saw and kept their distance. The Lost had no place beside a cat.
Now Molly herself sought out the Lost.
She wound her way to a bustling market town in Lancashire and settled near the coachstop, choosing a spot where she could stay unseen while watching. Around her swirled warm, lively people with their own worries and joys. Molly waited for ages; when disappointment was about to drive her away, a chilling breath brushed her heated soul.
A womanyoung, strikingemerged from the crowd. She blended in, yet Molly sensed her. The woman carried a cold vacuum, a ringing emptiness, and a lingering despair that had dissolved into the remnants of her spirit. Molly sprang up, her body trembling with a sudden, fierce grip, and lunged at the woman’s ankle.
Elspeth Hartley could not understand how a cat had appeared out of the blue, a bright speck at her feet, shrieking in a sharp, creaking voice while fixing her with large, beautiful eyes. The woman leaned down, as if merely to pat her, but Molly, her forepaws wrapped around the woman’s wrist, clambered up the arm and halted only at the shoulder. Pressing her muzzle into the hollow of the woman’s coat and digging her claws into the fabric, she refused to let go.
The Lost cared little. It was easier to carry a cat than to rid themselves of a nuisance on the street. Elspeth did not resist; she lacked the strength to push back. In truth, neither did Molly. Had Elspeth wished, she could have brushed the cat aside without effort. Two exhausted souls had found each other.
That night, finding no opposition, Molly slipped under Elspeths blanket. She did not know what to do, acting on instinct. Centimetre by centimetre she settled onto the womans cold body, the heat of her own fever urging her onwardMolly needed to make haste.
On the fourth night Elspeth awoke to a phantom whisper of a child lost at birth, a faint voice retreating.
I will wait for you, mother but not now. How good you have set me free!
Elspeth had forgotten what it was like to be covered in sweat, to feel fear, regret, pityindeed, any feeling at all. The cat lying on her belly gazed at her in the dark, its eyes flickering like little lanterns.
Lord, how hot you are Elspeth muttered, her fingers tracing Mollys back. God, what a hard, scorching belly. Oh, how it hurts! Molly let out a thin, wheezy whine at the touch.
Molly was angry and disillusioned. She had almost given away her life when, suddenly, Elspeth sat up and began to knead the cats already ailing belly. The torment could not be avoided any longer. Neither the strangers life was saved, nor did Molly have the strength to hold onto her own any longer.
Who says a cat has nine lives? It has but one, which it may offer as a gift if need be. Yet Elspeth had no use for that feline life.
Just a few more hours, and we could not have saved her, a veterinarian whispered, soothing a sobbing woman who had stormed into the clinic at night, disturbing the quiet watch.
The fever will pass; Ill keep an eye on her and you can take her home. Stop wailing You made it!
A cat does not possess nine lives. It has only one, which it may give up if it wishes. And if you wish, you too may restore the life she shared with you.
