Prologue - A Cat's Tail's Tale

Banishment hurts, whether it's from your country or from your house, for an evening, because you needed to train your claws. A need, yes a need, but not a need you need to take out on the furniture! Get out.

Cromwell got out. Out onto the dirt track that the shack looked forlornly onto. What was a mere kitten to do in the village at night? Cromwell knew well what he was to do and headed for the pond. From his vantage point, concealed in the reeds, he watched as the ripples and their masters flitted here and there – he was going to bring them to their knees. The ripples disturbed the twin of the engraver's house and they disturbed the twin of the moon and soon, soon, they were disturbing the twins of Cromwell's reeds and he knew the time was here. A swift swipe later the air was alive with screeching and fevered quacking, but soon the duck was on the bank and subdued and rasping for breath under Cromwell's weight. They looked each other in the eye. The duck opened its bill to speak, but Cromwell lifted a claw to his lips and the duck gulped and stayed quiet.

Cromwell knew the other ducks were watching, quivering by now, so he took a playful, theatrical swipe at the duck and stopped just short of its face. Then he turned his head to the pond and grinned his practised grin - menacing and just a little more than that of a cat.

“Stop!” Cried a voice from further up the bank.

Cromwell jerked his head to see who was attempting to halt his fun and soon he focused on the frame of a boy of no more than 6 – Buckle, the engraver's boy.

“Stop you bad, bad, bad, bad cat! I'll tell my Dad and he'll tell Old Mr Kemp and you won't get any tea for a week. You won't!” Shouted Buckle, a notable quaking in his voice as he hoped Cromwell wouldn't detect his bluff.

Your father wouldn't be able to stay sober long enough to even hear the whole of your pathetic little complaint. Thought Cromwell and, to prove his indifference to this challenge, ran a claw down the duck's neck, digging it in just far enough to extract a muted quack of pain.

Buckle now looked visibly very upset and Cromwell was satisfied that the boy would be wailing to his father in a matter of seconds and so turned his attention back to his captive. However, Buckle had gained a lot more confidence since their last stand-off and in seconds was on the cat with a branch which one of the trees had seen fit to discard. Buckle was no fighter and so his thrashing was driven by desperate energy and the lithe cat managed to avoid all but a blow to the tail – but this was enough. Cromwell scampered away from the duck and sat mewing in pain a few feet from Buckle. He looked at his tail – now bent at an angle a little before the tip, an injury he would carry for the rest of his life. He looked at Buckle and then back to his tail, tears filling his eyes.

Full of pity and guilt, Buckle walked over to the cat and bent down to inspect his tail. Suddenly, Cromwell took a swipe at Buckle's face, leaving him with three large gashes on his cheek which were soon weeping bright blood. They looked each other in the eye, Buckle now fighting back tears. Cromwell's eyes narrowed, then he mustered his finest indignant hiss and ran into the village.

And I didn't know if I should care. So I didn't.


This will be continued provided I don't completely lose all focus. Any opinions welcome!