Dusty Sunlight

I’ve lived alone in the barn for as long as I can remember. I always had it all to myself; the wide, cobwebby loft, the sunlit threshing floor, and the musty stall where the old tractor had been gathering dust for years. I could hunt for fat mice in the hay or listen to the singing of the swallows without being bothered.

Confused? I should probably explain.

My name is Whistle. I am a three-year-old tomcat with a missing leg and a burning hatred of frogs. I ran away from my humans when I was six months old to live in this beautiful, decaying barn, where crickets sing in the summer and owls call in the winter. It’s my little haven of peace and quiet, and I wanted it stay that way. Of course, it didn’t.

Basking in a puddle of midday sunlight, in the hayloft, I heard a meow from downstairs and everything changed.

Slipping down the rickety old stairs, lurking in the shadows and wondering who had come. There they stood, looking around at my domain: a tall black and white molly and a small grey she-cat. Maybe if I hid long enough, they would go away. The grey one called again.

“Hello?”

I recognized her voice. She was one of those young cats who came to my barn that day in winter, they called themselves something strange, what was it? Half-claws. Right. Some of those crazy Guild cats that lived in the forest. I never understood them. They barely scraped by in the winter and fought amongst themselves in the summer. The two other seasons were a mixture of both.

The grey one had saved my life later that spring. I had gotten cornered by a raccoon, and she distracted it enough for me to escape. The last I saw of her, she was clawing at it’s face. Now here she stood, lean and healthy. There are thin, barely noticeable scars across her throat. I wonder if they’re from the raccoon.

My thoughts were interrupted by the tall cat’s voice.

“I smell him. He’s right over there.”

No use hiding any longer. I stepped out of the shadows into the dusty sunlight, blinking slowly. The grey cat smiled warmly, but the black and white one narrowed her yellow eyes.

“Whistle?” the grey one asked. I nodded, and she dipped her head respectfully. “I am Mistybranch of the Guild of Wolves. This here is Persephone, my friend.” Persephone acknowledged me with the briefest of nods.

“You’re probably wondering why we’re here,” Mistybranch said.

“I am,” I responded, pricking my ears interestedly.

“I’ll get to it right away,” she meowed, sitting down, and I suppressed a sigh. This couldn’t be good.

“Perse is a rogue. Well, was.” My initial fear at her first sentence did not fade, and I glanced over at the black and white she-cat. She was siting silently, her eyes focused on the concrete floor under her paws. I shivered. Even if she wasn’t technically one now, she’s still dangerous. What made her leave her group?

“She’s been living on WolfGuild territory for a while,” Mistybranch continued, “but Dawnclaw found out. She’s…not too friendly towards trespassers, especially those that aren’t Guild cats. Perse needs a place to live, at least for now. She can’t travel far in her current condition.”

I glance at the former rogue. “Her condition?”

Persephone narrowed her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“A favor for a favor?” Mistybranch urged, her eyes pleading.

I couldn’t say no, as much as I may have wanted to. Persephone’s blood would be on my paws if I refused and this Dawnclaw cat found her, and I didn’t want to risk that. Besides, I owed Mistybranch, and Persephone’s secrecy about her ‘condition’ made me curious, to be honest.

“She can stay,” I meowed.

Then the Guild cat took her leave with many grateful words, and I was left alone with the stolid molly. We sat in silence for a few moments, then, when she said nothing, I went back upstairs. The loft was full of swallows, and I quickly caught two fledglings. Would she take them? She seemed rather independent.

“Are you eating?” I called down. There was a pause, then her pawsteps could be heard coming up the stairs. There was an odd sound to her gait, a slight inconsistency in every fourth stride. Her head appeared in the space and she lightly bounded up, wrinkling her nose at the cobwebs. She approached slowly, and I saw what was the matter. Her left hind leg was stiff and inflamed, and she barely rested her weight on it with each step.

“Have you had swallows before?” I asked, pretending not to notice.

“I don’t eat birds,” she said shortly, and my temper flared. Was she going to be like this the entire time? Resisting any attempt to be friendly?

“Fine, then,” I responded quietly. “Suit yourself. There are mice in the hay and rabbits in the field. Water’s in the rain barrel outside the bay door.”

I settled down to eat, but she remained where she was, sitting silently. I could feel her eyes like persistent fly on my fur. I finally looked up and sighed.

“Do you need anything?”

Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second, her mouth opened as if to speak—then she closed it and turned away, slipping back down the stairs.

So it went for a week; I avoiding Persephone, and she avoiding me. I stayed in the hayloft, and she kept to the threshing floor. She was quiet, which I appreciated, but was still aware of her presence: faint footfalls, the squeak of a mouse, and the strong smell of tree bark and herbs. I asked about her leg once or twice, but my queries were always rebuffed with a cold “I’m fine”, and I learned to avoid the subject. The she-cat was proud--too proud. She would never admit to failing to catch prey, and she hid her limp as well as she could. It both saddened and irritated me, but there wasn’t really anything I could do about it.

She was sleeping in the straw on the threshing floor when I padded out to the rain barrel late one evening. For a heartbeat I thought she was dead, all sprawled out like that. I shook myself and trotted on.

When I returned, my muzzle wet with water, I noticed her leg was covered in a thick paste. A poultice for the swelling, I assumed. Interesting. I did not have the extensive medical knowledge of the forest cats, and, living a much less dangerous life, did not require it. I had used blackberry leaves on bee stings once or twice, but that was all.

I took one or two cautious steps closer, sniffing. I knew the stringy white was the inner bark of an ash tree, but I couldn’t tell what the green pulp was. The mixture was thoroughly coating her leg, so I couldn’t get a better look at the injury. As I turned to go, my heart leaped into my throat as I saw her yellow eyes watching me. Her leg jerked away and I jumped back, sputtering apologies.

She said nothing, the tip of her tail flicking back and forth in the hay.

I ducked my head and returned to my lair in the upper level of the old barn. I sat and looked out the hay-loading door. The sun was setting, and the swallows danced in the purple sky. Fireflies hovered over the rippling wheatfields below. The lights of the road were visible not far off, and I could hear the hum of passing cars. It was peaceful, and I breathed in the comforting smell of the hay. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, sharing the barn with Persephone. I curled up and closed my eyes, listening to the martins rustling under the eaves. There was silence from downstairs. I held my breath to hear better, but there was nothing. Maybe she was sleeping. I didn’t want to admit it, but it was starting to worry me. That is, until I heard the breathing in the hay across from me.

“Persephone? What are you doing?”

“Trying to sleep. It was hot down there.”

I nodded, trying to calm my racing heartbeat. She had startled me. She was very skilled, I had to admit. She could hunt, she knew herbs for her leg, and she could creep up and lay down in utter silence. Not to mention the fact that she survived the forest and came out whole. My eyes flickered down to her leg. Relatively.

I was nearly asleep when her voice drifted across the wooden boards.

“How long have you lived here, Whistle?”

For the first time, her tone wasn’t sharp or frustrated. It was quiet and curious, and I smiled.

“Two years this autumn.”

“It’s nice here,” she remarked after a pause. I nodded, surprised at her mood. Maybe she would tell me what was wrong with her leg. It was a small, rather insignificant thing, but it had been nagging at the back of my mind for days. What it was didn’t really matter though; the real problem for her was that she had to overcome her pride and admit that she wasn’t infallible.

“Your leg…what happened?”

Persephone stiffened and looked at her paws, then let out a long breath.

“It was a copperhead. Bit me when I was hunting in the blackberries.”

Her tone was slightly strained, but her eyes lifted to meet mine and I smiled warmly. She could learn.

We talked quietly as night closed in.

I taught her about life in the fields; the rabbit nests hiding among the stalks in spring, the harvesting in late summer, the birds in winter that flocked down into the barren stubble in winter to forage.

In return, Persephone taught me herb-lore, when to gather borage, where the best places for alder were. I asked her about the poultice, and she told me that the green mush was called burdock.

When the last streaks of indigo were gone from the sky, we brought the conversation to a close.

Darkness fell, and the night wind rustled through the loft. Persephone had suggested that she might stay, and I told her that I would give my answer in the morning.

I lay silently, turning the idea over in my head. The old part of me argued that it was better alone. But I had seen what she could be, and it would be better for me to not live alone. We could learn together.