Of Mice and Men and Midnight

Kitty lay curled on the warm flagstones before the fire, pretending to sleep and trying to ignore the noise coming from across the kitchen. She had one paw flung defiantly across her head, and every now and then, when the hubbub reached a crescendo and either temptation or annoyance became too much, she would open an eye and peek out from beneath it. The fuss centred around Cinderella. The fuss always centred around Cinderella. She had spent much of the afternoon in tears, which seemed the natural state for the girl to be in. Always red-eyed and snuffling. It never ceased to amaze Kitty how, for such a down-trodden creature, such a poor little ash-coated, rag-hung thing, every new blow, every fresh setback or slight, seemed to hit her with such weight you’d have thought it was the very first bad thing to ever happen in an otherwise ideal life. She was like a little child who, having once been stung by a prickly plant, goes back and upon touching it again discovers that it’s still prickly and that it still hurts. Her tears spoke of surprise at yet another unexpected betrayal.

This afternoon she had been crying because there was going to be a party and she hadn’t been invited. Kitty was sure that there were deeper nuances to be found in the explanation which Cinders choked out between sobs to whichever parts of the kitchen had cared to listen, but Kitty hadn’t cared to listen, and instead had retreated to the comfort of the fireside. As dusk began to fall and Cinders’ wails began to loose their earlier vigour, there arrived a portly little witch who carried a stubby wand and promised with an apple-cheeked smile to make everything better. This finally shut Cinders up.

Kitty didn’t have much time for Cinders. She was a dull girl with a glum outlook on life and some funny ideas about the world. And so unimaginative. She had given Kitty her name, which she had now almost outgrown and was starting to hate. Still, Kitty had tried to make friends with Cinders, but all of her gifts -- the field mice and the fledgling sparrows, not to mention half a particularly tasty baby rabbit -- had been rejected and only led to more wailing and tears. In the end Kitty had given up. Such a shame. Such a tasty bit of rabbit wasted.

A certain scent caught Kitty’s nose and made her whiskers hum with joy. Familiar. Fascinating. Mice! Of all the things the kitchen and the stable yard beyond it had to offer, mice were her favourite. So much fun. So much flavour. She carefully opened the eye under the paw. There they were, four of them, bold as you like in the middle of the kitchen floor. And the crazy old woman was trying to herd them together, sleeves rolled up, waving her wand and chanting.

Kitty moved quickly. Along the wall and under the sideboard. Check the coast was clear. A quick dash to the jumbled jungle of table and chair legs. She wove between them like wool in a loom. Then, crouched low, belly flat to the stone floor, muscles tensed, she paused. Now something smelt wrong. The mice has stopped scurrying and stood frozen. Kitty’s fur began to tingle and rise, like it did in the hours before a thunderstorm. And like in the hours before a thunderstorm it was telling her to find somewhere safe to hide.

She looked up and met the Fairy Godmother’s gaze.

As they processed from the house to the waiting carriage, Kitty carried the train of Cinders’ gown, holding it safely above the mud and straw of the courtyard. The material, shimmering in the moonlight, spun from sugar and cream, felt soft and cool in her hands. Hands. She studied them as she walked. They were funny pink things, the digits long and dexterous. They reminded her of juicy fat worms. The night air played over them as it played over all her exposed skin, now shawn of its warm fur. Only the hair on her head carried a reminder of her original soot-black colouring.

Well isn’t this a thing, she thought to herself. With every intake of cool, sharp air her head felt a little cleared and the glamour faded slightly.

‘This is so exciting!’ Kitty shot a sidelong glance at the roly-poly figure bouncing along besides her, failing to keep its corner of the train out of the mud. She recognised in the colouring and exuberance the Retriever runt, grown fat on kitchen scraps, who lived on an over-generous rope out in the yard. Pup. Another victim of Cinders’ prosaic dubbing.

Looking at Pup, then down at her own unfamiliar body, Kitty was reminded of the strange cat she would sometimes meet when she ventured up onto the high kitchen shelves, staring back at her from the side of the polished copper kettles. Although Pup was dressed as she was -- and here Kitty wondered whether this was some cruel joke of the witch’s, and if so, which one of them it was on -- his appearance was as night and day to her own. While the sleek leggings hugged the graceful lines of her legs, on him they looked like two poorly-made black puddings about to burst; the tabard, pinched and flowing on her, made his torso resemble a badly-stuffed mattress; even her graceful bob was parodied in his lank copper pudding bowl.

Together they somehow got Cinders up the little steps and into the carriage. Kitty stuffed handfuls of train in around her slippered feet -- glass! How impractical, not to mention potentially dangerous -- cramming it in under the tiny seat. Finally she forced the door closed, a frill of creamy satin poking out from around its edge. All the while she had been aware of the coachman’s eyes roaming hungrily across her body. Now she turned and levelly met his stare. She would have been able to easily recognise the old Tom simply from that lecherous look, even without the matted tortoiseshell mane of hair and beard. He gave her an unpleasant smile made up of yellowed fangs, then turned and hobbled away to attend to the team of horses-who-once-were-mice, dragging his crooked leg behind him. Kitty was thankful for that leg. It, rather than her own adroitness or care, had saved her from his rapacious advances on more than one occasion.

Well, she thought, it looks like we’ve all been roped in to helping Cinders. I just hope the silly girl appreciates it.

Her pulse now racing, with one swift bound Kitty took her place on the back of the coach. She sniffed at the breeze but found it dull, lacking its usual flavour. She ran a hand across her face, missing her whiskers. She held the same hand out in front of her, studying the nails on her fingertips. They seemed sorry little things, poor replacements for claws.

Wheezing and panting announced the arrival of Pup on the footboard next to her. ‘Isn’t this great!’ he gasped, and ran a brocaded sleeve across his glistening nose. He looked eagerly about, a huge grin on his rosy face. Kitty rolled her eyes and looked away from her companion, across the roof of the coach to the Baron’s house. Lights shone in the windows and white smoke rolled slowly from the chimneys.

A crack of a whip and they were off, the horses pulling almost together and in roughly the same direction, like a group of frightened mice; the ornate carriage wallowing like a pumpkin in a high wind; the tubby page-puppy whooping at every bounce and roll. Kitty gritted her teeth -- blunt, she noted, and probably no good for eating anything more interesting than a lettuce -- and hung on tight with what little dignity she could muster. They flew along rutted lanes between moonlit fields, along the cobbled main streets of villages and towns, until finally then climbed up towards where the castle sat atop a small hill, its gates hung with lanterns, its battlements with flags and pennants.

They helped Cinders out of the coach, Pup’s bouncing eagerness balanced by Kitty’s careless distain. She’d decided that she really didn’t like travelling by coach, and that -- since it was because of her that she was now feeling what she was pretty sure was seasickness -- she didn’t like Cinders. And so she made sure to trap the dress in the coach door and to splash mud over the glass slippers.

While fanfares and hushed gasps greeted Cinders’ arrival, the coach and its attendants was ushered away to the rear of the castle. Kitty sprang down into the bustling courtyard. She watched as the horse-mice were lead away to the stables, briefly considering following them. The air was growing chill, and there was nothing better than curling up next to a nice warm horse to keep out the cold of a long winter night. She also wondered what enchanted horse-made-of-mouse tasted like. But she turned instead towards the kitchens.

Here all was noise and heat and the smell of smoke and meats. Cooks cooked and roasts roasted, while visiting coachmen and pages demanded food and beer and generally got in everyone’s way. Kitty spared a quick, longing glance for the cosy fireside and pressed on, sliding lithely through the throng. She followed servants laden with groaning platters up great stone stairs made slippery by spilt fat and generations of industrious feet, darting nimbly into a small dark stairway set into the wall near their top.

More stairs, this time spiralling away up into the gloom. Gloom! So her eyes weren’t good for much, either. Kitty wondered what she would have to do to get back her old head, with its whiskers and fangs and furry ears and night vision. She scurried up, round and round through the dark, stepping out at last into light and noise, onto a small balcony which looked down into the largest room Kitty had ever seen. 

The largest room and the most people. It took a moment for Kitty to realise what she was seeing. At first she thought it was a field of spring flowers, with perhaps a few butterflies flitting between them, but then as she watched them swirl and rearrange themselves into one complex pattern after another she recognised the tiny figures of ball guest far below in their impossibly colourful gowns. And for a moment she was captivated, held by the rhythm of the music and the dancers, until a wet snuffling at her elbow pulled her back to her senses.

‘Aren’t they beautiful!’ wheezed Pup. He leant out over the balcony, his stubby legs leaving the floor and waggling with delight. ‘Which one d’you think is Cinders?’

‘Daft doggy, you won’t be able to see her from all the way -- ’

‘There she is! And she’s dancing with the prince!’ Pup pointed, and Kitty had to admit that just maybe that flash of silver whirling like a snowflake in the midst of all the other revellers could possibly have been Cinders. But of her dance partner she could make out nothing more than a shiny bald spot.

‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

Kitty checked her fingernails. She found dirt under one and began to dig it out. Useless and high maintenance.

‘You’re just jealous,’ pouted Pup, when reply came there none.

‘Oh, misguided mutt,’ sighed Kitty. ‘Why would I be jealous? And of whom? Cinderella?’

‘Yes, Cinderella,’ said Pup. ‘Because she’s dancing with Prince Charming and he’s going to fall in love with her and they’re going to get married and then she’s going to be a princess and you’re not.’

This made Kitty laugh -- a harsh, contemptuous sound. ‘And why would I want to be a princess, horrible hound? Like little doggies, princesses are kept on a leash and fed scraps from their master’s table. I am a cat. We can roam wherever we like, stay out as late as we like, come home whenever we like, and still get the cream. And,’ she added, ‘we can look at a queen. That’s better than a princess any day of the year.’

‘But -- ’ began Pup, but Kitty silenced him with a finger to the nose.

‘Enough of your yapping, cankerous canine. You can stay here all night and make puppy-dog eyes at you princess. I’m off to explore,’ And she sprang up onto the balustrade.

‘Don’t go far. The Fairy Godmother said we had to be back by midnight.’

‘Weren’t you listening, pestilent pooch? No-one tells a cat where to go or when to come back.’ With that she leapt to the next balcony, catching hold of the plush velvet curtains and landing gracefully on her feet. Kitty cocked an ear and listened for a few moments, but there was no sticky splat from the dance floor below, no shriek from the party guests, so she assume that Pup had not tried to follow her.

Leaving the music and the dancing behind her, she stepped out into a corridor. Gilt frames lined the walls. Some framed mirrors, and Kitty spent a little time examining the reflection of the unfortunately human-looking girl who’s deep green eyes stared calmly back at her. Others framed dull paintings of dull men and women. The men wore sashes and medals. The women wore voluminous dresses and hats. Both wore serious expressions. Kitty felt herself start to yawn from looking at them. So dull.

At the end of the corridor hung a tapestry. Kitty picked at it with a fingernail, which turned out to be every bit as useless as she had suspected. She batted at it with a fist. As it swung it let out a little puff of dust and excited, hushed voices. Kitty twitched it aside and stepped in behind.

It was dark, the tapestry obviously hung to keep out the light. People sat in rows, their attention fixed on the far wall, where shadows danced against a field of crimson sunshine. But what shadows! A large bird swooped down upon the stooped form of an old man, catching him up in its talons and bearing him aloft over high mountain peeks.

Kitty moved around the edge of the room, unwilling to let the shapes on the far wall out of her sight. The shadows she knew of fell into two groups. There were the slow, lazy shadows which would take a day to circle casually around the kitchen floor. She wasn’t bothered with these. They were no fun. And then there were the other type of shadows, the kind which flickered and danced around the room on cold winter nights, across floors and walls and ceiling. She had long ago stopped trying to chase these. Even as a tiny kitten, barely able to get all four uncertain legs to move together and in the same direction, she had realised that there was no point in trying to catch them. But this didn’t mean she had stopped wishing to, or had never tried again in the twitching privacy of her dreams.

Kitty backed into something, solid like a wall but not a wall, warm like a wall wasn’t, and which blew warm breath onto her neck when it said, ‘Excuse me, I’m sure.’ She made no reply, intent on a small shadow boat being tossed around by an angry shadow ocean.

The not-wall tried again: ‘You like the lantern show, eh?’

And, when she still didn’t look around: ‘Miss?’

And, finally: ‘You know, I -- ah -- helped make it.’

Kitty turned around. The young man was maybe a few years older than the Fairy Godmother had made her and about a head of curly blonde locks taller. She studied the lines of muscle under his tunic and decided that whatever help he gave probably involved moving heavy things around.

He smiled a shy, uncertain smile and ran a hand through his hair. ‘There’s -- um -- there’s dancing down by the servants’ quarters. And music.’

‘And?’ she asked after an eternal moment, just as his hopeful smile had started to wilt at the corners.

He swallowed. ‘Well, I was just wondering whether you’d like to… maybe… ’

‘Yes?’ Kitty put her head on one side, writing the question in her eyes and the curve of her lips. The young man’s face went even redder in the crimson light of the shadow lantern. Kitty grinned. It looked like she’d found something even more fun to toy with than mice.

Reviews

[Greg Close]

This is brilliant. And I don't mean that in the typical WC hyperbole laden review sort of way. First off, re-telling the tale, or telling a tale askance of the classic, from Kitty's POV - that had potential. Potential, as you know, can cut both ways. Luckily this cut just right. You have drawn a great character in Kitty, and in so doing, opened up wonderful opportunity for a bit of satire and biting wit here and there. This could work as a stand alone character study, or as part of a larger work. The writing itself is fluid and understated, but where you don't overdo the flowery prose, you have some killer turns of phrase littered throughout. "Like little doggies, princesses are kept on a leash and fed scraps from their master’s table." and the ensuing couple of lines were just classic.