tone, not even when she had once jumped on the dining table and accidentally shattered a porcelain pumpkin. Her teeth began to chatter so much they hurt. She fled through the door where the woman had entered. Gasping, she entered the darkened streets.
The cold rocks were jagged on her bare feet, in a way that they never had been before. They hurt with pricks and stabs. Not helping matters, the night was alive with mysterious sounds, hoots, skittering, and chirping noises.
To calm herself she dug out the ornate bottle of scent and inhaled it gratefully. But a new step forward brought a new electrifying stab to her foot. The bottle fell from her grasp, landed on the pavement, and shattered. The liquid that emerged formed a fragrant puddle.
She gasped. The sudden clatter had terrified her and she did not know where to go. Fog draped the blackened street, making it hard to see her way forward. A dewy moisture condensed on her face, and she swept it away with her paw. Er, hand.
Once or twice small, scampering mammals passed. They were close enough for Muffins to track them with her eyes, but she was having trouble placing their scent. Oddly, they seemed to have none. Even more oddly, she had no urge to chase them, even though she was hungry. They did not look appetizing.
Though she did not know where to go, there seemed to be nothing to do but walk. After a while, the fog thinned, enough to see by the haloes of lamplight that she had come to a street lined with shops and brightly lit, colorful signs.
She did not know what a shop was but she was attracted by the warmth of the colors and went inside one of them. Her feet hurt terribly from walking on the small rocks and jagged stones, so she was happily surprised to find the floor smooth and, not far away, a bin full of furry slippers.
The “toe” parts were in the guise of various odd creatures, most of which she had never seen. She recognized a rabbit and a mouse, but the rest were unfamiliar to her. She selected a pair of plush mouse slippers with pink noses. A string bound the furry rodents, so Muffins bit it apart and slid her feet deliciously into the slippers. She raised one foot, flexed it, and smiled.
As she headed out the door, Muffins did not know she was stealing the slippers. She had seen them as a sign of good fortune. The experience of walking through the gravelly streets was much more comfortable, so much more. She thought the snug slippers were the best thing she had found about being human.
“Hey!” A voice behind her startled her. “Hey miss! Where did you get those?”
The voice was a sharp blow to her senses. She turned. A man with chunky sideburns was eyeing her suspiciously. Muffins did not know why and she did not ask. She sensed he meant to harm her.
She fled. Through the lamp lit street, past stores and statues, panting, she went. The slippers were far less comfortable to run in than walk in. At one point a slipper flew off and she almost tripped on it. She should have left it. But she loved those slippers so much and again, the jagged stones pierced her soles.
When she went to recollect it, she was grabbed violently by the waist and pulled back. She gasped and clamped her teeth on the arm of her captor as hard as she could.
The man unleashed a barrage of curses Muffins had never heard. “I was going to go easy on you, but now you have done it! I am going to call the police.”
Muffins did not know what a “police” was but from the way the man said it, she suspected it was not favorable and struggled even harder against his grasp, but he was too strong for her. Soon another man, taller and even more muscular, arrived to assist in the escort back to the shop. Between the two, each hairy hand clamping one of her arms, Muffins had no hope of escaping.
The first man grimaced. “How much perfume are you wearing, Miss?” Muffins did not reply as she was led back into the store.
The shop was well-lit, in contrast to the outside. Muffins had to squint to adjust her eyes. A woman at the counter that Muffins had not seen before gave her a stern look. It reminded Muffins of how her mother used to nip her when she was tired of giving milk.
The stocky man made Mittens sit down on a bench against the wall, and he sat next to her. Though he had released his grip on her, everyone was staring. Beneath their wary gazes there seemed to be no possibility of bolting through the door. She was hopelessly outnumbered. She missed her old life. What had happened to her? Why had she changed? She had only wanted to clean her toes.
She had never cried before, but now puddles welled in her eyes. While wiping them away with her sleeve, she had a flash of memory from another time she had been in an alien place, a fond nostalgia for her first day at the house she had just been forced to leave.
Muffins had been torn from her mother and siblings, and was terrified. Evie had set Muffins on the bed and dangled a string for her. The string had had sparkles on it, and Muffins loved the way the light danced along with the string.
Any wariness about being in a new home evaporated. Tentatively at first, Muffins batted at the string, but before long she lost her shyness. She crouched, wiggled her hind quarters, and began swiping without reserve, scampering, nipping, and chasing as Evie laughed. Since that day, string and even the thought of string had filled her with a delicious warmth.
Muffins dug into her housedress and retrieved the chain with the golden cross and its red stone. She held it to one of the ceiling lights and watched the luminescent shift, and smiled a little through her tears. In honor of nostalgia, she batted tentatively at the cross and watched the pendant swing back in forth, predictable and calming.
A shriek came from the counter. “No, no, no! What are you doing, you delinquent child? You should not do that, not ever. You do not punch a cross! Oh my dear! Lord forgive her!” In a moment, the lady was by her side and had snatched the cross from Muffins.
The tears came on again. Was there no comfort for Muffins anywhere? Was all that she loved to be taken from her?
“What is she doing now?” the man with sideburns who had caught her said. “Never mind. I am calling the police right now.”
“No Dirk.” The woman held up a hand. “I just realized something. If we do that, we are missing an opportunity. Clearly this young lady is lost. If she has never known the blood of the lamb, it is our Christian duty to tell her about it.”
Muffins looked up sharply. Lamb? She wondered if a lamb was something to eat. She was terribly hungry, despite the stress of the day.
The woman knelt to meet Muffins at eye level. “My girl,” Muffins felt the warmth of caring palms on her cheeks, “tell me. Are you lost?”
Muffins thought yes, there was no doubt about it, she was definitely lost. Even if she was welcomed home, she had run here without thinking. She doubted she could find her way back. With a sniffle Muffins nodded.
“My dear,” the lady said gently. “What is your name?”
Muffins only knew what Evie had always said when addressing her. “Muffins.”
The woman blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“Muffins.”
“Oh, you poor, poor dear.” Her eyes became moist and she dabbed at them with a tissue. “Were you never given a proper Christian name? What have your parents done to you? I bet I know. Were they atheists?” A flash of fire crossed her eyes. “I bet they were atheists.”
Muffins did not know the term so she supposed it was possible. She had never known her father, but if her mother had been an atheist, she had never told Muffins about it. Muffins mainly remembered her mother as a wall of warm fur that bore milk. “If they were atheists, they never said so,” Muffins said.
“Well,” the woman said, “they must have been. Must have brought you up to be like them. That would explain why you were going around shoplifting mouse slippers and punching crosses.”
“Please,” Muffins said. “I beg you. What is an atheist?”
“Do not be silly, child.” The woman looked at Muffins sharply. “Everyone knows what an atheist is.”
“Please. Tell me.” If Muffins was an atheist, she certainly wanted to know about it, especially si
nce the woman seemed to think it was so important.
The woman took in a sharp breath and held a hand over her heart. “An atheist,” she breathed, “is a wicked creature who has rebelled against God by not believing in him.” Her eyes were wide with caution, as if just reciting the definition was a dangerous act. “They are bad people who murder and burn Bibles and hate prayer.”
Muffins had no memory of ever defying anyone, but it was true that she did not believe in something called God. Mittens had never believed in anything other than what was in front of her face: her food dish, strips of twine, or a plush blanket to lie down on and clean herself before the hearth.
But she had never killed anything except a few mice and would not have known how to burn anything if she wanted to.
She had never heard of God but asked, “How can an atheist rebel against anyone that they think is not really there?”
“Because,” the woman said, “everyone knows God exists, no matter what they say. How could anyone not know they have a maker? Like those mouse slippers you tried to steal.” She pointed to the checkout counter where the twin mice now sat. “They did not come into being all by themselves. They had to have a creator. Anyone who says otherwise is just being ornery. Especially if they have heard the good news and rejected it.”
“Good news?” Muffins would certainly have loved to hear some of that. She felt terribly alone
Becoming the Story Page 13