The Cat Vanishes

by Louise Carson

  “No need,” Prudence replied in a low voice.

  Arm in arm, the two women returned home.

  The black cat crouched in the hole, his white-tipped tail twitching. Once again, without her seeing, he’d followed the girl into the shed that smelt deliciously of mice, and once again, after she’d taken her many loads of wood into the house, she’d unknowingly locked him in.

  It was early evening. He could, if he wanted to, jump out of the hole, onto the woodpile and through the newly broken window into the soft cold snow outside. He could make his way to one of the many doors or windows of the house and meow, make himself known to the two inside.

  But he’d had his supper and was content to stay in the hole, listening for the sound of a mouse moving in the walls of the shed.

  And he had his toy.

  The wispy man who didn’t speak had woken him from a nap on the girl’s bed that afternoon, had pointed to the bone on the mantelpiece.

  The cat had jumped from bed to floor to chair, from chair to mantel, and retrieved it. The wisp had beckoned him downstairs where they’d waited quietly for the moment when the girl opened the kitchen door and then the door to outside.

  The cat nudged the bone and waited. He cocked his head, then turned it. The wisp disappeared through the cat-sized tunnel under the road. Picking up the bone, the cat trotted after him.

  Deep enough to stay unfrozen, the tunnel smelt of fresh earth. The cat paused and his ears flattened as a vehicle drove over the road, making the earth vibrate. Once on the far side of the road, the cat turned to follow his usual path to the basement where all the fuss about a strange woman’s body had occurred.

  But the wispy man had gone a different way, a way the cat had always avoided because it was too wet. And because of the unseasonal thaw, the little underground stream that had made the alternate path was moving.

  The cat made a growling noise. But the wisp was beckoning. Making a second small complaining noise, the cat followed.

  Ordinarily, he was not a cat who minded getting his white boots wet. But this was cold. The little waterway had carved out a tunnel, now half-filled with water, and the cat became soaked to his belly.

  The tunnel sloped upward. The cat followed the wisp and climbed out of the tunnel into a little stone room. Inside were a large long box and four little boxes. The wisp was swirling in one corner of the room.

  The cat dropped the bone on the floor and sat.

  It took a few seconds, but soon the largest box began to leak another, different smoky wisp. The cat watched the two comingle and become one. They seeped back into the box and the room became still.

  Regretfully, the cat left its toy on the floor and turned to leave. He hesitated. He could go ahead to the warm basement or back to the cold shed. Either way, he wasn’t worried. Somebody would let him in.

  A NOTE ABOUT BLAISE’S POEMS

  Sadly, Elegies in Elysian Fields is long out of print, though one of the poems — “The fields begin to sheathe themselves’”— recently appeared online in JONAH Magazine, and another — “This cold winter” — was published in The Nashwaak Review not too long ago.

  GERRY’S VERSION OF “THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS”

  On the first day of Christmas, someone gave to me, my car crushed under a tree.

  On the second day of Christmas, someone gave to me, two ham and cheese.

  On the third day of Christmas, someone gave to me, three of Jane’s scones.

  On the fourth day of Christmas, someone gave to me, four loads of firewood.

  On the fifth day of Christmas, someone gave to me, five golden onion rings.

  On the sixth day of Christmas, someone gave to me, six litter boxes.

  On the seventh day of Christmas, someone gave to me, seven marshmallow squares.

  On the eighth day of Christmas, someone gave to me, eight lovers’ letters.

  On the ninth day of Christmas, someone gave to me, nine red herrings falling.

  On the tenth day of Christmas, someone gave to me, ten catnip mice.

  On the eleventh day of Christmas, someone gave to me, eleven cats a’leaping.

  On the twelfth day of Christmas, someone gave to me, twelve Austin Minis.

  A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in Montreal and raised in Hudson, Quebec, Louise Carson studied music in Montreal and Toronto, played jazz piano and sang in the chorus of the Canadian Opera Company. Carson has published six other books: Rope, a blend of poetry and prose; Mermaid Road, a lyrical novella; A Clearing, a collection of poetry; Executor, a mystery set in China and Toronto; In Which: Book One of The Chronicles of Deasil Widdy, historical fiction set in eighteenth-century Scotland (book two, Measured, and book three, Third Circle, are scheduled for publication in 2018 and 2019); and The Cat Among Us, the first Maples Mystery. Her poems appear in literary magazines, chapbooks and anthologies from coast to coast, including The Best Canadian Poetry 2013. She’s been short-listed in FreeFall magazine’s annual contest three times, and won a Manitoba Magazine Award. She has presented her work in many public forums, including Hudson’s Storyfest 2015, and in Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto, Saskatoon, Kingston and New York City.

  She lives in St-Lazare, Quebec, where she writes, teaches music and gardens.