The Dark Yule

by R. M. Callahan

  More concerning was what I saw when I Saw That Which Cannot Be Seen: absolutely nothing. There was no difference between my dull, ordinary gaze and the special vision of cats. The dark spirits wandering the streets, the night-gaunts flapping their membranous wings, the flickering moments of the past—all had mysteriously vanished. For once, everything in Kingsport was as it seemed.

  Why did that worry me?

  As I followed the barely-discernible sounds of human speech, Kingsport rose up around me. The rutted track widened into an icy mud road. Houses began to appear more regularly, then to cluster closely together, then to be interspersed with what looked like shops. Most of the buildings were in the flat-faced, many-windowed style of the colonial era, and all of them had lit upper windows—yet still I heard no sound from within. If I hadn’t stopped to gingerly paw at the corner of one blue-painted house, I might have wondered whether this wasn’t just another illusion. But no, the cold mud under my claws, the bitter wind in my coat, the creak of the wooden houses, the smell of the sea on the breeze; all of these were quite real.

  So where was everyone? Were the mastiff and I the only ones to be caught by the solstice, and sent back to this previous Yule? If not, then where were the others? And if so, then where were the rightful residents of this time? I hadn’t seen so much as a bird or a mouse, let alone a dog or a cat or a human, since I’d arrived. Yet lights were on in the upper stories, though I never could spot a shadow against the illuminated curtains. What were they doing in the glow of their candles, to sit in such profound and immovable silence?

  A vigil: that was what it all reminded me of. But for—or against—what?

  There was one exception to the rule of silence, the faint voices I’d followed from the beginning. I’d been gaining on them all the while, and though we didn’t walk the same street, I could tell that they were nearby. It was two men who were speaking, their tones hushed, yet still all out of character with the deathly quiet of the town.

  Stepping out from an alley, I had to suddenly twist round, leap backwards, and crouch in the swaying shadow of a tavern sign. The speakers were directly in front of me. It was mere good fortune that they hadn’t spotted my careless advance.

  The two men passed my pitiful hiding place with nary a glance. One was tall, olive-skinned, and had curly dark hair that was tossed hither and thither by the salty gale. The other was shorter and rounder, and possessed of such a heavy hat and thick muffler that I could say no more about him. Nonetheless, one thing was blatantly obvious: these men hailed from the same time as myself. That was evident in their jeans, their rustling coats, and the large backpack the tall one carried slung over his shoulder. I peered around the corner, watching them saunter down the street, and marveled at the difference between the wanderers and their setting.

  Were these the so-called “photographers”? Were they the men who had buried the black packet at the three-way crossroads? Or were they mere lost victims of the Dark Yule, the same as myself? Only by following them would I find out.

  For the second time I crept forward—and for the second time, retreated into the shadows. What had I just sensed? I lifted my nose to the wind, quivering with suppressed excitement. Yes, there it was again—a hint of tom-cat musk. I hadn’t been wrong!

  I quietly backed even further down the alley, and crouched down low beside the tavern wall.

  As I watched, a few furtive shadows slunk down the narrow street. They made no sound whatsoever, but they couldn’t escape my keen eyes and nose. I crouched yet lower, hindquarters wiggling, as the nearest prepared to cross in front of the alley. Just as she stepped into view, I attacked.

  “Mrrrrreeeeoooooooooowwwwwww!” Dot shrieked at the top of her lungs. The sound of her yowl bounced wildly against the walls, multiplying and echoing all the way down the many long alleys that crisscrossed the town. I rolled off her and and hunkered low, belly to the snow, waiting until the last whisper died away. Nothing stirred in the lit windows, and the quiet voices of the two men carried on only after a brief, watchful pause.

  When it was clear that nobody was coming, Dot reached over and cuffed me on the nose, quite hard.

  “Ow,” I told her.

  “You deserve it.” She glared at me before turning to ostentatiously lick her back, thereby demonstrating how little she cared about me, or my opinion, or anything, really.

  “I am sorry,” I said contritely. “I was just so excited to see you all.” For by now, Libby and Cinnamon had crept out of hiding and come to join us in the dark mouth of the alley. “I really thought I was alone here,” I explained. “Well, except for the mastiff, but he lost his head when nightfall came, and ran off on his own.”

  “Idiot,” said Dot scornfully, now giving her fluffy tail a good going-over. “Where does he think he’s got to run to?”

  I had no answer to that, so instead I purred and swiped my cheek against Libby’s, and got my ear enthusiastically bathed in response. Meanwhile, Cinnamon had already walked several paces ahead, and was staring after the two men.

  “We’d better hurry,” she urged, her striped tail swinging, pendulum-like, in her excitement and interest. “They’re getting ahead.”

  “Are they…?” I couldn’t even finish the sentence.

  “Yes,” said Libby, with some importance. “That’s them.”

  “Oh.” They weren’t quite what I’d expected. But then, what exactly had I expected? I discovered I had nothing to say, and proceeded to duck my head under my raised foreleg, and groom my cold stomach instead.

  “Come on,” insisted Cinnamon. “Hurry!”

  “They’re not exactly sprinting,” Dot told her sourly.

  Nevertheless, we resumed following our villainous occultists down the winding, dirty lanes. We stayed to the edges and ducked behind whatever was available—a wheelbarrow, a pile of crates, etc.—but after discovering no response to Dot’s howl, I think we all felt a bit more relaxed. As for myself, I was practically cavorting down the street. It was only with an effort that I stopped myself from pouncing upon funny little drifts, or biting at the snow, or leaping atop whatever tall thing presented itself. Such a display would have been undignified, of course—it would have been tantamount to admitting that I’d been lonely and frightened on my own. I could confess that to myself, but letting other cats know was a different question entirely.

  “So how did you get here?” Libby wanted to know, while he and Dot and I paused behind a large barrel—Cinnamon was still further ahead. Not ten body-lengths from us, the two occultists were shining a flashlight upon a piece of paper, evidently looking at directions, or a map, or something like that. It was an oddly average sight, I felt, watching the two men huddle together against the wind, and argue over which street to turn down. It didn’t fit this haunted night at all.

  “Spice?”

  “Sorry.” I dragged my eyes from the two men to Libby. “The mastiff came to tell me about the humans burying something. We went and dug it up. It was a spell packet of some kind, and it had a compass and watch in it, both smashed to bits. Also this green stone that smelled worse than anything I’ve ever experienced.” I licked my lips in disgust at the very memory. “You?”

  “Well, I was at home, of course, waiting to see what Neil and Rob would do.” Libby flicked an ear in the direction of the two men, who looked nowhere near to reaching a consensus. “Cinnamon came to join me in the afternoon, and Dot arrived at sunset.” Libby looked at me sideways. “We’d have asked you, of course, but you were—”

  “Domesticated,” Dot put in. She’d obviously not yet forgiven me.

  “Rude,” I chided her. “But yes, locked in. Go on.”

  “And these ‘photographers,’” he spat the word as if it were a curse, “came home just before dark, all jumpy and excited as hell. They were about the only thing that was excited. Mark and Clarence fought all day. By the time Neil and Rob showed up, they were just sitting at opposite ends of the house, not speaking.”

  “It was
the same at my place.”

  “Awful day.” Libby’s agitated tail swept the snow. “I spent the whole time chasing unspeakable things out of our yard, and of course a night-gaunt flapped by every time I dared settle down for a nap. Anyway, those two came back, and we were going to try and trap them in the house somehow…” I purred, as Libby echoed my own, original plan, “but they left again almost immediately with that big bag. So Cinnamon and Dot and I decided to follow them. That was just around nightfall, and soon it was full dark, and the shift came.” Libby sighed and looked dolefully around himself, his massive ears rotating continuously, as if to detect any possible shred of sound. “And here we are.”

  “By the way,” said Dot, “you notice something odd?”

  “Dot,” I said, “we’re wandering around a Kingsport that existed almost four hundred years before our current lifetimes. You’re going to need to be more specific.”

  “I’ll show you.” Dot stepped forward into the street, where the occultists had just passed. Boldly, she sat down in the snow, her tail curled about her paws. “Look closely.”

  The sky was dark except for the stars, but the golden windows in the upper stories lit the snow well enough. I’m embarrassed to admit that it took me a long moment to perceive what Dot, the consummate hunter, had already spotted.

  “No tracks,” I said, with wonder. “Neither yours, nor theirs.”

  “Exactly,” said Dot.

  “What does it mean?” Libby wanted to know, looking from the virgin snow, to Dot, to me.

  “I don’t know. Dot, what does it mean?” I asked her.

  “How should I know?” she snapped. “This is your circus, not mine.”

  “I did say I was sorry for pouncing on you.”

  “Hmph.” She sauntered past with both head and tail upright. I sighed and padded after her, leaving no footprints in the soft, yielding snow. I know. I checked.

  * * *

  The two occultists walked on for some time. The town’s eerie, unbroken silence had some effect upon them—though they talked all the while, their voices gradually grew more and more hushed. By the time they turned down the final, narrow lane, they were just whispering to each other.

  The street they chose was grassy and unused, and the antiquated houses all had jutting second stories that nearly kissed each other overhead. The effect was of a wooden tunnel, and the wind made the houses groan. I eyed the many lit upper windows uneasily—it was hard to shake the impression of being closely observed by unseen eyes. The shorter, rounder occultist often glanced upwards as well, and I thought perhaps he felt similarly. Yet the two pressed on, leaving no prints behind them, until they reached the seventh house on the left. Then the tall one climbed the double flight of steps, with their elaborate iron railings, and knocked firmly upon the door. The rat-tat-tat of his fist made his companion jump, and, I’m ashamed to admit, it did the same to me.

  We cats found shelter on the other side of the street, shielded from view by another double staircase leading to another high door. Peering around the railings, we observed the door open—first just a crack, and then wide. Golden light spilled out in a rectangle from the open door, illuminating the features of our occultists, but leaving the face of the house’s occupant in shadow. All we could see was that he was a tall, elderly man who, despite his old-fashioned nightgown and shabby slippers, had an air of authority.

  He stood silently, and asked no questions. The two men spoke to him, yet he still did not reply. Rather, he produced a wax frame and a stylus, such as I had not seen in many lifetimes, and made his scratches across the wax, which he then showed to our occultists. They nodded eagerly, more explanations were made, and then the gowned man stepped aside, and ushered them genteelly into his house.

  A vivid memory arose without warning, from a long-ago lifetime I only dimly recalled. A mother was sitting by the fireside with her son; she wore a gown and a white cap, and he had on an absurd outfit that ran heavy to the velvet and ribbons. I myself, a trim little white kitten, lay by the hearth and purred at the warmth, and the boy’s fingers in my fur, and my mistress’s voice alike.

  A book was open upon the woman’s knee, and she read to the little boy, one delicate finger held up in mock-stern warning:

  Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,

  ‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy,

  The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

  And I’ve a many curious thing to show when you are there.

  “But of course,” Libby answered, and it was only then I realized I’d recited the half-remembered poem aloud.

  “Yes,” said ever-practical Dot. “But what do we do now?”

  I didn’t answer immediately; I was trying to capture a few last floating shreds of memory. I could see the boy turned a man; I felt his warm hand upon me, stroking my old bones, just before he’d left…he’d left…for what? For the sea? For war? I hissed in frustration as the recollection withered. All I could remember was the mother, age equally upon her bones, sitting upon that same chair and weeping in the bitter depths of the night.

  “Spice?” Libby asked. “What’s the plan?”

  I shook my head and twitched my ears, trying to shake loose the ache of half-forgotten grief. “We go in,” I said, without any consideration at all.

  “What?” the other cats asked as one, astonished, but I was already slinking across the street. Perhaps it was foolhardy, but I was driven to it by the memory of my previous mistress’s racking sobs. Stars forbid I have cause to grieve like that; better to die boldly, than live to regret one’s losses.

  I could hear Dot cursing behind me, but I was already beside the stairs. I reared onto my hind legs and braced myself against the wall, straining to peer into the window. My view was blocked by a thick green curtain, but just as the wind moaned round the corner, I rather thought I saw the curtain stir. Was the window actually open in this weather? Could we get inside?

  I hesitated for only an instant before gathering myself and leaping upon the windowsill. I heard Libby hiss in shock across the street, but the deed was done. If something saw me, so be it.

  The curtain rippled again in the wind—the window was, indeed, open! I peered inside and discovered that the curtain extended all the way to the floor. As quietly as possible, I eased myself down to the old wooden floorboards, doing my best to keep my bulk behind the curtain’s billowing length. There, half-smothered by dusty fabric, I paused. When I was not greeted by cries of “Out, cat!” or “Shoo, shoo!” I dared to peep around the curtain’s edge. From there, I took in the room.

  First of all, it smelled nasty: an indefinable odor of decay permeated the place. I wrinkled my nose and sniffed heartily, trying to puzzle it out. Rot, the scent said to me. But it wasn’t the odor of rotten wood, or even of rotten meat. There was something cold and earthy to it, yet it was far from the healthy scent of leaves decaying into soil. Besides, the room itself seemed hardly conducive to rot, being scarcely warmer than the winter weather outside. The enormous fireplace, though stacked with logs, was dark and cold, and the entire area was lit only by lonely, flickering candles.

  My ears twitched at a familiar sound, though it took me a moment to place it—yes, that repetitive, whispery whirring was the noise of a spinning-wheel, something I hadn’t heard in lifetimes. It was actually so dark, however, and the room so crowded with hard, comfortless wooden furniture, that it took me a long moment to spot the sound’s source. It came from an old woman spinning in the far corner, who wore a bonnet and a shawl, and was fortunately both busy at her work and facing away from me. The two occultists also had their backs to me, in order to examine the tall bookshelves on either side of that lifeless hearth. With some satisfaction, I noticed they were shivering. The old woman, by contrast, appeared entirely unaffected by the cold. As for the old man, he was nowhere to be seen.

  My great luck continued to hold, for amongst the other furniture in the room, a high-ba
cked wooden bench—something like an old church pew, but taller—happened to face the curtained windows. It was a short leap from where I huddled on the floor to the bench’s sturdy wooden surface. There I was not only quite concealed from the rest of the room, but could overhear everything perfectly. For some moments I crouched down low, listening to the whirr of the spinning wheel, and the excited whispers of the occultists.

  I was just wondering whether I shouldn’t try to signal the others to come and join me, when I caught slight sounds coming from the window: just the merest scratch of a claw on the wood, followed by the almost indiscernible brush of fur against fabric. Dot’s funny little face peeped out from around the curtain, echoing my former movements. She turned her ears toward me, and at once I slumped over sideways on the bench, my furry stomach exposed and my plumed tail waving lazily, just as casually as on the sofa at home. That was to show it was all right, of course, not merely to demonstrate my immense bravery.

  Dot’s eyes narrowed at my display, but she didn’t hesitate to slip out from under the curtain and leap upon the bench beside me. She was followed in short order by Cinnamon, and finally by Libby, whose ears lay prone in mute protest.

  I was the furthest along the bench, pressed closely against its carved armrest. Since long minutes had passed without any human speech, I dared to peer carefully around the back of the bench. Our hiding place wasn’t far from where the occultists, Neil and Rob (which was Neil? And which was Rob?) still examined the old books on the shelf. The tall man with windswept brunette curls seemed particularly enamored of the dusty volumes, and touched their spines with longing, lovesick sighs. He and his friend did speak occasionally, albeit in very low whispers, and though at first I understood none of it, as I observed them, I began to grasp the meaning.

  The tall one said … by the mad Arab. Unbelievable!

  With a glance at the old woman—who never looked away from her spinning—he gingerly removed the book from its shelf and handed it to his companion. The other occultist had now pulled down his scarf, and I could see his face in profile: he had blue eyes, a large nose, and a square jaw, whose determined thrust was somewhat undermined by his scrubby, stubbly beard. He received the book from his dark-haired companion with an expression of mingled wonder and fear.