by Colin Forest
The Spindle Cat
Chapter 1: Oswald
The lone figure huddled in the shadows looking at the house across the street. The lights inside had just been extinguished moments before. The heavy sky, which had been looking angry all day, finally decided to relinquish its load and the rain fell in large drops. His tattered clothing clung to his thin frame and he shivered in the cold. A man he had seen on the footpath started running ahead. In a way, the rain was welcome for it emptied the streets.
Quickly, he scampered for the house. The sound of his steps was muffled by the drumming of the rain. The street lamps cast circles of light upon the street, through which he passed like a shadow. Droplets lit by the light on their way down looked like a shower of minute falling stars. On reaching the house, he crouched and rounded the corner towards the back. He attempted to look inside through the back window, but all he saw was his reflection. He looked old and haggard, and save for his determined eyes, his posture revealed a man who seemed to have lost hope.
He tested the window to see if it was unlocked. A feeling of irritation rose in him when it would not open. Looking around him, he saw a brick lying near the wall. Without a second thought, he went to pick it up. His heart quickened as he used it to smash the window. Glass fragments scattered to the floor inside. He reached his hand through the breach and groped for the handle. When he felt it, he gave it a turn and pulled the window open. The interior beckoned, and he very gladly climbed in for he was home.
He felt his way towards the drawing room. His drenched clothes dripped water on to the floorboards and the squishing sound of each of his step made him cringe. He wished he could command the sound to go away. In the half-light, he saw that the furniture in the drawing room had changed and the books on the shelves were not his. His own books were gone. He did not really care for there was only one book which mattered and he knew exactly where he had kept it. He hoped that it had remained undisturbed all the while he was away.
Where is it?, he thought as his fingers felt their way among the books in the dark. There it is.
He gave a light tap and smiled to himself at the hollow sound which returned. The books which lined that section of the shelf ended up on the floor in a matter of seconds. The caution which he exhibited earlier was gone, replaced by mounting excitement. A panel slid open under his familiar touch to reveal a hidden compartment. The box he expected to find was still inside. Somewhere outside, a dog barked, causing him to cast a sideward glance.
He pulled the box out. Just as he was about to leave, the golden glow from a lantern lit up the room and the holder of the lantern cried out in alarm. That caused the man to look up.
“Oswald?” the lantern holder asked. “What are you doing here?”
“Bernard. I should be the one asking you that,” the intruder replied. “As I remember, this is my house.”
Bernard looked embarrassed but said, “This is my house now. It was passed to me when you went away.”
“Went away? I was taken away,” Oswald snapped. A moment later, after he calmed down, he said, “Somehow, I’m not surprised this house ended up in your hands. You always were the grasping one.”
Bernard looked offended at that remark. He pulled himself up to his full height, which was considerable, and he said, “I want you to leave. If you go quietly, I won’t report you to the authorities. They’re probably out searching for you at this moment. I can’t believe you escaped. What would people think?”
“I’ll go. I have what I came for.”
Oswald tucked the box in the crook of his elbow and turned towards the front door.
Only noticing it for the first time, Bernard asked, “What’s that?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“It’s my concern if it comes from my house.”
Oswald ignored him and reached for the door. Bernard raced to the door and grabbed hold of Oswald’s arm just as he wrapped his fingers around the handle. The box went tumbling to the floor and its lid fell open to reveal a book.
“A book? You came here for a dirty old book?” Bernard spoke aloud. “Oh, Oswald,” he laughed, “you haven’t changed at all, have you? You still have your nose buried in these old things that nobody understands.” He prodded the book with his foot. Oswald roared and lashed out, striking Bernard across the face. The lantern fell out of Bernard’s hand onto the floor. The candle guttered and went out. The room became engulfed in shadow save for the weak light coming in through the window from the street lamp outside. In the murk, Oswald could discern Bernard’s form trying to get up. He groped for the box and was greatly relieved when he felt the lid and the book within. Snapping the lid shut, he grabbed the box and disappeared out the door.
Fotherington was not happy. Angry thoughts stirred in him, prodded by the sight of the crumbling wall of Lockwood Asylum. The administrator of the institution, Mr. Gerald Orr, rubbed his hands nervously.
“Tell me again, Mr. Orr, about the fight. You say the parties looked like they came from the circus?” asked Fotherington in a remote voice.
“Yes. Rightly so. One of the men – I’ve never met a more impudent man – had the most outlandish dress, all covered in bandages except for an eye. He had sparks coming out of his hand. There was another man with a cloak and a top hat. And there was a machine. It could walk like a man and it fought a flying tree. They caused all this damage,” waved Mr. Orr, “and the escape of some of the inmates. Luckily we’ve managed to apprehend all but two. One of them went with the bandaged man.”
“Mr. Orr, trees do not fly.”
“I – I know how this must sound, but that was what I saw.”
“Perhaps you’ve been working in this environment for too long. God knows what it must do to a man’s senses, to be surrounded day and night by these unfortunates,” said Fotherington.
Mr. Orr fell silent.
“This man who went with them: was there anything remarkable about him?” asked Fotherington a moment later.
“Him? No, he was just a common performer. He had his own show selling so-called memory cures to the gullible,” said Mr. Orr with a snort. “I suppose these people look after their own.”
The frown on Fotherington’s face deepened. He adjusted his coat and declared, “Very well, Mr. Orr. We will find this man for you. I will send for his details. You can rest assured that we will track him down with the utmost diligence.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Orr simpered at Fotherington. “And the other one?” he added enquiringly.
“Other one?” asked Fotherington with raised eyebrows. “Mr. Orr, our orders come directly from Her Majesty herself: to safeguard the morality of our country from the wicked and the corrupting. If what you say is true, and this circus did indeed help an inmate to escape, then he is of great interest to us. The other one is not our concern. We are not some common force tasked with chasing down some common lunatic. I am sure the local forces are more than capable of meeting that role.”
Mr. Orr averted Fotherington’s gaze and mumbled a weak apology. “Of course, I beg your pardon.”
Fotherington nodded curtly and swept towards the front gates. He cast his eyes on the tree which lay on the grounds, blackened and splintered. The figure of Mr. Orr returned inside, tiny and insignificant. When Fotherington was seated in his carriage, and it sped comfortably past a sea of buildings and people, he cast his mind to the task ahead, and the man he thought would be ideal to perform it.
Oswald traced his fingers along the swirls of the grain, admiring the rich colour of the wood. He opened the lid and peered inside. The book contained therein was bound handsomely in black leather. His worries had been unfounded for the book
was dry and in excellent condition. With slightly trembling hands, he lifted the book out of the box and opened it. He thought he would never set eyes again on the pages within.
He looked for a page in particular. A small gasp of pleasure escaped his lips when he found it. In large letters at the top were the words: The Spindle Cat. Just below the title was an illustration in blue pigment of the creature: abnormally long-legged and almost spider-like, with a sleek short-haired body. Its huge and expressive eyes looked ethereal and otherworldly. But most remarkable was the third eye which shone in gold from its forehead.
Oswald devoured the words on the page.
The Spindle Cat is named ostensibly for the appearance of its long, spindly legs. However, another reason it is so named is related to its ability to grant good fortune to those it favours. Witnesses describe seeing the cat weaving with its legs when granting these wishes, as if it runs on an invisible spindle. It is a very rare occasion for a man to be favoured with a visitation, for good fortune must surely be his …
Oswald slammed the book shut when he heard voices drifting down from above. He looked out at the water to see the shadows cast by those above passing by. Sitting where he was beneath the arch of the bridge, he edged his way further into the shadows in silence. He had lived there since he ran out of his house with the box. The damp and mossy stonework did not bother him at all. Its seclusion afforded what he wanted most: a place of solitude.
He cast his eyes suspiciously around him. There was a wild, wary look in them. When he was convinced he was at last alone again, he re-opened the book to the same page. He read every letter of every word, as if he dared not miss anything. They wrapped themselves around his mind, and all he thought of was the cat. Turning the page, his face brightened. Halfway down the page, the words jumped out at him: How to invite the Spindle Cat …
Chapter 2: A Favour Asked
Oswald waited expectantly. He had followed the instructions of the book to the letter. Hope swelled within that he would be graced by the presence of the Spindle Cat. He heard a meow and he turned with a jerk. He was dismayed that it was an ordinary cat padding along the bank of the river.
“Go on. Get out of here,” he cried and shooed loudly at the cat. It regarded him coolly and proceeded along its way on its own business.
“Why don’t you come?” Oswald asked in a voice close to despair. “Please come. I’ve done everything the book asked for.”
The light of the setting sun burned brightly on the waters of the river. Oswald waited until the colours changed from a rich orange to a soft pink, and the surrounds descended into a deep blue. Still the Spindle Cat did not show. He slumped against the curve of the arch looking utterly dejected. The evening sky continued on its nightward march, and the stars soon twinkled brightly.
Oswald’s stomach growled. Reluctantly, he dragged himself to his feet to go look for food. Clutching the box in his arm, he emerged from under the bridge onto the streets, where the street lamps were now being lit. Pedestrians avoided him, and avoided looking at him. That served him well for he did not wish to be noteworthy. He shuffled along the cobbled streets until he arrived at a baker’s shop. It was closed for the evening. Oswald turned into a side alley where he headed for the bins.
“Oi! What’re you doing?” a voice shouted at him.
Oswald jerked upright from the refuse in the alley. He looked in alarm at the burly man approaching him.
“Are you deaf? I asked you what you’re doing.”
“Nothing,” said Oswald.
The man came right up to him. “Nothing? What’s that in your hand?” he asked and reached for the box. Oswald pushed away from him and cried out, “Nothing. Nothing. It’s mine.” In his haste, he slipped and fell. The box tumbled away from him. He scrabbled on all fours towards the box and huddled over it. The man loomed over him, a menacing expression on his face. Suddenly, a light shone from behind Oswald. It burned golden on the man’s face. Oswald blinked in confusion, until he heard a meow. Then he laughed.
The man’s eyes widened and his jaw went slack. A sweet smell permeated the alley making Oswald feel even hungrier. He turned his head around and saw the Spindle Cat. It lay draped over the shoulders of a musclebound giant, whose skin glinted like it was gold. Except for a pouch to cover his modesty, he wore nothing else. The cat jumped off the giant’s shoulder and strutted up to the man. Like the illustration in the book, it stood on spindly legs which were elegant and impossibly long. Its movement was graceful to the point that it almost seemed to glide over the stones.
“Bloody hell!” uttered the man before he turned and fled. Oswald looked on awestruck at the giant and the cat. It was a few moments before he noticed the pain he felt where a corner of the box jabbed him in the stomach. The cat sidled up to him and purred softly. It rubbed its soft fur against Oswald’s face, and Oswald could not help but cry.
“You’ve come to me. Thank you,” he said in a small voice.
“What is your name? Why have you called us?” the giant said in a low, gravelly voice. The suddenness of that demand shocked Oswald into the present. He saw the giant looking down on him with a disdainful expression on his face. His hands went towards straightening his clothes, as if they could iron out the creases and eliminate the dirt and grime.
“My – my name is Oswald, and I beg a favour.”
“What is this favour?”
A moment of silence passed. Oswald thought the words he wanted to say sounded too harsh and indelicate to be spoken. He searched for softer ways to say them, but on seeing the growing irritation on the giant’s face, blurted them out. “The utter obliteration of the followers of Necronis. I want to see them wiped out.”
The giant laughed.
“But you are a follower of Necronis yourself. The mark is unmistakable.”
“Was! WAS!”
“Is. Was. Why should that be of any concern to me?” asked the giant coolly.
“I know to my eternal shame that the mark of Necronis hangs over me. It is a stain that I cannot wash away. But if there is a way to make amends, I would do it. I would move mountains to earn my redemption.”
“Am I to understand that you think the path to redemption is through destruction?”
“No. No,” said Oswald, who looked visibly uncomfortable.
“Then why do you want this done?”
“The followers of Necronis have done many horrible things. The world would be a better place without them. I know that what I ask for speaks poorly of me, but sometimes, we must commit a necessary evil to preserve all that is good.”
“Well said, Oswald. Well said indeed.”
Oswald smiled at the compliment. He noticed the cat looking at him, and he felt a great tranquillity looking into the depths of those magnificent eyes. Then, his stomach growled.
“First, you need to eat,” said the giant matter-of-factly.
The Spindle Cat removed itself from Oswald. It hopped into the air and seemed to hang there. It moved its legs as if it ran on one spot, and the refuse lying on the cobblestones changed into food before him. He grabbed what was nearest to him and shoved large handfuls into his mouth.
Oswald was content. Lying on his back, stomach filled, he felt the desire to drift off to sleep.
“I have been thinking,” said the giant, who stood looking down on Oswald. Oswald turned his head slightly. Looking up the giant’s legs past his groin, Oswald thought the giant’s head looked rather small. He also noticed that the cat had returned to its place on the giant’s shoulders.
“I have been thinking,” repeated the giant, “that instead of killing the followers of Necronis, that they should be shown instead the error of their ways. That they should be given the opportunity to redeem themselves. As you have.”
“What!? No.” muttered Oswald.
“Why not?” asked the giant. Though appearing far away, the sly look on his face was very clear to Oswald. “If you believe in the power of redemption, then why are these men irred
eemable?”
“Because I know them. I know what they are capable of,” spat Oswald.
“Oh? Such venom in your voice. What have they done to earn your hatred?”
Oswald fell silent.
“You can tell me,” teased the giant. “It will be our little secret.”
Rolling over to his side, Oswald pushed himself onto his feet. Standing only to the giant’s mid-torso, he looked up defiantly and met the giant’s and the cat’s eyes.
“They … betrayed me. They had me locked in an asylum. Wrenched me from my place as Necronis’s favoured.”
“Necronis would not have tolerated that.”
“No. I implored him to aid me but he was silent.”
The giant laughed some more.
“Then what is the true motive for your request, Oswald? Tell me what you really want. Tell me your heart’s true desire.”
“I want vengeance.”
“Necronis will not be pleased if you receive our help.”
“No, but I have made my decision.”
Minutes passed before either of them moved. Then the giant spoke.
“Very well, Oswald. I will help you. But a time might come when a favour will be asked for in return.”
“Thank you. I would return this favour when asked for. But before we start, what do I call you?”
“I am Fanfer.”
A layer of mist hung close to the earth. Alfred trudged through the undergrowth he could barely see carrying a woven basket filled with all sorts of herbs and mushrooms. Fern fronds brushed against his calves and the air was heavy with the smell of loam. He was lost in thought, counting his steps back to his cottage through the sound of crackling leaves and snapping twigs. It was a while before he noticed that it was utterly quiet. Other than his breathing, there was no other sound of life. The stillness was tense with anticipation.
A flash of golden light caught his eye. He peered through the haze, past the ranks of spruce trees, but there was nothing to see. He reached into the basket and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the knife he had there. The feeling of the handle re-assured him. Then, he continued on his way home, keeping himself very alert. About ten yards from his cottage, where an ancient spruce stood, a man sat against the trunk holding a box.