Instinct

The Kindness of Cats By R.R. Virdi[3]

THIS IS THE STORY OF ONE of the most important things in all of Brahm’s creation.

Myself.

The people of Ghal have called me many things: nuisance, thief, miscreant, stray, and disaster. But my first real friend called me Shola.

The shy one, at least as far as he understood it. But in truth, it means the flame. I suppose we are both alike in that regard, though he doesn’t understand it himself. Then again, he doesn’t understand a great many things. But how can he? After all, he’s only human. Not everyone can be blessed with the uncanny knowing of all things.

It is a gift I possess.

Because I am a cat.

The world has worsened in its cold and uncomforting climate. Taking to more snow than the appropriate amount, which happens to be none. It makes it a discomforting prospect to go about my morning necessaries with the accumulation of ice. A terrible design, if you asked me.

But perhaps if the creator of all things had bothered to consult a cat, the world would be a more orderly place, and make better sense. Brahm could have at the very least given me more direction in what to do with my charge.

The boy is young, and currently sits huddled on the floor of his room before a flickering candle. Its glow washes over him and brings its brightness and color to the light brown of his eyes. He stares at it, searching for some answer, but he’s rather blind to the one it casts along the lines of his face.

I suppose that is the nature of people. They look so hard for answers everywhere other than within themselves. But, even with all the things Ari happens to miss, I am fond of him. He gets the important things right.

Such as kindness.

He remembers this, even when he is caught in a weary torpor, like now. A stillness gathers around him just as much inside. Moments where the best of him is silenced and weighs on him like a mantle of lead. I worry for him, and the wounds he carries so deep inside he cannot see them.

But it is not so easy a task to make a human aware of these things, most especially when they lack the skill to understand the other creatures of the world. So, it is our duty to speak to them in simpler ways and remind them of the things they overlook.

A single bound from his bed brings me to one of Ari’s legs. He sits with them crossed, hands resting in his lap as he regards the candle. His eyes flicker to one side as he notices me, then return just as quick to the flame.

I would sigh if I possessed the ability. Instead, I thump my head against the meat of his thigh, drawing his attention.

“Hm?” He turns his head, long dark hair coming to hang before his eyes. A brush of a hand sends it all back and he looks at me—the candle’s orange still burning through his gaze. “What is it, Shola?” His fingers come to touch my skull and gently run along it.

You are doing it again, Ari. Sitting and sulking. Souring yourself. You should leave the candles be for a moment and move. Better yet, feed me, and perhaps yourself. There is little that cannot be fixed with food. He hears none of this, of course. “Mrrp.”

Ari nods as if he understands me, though I know that is far from the truth. But, a small smile breaks across his face regardless. “Maybe so. I just… I can’t make sense of it. I was so close—Brahm’s blood. The fire, the binding. I had it!” He lets out a heavy breath and his hands ball into tight fists.

I tap him twice on the leg with a paw, delicately pointing out that he had not come close at all. He had been closer to cooking himself. And then who would tend to me? A terrible oversight on his part, really. “Mrow.”

He sighs again. “Now it’s just so far. It’s all slipping away from me. What am I supposed to do between now and the next season’s start? Half the Ashram thinks I’m a damn monster after what happened with Nitham.” The smile from earlier returns and now grows into something crooked—cunning.

But I recognize it as the fake smile many humans adopt when masking a hurt.

“Maybe I should let them think that. Brahm knows Nitham will try to get back at me twice as hard for anything I’ve done to him. But they might avoid me if I start letting more people think I’m some kind of monster, hm?” The grin he holds is a hollow thing. A disguise worn by someone who in truth is rather lonely and puts on the kind man’s face to not worry others.

I know it, because I have been where Ari has, and he was the one to pull me from that. I have not forgotten, and I will not let him forget. But first, the damnable candle taking his attention.

I move around his leg and approach the third flame in the room.

“Shola—hsst—no! Stay away from that. You remember what happened last time—”

I do indeed, but all the same, my paw darts and I snuff the flame from existence. Its heat pricks my skin and I wince. The audacity of fire lets you know just how much Brahm had a hand in shaping it. Rude. Inconsiderately bright. Harmful. And always giving off that unpleasant smoke. I voice my disdain, and moment’s pain, to Ari. “Maow!”

He grinds a palm to his forehead and uses his other hand to slide the candle away. “Brahm’s tits, cat. What did you think would happen?” A heavy sigh leaves Ari, and he reaches out with both hands to take my palm in his grip.

What I thought would have happened was that you would leave the candle be and give yourself a moment’s break. Brahm knows you needed it. I tell him this, though he doesn’t have the ears or skill to hear me. “Mrrp.”

“Yes-yes, you’ll be fine, Shola.” His fingers gently rub my skin, though he is utterly blind to the fact that I am not hurt. Only irritated. What else could I be when dealing with a boy so thick? Even so, I love him for the kindness he offers.

It is what made me accept him as my ward. The one to watch over. If only he was a better Listener.

But working on your human takes time, and I must better learn to be patient.

I catch his eyes darting back to the snuffed candle, and their desire is plain enough for me to see. He wishes to rekindle it and resume his practice.

I lunge, my paw striking the waxen-stick, sending it skittering along the floor.

There are times for patience, and then those moments when you must simply bat your problem away.

Ari shuts his eyes and rubs a few fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Brahm’s. Blood. Shola.” He rises and makes his way toward the door. “Maybe we’ll both be less moody after a bite, hm?”

The first sensible thing he’s said. “Mrrrl.”

“Of course, your majesty. A double portion of meat. How could I forget?” He laughs to himself and slips out of the room, leaving me to myself for a time.

I lose track of how long it has been since Ari has left, but the pains in my stomach let me know it has been quite the while. Long enough that any other lesser animal, which is to say, all of them, would have perished from starvation.

The door opens and he moves through it—a tray rests in his grip. “Back. Miss me?” He gives me a smile that should mollify most of my displeasure.

It does not.

A cat can be kept many things, but never hungry. “Mrrr.”

“Uh-huh. Thanks for asking how it was, by the way. Everyone’s looking through me rather than at me.” His shoulders slump and he soon follows, sinking to the ground. “It’s like no one can stomach seeing my face after what happened at the festival. I didn’t even see Aram or Radi in Clanks.”

He folds a piece of flat bread and mops it through a thin pool a color close to my own fur. Tiny peas float through its surface, though he avoids picking them before taking his bite.

“What if they changed their minds about being my friends? What if—”

I bump my head firmly into one of his legs, taking his attention from the bothersome thoughts. Besides, there are more important things to focus on. I inform him of this as I eye one of the drumsticks resting in a sauce of spinach and butter.

“What—oh.” Ari grins and rubs a hand against my head. “Here.” His fingers take a piece of the chicken, tearing a lump free. He is quick to ensure it has little of the green filth stuck to its meat, and more of the butter instead.

Sometimes he is much smarter than he looks. I take the piece and set to work, sharing the pleasurable meal and silence together. My company buoys him as he frets over his other friends. But it is the least I can do: letting him know that no matter what, he will never be truly alone.

We eat in continued peace before he gets to his feet and unlatches the window resting above his bed. “All right, out you go. I’m taking this back to Clanks, hm?” He gives the tray a little wave.

“Mrrmp.”

He blinks, then realizes his error. “Right. Sorry, distracted.”

I’ll say.

Ari drops the tray and takes me in both his hands, raising me to the window before easing me out. “Don’t stay out too long with your business, ji? It’s cold, and the snow’s getting heavier.”

I weathered worse winters before you took me into your home, Ari. “Marow.”

“And don’t lick any snow—I swear, cat. You were stuck wincing half the day last time.”

Nonsense. An utter lie. And I was simply showing my displeasure at how horrendous snow happened to be. “Mrrl.” He does not listen to my reasoning and instead places me on a cushion of soft winter’s ice.

“I’ll be back soon.” Ari leaves as soon as that, and I set off to do my business. Though, I don’t imagine any human has an understanding of what that might really entail.

The place known as the Rookery has many secrets all its own. Forgotten paths laid into its stone and along its height. The perfect place for birds to perch and be ignored by the many human eyes too dull to see anything they are not concerned with. But it is the perfect place for a cat.

There are ledges and ways for the quick of foot to reach the Ashram grounds, even with the snow and ice. It isn’t long before I am astride the courtyard, then just as soon, the city of Ghal.

Streets I know well. Just as much as the cruelty they can carry.

I keep to shadowed paths under buildings’ heights, all ensuring the wrong stares do not find me. Not all people have Ari’s heart.

Snow crunches underfoot and I move with all the grace and speed I can muster. I reach the cornerstone of the structure closest to me. The sound of footsteps loudens, and I peer around the edge to see who draws close.

She is nothing more than a child. Younger than Ari by a good handful of years if I am any judge of humans. And I happen to be a masterful one. Her hair is bird’s nest tangle and done no favors by the sharp cold today. Stress has dulled the blackness of each strand and a hollowness hangs in her eyes. It is one I have known too.

The emptiness that comes with hunger.

And loneliness.

All the weight and sorrow of an orphan. Like I once was.

She brings a thumb to her mouth, biting at the skin around her fingernail. Then, catching herself in the nervous act, she stops. Her gaze flits to the warmth of a stone pit and the fire that burns within it. Then, just as quick, she turns to watch a man turn a thin mass of dough that is still cooking atop a metal sheet. The girl thumbs the collar of her robes, the color of which has come to be a gray only found in things that have given up their original shade to time and stress. The clothes carry more lines of thread and patches than any child’s ever should.

She shakes, then her shoulders lose what strength they had moments earlier, and she slumps.

I move closer but do nothing to betray my presence. I have long since mastered the art of moving unseen by the clumsy in Ghal.

“Cat!” A child’s voice carries through the otherwise quiet street.

I whirl to find someone no more than five, jabbing a pudgy finger my way. They repeat their declaration as if to inform anyone else who had thought me to be something other than what I am.

“Cat. Cat. Cat.”

Yes, very good. You’re twice as smart as you look, which isn’t that smart at all, doubly so when considering your limitations as a human. I tell him this but remember myself and let a touch of grace flood my voice. “Maoooow.”

He frowns, furrowing dark brows and losing what spark had taken his brown eyes moments earlier. Then, a madness seizes hi,m and he reaches for me with an open hand.

I hiss and move with a speed only rivaled by beings in stories. My paw darts and bats his hand several times. Away! Back! You’ve no right to touch me, little dullard. “Maow!”

The child reels, clearly overwhelmed by my ferocity, and falls into the snow. Their face twists and tears follow. His voice cracks and fills the air with a young boy’s cry.

Oh, Brahm’s breath.

I close the distance and reach out with a paw. He shies away from the touch at first, bawling twice as hard as before. I let him know that it is fine, and I am only trying to comfort him. “Mrr.”

My touch makes its way across the top of his head and, for a moment, he ceases his tantrum. Assured that he will no longer sound an alarm to my presence, I tear free from the place, searching for the young girl I’d seen moments earlier.

I catch a passing sight of her as she turns past one of Ghal’s rounded buildings. The cold hasn’t reached me deeply yet, but I feel its grip against my muscles. Still, I bound after her, keeping an eye on one of the city’s overlooked.

I have lived too long in the same way to let the same suffering befall another. Just as Ari once did for me, I’ll do for her. At least in some small manner.

My run brings me past the flatbread maker she had been eyeing, but there is no time for that now. She moves to another merchant. A man stacking cutlets of freshly cooked meat. The smell of it is touched with sharp spices and of charcoal. His hands move and several pieces of lamb are skewered and then folded within a sheaf of parchment.

The young girl fiddles in the folds of her robes, drawing out two bent pieces of tin. She motions at one of the pieces of meat and the man blinks. Then he laughs, head thrown back and a hand waving her off. She shrinks further into her clothes and the money vanishes back inside the tattered cloth. The child does not linger, knowing well enough to harsh truth of the orphan’s life.

There are few places where we are welcome for long. And fewer still where we are wanted at all.

So, she shuffles onward, and I walk her path, prowling just far enough behind to keep from being spotted.

I am the truest embodiment of stealth, and—

“Oi, what’s this?” The man’s voice holds as much smoke and coal grit as his cooking pit.

He is lean with features brought out even harder by the thinness in his face. His foot blurs and I recognize what it means. I move just as the tip of his boot sails by where I had been moments ago.

“Hsst, move-move. Gutiya. Stray. You’ll drive away customers.” Another motion of his foot, but this time it is only a deterrent—no lashing kick.

I bite back the urge to hiss or lunge at the man. Fool that he is, I have need of his goods. I require but just one piece of your offerings, cook, and I’ll be on my way. You can spare that much. “Mrowl.”

The man turns his eyes to focus on everywhere but me, now realizing I will not be brushed aside. “Hot skewers. Goat, lamb, and some sheep. Spiced and fresh and still hot-hot!” He cups his hands to his mouth, making his voice carry.

You have more than enough to give scraps to an orphan, fool! “Maaaow.”

Another movement of foot and a current of snow sails my way, but I am the pure shape of deftness itself. So I leap, the torrent of snow…still brushing my sides.

I hiss, leaping at his legs. My paws strike with a fury and speed unrivaled by anything short of the gods.

“Ackh!” He shakes one leg, trying to dislodge me.

But I will not be shaken.

His hands clamp to folds of skin at the back of my throat and he heaves me up.

Unhand me, you cussed, callow, heartless—“Mrrow!”

My world teeters as he shakes me. Old instinct takes hold and my paws move to take action. And I am free as quick as that.

The man reels, his hips brush against the flat metal surface atop the flame. It tilts, and charred meat falls to the snow.

“Brahm’s Blood!” The cook grabs the flesh of his hand, now welting fresh red from where my claws savaged him. He does not have the grace to thank me for my mercy, for I could have just as easily cleaved him to ribbons instead of just some scratches. Instead he spits curses.

I ignore him and take a rolled parchment of meat between my mouth.

“Thief!”

I am at that, and a marvelous one, just like my ward—Ari. My legs carry me far from his protests and a look over my side reveals the man retrieving what meat he can from the snow.

Serves him right. There are many forms of poverty in the world, but no few so bad as those poor in heart. The ones unable to give but even a piece of it to someone else in so desperate a need of its touch—its warmth. There is a special place in the bottom of the world for men like that, but it is not for me to judge. Well, mostly not for me. I happen to be a marvelous arbiter of character. So Brahm has shaped all my kind to be.

The girl comes into view ahead and vanishes just as quick. Her threadbare robes flutter at the edge of a corner I barely catch sight of. But it is enough.

I set chase again and keep from the throng of tangling legs and awkward shuffling steps only humans can take. Utterly without care, grace, or the eyes to see what moves before them. If I had the time, I would give them the sharp side of my tongue and point out all they do wrong. But they wouldn’t have the ears for it anyhow.

I reach the turn she’s taken and move along it, coming to a space between the many domed structures in the city of Ghal. There is a point where three buildings meet to form a nook of sorts. Attached to the roofs of others is a canted structure of wood. A hovel by all accounts, stretching far into the alley and supported by beams that look close to giving way. But it is what lies under it that catches my attention most.

A bed, fashioned much as the structure around it. Shoddy wood barely kept together. Blankets that are closer to rags than their namesake. And the elderly woman beneath them. By her side rests the child I have been following.

“It’s fine, mama.” She runs an affectionate hand over her mother’s brow, wiping away the beaded sweat.

It is near the full of winter’s cold and the woman is flush with sweat. That tells me enough.

I approach, making no effort to hide my coming.

The young girl notices and flicks a gaze towards her ill mother. “Tsst. Go away.” She motions with a hand, trying to shoo me.

But I do not stop, nor heed her wishes. Instead, I come as close as I can and lower my head to the ground. The sheaf of parchment with meat skewers falls, and she sees this. I back away and motion with a paw, making my intent clear.

She eyes me—wary. It is the outcast’s look. The untrusting stare that views all kindness suspect, and it can only be earned through a life of hurt and being shunned.

I have known it well and worn that same look many a time. And now I hope to help her find her way out from it.

But it begins with a shared kindness. Of building trust. I know this, and I know its touch. It came my way when Ari first crossed my path. And now I carry the tradition—the kind man’s helping hand.

She edges closer, reaching out to take the parchment. Her fingers brush against it then close—hard-fast. She recoils as if afraid I might move again for the bundle. But I do not, and she realizes this. Her fingers move and she has opened the wrapping. She blinks, then trades a longer look with me.

It’s food, quite obviously, for you. And I suppose for your mother, if she has the stomach for it. I watched you with the merchant. I have been following you since, but you clearly were unaware as you do not have the eyes to catch something like myself stalking after you. “Mrrow.”

“Um, thank you.” She does not wait before tearing into a piece of the meat. Her eyelids flutter and her mouth spreads into a wide smile of the pleasure only found in someone starving freshly given a piece of something tasty. She takes another chunk out of the meat.

“What is it”—a hard and dry cough racks the old woman’s body—“what is it, Sarika?”

The girl, Sarika, turns halfway to her mother. “Billi, a cat!” She takes a step toward me, then looks over her shoulder again. “It brought us meat.”

She coughs again, just as harsh. “It did?”

The old woman’s eyes finally turn on me—cold, and hollow. Someone closer to the Doors of Death than the fresh breath of life. There is little warmth in the brown of her gaze, and my heart aches. I know the sorrow and fear that now holds little Sarika. And I do not know if there is much at all I can do to spare her that.

But I will try.

It is all any of us can do in the end. To try to be there for those that need a hand—or a heart.

I come closer and reach the girl’s side.

Her leg moves and I recognize it as the fear of someone all too used to being shooed away. The cautious flinch of someone ready to be chastised—maybe struck. Something else I have come to know.

I keep this in mind before I speak, knowing this will settle the young girl’s heart. There is nothing to fear. While I may look rather fearsome and have the full fury and color of flame itself in my coat, I am rather friendly. “Mrrow.”

My words steady her, and it is clearly due to the calm and reassuring basso notes found in my voice. Soothing.

“It’s cute, mama.” She kneels and reaches out with a hand to brush my head.

I inform of her of her error. Technically, I assured you that while I look fearsome, you have nothing to fear. But I understand the limitations of human ears and understandings—a simple translation error on your part. And a cat is nothing if not patient—

Her fingers dig into my fur and runs her nails against my skin, scratching more than an affectionate pet.

Not what I had hoped for…or permitted. But the kindness she required demanded me to weather the minor misunderstanding. But the moment passes, and I place a paw on her hand. This informs her that she is to stop, and that I in turn offer a gentle touch to soothe her.

You should give your ailing mother some of the meat, if she has the strength for it. It will help her. Though you should consider some kind of soup. I have seen many of your kind turn to it during the colder turn of climate in Ghal, and most especially when you are sick. “Mrrip.”

She doesn’t heed my words, though. So I must show her. I saunter past, leaping up the rickety assembly of wood that serve as rotting steps. The makeshift floor of the shack is nothing more than scrap, long-assembled by hands that never knew what they were doing. It serves its purpose, however, and that is enough.

Sarika’s mother looks down at me. “And who do you belong to, sweet thing?” Another cough shakes her and takes what little strength she has. Her body sinks further into the motley pile of rags and strips of old clothes that act as poor blankets.

I belong only to myself, but Brahm placed me on this good world, like all cats, to eventually take a charge under my guidance. To shape him with our wisdom, and to of course look after the best of god’s own creation. Myself, I mean. “Mrrl.”

“Yes-yes.” The old woman smiles, clearly understanding and agreeing with what I have said. One of her hands moves from out under the various garments keeping her warm. It is frail, with the skin holding tight and thin to her bones, revealing veins that must be suffering in Ghal’s cold.

I save her the effort and move to meet her touch, laying one of my paws atop hers. It is all right, old one. It will be fine. I am here now. “Mrr.” I eye her, making it clear what I intend to do, and wait for her silent permission to go ahead.

She smiles, and I take that as my invitation.

As with all things—kindness and care—touch, and warmth, they must be agreed to. Welcomed. Consented.

And she has given me this.

So, I make my way with all gentleness atop the mountain of clothing, making sure no step of mine causes the old woman further grief. Once atop her chest, I curl tight and bring to her the best of my soothing assurances. It is a noise of bottled thunder—the promise of lightning to come. The rumbling susurrus of a river in storm. And all the comfort of a cat’s purr.

It is the smallest kindness I can give to her today. But soon, I will give her all the comfort a cat can bring.

Sarika’s mother rests in the deep sleep of one who has gone long without, as well as spent much strength giving life to a body that has little left to it. But the young girl has found little respite herself. The crumpled remains of paper sit discarded in the snow, and nothing is left of the lamb once wrapped within. Sarika licks her lips, and I recognize the look of an orphan in want of more food than they have, and the weary resignation that follows.

The next thing I can offer her then. A piece of knowledge. The working of how to fend for herself. Something a cat is all too aware of.

I only have Ari tend to my needs because he offers and is ever willing to meet my every request with the utmost enthusiasm. To deprive of him of that pleasure would be a cruelty.

“Tch-tch.” Sarika motions at me with a few fingers, beckoning me closer.

I have half a mind to inform her that I am not something to be called at whim. Brahm shaped us to teach and guide the simpler things of this world, not be their servants.

Her mouth pulls downward and the disappointment spreads clear.

I swallow the urge to sigh and make my way over to her touch. It is not so bad, I suppose, as she runs her hand over me. Though she lingers too long in doing so, and I remind her of this, staying her motions with one of my paws. That is enough, youngling. There are things to show, and knowings you must have. Follow me, and I will show you where to find hidden kindness. “Ma-wow.”

“Yes, it gets cold here. Mama and I have enough sometimes to stay warm, but we need more, just to be safe. I can get food sometimes. Some people are nice and give alms. Tea is easier. People share that a lot. It helps.”

That was not what I made mention of, but I suppose your conversational skills are limited. You are young, after all, and so it is mostly forgivable. “Mrr.”

I do not wait for her to try to make further talk, instead, taking down the alley in where she lives. She follows and I quicken my pace, leading her down the many paths I learned to walk before Ari came into my life.

I bring her first to a merchant I remember my first kindness from. He takes wool and warm fibers, banding them together into rugs and blankets to sell. It was in his hands that I first experienced a touch of consideration from another human.

He stands behind a small stall, weathering the cold, all before a domed shop of modest size. Strips of fabric and some woven shawls hang for inspection. They carry all the colors found in gemstones and summer evening skies. “Oh-ho, and who is this marvelous little thing.” His face, kept fresh from the cold and lack of sun, breaks into a wide smile. The brown of his eyes is the same dark as his skin, but they brighten on seeing me.

You’ve met me before, merchant-sahm, but you seem not to recall. “Mrow.”

“Yes, it is quite cold for a little thing as you and—” His attention leaves me as Sarika comes racing behind. “And who’s this then, ah?”

The girl stops and clasps her hands together. “Apologies, sahm. My kitten ran away. I’m just trying to get him back. I don’t want to make trouble for you, and I promise to have him back to my mama.” At mention of this, the merchant frowns and gives Sarika a longer look.

I can see the same thoughts running behind his eyes as once did me. The state of her clothing, and how freely they hang from her body.

“And your mother, girl? She is…well? Your father?” He offers her the first kindness many should to one another, but often forget. A true and honest smile. An invitation, of sorts.

She shakes her head. “Mama is…tired. She gets more tired every day. She doesn’t leave bed. I don’t know why. Papa left long ago.”

Left. Not passed. But left. I have no words or the right sympathies to offer her. But I know a similar pain, as does Ari in what he has confessed to me. Sometimes there are no things you can do to set an old hurt right. All you can do is listen, and simply be there for the one in pain. It lets them know that, at the very least, they are not alone.

“Oh, Brahm’s breath and blessing wash over you, girl.” The man means every word of it, and it rings clear in his voice. His hands reach out toward her, but Sarika shies away. The merchant realizes this and stops himself.

“It’s a hard life, that. Come here, child.” He motions her closer. “Come, come.” One of his palms presses against a thick shawl. Its color is crushed sapphires and strung with silver moon thread in patterns of racing ivy. “This is good wool. Thick and will keep your mama warm.” He takes it between both hands and presses it toward her.

She recoils again. The wary-eyed look of someone who has been hurt before fills her eyes.

I know what I must do and move in kind. My body crashes against her leg to take her attention away from the merchant. It is all right. This man has done me a kindness before. His heart is that of gold. And now he gives you a piece of it. Learn to take it. “Mrrl.”

One of the forgotten pieces of kindness is that one must be open to receiving it. To have the open space to take it. And so many of us learn to shut our hearts to that gift for fear of a pain that may never come. All because we have felt its sting once before.

But that is the way to shut the doors of our hearts to one another, and with that comes a cold and lonely life.

Sarika reaches out, fingers brushing the fabric. The cloth passes from his hands to hers, and she clutches it as if it is a treasure. She shoots the man a look and it asks a silent question. Will he change his mind? Will she be forced to give this piece of kindness back?

But the smile that stretches wide along the merchant’s face gives the answer clear.

No.

She returns the expression and inclines her head. “Thank you, sahm. Thank you.”

He waves her off, but a touch of color floods his cheeks are her appreciation. “It’s nothing, little one. What would the world be without a little kindness, ji-ah?”

“Ji!” She presses the cloth close to chest, almost if wanting to press it deep into her own body.

The man watches this, and I see his eyes flicker to me, then back to Sarika. He knows there is more to her misfortune than just a lack of warmth. “Your mother…is well cared for with food? A hundred apologies, but you look…” He doesn’t need to finish. Her state of life is clear enough to him.

Sarika says nothing. Instead, her eyes slowly turn to look anywhere but at the merchant.

Whatever other words the man has to offer die in his throat. He knows enough to see that he has pushed too far. And there is limit even to the generosity one heart can accept from another.

A shame to be certain, but another of life’s truths as well.

So, it is time again for me to take charge and show her another of the world’s certainties. I bat at her legs until her attention comes back to me.

“What is it, kitten?” She reaches toward me, but I move from the touch.

Follow me. “Mrp.”

I take off down the streets of Ghal, Sarika well in tow. We pass through another space of squat buildings, all shaped to shrug off the snow. There is the scent of fires that have burned too low to be rekindled, and some fed too well, now pluming the sky with smoke. But between it all lingers the smell I am searching for.

It is of soft spice and warmth. Of promised sweetness, and a much needed reprieve.

“Where are you going, cat? Slow down.” Sarika’s breath comes twice as hard as before.

I do not stop, though, and wind my way through an alley that leads to my goal.

The place is not like many others in Ghal. Its roof is canted sharply to one side, but it serves well enough to keep the snow from piling. More windows line the shop than necessary. This is especially true considering they only face back down the way I have come, and there is little to see but an icy street. But an inviting smoke filters out from the chimney, and that is why we are here.

I require you to open the door, Sarika. “Mrr.” My paw brushes against the way in and she takes my meaning. The pair of us enter together and we are greeted by scene of crowded tables and bustling people. Painted bowls are placed before customers and spoons follow. Drinks are served and all gather close to share in the delight of soup.

And I remember a time a starving kitten came looking in search of warmth and kindness, and he found it in this place.

I move to brush against the legs of one of the men passing a customer a bowl. You, I need a moment. “Maow.”

He looks down at me. The man’s face holds a good amount of mass, well-fed, and the lines along it concentrate along his mouth and eyes. Someone who smiles a great deal, and he gives me one then. “Oh-ho. What’s this, ah? Where did you come…” He trails off as he sees Sarika standing behind me. “I can sit you in a moment girl. This your cat?”

She glances at me, then shakes her head. “I found him.” Which is not an answer, but it is enough to placate the man.

“Ali, you’re not paid to stand like a sack of lentils, ji-ah? Move.” The voices from behind the server. A woman in her middle years, proportioned the way you’d expect of a prosperous cook. Round in face and in body. Dark curls frame her aspect and bring out the curves in her cheeks. She bustles past the man then sees Sarika.

I remember her, and the night she tended to a lonely kitten very much in want of something fresh to eat.

“Did you say something about a cat, Ali?” The shopkeeper gets her answer a second later as she spots me. “Brahm’s breath. I’ve seen you before, little one, ji-ah?” She stoops to scratch the side of my head.

I allow it, knowing this is not the time to take umbrage. Not with Sarika’s needs still unmet.

“Here for another bowl?” The woman’s eyes drift back to Sarika. “And what’s with you, little one?”

The girl has no words, this time merely pointing my way.

It is Ali then who fills the silence with an explanation. “She came in with the kitten, Maanvi. But, look at her. She’s in rags. And doesn’t look like she’s eaten a good bit in sets.”

The woman looks Sarika over and realizes Ali speaks truth. “Come here, girl. We’ll get you sorted, and your kitten.” She speaks in the voice of someone who is never argued with and does not expect that to change any time soon. Maanvi turns and moves toward the kitchen, and I follow.

Sarika, however, lingers behind. Doubt once again clear along her face.

A heavy hand lands on her shoulder and jars her a bit. But it is Ali’s touch, and he gives her a gentle shove forward. “It’s all right, girl. Maanvi sounds meaner than she is.” He grins and grabs one of his earlobes, pulling on it in a manner many do when indicating a light joke. “But she is a good cook, and we make soup to spare, ah?” One of his hands claps to his belly, giving it a heavy pat. “Though, maybe some of us have a bit too much of it.” Ali laughs, and it brings Sarika to smiling.

She follows as the server leads the way to the kitchen. We come into a place packed far past comfort. Elbows brushing elbows, and fires fed full to warm to pots of soup and stew. A woman grabs a bowl and ladles it full before leaving.

Maanvi moves past another server, eyeing two women preparing ingredients. “Two bowls. Goat, sides of rice, and extra spice!”

A chorus of, “Ji,” greets her back. Maanvi does not stop, though. She moves to a pot, tasting its offering before addressing the room once again. “More star anise, and white pepper!”

Once again, “Ji,” echoes through the room.

“Tables are full, customers are waiting. Move-move.”

“Ji!”

Several people leave the room giving Sarika and I the space for privacy with the shopkeeper.

The older woman rounds on us and thrusts her chin up. “So, what is it, little one? Why do you look like you haven’t had a good meal in a while?” Maanvi doesn’t wait for an answer, though. Instead, she gestures to two large pots that have been simmering away. “One is stew: chickpeas, lamb, mountain rabbit, and spiced enough to keep the cold from your bones for many nights.” She smiles. “The other is a lentil soup: turmeric, cumin, coriander, and more. It’s light and filling. Very good. Which would you like?”

Sarika shuffles from foot to foot, her gaze falling to the floor. “I can’t pay.”

Maanvi gives the young girl a mother’s smile with all the warmth and patience as well. “I didn’t ask if you could, sweetling. Now, which will be, hm? Oi, Ali, why are you standing there watching—ah? You’re not paid to do that. If you’re going to linger here, get the girl a bowl and get a ladle, ji?”

The man knows enough not to say anything other the appropriate response. “Ji-ah!” And he moves to do as he’s been ordered.

“Then the lamb, please. It has meat, and that means…” Sarika’s words fall apart, but she manages to look my way, making her intention clear.

“Oh, don’t worry about this one, ji? I remember this little flame.” She reaches down to brush the knuckle of one finger against my nose. Not a place I particularly enjoy to be touched, but given the kindness she is showing Sarika, I will permit it.

Humans are often ignorant of boundaries, and more so on matters of invitation, but they have hearts of kindness if you give them chance to show it. And for that, they are mostly tolerable.

This is one of those moments.

Ali brings a bowl of lamb stew and sets it on the counter near us. Maanvi all the while picks meat from another bowl, shredding it fine with her nails before placing it atop a wooden board.

“I think I have some clotted cream here as well.” The shopkeeper fetched that as well, pouring the contents of a shallow pan into a bowl. She laid the assembly of food before me and reached out for another affectionate touch.

Given what she has offered, I feel an acceptable exchange. Her nails dig into my fur just behind my throat and she scratches somewhere that needed soothing. “Now, tell me what is wrong…” Maanvi stops short, leaving the question hanging in the air. The obvious invitation for Sarika to offer her name.

And the little girl does just that. “Sarika.” Her name comes out nearly mangled as the girl struggles with a piece of all too hot meat.

I, knowing well enough the proper order of things, try the cream first. It is more than satisfactory. My compliments, cook. “Mrrrl.” The shredded lamb it just hot enough for me to nurse a small worry of burning myself, but its taste makes up for any discomforting heat.

“So, what is it then, Sarika?” Maanvi fixes the young girl with a mother’s stare. A weight of inquisition as much as gentleness.

Sarika swallows and takes a breath. “My mama is sick. I don’t know what’s wrong, or how to make her better. We don’t have much. Not since papa…” Her words fall apart, but Maanvi understands what goes unsaid.

“Oh, child.” The shopkeeper crosses the distance and wraps her arms around Sarika, holding her tight.

I know Maanvi’s heart, and though many people are not given the chance to show the fullest of theirs, this is a moment when hers will shine through. I know it. And it is why I have brought Sarika here. To prove to her a hidden truth I have learned.

That despite the cruelties that man can be capable of, there is a warmth of love within you lot as well. It just takes the right people to show that to you.

And in a world as large and wide as ours, there are always the right people. You just need to know how and where to find them. Which of course I do. After all, a cat is nothing if not discriminating in finding the perfect things no matter the situation or need.

“Before your mother took ill, was she a good cook? Did she work needle and thread?” Maanvi fetches Sarika a mug of something warm and spiced, promising to take any chill away.

The young girl bows her head. “Good cook. But she never—”

Maanvi doesn’t wish to hear anything further. That answer is more than enough for the matron of the soup-shop. “Never you mind, Sarika. Wait here. I have some customers to speak to. Customers I’ve given much love to and never asked a spare chip from for any extra consideration. Now there’s something I need to bend their ear for.” The woman marches off at that, and I follow in tow.

Though my stomach and palette yearn to savor more of the food, I cannot leave Sarika’s future unknown. So, I must hear what is happening next.

We make our way back among the crowded tables where elbows jostle, soup splatters at times across wood, and someone occasionally laughs.

“Oi-ya.” Maanvi’s puts a hand to her mouth, ensuring her cry echoes far through her shop. “Is Mender­-sahm here? Where’s Mender Katar, huh? Where are you?”

A man rises. He is the sort of lean that is much apparent with just how much his winter robes hang off his frame. The man could be someone’s grandfather with how white his hair has gone, and the lines along his face, but there is a brightness in the gray of his eyes. An invitation and warmth that matches this place—the same as Maanvi’s.

“Yes, Maanvi, what is it?” The mender folds his hands, looking at the now silent crowd as if hoping to glean a silent answer from them as to what is happening.

“There is a woman that needs looking to. No-no”—she motions him to stay as the mender moves closer—“sit and finish your meal. After. Her daughter is here, and sad shape that one’s in. I’ve been good to you, and Brahm Himself knows—”

The mender clasps his hands together tight. “Yes-yes, Maanvi. Brahm knows it. I’ve never said anything otherwise. You want me to look in on this woman, I’ll do so.”

She doesn’t waste time listening to another word, rounding instead to face the other side of the shop. “Where’s Sneha, hm? You’re always in here on a cold one like today. Always with the order of thori with extra butter, and a good hot soup. Hm, where are you—stand-stand!”

A woman rises at the snap of a call. She is dark of eye and of hair. A long braid hangs to her waist, drawing my eye.

And I might nurse the overpowering urge to give it a good batting, but there are more pressing matters at hand.

…perhaps later, though.

“What is it, Maanvi?” Sneha adopts a similar gaze to the mender from earlier, looking as if she expects trouble and an equal chastisement.

“You and your father are doing slow business this set, no?”

Sneha shrinks but inclines her head. “Yes…but that doesn’t mean I cannot pay. I have—”

Maanvi waves her off. “So you and your father have spare rooms—warm ones, all open for the taking, hm?” The way she asks the question makes it clear she knows the answer.

Sneha licks her lips and bows once again. “Yes, Maanvi. We have many spares. But why?”

Another heavy wave of a hand. “Never you mind that. How many times have I brought your father a hot bowl, in the cold, no less? At no charge, because I know how late he works tallying ledgers, and tending to travelers—some of whom have less manners than they have coin, trying to skimp you lot on a debt. How many times, girl?

“No, don’t answer. Finish your food, then you and Mender-sahm will come with me, ji-ah?” Maanvi’s tone makes it all-too clear that will accept a singular response.

“Ji,” says Sneha.

And it is as simple as that. The shape of Sarika’s future seems to brighten—to clear. But she doesn’t know it yet, and it is a poor thing to keep a surprise from someone for too long.

So, I leave, making my way back to the young girl in the kitchen.

Her lips now bear the marks of meat juices as much as a mulled fruit beverage. “Hello, cat. Where did you go?” She smiles and bends to brush my head.

The amount of touch I have received might be more than any of my kind has had to bear in so short of time. The many sufferances a cat must endure in our duty to look out for humans. Though it certainly wears after a while.

But I am ever the model of patience and dignified.

That will be enough, little one. You may stop now. “Mawow.” I smack a hand to hers, moving it away.

It isn’t long before Maanvi returns, interrupting the conversation I wish to have myself with the girl. “Are you done? How was it?”

Sarika beams. “It was good. Thank you. But…I told you, I can’t pay. Mama and I don’t have—”

Maanvi shakes her head and lets out a heavy sigh. “And I told you, little one, I didn’t ask. Next time, clear the oil from your ears, ji-ah?” But she says this with no malice, only a wide smile. “Now, we are going to wait a little bit while some customers finish their food, understand? Then I want you to take us to see your mama.”

Sarika frowns, the old urchin’s worry plain across her face again.

This is where I must intervene and play the cat’s part. I move and bump the whole of my mass against her leg, rubbing hard against her in what I know will take her attention and give her comfort.

And it works. Sarika does not reject the offer. Instead, she smiles.

We return to the snow-swept streets of Ghal, now with a group tight to our sides. Maanvi, the shopkeeper. Sneha, the attendee of her father’s inn, and the mender, Katar­-sahm. Sarika leads the way through the winding streets back to the hovel in which her mother lays.

“Oh, Brahm’s blood.” The curse leaves the mender’s mouth before he realizes he has spoken.

Maanvi rounds on him, slapping a meaty hand to his chest. “Oi, no speaking of Brahm like that. Not in front of the girl.”

The mender’s eyes widen. “Of course, Maanvi. Right. Let me go have a look at the girl’s mother.” Mender Katar rushes off to do just that. A leather satchel rests in his grip and he lays it flat near where Sarika’s mama rests.

The elderly and ill woman raises her head to regard the man peering down at her, but he gently hushes her. “I’m a mender—studied at the Ashram many years ago. I’m here to tend to you.”

Sarika edges closer, but Maanvi’s hand stays her. “Let the man work, ji-ah? Katar-sahm’s mind might wander at times, but he has a good head for his work. He will see to your mama.” Her tone brooked no room for argument.

The little girl bows her head, accepting the elder’s wisdom, but she continues to watch with the quiet worry of a child.

I brush against her once again, offering my steady and reassuring presence.

After all, there are few things that cannot be made better by the intervention of a cat. And none that cannot be improved if that cat just so happens to be me. But, alas, not all can be blessed to have myself as their watcher.

Such is the way of things.

“How long do you think you can house the girl and her mother, Sneha—no dickering, ji-ah? Just give me the answers. And, if it will cost?”

The young attendant shakes her head. “No-no, Maanvi. We can at least keep them for a set comfortably. But food and—”

Maanvi dismisses her. “T’ch. Food. I can do that well enough myself, and you see if I can’t. I need them warm and safe. Once her mother is—”

Sarika pulls on a length of the shopkeeper’s robe. “What do you mean? What do you want to do with mama and me?” Her mouth pulls into a frown that wishes not to betray what she is feeling within.

But I can see it plain enough. A deeper dread that comes with uncertainty, and now it involves her mother. That is not something Sarika can bear to have go wrong. Not after everything she has endured. And so she keeps to silent hope that things will be all right.

It will be all right, child. “Mrawow.” I put a paw to one of her legs, pressing hard until her attention is on me, and not her fears.

But Maanvi speaks then to better assure her. “Nothing, sweet one. We are going to find you and your mama a home. Then, Mender-sahm­ will keep checking in and make sure she is doing well. Won’t you, Katar!” Her voice now carries the crack of thunder, making it clear this is no question, but an expectation. “And I don’t want to hear a piece of how many chips it will cost, ji-ah?”

“Ji-ah, Maanvi. She is weak. Malnourished. But the worst is a jahaam in her chest. A tightness—a thickness. It is not good, but I can help her. But we must bring her somewhere warm.”

Maanvi snaps her fingers. “Then get to it. Go back to my shop, bring Ali here. He is good for more than just passing bowls to customers. We will carry her mother to your inn. Have them both settled, then we will see what comes next.”

Something I too wonder about, but it is Sarika who voices the question.

“What do you mean?” She looks up at the older woman, waiting for an answer.

Maanvi rests a hand on Sarika’s shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze. “First, we’re going to find you and your mama a new home for a while. Once you’re warm and settled, and she’s better, we will see about work. I can always use another cook, and there are always leftovers.” She smiles, and it is one Sarika returns.

I stay by her side as time passes and the mender does his work, assuring us her mother will be fine. For that is a cat’s duty. To be by your side, even when you are too limited to understand us.

And we know another secret truth of the world. That not all stories need legends and lies. Or action and adventure. Sometimes the best stories are of quiet companionship, of kindness lost and to be found.

…and, of course, the comfort only a cat can bring.

This is one of those stories.

This is mine.

My name is Shola.

And I am a cat.

R.R. Virdi is a USA Today Bestselling author, two-time Dragon Award finalist, and a Nebula Award finalist. He is the author of two urban fantasy series, The Grave Report, and The Books of Winter. The author of the LitRPG/portal fantasy series, Monster Slayer Online. And the author of a space western/sci fi series, Shepherd of Light. He has worked in the automotive industry as a mechanic, retail, and in the custom gaming computer world. He’s an avid car nut with a special love for American classics.

The hardest challenge for him up to this point has been fooling most of society into believing he’s a completely sane member of the general public.

Connect with R.R. Virdi at: http://rrvirdi.com/