The palace is strict, and men dare not cross the line, yet cats always find a way to slip through the gaps. Th…
The palace is strict, and men dare not cross the line, yet cats always find a way to slip through the gaps. The lucky ones are taken in by nobles to enjoy immense favor; the others are fed by servants, at least having a roof over their heads. The worst off live in the shadows, yet even they are helped by their kind, for though some cats are stronger than others, they do not share the human sense of hierarchy. Men have masters and slaves, but a cat is, after all, a cat.
Scruffy was a newcomer, nameless, with a coat of mottled black and yellow. Surrounded by the pack, Scruffy crouched low, tail wrapped tight around his front paws. After a long while, a white cat with a raised tail sauntered out and touched noses with Scruffy.
Scruffy knew he was allowed to stay.
But the palace had more rules. Straight-tail meowed and turned away. Scruffy followed blindly. Amidst the mews of the pack, Scruffy understood: they were taking him to see the "Ascension of the King."
The pack stopped beneath a flowering tree in the Rear Garden, sitting in a row, looking up at the branches.
Scruffy sat too, staring blankly.
The tree was massive. He remembered the trees outside the palace walls: starving like him, withered and dry, unlike this lush canopy.
Clouds drifted by, petals fell. Rustle. The water of the Rear Garden lapped against the shore.
A meow came from the tree.