The boat drifted closer to the shore. Its sails were furled and it used nothing more than the gentle propulsion of the river’s current. Some of its crew guided it easily to the stone steps that mounted from the water to an open, vaulted gatehouse. The small black and white cat who disembarked from the boat seemed a little bewildered, but, with a backward glance at the human who had accompanied him on his journey, he climbed upward.
His gait was uncertain at first, and weak. Even so, he gained strength as he ascended, until he reached the top step and the smooth stone of the gatehouse floor, which was but the first stage of a winding path. When he stopped, he felt almost exhilarated, as if waking to the bright morning of an exciting day.
“You’re Mirko, aren’t you?”
The black and white cat was a little startled and turned to see a white and orange cat, quite small, almost tiny, sitting near one of the columns.
“Mirko? Yes, yes, that’s what they called me,” the new arrival said. “I don’t know why.”
The orange cat purred in good humour and replied, “That’s your name. We all have names, even if we don’t know them. My name is Tungsten.”
“How do we get names?” Mirko wanted to know.
“From humans,” said Tungsten. “Mine came from Dr Bellen. I was his first assistant at the sanitarium.” Tungsten pointed with a paw at the man standing on the boat that was now moving away from the shore. “He gave you your name, too.”
“Dr Bellen…” Mirko shook his head. “Yes, I think I remember. It’s like a dream, but I remember food being provided, every morning, and most evenings. It was like a banquet. I could always count on having something to eat. Dr Bellen was one who brought the food.”
“That’s right. You were a feral cat, and so didn’t live in the sanitarium. But you were looked after nonetheless.”
“Yes, of course…” Mirko nodded. “There was a building, and people, and other cats… Sometimes it was cold and wet, but there was a dry place to lie, and clean water and always something to eat… How did I get here?”
Mirko looked about. The country on the far side of the river was green, and lush with fields and trees, the two blending together as the distance progressed until they climbed into purple hills, topped with white, billowing clouds. The river that bordered that land was blue and deep and calm, yet sparkled in the sunshine. One this side, the landscape was much the same, but it seemed to Mirko to be clearer to the eyes, the scents were sharper, stronger and sweeter. There was a slight breeze; it was warm, and brought a hint of cat-nip blossom.
“Dr Bellen brought you on the boat,” answered Tungsten. Her voice was very quiet and soft, yet Mirko could understand every word. “Most come by train, others by boat. A friend of mine came on a ship on the sea… But all are welcome here.”
Mirko couldn’t comprehend that, and he questioned, “Even ferals?”
Tungsten almost laughed, though cats, of course, don’t laugh.
“There are no ferals here, Mirko. Don’t you feel it? Do you feel anxious, fearful, wary?”
“No… No, I don’t.” Mirko marvelled at this, because even when he was being fed by Dr Bellen, and rubbed up against him, knowing the human wouldn’t hurt him, there was always the caution of the feral inside him.
“There is nothing to fear here, Mirko. Every cat you meet will be friendly, and will play with you and groom you, if you want. But there’s plenty of space to be your own cat, if that’s what you want.”
The newcomer thought about this, and at last said, “What did I do to deserve to be here? I fought and growled and hissed. I don’t think I was a very good cat.”
“I happen to know that you were an excellent cat, Mirko. Every cat is, no matter his behaviour. Sometimes, how we act is how we must, to survive. Sometimes, how we are raised, what we go through, what we must do, makes us cruel or hateful or vindictive. It’s the same with humans. But all of those things fall away here. You not only don’t need them here, but you understand why you don’t need them, and how they were like a burr in your fur that you couldn’t get rid of, so you just learned to live with it. Here, we shed all our burrs.”
Talk of shedding caused Mirko to regard his own fur. It had been patchy and falling out. That’s right, he thought: I’d been sick; I couldn’t eat; I had been in pain. Tungsten bumped her head against him, as if she knew what he was thinking.
“You look magnificent, Mirko, like a one year old,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Like a kitten!” exclaimed Mirko with both revelation and surprise.
“You see?” Tungsten said. “Sickness, distrust, age, weakness - all shed. I think you’ll like it here in Samarra.”
“Is that where I am? Samarra?”
“Yes. Would you like to see more of it? I’ll race you to those hills in the distance.”
“Those hills?” Mirko was incredulous. “But they’re miles away!”
“Haha! That’s right. We’ll be there by dinner-time. What do you fancy? Chicken? Fish?”
“Er, what about the chickens and the fish? If they’re here in Samarra…”
Tungsten bumped against her new friend again, happily, and replied, “They’re fine, Mirko. What you eat is whatever you want. You’ll understand soon, just like you’ll understand why you care about chickens and fish now. Come on! I’m hungry.”
With a glance behind him, as if wondering whether he would see the old Mirko across the river, the black and white cat sprinted after the orange one. They raced across the fields of grass, through the woods, across farms and roads and over fences. And the sun shone brightly all day, until the evening brought gentle rain. Then, Mirko slept, snug against the warmth of new friends’ fur, and he dreamed of a life that was now far away, dreams of memories that faded with the new morning.
