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.”