“Rain on the green grass, rain on the tree, rain on the house-top, but not upon me,” the cat softly sang before poking a paw out of the window and confirming the barely-more-than-a-mist happening outside did not make contact with his beautiful black fur before climbing out onto the wet fire escape and down to the cobblestone street below. Heading west towards City Centre he dashed along tight to the walls even though he was encased in a thin bubble of dryness perfectly shaped to his sleekness, and concealed by the deepening darkness. 

Dodging drain pipes that smelled too much of rats he hurried through the section closest to the Mischief’s main entrances, his tension dissipating the closer he moved toward the Colony. The bells from the street of churches behind him began their last tones of the day urging him onward—it had been nearly five minutes since he’d been roused from a good day of sleep by the unexpected cries of the chorus scattered throughout Melitown as word spread from cat to cat that all idle paws were to report in. Philemon was certain something exciting was happening and he refused to miss out.

The air passing through his rain barrier brings hundreds of scents. Rats, humans, cars, house dogs, orange peels (he sneezes at this one but loses no speed), fabric softener, cooking oil, pigeons, rats, rats, and more rats, deli meats and old beer from the bins half-opened at the entrance to an alley. And then the familiar smell of one of his uncles overwhelms the corner where the little Baines Street convenience store sits. 

“Been a long time kit,” says the familiar voice of the cat who has appeared by his side keeping pace. 

“Several moons! How have you been, Uncle?”

“I was enjoying my retirement but who knows what this summons will bring. You’re still on tarriance?”

The younger cat grumbled. “As if mother would let me be useful.” His uncle’s whiskers quiver in silent thought.

They rounded the corner and the library’s brick walls loomed overhead. From every direction cats dripped from the shadows of the walled courtyard and shrubbery and into the open basement window that led to the Colony’s depths. A number of them stopped short on seeing Philemon, heads quickly bowing before scooting away as quickly as possible. 

The pair ducked inside and followed the flow into the great hall hidden between the long forgotten fallout shelter and an even further from living memory bootlegger’s tunnel the Colony had claimed in a bloody battle against the Mischief. And it truly was great in all senses—the entirety of the Melitown Colony dynasty had contributed to its splendor, adding to the elaborate sunken relief designs carved into the walls in the style passed down from Inebu-hedj over seven thousand generations, and bits and bobs plundered and gifted from other colonies near and far in the more recent fifteen hundred generations since their skogkatt foremothers crossed the seas with the first ships accompanying their friends the hamingja, Gyda and Gulla, the first Obscure to assist the Norsemen Obvious to the new world.

An oversized paw landed on Philemon pinning him down.  “Where have you been?” hissed the scar covered orange and white long-haired cat it was attached to; a cat of stature and a coat clearly descendent of the Northern lines.

“I went for a walk,” he spits back, rolling his shoulders to shrug off the royal advisor. The claws hidden in the thick tufts of fur jutting in every direction from between the toes sunk in to hold him in place. “Leave without permission again and I will see to it you never see another moon, brat.”

“Now now, he’s almost five and this is too old to be treated with such disrespect, soldier,” his uncle rumbled lowly, leaving the shadow and startling them both even though Philemon knew he was there, a testament to Fasol’s skill. 

“Sir!” The advisor released Philemon and took a step backwards. “I didn’t know you would be joining us.”

Fasol’s eyes narrowed at Haarvard who flinched under the old hero’s gaze, “If this is how my nephew is treated in his own home, I fully understand his desire to spend as much time away as possible. I will be speaking to my sister, soldier. Come along, Philemon.”

Philemon’s scowl turned into a wide grin at Haavard’s panic and regret. His whole life he’d been bossed about by his mother’s attendants and counselors, never seen as anything but a spoiled kit. Can one who is not given anything special or allowed to do anything at all really be spoiled? He supposed his mother’s refusal to allow him to do anything but study and train seemed like coddling more so than confinement to those who weren’t being suffocated by it. He sighed as they entered the hall and followed his uncle as he moved along the periphery barely perceptible in the low lighting and the assembly. Haarvard, unfrozen from the shock of Fasol’s scolding, moved straight through to the front to alert the matriarch but she had already locked eyes on the pair and beckoned them over.

“Tsk, she just can’t let me be, eh?” Fasol groaned. His sister’s tail twitched. “Yes, that’s right Sister. I’m comfortable right here and am keeping my nephew with me in case these old bones need a pillow to rest on.” He rumbled, knowing she and everyone around could hear him. He sat and leaned toward Philemon, waiting for him to settle. Philemon almost purred in delight at not being ushered away from the crowd, and eagerly plunked his hind legs down, wrapping his long tail around to cover his front paws forming a solid but soft wall for the elder to rest against now that he was playing tired retiree. 

His mother flicked an ear in annoyance but stood a little taller before addressing the crowd. “Greetings kith and kin. It is good to see proof we are living in such easy times as to have so many of you on tarriance, however there’s been a report of unusual fluttering of the Veil in Ottarstedt. I don’t know how long this posting will be but I want to know everything about it.”

“Has Tuor spoken of it?” Grandmother Rue asked.

Philemon’s mother asks “Fasol?” All eyes turn toward them.

“First I’ve heard of it. She’s had some unusual happenings of her own keeping her busy, but I will stop in on my way back.”

Grandmother Rue steps to the front feigning feebleness, the crowd parting for her. “I would go myself if these bones would carry me so far. My best student should investigate such matters, do we not agree?”

Philemon’s pulse quickened, eyes widening until his mother’s glare reached her mother-in-law. Uncle Fasol, stood and placed a paw on his back. “Perfect! It’s about time the prince meets Tuor. I’ll take him with me, and he can go from there to Ottarstedt.”

“Absolutely not!” His mother yowled. Silence fell over the hall until Grandmother and Uncle both tsk’d together. “I’m not going, Sister, and I'm in agreement with Elder Rue; no one is better studied on the shadows and the veil than Philemon.”

The crowd murmured, they’d rarely seen the young prince since his father’s passing but with the approval of both the Colony’s most learned scholar and the best strategist and spy he must be exceptional. The pressure of the elders and the expectation of the assembly won out and Philemon soon found himself leaving the Colony's territory for the first time without needing to sneak.

Image reference:

Episode thumbnail: (edited) Elizabeth Fearne Bonsall, The fireside sphinx, Boston, New York, Houghton, Mifflin and co. 1901

Header: (edited) uncredited illustration from (1897). "Occupations for Women: A Book of Practical Suggestions for the Material Advancement, the Mental and Physical Development, and the Moral and Spiritual Uplift of Women" Cooper Union, New York: The Success Company.