Mary-Cade Mandus - Skin Deep

The cat was in hot pursuit of a field mouse. Although anxious to get home it had halted in its journey several times to gambol in the light and savor the pleasant floral perfumes released by the sun’s warmth. Even though it appeared the mouse was fated for capture the tiny rodent executed a chancy maneuver at the last second and disappeared. The cat acknowledged defeat with a yawn and a languorous tumble in the grass. After all, it had simply given chase in order to indulge in the pure joy of being itself once more. And, there was only about a mile left to go before it reached home.

Lazing in the velvety grass it began to groom. As its tongue stroked it gave only a cursory thought to the outcome of its deception and betrayal, for familiars did only what was demanded of them and nothing more. If free will had been an option it would certainly have done a lot more to the cur’s wretched pup than just leave it stranded in the caverns.

Suddenly a thought occurred to cause it to pause mid-lick – an accounting would have to be made to its mistress for the lost keystone. It pondered for a moment then resumed grooming. There were any number of lies it could tell – it didn’t pass through the portal or, it disintegrated passing through or, it had proven too unwieldy to carry in feline form and he’d buried it. All sounded plausible so, foreseeing no reason she wouldn’t believe any one of them, it decided not to concern itself any further. After giving its luxuriant fur a final going over it lay back to take a nap before continuing on its way.

The day was on the wane when the cat stopped again. The camp was just three hundred feet ahead, screened from view by a stand of hagthorn, yet it hesitated. Something wasn’t right. It was approaching upwind and therefore could catch no scent. But nothing interfered with its hearing and that was the problem – it could detect no voices, nor even the rattling of cooking pots, the tuning of a violin.

It considered detouring around to gain an opportunity to peruse the scents but discarded the strategy, keeping to its current course. Creeping cautiously through the underbrush, it paused every few feet to listen and give the air a futile sniff until it had attained the first caravan. Silently it slunk behind a wheel and crouching down, surveyed the camp. What it saw triggered every hair on its body.

Bodies lay sprawled everywhere – men, women, teens, the old and infirm - even the children, including those who had barely begun walking or were still wrapped in swaddling. It was apparent that some had been cut down in mid-flight attempting to hide or escape. But most had died where they sat while talking, cooking, eating, skinning or simply meditating. Pets – dogs, cats, ferrets, rabbits, horses tethered to their lines - even the magic birds trapped inside their cages – no one and nothing had escaped or been spared the merciless slaughter.

Reluctantly the cat stole from its hiding place and set about hunting its mistress. Once in the open it was assaulted by the noisome perfume of death and blood. The very texture of the earth beneath its paws felt befouled making it loath to continue on. A corpse, losing its tenuous position upon a wagon ladder, tumbled heavily to the ground and the cat shot forward shrieking in fright. It scrambled among the bodies until it reached a tree stump and leapt atop. With back arched and eyes bulging wildly, it balanced on three legs, while frantically attempting to shake blood from the fourth paw. From its perch it spotted a shawl of gaily-banded colors, its mistress’ favorite for she was never without it. Braving the horrors once more, the cat left its haven. As it soon found out, the shawl did indeed belong to its mistress for she lay crumpled beneath it. With chin pressed against chest, eyes and mouth wide in outraged surprise, Mother Llorona, the gypsy witch-queen, reclined inelegantly against the bole of a tree.

The cat, whose true name was Mugruffin, nuzzled its mistress’ death-chilled cheek. Yowling plaintively it sniffed at the tear that denoted her heart’s seat; the very same wound it would have found marking every creature’s body - human and animal - in the camp, the telltale trace a crossbow’s bolthead creates when pulled free of flesh. The cat shivered for it knew whose hand had wielded the bow so ruthlessly - Snow White’s evil stepmother’s devoted henchman, the Huntsman of the Disenchanted Forest.

Fretfully it kneaded the dead woman’s stomach. While there was no need to fear that the Huntsman might return [no bolts were in evidence which meant he had already collected them, giving him no cause to come back], the cat did find itself in a perilous predicament. Its mistress was no more and that was not an ideal situation for a familiar to be in, as its master or mistress not only had authority over it but also provided it with magical protection. Now, left without that safeguard, it was extremely vulnerable. And, having already had a sip of what it was like to fear for its life it didn’t care for another taste [had it not been protected by Llorona’s influence, it most assuredly would have died in the Wilderness when Crispin’s hand had been about its neck]. This was not the first time it had found itself in a similarly tight spot, but in that case luck had been with it.

A long, long time ago, after two enterprising children, [before they became the much esteemed Queen Gretel and Prince Marzipan], had managed to ludicrously dispatch its first mistress, the witch Diabette, in her very own oven, it had been taken in by her sister, Llorona. When it had arrived in Llorona’s camp it had been tinted a greasy, noxious grey, the consequence of having been caught in the bilious secretion that had swelled forth from the oven. So loathsome was its appearance and smell and, unable to change it back to its beautiful marmalade shade, the gypsy queen had transformed it into a maggot. No larger than a grain of rice, it had dwelt in the hollow of her ear. Abhorring the situation, but powerless, it had been forced to accept its new life. It had only been through the workings of the Bewildering Wilderness that its former characteristics – hair and eye color, feline nature – had been restored.

Curling into a ball in Llorona’s lap, the cat’s gaze drifted about the campsite as it mulled over its chances for survival. It was well aware that the evil queen was once again abroad, having been outside Crispin’s window when he’d apprised Elena of her escape. Since the Huntsman had ignored the gypsies’ presence all these years during Her incarceration, it concluded that an unwarranted attack of such ferocity would only have been carried out at her biding. [Mother Llorona had been truly wicked but she was nowhere in Snow White’s stepmother’s league]. Having lain dormant for so long, the evil queen’s powers would surely be incredibly augmented by now. And, since there were few of her adversaries remaining who could match or surpass Her powers, she would not be so easily subdued again. The cat sat up quickly; an idea had clicked in its nimble brain.

If it remembered Crispin’s narrative correctly, the escape had taken place only days before the human’s arrival in the Wilderness. And, according to what it had overheard Crispin recount earlier that day to Mirella, because of a time anomaly today was the very day he had entered the Wilderness. Therefore, it concluded, the evil queen conceivably would not have had time, being far too occupied with seeking sanctuary to conjure her own familiar so perhaps she would accept his services! Encouraged by the idea, the cat sprang to the ground; behind it, Llorona’s body slumped to one side. Too wound up to succumb to its earlier squeamishness it unhesitatingly made its way through the corpses to the edge of the campsite where, it promptly sat down again.

It had no idea where the evil queen might be. Crispin had told Elena that every inch of the Fourth Kingdom had been scoured without a trace of her being uncovered. The cat’s tail twitched nervously; time was getting short. Its demeanor abruptly brightened and without a backward glance for its former mistress, it dashed into the trees, for a thought had occurred to it – a whiff of the evil queen’s trail might possibly still linger about the prison!

Snaking swiftly through the underbrush the cat was making good progress when it sensed it was being watched. Freezing, it lifted its nose to catch a scent but once again found itself upwind. A sudden rustling caused it to flatten on its belly, head tipped to anxiously scan the trees overhead. It breathed a sigh of relief when it met the interested gaze of a pixie owl. With a disdainful switch of its tail the cat moved off. It had taken but a few steps when something moved in the grass to its left. This time it did catch a scent…of troll.

Face contorted by the malodorous stink, the cat vigorously rubbed its nose into the grass, hoping that the sweet, fresh fragrance would cloud the stench. But it was a futile effort so it hurried off, hoping that distance would help with dissipation. But like a skunk’s, the odor stuck close. The only plausible explanation was the troll's course led in the same direction, for the notion of being tracked was quite disconcerting. As disgusting diets went the troll race probably had one of the most revolting, hence their repellent body odor, but the feline had never been aware that cat filet constituted any part of it. Deciding not to find out, it increased its speed. Yet, no matter how it zigged and zagged, the troll kept easy pace.

Blinded by mounting panic the cat was oblivious when it blundered onto the bed of an escape tunnel that had once serviced a long-forgotten estate. Pre-dating the reign of Rapzunel by three hundred years its steep walls remained. All but a small portion of its roof had collapsed, most of the mortar long ago having been pounded by wind and water into the clumps of gravel that cluttered the ground. Fleeing along the ancient conduit the cat began to flag. Rounding a bend it found that the path disappeared into the hillside. It appeared that luck had finally run out but then its sharp eyes spotted a hole, barely visible behind a masking of cobwebs, rocks and overgrowth and without hesitation, it plunged in.

Inside the cavity the passage, roof still intact, continued into darkness. The rasping panting of the cat as it crouched against the wall, echoed from the stones. With eyes closed, it endeavored to salvage some of its waning strength but the respite was brief for the entrance abruptly imploded as it was relentlessly assaulted from outside. Whirling, the cat tore down the passage. From behind came the distinctive sound of pursuit; the troll had breached the tunnel.

The tunnel’s architect had not fashioned this section for easy traversing but had integrated numerous twists and turns to disorient as well as niches from which pursuers could be waylaid. It was past one of these irregularities that the path dead-ended once again; the ceiling had fallen in collapsing both walls. But this time, the jumbled debris secreted no outlet.

The cat scrabbled furiously at the rubble, seeking an exit and leaving wet, scarlet scratches upon the stones as mute documentation of the futile effort. With sides heaving it sank to its haunches. The cramped space suddenly grew closer, filling with the choking stench of troll. Drawing upon its last ounce of courage the cat turned to face its pursuer.

But, it was no troll that blocked the passage. Although its gray black fur was matted and stiffened by the blood it had rolled in to disguise its own scent, the hate-engorged eyes that glowered from the gory visage were ones that the cat was well-acquainted with. Realizing it could expect no mercy, the cat made a desperate leap up, striving for refuge at the top of the rocky mass. As it left the ground, the dog lunged.