Samhain's Eve

Isla McEwan had a cat.

Though, to say she had a cat is perhaps a rather improper way to describe such an arrangement. No one, as is widely known, truly owns a cat. One may, at best, share a home with such a creature, provided the cat finds the situation suitably agreeable.

Now, this feline was far from your ordinary house cat. He was rather large, by cat standards, long-bodied and sturdy of paw, with eyes the colour of polished sea-glass. His coat, a deep black that appeared at times to swallow even the brightest firelight. Only a single spot marred this endless dark, a small starburst of purest white which he wore proudly upon his chest.

Isla insisted on telling everyone that Tom was indeed his proper name, though exactly how she had come by this knowledge she could never quite recall. Nonetheless, it seemed true enough, for never had anyone observed him responding to anything on the contrary.

Moreover, Isla harboured a quiet certainty that Tom kept secrets. One might naturally presume such secrets involved clandestine dealings with mice or perhaps in cases in the suspicious disappearance of cream left unattended. But Isla thought these notions rather silly. The secrets Tom guarded, she was sure, were far older and stranger than any mere feline mischief. They were the sort concerning ancient dealings and forgotten tales. Faerie secrets.

Indeed, Isla had, on more than one occasion, glimpsed Tom walking upright upon his hind legs when he supposed himself unseen. Each time, Tom would freeze mid-step, his gaze calmly fixed upon her with a knowing, deliberate trill. Then, with as much dignity as one could muster under such circumstances, he would lower himself gently to all fours and continue on, resuming his favourite perch upon the windowsill as if nothing unusual had transpired.

Wisely, Isla never pressed the matter. She understood, as most sensible folk do, that certain questions are best left unasked, especially when posed to a creature of such evident nobility as Tom.

The pair, as inseparable as they were, lived with Isla’s mother and younger brother in a humble, thatch-roofed croft, nestled in the quiet shadow of Glen Lyon, a narrow glen whose rolling green hills blanketed thick with heather and bracken, stretched westward to the base of Ben Cruachan.

Isla McEwan was, by most measures, a sensible girl. She could milk a goat, patch a sock, and light a fire with damp peat, all before breakfast if the need arose. But she also had a troublesome fondness for wondering. She wondered why mushrooms grew in rings, and whether spiders told stories to one another. Others said she had too much air in her head and not enough stone, like a good Highland lass ought to. But Isla never minded. Stones sink, after all, and she had no interest in that.

She had first encountered Tom when she was merely five years of age. It was a week after her dear father had been taken by a sudden fever, buried beneath the frost on a chill November morning. The following evening, as the wind howled mournfully around the chimney and while her mother tended to her brother, surrounded by comforting relatives, Isla had opened the side door to find Tom waiting patiently upon the threshold, as if his arrival had long been expected.

He did not flinch when she opened the door. Despite the rain which clung to his fur, his gaze carried a gentleness and understanding that warmed Isla’s heart, as though he had come expressly to offer his condolence. With manners befitting a true gentleman, he waited politely until Isla had invited him inside. Thereafter, Tom strolled gracefully past her, claiming the warmth of the hearth as though he had always belonged there, pausing just once to cast a brief look of mingled curiosity and appreciation back at Isla.

From that evening forward, Tom, much to Isla’s delight, became a part of the household.

Seasons came and went. Winter heaped snow high against the croft walls, lambs frolicked anew each springtime, and summer painted the heather in rich, royal purples. Yet, even five winters on, Tom remained always the same. He did not age, nor did illness ever seem to ail him. His coat remained sleek and glossy, the white starburst upon his chest never dimmed, and he continued to possess a curious habit of appearing precisely where one least expected or deemed impossible. Inside tightly closed cupboards, upon the loft’s highest rafters, and once even atop the thatched roof itself, holding a sprig of thistle in his teeth.

Tom was not a hunter of mice, nor did he yowl in the night or scratch at the furniture. At times, Isla would discover him quietly seated some way up the gentle slop behind the croft, gazing peacefully toward the distant peaks of Ben Cruachan. On one occasion, Isla even joined him, quietly sharing in his peaceful contemplation.

Most evenings, the pair could be found beside the fire, listening to her mother’s stories. At Isla’s gentle urging, Mrs. McEwan recounted old tales of faeries and trolls, elves and unicorns, of kelpies lurking beneath the waters, and of selkies wandering the shores.

Mrs. McEwan was a practical woman, not prone to superstition, as was common among the folk these days. Nonetheless, each Samhain Eve she dutifully lit a candle and placed an offering upon the doorstep, just as her own mother had done. “It costs nothing,” she would say, “to be polite to whatever is listening.” Beyond these quiet nods and her tales, she seldom spoke of the Good Folk.

Yet the old ways held a particular charm for Isla. She first learned of them from Mrs. Drummond, a venerable neighbour who lived alone in a mossy cottage up the glen. It was Mrs. Drummond who first warned Isla never to whistle after dusk, to throw spoiled salt swiftly over her left shoulder, and to never, under any circumstances, harm a blackthorn tree. She had also whispered, once, that not all cats were what they seemed.

“Watch closely that cat of yours,” she had said suddenly. “Could be a witch’s familiar, or worse yet, a Cait-Sith, one of them faerie folk in disguise, come to steal your soul. I’ve seen the way he watches folk go by. Mighty queer behaviour, indeed.”

Isla said nothing in reply, though that night she made sure to watch Tom with greater care.

Samhain, which happened to be Isla’s favourite time of year, was fast approaching. She delighted in helping her brother carve the turnip lanterns and scattering salt along the thresholds. Yet this year, as the days grew shorter, something felt different.

The nights grew unusually chill, even when the fire roared fiercely in the grate. The sheep pressed anxiously against the croft’s fence, gazing uneasily toward the dark slopes.

Mrs. Drummond claimed that the Cailleach must have woken early, disturbed by something of grave importance. Isla did not fully understand what this meant but listened close all the same.

“Mark me, lass,” Mrs. Drummond said, her foggy eyes piercing Isla’s. “The veil’s thinner than it ought to be. Something’s amiss in the Otherworld. The Cailleach stirs early, and when she stirs, winter follows. Sweep your hearth well, keep salt at every sill, and do not wander the hills after sundown. Spirits walk boldly enough this time of year.”

Isla had nodded solemnly, for she always took Mrs. Drummond’s advice seriously, though she suspected she might be alone in doing so.

Even Tom, already mysterious, had begun behaving more peculiar. No longer did he gaze toward the hills for hours, but paced restlessly upon the windowsill and often vanished during the night.

Yet, the evening of Samhain Eve proved strangest of all. As the sun slipped low behind the glen and a chill fog lingered upon the heather, Isla made her way homeward along the dirt track from Mrs. Drummond’s cottage. There, she happened upon a sight so extraordinary she froze in place. Before her stood a cat, its markings almost identical to Tom’s, though this creature was wiry and thin with patchy fur. He wore a small tartan bonnet, ear-slits neatly cut, and behind him followed eight identical figures carrying on their shoulders, a small box adorned with a tiny golden crown.

All nine walked upright, pausing in an abrupt fashion, every seven steps to yowl mournfully before proceeding onward. As they neared, the leader silently stepped out of line to face Isla and addressed her in a squeaky brogue.

“Forgive the intrusion on this most hallowed eve,” the creature intoned gravely, doffing his bonnet with slow, ceremonial reverence. “Bear word if you will, young miss, to Tom Tildrum. Tell him Tim Toldrum lies dead, and his throne sits cold beneath the hill.”

With no further word, he replaced his bonnet and led his companions slowly onward, fading into the mist. Isla stood motionless for a long moment, finding herself most perplexed. Then, gathering herself, turned swiftly and ran towards home.

Isla burst into the croft with a breathless flourish, eyes wide with astonishment. The warmth of the hearth rushed out to greet her, wrapped in the pleasant fragrance of stew gently bubbling upon the stove. There, stretched languidly across the hearth rug lay Tom, watching the dancing flames with half-lidded eyes, while her mother hummed softly, slicing vegetables with a steady rhythmic hand.

“Mother!” Isla cried, her voice trembling with excitement. “You’ll never believe what I’ve just seen!”

Mrs. McEwan raised her head with a faint smile, her brows arching in quiet amusement. “Dear me, Isla, you look as if you’ve raced all the way from Loch Tay itself. Whatever has you in such a flutter?”

Eagerly, Isla recounted every detail of her curious encounter along the path, the words tumbling forth like water from a spring.

“Tom Tildrum, you say?” Mrs. McEwan chuckled lightly, shaking her head and returning her attention to the simmering pot. “Now there’s a tale worthy of old Mrs. Drummond herself. What fanciful notions has she been whispering in your ear this time?”

“But Mother, it’s true, I saw them!” Isla protested earnestly, casting a pleading glance toward Tom, who had now raised his head slightly to regard the girl with polite but aloof curiosity. “They spoke as plainly as you or me!”

Tom merely stretched himself elegantly, yawning in dignified indifference, and curled again into a comfortable coil. Isla felt a small pang of disappointment, though what precisely she had expected, she could scarcely say.

“Come now,” her mother said gently, lifting the steaming pot from the stove. “That’s enough fairy tales for tonight. Sit and eat your supper before it grows cold.”

Isla sighed deeply but knew better than to argue further. She settled at the dinner table and ate quietly, though her thoughts, as they often did, wandered far from the croft.

Sleep came reluctantly, bringing restless dreams, until suddenly she awoke hours later, startled by some mysterious prompting. The pale silver of moonlight spilled through the small loft window, illuminating the narrow room in a ghostly radiance. Aside from her brother’s gentle snores, there came a faint murmuring of voices drifting from below.

Moved by curiosity, Isla rose softly from her bed, wrapping her shawl tightly against the chill of night. She crept silently to the edge of the loft and peered cautiously down toward the hearth.

Below, standing upright with remarkable grace, was Tom himself, attired impeccably in garments befitting a lordly gentleman. He wore a rich velvet waistcoat embroidered with golden thread beneath a midnight blue coat trimmed in silver, and upon his head perched a distinguished black hat. He spoke quietly with another figure whose voice Isla instantly recognized from the mysterious procession she had witnessed earlier. Their voices carried clearly through the quiet room.

“Indeed, the time has come my lord,” the slender, wiry cat said solemnly. “I feared our message might reach you late. The king lays buried, and the court urgently requires your presence.”

Tom nodded gravely. “Alas, I feared this day might come sooner than one would hope. He was a wise and gentle king. Tell me, friend, how came he by such ill fate?”

“It was swift, my lord, though peaceful in its passing. Yet the court grows restless and seeks swift council.”

Tom sighed, stroking his fine whiskers thoughtfully. “Long years I had hopped still to dwell quietly among mortal men, yet duty summons. We must not tarry, lest they begin without us.”

The wiry cat bowed deeply as Tom adjusted his cuffs meticulously with his gloved paw, stepping forward toward the hearth. At once, the dying embers sprang to brilliant life, crackling into vibrant emerald flames that shimmered and danced. Before Isla’s astonished eyes, a doorway began to appear within the flames, shifting and rippling like silk in a breeze. Though what lay beyond was veiled from sight.

Tom stepped forth without hesitation. As the second cat prepared to follow, Isla shifted ever so slightly, causing the wooden floorboards to betray her with a sudden creak. The cat snapped its head sharply upward, ears twitching nervously, but Isla quickly pulled into shadow.

When she dared to glance again, the cat had vanished, and the curious emerald doorway had began slowly shrinking. Without a thought for caution, Isla found herself descending the ladder swiftly and standing before the hearth, bathed in its soft green glow.

Drawn irresistibly closer, she peered into the heart of the shimmering doorway. Its centre was dark and seemed to stretch endlessly. Before she could consider retreat, Isla felt herself being pushed forward, tumbling headlong into the unseen depths beyond to the realm of the Cait Sith.