Laura McCarthy

Old Fergus Baines is as dead as dead can be. I stand at the back of the funeral party and watch as he disappears under heaps of earth. An illusionist’s trick: going… going… gone.

His grieving wife sobs over his grave. Her cries accompany the melancholy moans of the wind and, soon after, the bagpipes start blaring too. Alas, yet more pained squawking. I sigh. It’s all just noise to me now. 

I used to find it strange – this intrusion on such private moments – but this is a typical shift in my line of work. I just keep my distance, disassociate, wait for the mourners to leave. The tears and consolations seem like they’ll go on forever but they never actually do. 

When the crowd dissipates, I settle next to Fergus’ grave. He is my company for the evening so we might as well get acquainted. Night descends.

The dark is something you get used to. I’ve become one with the shadows because I am not allowed to light any fires whilst working – can’t even hold a candle. In this job, the warmth only attracts… issues. 

As the late wake guard, I guard the deceased. This is the easy part. Good. If anything were to happen, it probably would have occurred before the ceremony. That said, you can never be too careful. So here I am. Waiting. It’s best to guard the body for at least a full week to be on the safe side. 

For once, it’s not raining. Last time, my damp clothes clung to my skin – a cold, clutching hand. But a dry night can be a problem. It doesn’t like the rain.

The hours crawl by. I suppose it’s rather boring but I never said it was fun. It’s a living. For me, anyway. Not so much for old Fergus. He’s decent enough company though and I spend the time talking to him about my troubles, or telling him jokes. It turns out that he’s quite a good listener.

I hear a crunch and know. The reason why I’m here. It decided to turn up. At first, it is almost invisible. It would blend into the night completely if it weren’t for those yellow eyes or that distinctive patch of white on the stomach. 

With caution and grace, it steals through the graveyard, sidling between headstones, moving as though it were a slip of silk. It eases towards Fergus’ fresh grave.

Hello, again. Not just any cat, are we? The Cat Sìth returns. 

The true size of the cat becomes apparent when the moon briefly emerges from behind the clouds. It is outlined in silver. The silhouette reveals how much larger it is than a regular house cat. It seems more like a large hound.

The flaming eyes flicker from the grave, to me, and then back again. It is here for Fergus, for his soul, and it won’t be deterred from its work.

There are various ways to keep the creature at bay. Tried and tested. I know what works. My first thought is to use music to distract it; I take my pan flute from my pocket and begin to play. I notice the ears prick – straight and alert..

The cat stops, takes in the lilting tune, listening intently for a moment. Sometimes, all it takes is an evening of music. Those are the easier shifts. 

Unfortunately, this is not the case tonight. It turns out that supernatural felines don’t like to keep things simple. The Cat Sìth is on the move again. Inching closer.

Time for the catnip. 

This is a surefire distraction. Despite the almost monstrous appearance, it isn’t so different from its smaller relatives. Much like a drunkard, the cat usually sprawls across the ground and is out for the count. Usually. But when I hold the pouch out, the cat is disinterested, turning its nose up as if in disgust. I guess the catnip is another bust. Damn.

So, what next? There’s something I can try that the old hands swear by, though I can’t pretend I am an expert on the method, myself.

 ‘You measure my life in hours and I serve you by expiring. I’m fast when thin and slow when fat. The wind is my nemesis. What am I?’

The Cat Sìth pauses. Its head tilts. Then, with a claw, it scrapes a word into the soil: ‘candle’. 

I can’t help but smile.

‘What disappears as soon as you say its name?’

The cat seems to consider the question before scratching the word ‘silence’ into the ground. It waits for the next riddle. OK… this is working.

‘I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?’

Minutes pass. I swear that the cat has a furrowed brow and, distracted by the question, it still does not move. But it’s another point for the feline when it finally writes ‘echo’. As it glances in my direction and catches my eye, it looks triumphant. Smug. Or perhaps this is just the kind of delusion which comes with a long shift.

‘I may be the one to purchase it, but I have no use for it. Neither do those who make it. Yet the one who does cannot see it or feel it or sense it at all.’

This time, it needs longer. Much longer. The minutes become hours and soon the horizon burns a ferocious orange. The red sun emerges: a bloody, staring eye in the ether. The glaring eye frightens the cat; its back arches and its fur stands on end. Even so, there is a momentary look which reveals a desire to stay and play. It wants to win the game. In the end, the sun wins.

It’s gone. 

‘I bet you got that last one, Fergus,’ I whisper, patting the soil.

What Laura said about the prompt:
I often am inspired by Irish and Scottish folklore and stories from Wicca and Pagan traditions, which explains why I wanted to write about the Cat Sith.

As a Wiccan, Laura was most recently published in Witches Magazine (and will be again in the Spring issue), as well as being a regular writer/Books Editor for In Common. College English teacher by day, writer and witch by night.
Social Media: Instagram
Website: https://lauramccarthywriter.my.canva.site/