"Sleeping Duty" by Becca Lusher

“Well, Aislinn, it seems we have another little lamb to provide us a distraction for a day or so.”

We looked out of the topmost window of the highest tower, discerning the movements below. I perched on the sill while my mistress made little comments that I could never respond to. Even as she spoke, she scratched at my ears absentmindedly and I purred, for over the years I had grown to appreciate these small, strange signs of affection. Many times I had questioned why she would want a cat, when in the early days she so obviously despised me; yet gradually she seemed not to care anymore. Without any noticeable change, she began to treat me as a fellow creature, then as a pet, and even, these days, creeping closer to a treasured pet. One day, perhaps, I might even be elevated to the glorious state of familiar.

These little mutterings are nothing of note, I’ll admit, but it is these small things that get me through the day.

And down below, currently picking their way across the broken-up causeway - the latest adventurer and his noble steed. Here would be entertainments enough for the time being, I mused, looking down at them from my lofty perch and squinting my large eyes at them.

With a gravely croak, a flurry of black feathers landed on the stone sill beside me. Hissing, I fluffed out my tail and jumped down from the window as the sharp beak lashed out at me. Growling my disgust, I slunk away under the bed, resentful of the wretched creature who was my rival in all things. The honoured Brón, the raven of our lady’s sorrow. To my mind I called the craven Ciar Brón, that is black sorrow, for he was a sore trial for me daily.

Having supplanted my position beside our mistress’, settling beside her shoulder, the foul creature croaked and wriggled his way into her attentions. Were he not bigger than me, I would pin that bird to the ground and pluck his dull feathers. But Brón’s beak was sharp and swift, I had felt his ire all too often to want to try it again. Our mistress caressed the glossy feathers, without seeming to notice the change from feline to avian. I should probably have felt offended about this, but I think it was more of a slight to her beloved familiar. I ceased growling and allowed myself a small purr of happiness.

“Well, Ash, shall we go down?” My mistress turned to address the creature beneath her hand, only to find it far removed from what she thought. “Out! What are you at, creeping scarecrow! Where has my cat gone? What have you done to her?” Flicking out her hand, she drove Brón from the window, where he flapped huffily about the room for a moment, before landing above the four-poster bed, hunching his wings with scratched, wounded pride.

“Ash?” my mistress coaxed, with her voice soothingly softened. “Where are you, my Finn Aislinn?” So she called me when she wanted something. Once, when I had been a young, neglected, put upon kitten, newly brought to the tower I had responded instantly to such a sweet tone. Over the years I had learned those which all cats must own in great quantity; scepticism and suspicion. Yet, when she called me her White Dream, I was hard placed to resist for long. Especially as the black beast had been so openly cast aside in favour of me.

I am a cat, I know no modesty, so I will not lie to say my tail was swishing in lazy, languid lines, while in my throat was an uncommonly loud purr as I left my sanctuary of the bed shadows and made my way over to her.

“There now, come with me, Ash, we have a visitor to welcome after all. And our guest of honour must be prepared, else she will hardly be fit to be seen.”

Resting my dainty white paws on her shoulders, I half closed my eyes in contentment as she smoothed her hand down my sleek back. As we left the room, I cast my partial look of smug satisfaction at the ousted raven. He hissed at me, and I shot him a saucy wink. He might have wings and flight, but you cannot cuddle a bird, not have it purr in your bed at night. When winter closed in and the tower was freezing, I was the one who could wriggle beneath the blankets and find comfort, while Brón shivered on the windowsill.

As I have stated before, it is the small things that get me through the day.

Together, my mistress and I, descended the spiralling stairs of the tower, before the key was turned in the door to the largest room. The circular walls gave it a strange feel, while the wide window overlooked the wide, barren plain of the Dusted Lands; here my mistress paused to take a look at the view. Ever curious of the things that existed beyond my tower, I too looked out at the Dusted Lands and all that surrounded them. Nothing lived in those fields, for leagues and leagues they ran, with a single road running along it. Yet, that one road was not of a useful sort. It had a fanciful charm upon it, and often writhed and wriggled in a direction quite the opposite of where you intended to go. Once a foot was placed on its surface, it could not come off until the road decided it was time. There was more to be wary of in the Dusted Lands than the lack of water.

My mistress dropped me to the cold flagstones, and I leapt lightly onto the windowsill, turning my back on the view. Instead I preferred to lounge on the warm stones, letting the sunlight caress my fur. Through sleepy eyes, I watched my mistress peel back the light muslin curtains that surrounded the bed. There, a fine boned body was laid out, and I flicked my tail a few times out of slight agitation. Always I felt a strange thrill, not of delight and definitely not of fear, more of unease, whenever I happened to look on the body.

Once, I had deemed it to be, by human standards, uncommonly pretty, beautiful, in fact. The skin was of an alabaster hue, not best suited to everyone, but well matched to the fine bones and delicate gloss of the golden hair. The hands, well disposed to industrious talents, were long and slim, and the limbs slender, in perfect proportions. Yet, I did not think such silly thoughts now. Such odd fancies had been pulled out of me during my kittenhood, when I had grown tired of sitting in this same spot, watching the sleeper who never woke. Beauty in repose is only a fleeting thing, more as a contrast to the vivacity of waking, and the delight of life. But to always be slumbering drained any form of its allurements. There is nothing pretty in an unmoving face, nor is the shine on golden hair attractive when it does not move and the gloss does not vary. Slender hands are worth nothing if they do not move. No, beauty is not the providence of the sleeping, but of the waking mind comparing the different aspects of a person.

See, am I not a true and proper cat? I have a high mind and scorn for all things. Of course, cats are always beautiful, whether they wake or sleep. Seldom will you encounter a feline that refuses to move as it dreams, for we know better than to fall under such silly spells as this human faltered at.

Yet, here she is, and pretty enough, I suppose to someone viewing her for the first time. I would not know; it has been many years since I was rewarded the novelty of a new face in repose. However, her beauty on first glance is all that matters in this place. After all she is lying here in wait for the prince who will rouse her with a kiss.

How dull.

My tail twitched more wildly, fairly close to thrashing, sending dust motes dancing down in the sunlight slants. Romance is an odd diversion that humans persist in following. I, myself, in all my feline wisdom, can no longer understand it. As a kitten I do recall sighing over the idea, but thankfully age and experience has drilled that one out of me.

“Ash, my dearest, Ash, our intrepid wanderer is inside the halls, will you please take up your station, Finn Aislinn?”

Without bothering to reply, I dropped off the sill and left my warm, sun washed place to stalk across the stones, full of awkward energy. With a nimble bound, I reached the bottom of the bed, careful not to catch my claws in the delicate muslin.

“Good kitten.” Reaching down, my mistress ruffled the fur at the base of my neck and across my shoulder blades. “Watch well, little one. I feel a change might be about to take place.”

I yawned. She said this every time we had a visitor. Sometimes it did, other times it didn’t. I had long grown tired of the ridiculous speculation. Instead I curled up on the white muslin, covering my bright green eyes with my white tail. From experience I knew this made me all but invisible, another soft white furnishing on the shining bright bed. Between the long, fine strands of fur on my tail, I watched the door and waited.

Having fought his way through the Forest of Hidden Falls, across the Lake of Sirens and travelled along the capricious path of the Dusted Lands, it was usually an uncommonly persistent type of hero that crossed the tumbled down causeway and ventured into the outer courtyard of the tower. Down there, I could hear the clop of the noble steed’s hooves as it pattered around to amuse itself. As for the hero, I knew he would already be on the stairs. Of course, even now, there were no easy tasks for the silly man, with his ridiculous ideas of romantic notions. After all, when there were five staircases arrayed before, and only one would actually allow the hero to get out again. Of course there have been those who have broken the traps, much to my mistress’ vexation. My tail twitched, but from amusement this time. Much as I strove to cement myself in my mistress’ affections, I still enjoyed her being agitated by others. Small victories again.

There was a clanging and a sound of vicious cursing emanating from below. He picked the wrong one, I realised and allowed myself the luxury of standing up for a stretch, licking my forepaw and brushing it across my ear. Listening out for the sound of the portcullis being broken - again - I turned around a few times, before winding myself back into my white, fluffy ball, tail once more covering my giveaway eyes.

I heard a commotion downstairs of metal being forcibly pushed out of its usual positions, and yawned. Well, either he would pick the right one next, or he wouldn’t. There were still four options, though I would be interested to hear how he got himself out of the stake pit; well sharpened were those wooden spikes. I shuddered and tightened my tail about me, images from my kittenhood returning fast to haunt me.

Stones groaned beneath me, and there was a clatter, like something heavy falling over, before more cursing as the rumbling began. There was a lot of screeching and dragging of metal, but, when the tremors faded away, I could hear that the intrepid fool was still clanking about. I had never held with armour, I thought it cumbersome and ridiculous. But then, why would cats need metal casing for the limbs? We are uncommonly agile, graceful, swift and have nine lives. Any scrapes we get in, we always have the intelligence to get out of, or else are not worthy of the status of feline-kind. Humans, as I have noted often over my life, are almost designed to do stupid things, often injuring themselves in the process. Though, I had begun to wonder if perhaps wrapping themselves up in something more soft, rather than so unforgivingly stern, would not be a better idea.

A whining, followed by a loud, gong-like noise, a few thuds and a startled wheeze reminded me why armour was a good idea for heroes. Clearly he had taken the wrong staircase yet again and had been attacked by the arrows and crossbow firing range. His curses were equally as loud as before, though I detected no panic in them, so I assumed he was still alive and whole. That meant so far he had survived the portcullis, which was cunningly accompanied by collapsing stairs, though few ever walked high enough to fall prey to them. He had also encountered the giant stone ball, which was released when pressure was placed on any of the first three steps. Lastly it had been the ammunition point. So all he had left were the stakes and the right stairs.

Silence reigned for a long moment, and I assumed him to have given up, passed out from the level of thought, or still wondering what to do. Needless to say I was not thinking well of this adventurer by this point. He seemed stupid, even more so than the numerous others I had encountered over the years, but, worse than all this, he was slow! Oh, how patient a cat can be when waiting for a mouse at a hole, or a bird on the branch, or even for the sun to creep onto a favoured basking spot. Yet, I could hold no patience with these fools. Why should I? A mouse hole or a branch will more than likely yield up a meal, a just reward for such efforts. The basking will be reward with warmth and contentment. Waiting for a failure of the human race would provide me with nothing but the possibility of temporary amusement. I had high doubts this man would relieve me of my plight anytime soon.

To my surprise, the door creaked open. Having been about to get up and stretch again, I instantly froze, feeling a thousand aches creak through my muscles as I was not quite in the perfect position to hold such a pose. Curse him! I was already inclined to not like him as it was, and now he came creeping up the stairs devoid of his armour, so as not to give me a moment’s warning of his approach. I hope he failed.

Well, he was not all that different from the other heroes to pass the door, by which I mean he was handsome, in human standards. His hair was curly, of a deep brown hue, a nice change from blond or black. The length was probably about shoulder length normal, but through the haphazard flattening effect of his removed helmet, they fell to uneven lengths, some by his ears, others below his shoulders. It leant him an unkempt air that some might find endearing, but for a cat like myself was bothersome. His eyes were quick, sharp and assessing - a deep brown, with a fierce glint in them. I would expect they could be nice enough to those in favour, but hard and calculating to any enemy. His features were nothing special, regular enough to be good looking, and his stature was broad and most becoming for a knight. To me he was dull, and not all that different from the hordes that had come before him.

Unable to bear my stillness, and no longer caring if he should see me, I shifted slightly to relieve some of my discomfort, but I should not have been bothered. He, like so many others before him, found his eyes only on the face of the slumbering maid. I flickered my eyes again that way and wondered what he could find to enchant him so. Pale, lifeless, cold; for all he knew it could be an accurate portrayal of the heart inside.

What did it matter what I thought? Clearly he didn’t share my doubts and, lifting his sword out of the way, he seated himself on the edge of the bed.

Presumptuous cad! How abominably rude to seat himself on a lady’s bed, especially when she should be asleep, ensorcelled or no. I felt my fur bristled. Terrible man. Awful manners. I hoped he would kiss her now and be quick about it.

I must have made a noise, or a sharp, unschooled movement, for he turned then and noticed me. “Well,” said he in a tone like honey - I was surprised to find I liked it, curses on him who I had decided to hate in all things. “Greetings, my fine feline friend.”

No friend of yours am I, I thought.

“Do you think me worthy of waking a maiden so fair as this?” whispered he to me, as if inviting my confidences.

I stared flatly back. A man who expects an answer from a cat is clearly addled in the wits. Even if humans did have the capacity of communicating with us, who is to assume we would welcome the familiarity of conversation?

He winked at me! Coarse and over familiar brute! I was all bristled with outrage, but his eyes had passed on. My feline perfection was nothing when compared to the object of his quest. Good. I was pleased.

“I shall kiss her,” murmured he, as if to himself, casting a quick glance to me. “Is that what I shall do, dear cat?”

I lay curled up, smug in my silence. Even if I wanted to offer some form of answer or indication of what he should do, I was incapable. I was allowed to watch only, nothing more. Like the sleeper, my part in this area of the game was passive. I was bound to it.

He did not seem bothered by not receiving an answer, and was soon looking to the object of his affections again. Smiling, he reached up and traced the pale cheek of the maid; a movement I thought far too forward, but I had a smile of my own to spread inwards as he leant down towards her. With the softest of caresses, he touched his lips to hers, tasting them delicately, before he sat up again and gazed down on her. Almost I pitied him then, for his face was softened with the gentlest of emotions. I could almost believe him capable of loving the sleeping beauty, but it soon passed. He knew nothing of the woman he had kissed, save her looks and the rumours of her large fortune.

There is no pity to be had for shallow feeling.

The smile on his face faded when the maiden failed to stir. “What new bedevilment is this?” whispered he, touching his hand to her face. I knew what he was feeling - the skin was as cool as before, the breath as gentle. There were no signs of waking. The sleeper was altogether unchanged.

“I have done all that was asked of me, and more,” he muttered, leaning closer again. “Perhaps I was too tentative.”

He kissed the unconscious corpse again, and again was faced with the same confusion. Poor man, perhaps it was cruel to watch his sufferings with amusement. I had been there myself after all, and looking now on the face he touched so gently, wishing her to wake, I remembered what it was like to wake and look into the eyes of my rescuer.

Third time is the charm, as many before have said, and in desperation the hero returned to the lips of the beloved he believed he had won. All at once I think he realised his mistake. Hands reached for him, and gripped him so tightly he cried out. Surprise and pain mingled on his face and I watched his rugged good looks fade away. The beauty on the bed let go of her rescuer and tumbled to the floor. Remaining on the soft furniture the hero screamed as he realised too late what he had done.

“Through your lips the curse was passed.”

Blinking my green eyes passively, I looked over at my mistress where she stood in the doorway, Brón on her shoulder. “And so the game passes on again, does it, my pets? Aislinn,” she said to me, pointing to the white mouse that had scuttled out of the clothes on the floor. “We have a new guest. Retrieve him for me, please.” I sprang to obey, carefully pinning it to the floor between my paws. Looking down on the former sleeping beauty, I snatched it up into my jaws, and leapt back onto the bed, sitting on the chest of the newest hero. Already his features had melted away, and I found myself looking down into the sleeping face of that same maid again.

With a sigh, I wondered how many more heroes would be tempted out here to kiss the semblance of my former form. Only to then take it upon themselves as the curse rolled on.

Fools, every one, I mused as I dropped the mouse in my mistress’ hand, scowling at the raven on her shoulder. He had been the one to ensnare me, and ever after it had been my form that trapped the others.

One day, I vowed to myself as I lay on the beauty’s chest, purring her off to sleep, someone would know the truth. And in doing so, they would not be enamoured by the empty form on the bed. True, just one kiss was all it would take. So, my advice for all would-be heroes and Prince Charmings - if, against all the odds, you make it into the chamber with the sleeping maid, stop. Look around. See what else is in the room, and then…

In order to get the kiss from the maiden you desire, make sure you kiss the cat first.