House Cat
They were up in the roof space when they saw it framed in a gap between rafters. Death diminished its size, as with most mummies, but its presence was something else. One look and they downed tools, went for an early pint, stared as the brown liquid flowed and the heads creamed thick as their thoughts; two swigs, they lowered their beers and stared again. In beery depths saw skin thin as ancient vellum, taut over neat bones – and its stance, feet braced, a sense of claws gripping timber, the skull, teeth still visible sharp and white. Saw eye sockets dark as caves, mouth barred into a snarl, could almost swear to a shushed hiss, a glint of yellow irises, black slits. Still they said nothing. They knew the logic (aridity, extreme cold), had worked this street of greying timbers and worn stone before; knew saline streams coursed black as the Styx beneath the town. They knew the folklore, too: shoes under hearths, crock jars bricked up, and that old doll found jammed in wood – Jack Guest found that, took his gang off ‘til some official had got rid. And this. This creature crept into their blood. Something scared witless by pure evil? Or guardian spirit matching it claw and tooth? The thin one spoke first: Let’s toss. Took out a coin. Heads to climb up and knock the bugger down, tails stand below and catch it in a sack. Then what?
Patricia Leighton, ‘The North’, January 2020)
