This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cleo and the Cats
Copyright© 2010 Jamieson Wolf
Cover Artist: Jamieson Wolf
Text: Jamieson Wolf
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
For the real Cleo
Who is missed
Cleo and the Cats
~ A Ghost Mirror Prequel ~
Jamieson Wolf
ONE
Cleopatra noticed the first cat late at night.
She had woken from a dream. In it, her mother had been trying to feed her rhubarb pie for Christmas dinner, even though she didn’t like rhubarb. She had kept saying things like “Try it, it’s good for you.” Or: “Promises are made of piecrust. Easily made, easily broken.”
In the dream, her mother had given her a small story about how pie was made:
“One day, a king wanted to take his pet black birds with him on a trip. Having no cage to put them in, he made one out of pastry dough. While he traveled, the sun was very hot. The sun baked the pie and it smelled lovely. The king grew very hungry and ate the pie
with his birds inside. That is what is meant by eating crow.”
Her mother had looked crazy and this had scared her, forcing her to wake.
Cleopatra often had weird dreams and she could wake at will, if she needed too. It was when she woke that she heard a soft humming sound.
She looked at her Mickey Mouse alarm clock. It was ticking ticking ticking, but it did not hum. He looked up at the ceiling, where a fan rotated slowly; it was going whip whip whip, but it did not hum.
Then she saw the shadow that fell across her bed. It was tall and long and had a tail. Cleopatra looked at her window; the blinds had been left open so that the moonlight shone through.
And there sat a cat, looking down at her, its green eyes glowing softly.
Cleopatra realized that the sound was not humming, but purring. The cat was purring loudly and the sound was muffled by the pane of glass. Its shadow tail swished back and forth as Cleopatra watched the cat. Its green eyes glowed down at her like embers from a fire.
When the cat saw that Cleopatra was watching him, he purred louder still. He rubbed his head against the pane of glass frosted with snow and meowed at her.
Cleopatra smiled and waved at the cat from her bed. She sat up and put her hand against the pane of glass. It was cold against her skin. She watched as the Christmas lights her father put up twinkled like candles in the glass.
The cat rubbed its head against the window where her hand was, which made her laugh softly. “I would let you in,” she said. “But Mother doesn’t allow cats in the house. She says she is allergic to their fur. And that her curtains are allergic to cats claws.”
The cat stopped purring and meowed in response. Cleopatra had the distinct impression that the cat could understand her. But that was silly, wasn’t it? A cat that could understand people? Cleopatra shook her head and laughed softly again. “You go find some place warm to be,” she told the cat. “It’s going to snow, you know.”
Cleopatra put her head back on her pillow and watched the cat for the few moments before sleep claimed her again. Before she closed her eyes for the final time before slumber, Cleopatra looked at the cat and saw him wink at her.
But cats don’t wink at people, do they? She closed her eyes and felt herself drift away to sleep.
Unbeknownst to her, the cat remained on the windowsill for the whole night, watching over her and purring softly.
TWO
The next morning at breakfast, Cleopatra’s father was making waffles.
Her father was forever fooling around in the kitchen. This was because her mother hated to cook. More like she couldn’t cook. Her mother was really good at burning things. She could burn toast and milk. She even burnt water. Her mother’s specialty was ordering out. So her father cooked for them. He was a very good cook and always tried his best.
The only problem was, he was horribly accident-prone. Cleopatra could see three red burn marks on his hands from the waffle maker already and he had only made four waffles. “Morning.” She said.
Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table reading her newspaper, the Wall Street Journal. She was a stockbroker in the city and had a fascination for numbers. Putting down her paper, and being careful to fold it in exactly the right places, she smiled at her daughter. “Morning Cleo dear. Your father’s making waffles.”
“I can see that.” Cleopatra said. She turned to her father. “Did you want any help dad?”
Her father looked over his shoulder at her, pouring some more batter into the grill.
“A waffle iron is not a toy Cleo; you’re too young. You might burn yourself.”
“You’ve burnt yourself.” She pointed out. “And besides, I’m twelve. That’s pretty old.”
Her father chuckled at her. “Maybe so, but I’ve got it all under control, thanks.”
Except that he didn’t have it under control. He had poured waffle batter all over the counter while he had been talking to her. Grumbling, he found a cloth and began to mop up the gluey mess.
"Why don't you make up your Christmas list for Santa." Her mother said. She smiled at her and Cleo felt all warm. She got a paper and a pen and began writing a letter
to Santa Claus. Cleo knew that there really wasn't a Santa Claus, that her parents put out the presents every year. But she pretended anyways. She didn't want her parents to be disappointed.
There was a scratching noise at the door and Cleo went to answer it. She opened the door and found two cats sitting there, watching her. She recognized the one from last night but the second one was new: it had a black body with a white tail and. Its nose was painted white as well, like someone had dribbled milk on it's face.
"What are you doing here?" Cleopatra asked. She heard her father swear as he burnt himself and her mother chuckle in the kitchen. "I told you I can't keep you, Mum's
allergic." She sighed. "Hold on a second." She went into the kitchen and got out two bowels. She filled them with milk without her parents noticing and brought them to the
cats. "Here," she said. "This should keep your tummy's happy."
She took one last look at the cats and closed the door behind her.
That evening, she helped her parents decorate the tree. "This way, Santa will have some place to leave his presents." Her mother said.
Cleo nodded, wondering where her father had hidden the presents this year. She went to sleep wondering what her parents had gotten her this year. Late in the night, she was woken from a dreamless sleep once more by the sound of purring. She opened her eyes and went to her window.
This time there were three cats. There was the black one, the black and white one.
The third one was different: this one had honey coloured fur and blazing blue eyes. It licked its mouth with a pink tongue and meowed at her.
"Where do you all come from?" Cleopatra asked them. "Do you need something from me?"
The third cat meowed softly and Cleopatra heard her parents outside her bedroom door. "Cleo," her mother called. "Santa knows when you're not asleep." Cleo smiled to herself; they must have hidden the presents upstairs this year.
"Dear Santa," Cleopatra whispered. "If you bring me one thing this Christmas, let it b
e the cats. I want to give them some place warm."
Taking one last look at the trio of cats, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
THREE
When Cleopatra awoke in the morning, the sun was coming through her window.
She looked to see if her cats were there but there was nothing on the window sill.
She knew from looking outside that it was still early. She ran down to look at the presents before her parents woke. There was just something magical about it for her. She relished the quiet of the morning before her parents awoke; she loved going through her stocking, imagining what lay in wait for her.
When she looked at the presents, there was something there that made her gasp: under the green boughs of the tree, she saw thee little kittens. They were nestled in a small wicker basket. A note was pinned to the front with a ribbon: For Cleo.
She looked down at them and knew they were the kittens she had seen: a black one, a black kitten with white milk spots and the honey coloured one. She petted each of them and listened to their little squeaky meows.
Her parents came down shortly afterwards and were startled to find her playing with the kittens. "Where did those come from?" her mother asked.
"I thought you got them for her." Her father said.
"If you didn't get them and I didn't, who left them here, who wrote that note?"
Cleo, petting her new kittens, knew exactly who had given them to her. She had asked Santa to find them some place warm and he had.
Maybe, she thought, there was magic left in the world after all. You just have to wish for it.
About the Author
Jamieson has been writing since a young age when he realized he could be writing instead of paying attention in school.
Since then, he has created many worlds in which to live his fantasies and live out his dreams. He is the author of many best selling works of fiction and non-fiction.
He currently lives in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada with his husband Robert and his cat, Mave, who thinks she's people.
You can learn more about Jamieson at his web site at www.jamiesonwolf.com or his blog www.jamiesonwolf.blogspot.com