The Storm-Blown Cat and the Starwise Elder

Pip was a small cat with fur the colour of wet sand and a tail that never stayed still. He lived in a village of low stone houses where everyone knew his name. On the morning the storm came, he was chasing a beetle across the square.

The sky turned green, then grey. Wind shoved the shutters and rattled the chimney pots. Pip dug his claws into the cobbles, but a gust lifted him clean off his feet.

He tumbled over the rooftops, past the church spire, and out beyond the last garden wall. The world became a blur of leaves and rain. He shut his eyes and held on to nothing.

When the wind set him down, it was in a field of tall grass that hissed like a kettle. Pip lay still, breathing hard. His whiskers were bent. One ear felt folded the wrong way.

He stood up and shook himself. The village was gone. No chimneys, no smoke, no sound of anyone calling him in for supper. Just grass and sky and a strange, sweet smell he did not know.

“Hello?” Pip called. His voice came out small and flat.

Something rustled at the edge of the field. A red shape slid out from between the grass stems, long and low, with a brush of a tail.

“Well,” said the fox. “A little cat, all alone. You look lost.”

***

Pip took a step back. The fox smiled, which showed a great many teeth.

“I’m not lost,” Pip said. “I’m just… somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else is a good place to be,” said the fox. “But not this somewhere else. This field is empty for miles. I know a path that leads to a warm barn. Follow me.”

Pip hesitated. The fox’s eyes were bright and kind, and Pip was very tired. “Is it far?”

“Not far at all,” said the fox. “And I know every stone of these woods.”

The fox turned and trotted toward the dark line of trees. Pip followed, because the grass was cold and the fox seemed to know where he was going.

But the path did not lead to a barn. It wound deeper into the woods, under branches that closed overhead like fingers. The light went green and dim.

“Are you sure this is the way?” Pip asked.

“Of course,” said the fox, without looking back. “Just a little further.”

The trees grew thicker. Pip’s paws sank into soft moss, and the air smelled of damp earth and old leaves. He stopped.

“I don’t think there’s a barn here,” he said.

The fox turned, and its smile was different now. “There isn’t,” it said. “But there’s a nice hollow tree where you can rest. I’ll fetch you something to eat.”

Pip’s fur prickled. The hollow tree was dark and smelled of fox. He backed away, one slow step at a time.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’ll find my own way.”

The fox shrugged. “Suit yourself,” it said, and slipped away between the trunks, leaving Pip alone in the green dark.

Pip stood very still. The green dark pressed close on every side. A twig snapped somewhere behind him, and he jumped.

“Who’s there?” he called, and his voice came out smaller than he wanted.

Something shuffled under a fallen log. A striped face poked out, black and white, with a blunt nose and small kind eyes. “You’re a long way from anywhere,” said the badger. “Are you lost?”

“I was blown here by the storm,” said Pip. “A fox said it would help, but it didn’t.”

The badger’s nose wrinkled. “That fox,” it said. “Don’t trust a word it says. It leads young ones off the path and then forgets where it left them.”

Pip’s ears went flat. “I didn’t know.”

“You know now,” said the badger. “Come on. I’m going down to the river to wash my supper. The river runs past your village, if that’s where you’re headed.”

“You know my village?”

“Everyone knows it,” said the badger. “It’s the one with the yellow door and the smoke that smells of fish.”

Pip followed the badger through the ferns. The badger moved slowly but surely, pushing aside brambles and muttering about the fox under its breath. “Follow the water,” it said at last, stopping where the trees thinned. “Keep it on your left and you’ll come to the bridge. But mind the dark. It comes quick in these woods.”

“Thank you,” said Pip.

The badger nodded once and went back to its supper. Pip stepped out onto the bank, and the river ran wide and silver beside him, and he began to walk.

***

The light faded fast. Pip kept the river on his left as the badger had said, but the bank grew stony and the path twisted, and soon he was not sure which way was forward. The water sounded different here, louder and rougher. He stopped to listen, and the dark closed in around him like a blanket.

“I’m lost,” he whispered to no one.

Above him, between the branches, a few stars had come out. Pip sat down on a flat stone and wrapped his tail around his paws. He felt very small and very far from the yellow door.

“You’re sitting on my fishing stone,” said a voice.

Pip leapt up. An old cat sat on a root nearby, grey and thin, with whiskers like silver wire. Her eyes were pale and calm.

“I’m sorry,” said Pip. “I didn’t see you.”

“Nobody does,” said the old cat. “I’m quiet. What are you doing out here in the dark?”

“I’m trying to get home,” said Pip. “A badger told me to follow the river.”

“The badger is right,” said the old cat. “But the river bends, and you’ve been following the bend, not the water. Sit. Look up.”

Pip looked up. The stars were bright now, scattered like spilled salt.

“See the three in a row?” said the old cat. “They point to the north. Your village is north of here. Trust your nose, too. Can you smell smoke?”

Pip sniffed. There it was, faint but clear: woodsmoke and fish.

“Yes!” he said.

“Then you’re not lost,” said the old cat. “You just forgot to look.”

“Sit down again,” said the old cat. “Not because you’re tired. Because you’re in a hurry.”

Pip sat on the fishing stone. It was cold and smooth under his paws. The river went hush, hush beside him.

“Close your eyes,” said the old cat. “Tell me what you hear.”

Pip listened. “Water,” he said. “And wind in the leaves. And something creaking. A branch?”

“A gate,” said the old cat. “The farmer’s gate, half a mile off. It always creaks when the wind is from the west. What else?”

Pip tipped his ears forward. “Wings,” he said. “A lot of wings. Birds settling down for the night.”

“Marsh birds,” said the old cat. “They roost by the water. Now open your eyes and try your nose again.”

Pip sniffed the air. Woodsmoke was there, and fish, and something else. Something warm and familiar. “Bread,” he said. “Someone’s baking bread.”

“The baker in your village,” said the old cat. “She bakes at dawn. But the wind carries the smell ahead of the sun. Follow it.”

“How do I follow a smell?” asked Pip.

“Like you follow a path,” said the old cat. “When it gets stronger, you’re going the right way. When it fades, turn around.”

Pip stood up. His paws still ached from the storm, but his heart felt lighter. “Will you come with me?”

“No,” said the old cat. “I have a fishing stone to sit on. But I’ll watch until you’re out of sight.”

Pip pressed his nose to her thin grey shoulder. She smelled of river and old leaves. “Thank you,” he said.

“Thank your nose,” said the old cat. “It knew the way all along.”

***

Pip trotted north. The stars were out in full now, and the three in a row pointed like a long grey finger. He kept his nose up and his ears open. When the bread smell grew faint, he turned until it was strong again. When the creaking gate sounded far away, he padded toward it.

The sky was turning grey at the edges when he reached the top of the hill. Below him lay his village, small and quiet, with smoke rising from the bakery. His own yellow door was there, halfway down the lane.

Pip ran. His paws found the familiar stones, the ones he had crossed a hundred times without ever noticing them. At the door he scratched twice, and it opened at once.

“Pip!” said his mother. “Where have you been? We looked everywhere!”

“I got blown away,” said Pip. “But a badger helped me, and an old cat read the stars, and I found my own way home.”

His mother licked the top of his head. “You smell like the whole forest.”

“I know,” said Pip. He curled up by the fire and slept until the sun was high.

When he woke, he went to the lane and sat on the wall. A little grey kitten was crying by the well, lost in the morning bustle.

“Don’t cry,” said Pip. “Sit down. Close your eyes. Tell me what you hear.”

The kitten sniffled, then listened. “My mum calling,” she said.

“Then follow the sound,” said Pip. “And if you get lost again, look up. The stars will point you north. But your nose knows the way.”