The cat Mona squeezed out through the barely open door—keen to escape the warmth of the house and its nightly enclosure. She breathed in deeply. It was cold outside—colder than usual—but Mona thought nothing of it as she walked slowly to her favourite place. She sat in the small clearing beside the pool—far enough away from the house not to be seen, close enough to return quickly in case of danger. Her fur bristled as she shivered. Now she noticed the cold. It was intense. The breath from her nostrils froze in clouds in front of her. She looked across the small pond at the still rising sun—it was a heavy orange yellow and it looked further away than usual—too far away, different, puzzling. There was a clatter in the trees. Tiger, a large ginger tom strode into the clearing. He was vicious—he had a reputation. Mona hissed. He took no notice. She arched her back. She felt the cold between the parted strands of her fur. Now she realised how very cold it was—she had never felt anything like it.
Tiger bared his teeth. Icicles hung from his whiskers—his cold breath settled around his face. Mona saw his eyes—wide with fear. She turned.
The sun was still rising—getting a little higher—but now it was even smaller, more grey, more distant.
Tiger shivered. Mona could not take her eyes from the receding sun. She felt her tears freezing—her eyelids would not close. She heard a faint thump as Tiger fell on his side—his body was stiff, his legs poked out like sticks. Mona took one more glance at the sun—now only a pinprick in the frost-filled air. Now she could not even shiver. For a moment, she thought of the house, its warmth, its sanctity, but she could now no longer even breathe, her mouth was congealed with ice, and the rising sun had disappeared.
And so it began—the long freeze. Nothing moved, not an atom, nothing was thought, there was not a word. And Mona stood guard over Tiger as he lay like a fallen statue, his eyes, with hers, frozen open staring blankly to the point in the black sky where the sun had last been seen. And a great time passed, and nothing changed and nothing was seen and nothing was heard.
And then a door opened—the door to the house. It creaked as it was pushed against the ice that was formed around the frame. A shaft of light came with it—sharp, angled, yellow, dazzling. It caught Mona’s raised back, and three of Tiger’s paws, then as the door opened more, it cast a glow across the frozen pond.
The sound of a stamping foot heralded the appearance of a boot in the beam of light. It stepped out onto the porch, treading noisily on the hard sparkling ice. The figure of a man stood in the light—breath surrounded his face and rose about him in a halo around his head. His cracked lips opened. He took a deep breath—as if his lungs had not been filled for eons.
‘Mona!’ Are you there?’
Ice shattered and fell in heavy cracking shards from the branches of trees. They exploded when they hit the ground—the world was filled with noise and clatter.
‘Mona! Mona! Come in!’
More ice fell—more disturbance, more anxiety.
‘You’ll freeze! Mona!’
Mona curled up by the fire, her tail slowly lifting and turning. She sat up. She heard Tiger’s steps as he prowled around the ice covered porch. She arched her back and hissed, then settled back down and purred. The flames crackled—everything was warm and safe. She looked at the yellow flames. One of them spluttered, then another, and another. Within seconds they had all died down. It was getting strangely dark, and she felt the coldness again. Mona stood and turned to the man. He was staring at her—his eyes were wide, his eyelids frozen. Icicles hung from his chin. She heard a thump outside. She knew what it was; she knew it was starting again.
Erin stood back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He smeared spit on his lips—they glistened in the candle light. He grinned.
Mesto pointed at the picture. It was an amateurish representation but it had been painted by the child and, as everyone said, deserved respect.
‘She painted that when she was only six. Sometimes it’s hard to believe.’
Erin wiped his mouth again.
‘And it tells us what?’
‘It tells us that there is a child who knows things we only know because she paints them for us. It tells us that we are beholden to her, for without her we would know nothing.’
‘But how does she know these things? And why should we believe what she shows us? And why do we need to know anyway?’
‘Too many questions! Too many! Look closer. Have you ever seen such a rendition of Mona the cat? See the way the child has caught that glint of light on her whiskers, and her line of sight, looking beyond, towards the thing we do not know.’
‘The what? Oh, sorry, yes, the thing we do not know. Sorry, do go on.’
‘It tells me so much. It tells us that Mona stood in the light, that she stared beyond, that she saw something now lost.’
‘And the child? Is she still working?’
‘Yes indeed, she is ten years old now and producing nearly one hundred renditions a year.’
‘And does each one show us more?’
‘Yes, each one brings out a new facet of Mona and in doing that a better understanding of what Mona saw.’
‘So it is agreed.’
‘Yes. She must go.’
‘And soon.’
‘Yes, by the end of day.’
The girl walked around the porch of the house. It was so cold. She peered in through the window. Mona the cat sat on the mat by the fire. The girl imagined her purring. She tried the door. It creaked as it opened. She went inside. The man was sleeping in his chair. Mona the cat did not look up. The girl sat by her side and looked into the fire. She stroked Mona.
‘Did you know I was coming?’
The cat purred loudly.
‘You know what I must do, don’t you? You know they have sent me to kill you. They are afraid of you, and what you saw. I’m so sorry I must do this. You know I dare not disobey them.’
The girl picked Mona up in her arms and took her outside onto the porch.
‘I will do it here. Is that alright for you, my sweet? Mona, is that alright for you?’
‘Is this the last work of the child?’
‘Yes, the very last.’
‘And she could not finish it?’
‘No, she died in the very act of painting Mona’s tail. Look at the care she was taking over the individual strands of fur. It is truly remarkable. And she was painting each crystal of ice in the minute detail. She had completed 243,000 of them up to this point in the rendition.’
‘And it is not known why she died?’
‘No. No one knew she was dead for a week. She was sitting frozen in front of her canvas and those that watched her thought she was in meditation—it had often been her way.’
‘And are we any closer to knowing the reason?’
‘We are not. A committee is considering the possibilities,’
‘And did she complete her task?’
‘It is not known. We must all wait. Many have gone down to the house and are watching it at this moment. The last message was that the man had stirred in his chair and the flames of the fire had died somewhat.’
‘But of Mona the cat?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So we still cannot know if her images are intact?’
‘No.’
‘So we are not yet safe.’
‘No. We are not sure whether or not she truly saw the disappearance.’
‘And so for us there is nothing we can understand beyond the darkness?’
‘No. It is our world and anything beyond it can only seem like some other form of darkness. In the same way that anything which may not be cold is to us only some other form of cold.’
‘And will a replacement be found for the child.’
‘She is already at work. Her first rendition will be seen within the day.’
The old man sat back in the chair. The orange glow of the fire dappled his tanned skin.
‘And now I will finish the story we started yesterday.’
The children grew closer; some pulling their legs beneath them, some jutting out their chins in anticipation.
‘It was so long ago that now no one can remember it. It has been passed to us. The word has come down in the paintings, and the actions of those that lived before us in a time of light or a time of dark—in a time of enlightenment or darkness.’
The fire crackled, its light picked out a nervous smile on the old man’s lips.
‘And we cannot know the future or whether it will be light or dark. We can only listen to the word and look into the paintings for it is there that the clues reside.’
One of the children turned to the door.
‘Look, it’s Mona the cat!’
The old man’s nervous smile faded as Mona the cat curled up on his knees. He stroked her softly.
‘So, this is how it all began …’
