The boy made his way along the path, half-trundling, half-skipping and from time to time daring the leap to the other side of the ditch dividing the bank from the roadside verge. He hummed a tune without rhythm or structure.
Another nimble leap took him back to the bank and an internal crowd whooped their approval of his second majestic feat of agility. With his stick he rattled a staccato rhythm against the fence posts to his right, tracking his passage with a ‘clunk-crr-clunk’ as it passed from post to wire and back to post again.
The stick (acquired at the beginning of his journey, having been bravely retrieved from a prickly hedge) had been an invaluable companion, serving him faithfully as a staff, relieving his weight at every other step as he had seen a similar one serve his Grandfather; as a stout and trusty sword, ready to repel highwaymen (should they be foolish enough to cross his path), and as a sub-machine gun, striking down ranks of Nazis as they cowered in hiding behind a flint wall. No doubt it would be called into action again shortly when next the muse (and possibly deadly threat) came upon him.
The boy paused and turned, the sound of an approaching car capturing his interest, but he quickly turned away again, it not being a Ferrari or Formula One racer. It passed by at an un-noteworthy forty miles per hour and he returned to his inward and far more dangerous reveries.
Nevertheless, he looked up to watch the vehicle as it approached the distant hill, turn and pass out of view behind an avenue of trees. Drawing his attention back along the path he saw, some way ahead, the black and white markings of an animal, seemingly lying in wait in the ditch.
The boy hastened his steps, clutching his stick in the centre so he could move more swiftly and proceeded until more of the animal was in view. It showed itself to be merely a house-cat. The animal lay on its side, apparently unaware of his approach, soaking up the early afternoon rays of summer sunshine.
The boy now assumed a posture of stealth, hunching his back lower so as not to startle the beast too soon, knowing cats to be distrusting and flighty creatures. A deft flick of his wrist and the stick became a spear, which he raised tentatively above his shoulder. The cat did not stir and he congratulated himself on his light-footed and predatory approach.
He was nearly upon it and paused, straightening to view the cat better. It had not moved at all and something struck him as odd. The cat seemed too still. and the moment, all apprehension and excitement just before, was now souring, his mood turning into something else, a foreboding which caused his joy to dissolve rapidly.
He took the final few steps and looked down into the ditch. The cat was prone on its side, eyes open and unblinking. Crouching, he could see that the chest did not appear to be moving, it was not breathing heavily as he had seen his dog Barty do when lazing in the sun.
The boy knew that the cat was dead. It lacked animation in its eyes. The boy’s breathing slowed and he felt his joy being replaced, but with what he did not know. He was not sad or horrified but some other emotion, something detached, something new.
Leaning forward, he gently poked the dead cat with his stick. He did not know what to expect but it seemed the first step in his investigation of the poor creature. Pitching himself forward further still, he prodded at the cat’s front legs, part of him still expecting some reaction, some response.
Gathering up his nerves and adjusting the position of his feet, he moved the stick towards and under the belly of the cat and attempted to lift it. It raised slightly but slipped from the end of the stick, flopping back onto the grass. The boy re-adjusted his position and tried again. This time the cat lifted up on its side and he flipped it over.
The side of the cat that had been lying on the grass had completely disappeared and was nearly hollow. In what was left of its insides, hundreds of small, disgusting grubs writhed against each other. The boy instinctively shrunk back. The initial shock over, he stole himself to pitch his head forward again, this time very careful to keeping his balance (and his body) away from the poor animal.
Its face, though generally intact, had suffered more decay on this side, revealing some jaw and cheekbone, the skeletal protrusion making the cat’s grin seem more sinister. The legs had fared better and were near to normal-looking, just less covered, but it was the insides that were the greatest surprise. There was nothing left. The maggots had presumably feasted on the cat and where they jostled and undulated, the cat’s organs and the creatures were discernible from each other. The cat resembled a grotesque jelly mould.
The boy stood up, more comfortable surveying the wrecked creature at a distance where his keen eyes were less able to make sense of the mess and the decay. A thought occurred and, holding it at arm’s reach, he surveyed the end of the stick for any evidence of what it had been in contact with. Though there was a slight, moist discolouration toward the point, there was no matter, no cat entrails attached to it. He threw it away anyway, in distaste, not wanting it near him any longer.
Looking down at the cat once more, he walked past it and along the road. The image, thankfully losing clarity even as he walked, remained a while. He was not disgusted but something had changed, something he could not quite place. He knew he would not tell anyone of this; it was too private, too personal, between him and the cat alone. His mind soon moved on from the poor, desiccated creature. He ventured back to daydream and the present but there was something about the occasion which remained, something immaterial but palpable. It had forced itself through fantasy and touched him, cold but fascinating, somewhere deep, beyond his words to describe.
The Bland Corporation 