Island of Hope
I was stretched out on the sagging porch of a longabandoned cottage, squinting against the weak autumn sun. My coat, a blaze of ginger like a ripe orange, had become dulled by dust and the hard life on the streets, yet it still glowed with a warm heat. Nestled against me was a frail kitten Id named Blackie a skinny little thing with coalblack fur and a crooked ear that looked as if it had been snapped. Wed only met a fortnight ago, but I already felt the tiny creature had slipped into my solitary world.
Blackie had shown up in the village of Ashford about two weeks before. I was gnawing on a fishbone by the rubbish bin when a faint squeak drifted from the hedgerow. From beneath the brambles, trembling, emerged a kitten filthy, paws shaking, eyes wide with terror. One ear stuck out at an odd angle, the side of his head was scratched. I froze, staring at him.
Where did you come from, lad? I mewed, nose twitching. And whos done this to you?
Blackie only let out a weak whimper, his whole body trembling. I sighed. Id known that look far too well the stare of the abandoned, the unwanted. I nodded toward the porch and growled, Alright, follow me. Well split the bone. You wont get a full bite, but youll get a taste.
So Blackie stayed. I shared my meagre catches with him a crust of stale bread here, a sliver of sausage the kindly old pensioner tossed from her window ledge there. Blackie kept silent, watching me with a quiet gratitude, and I asked nothing. Why should I? Every drifter carries his own sorrow.
One morning Blackie didnt stir. I found him curled up in a corner of the porch, shivering with pain. His paw was swollen, the crooked ear puffed up, and his breathing came out hoarse and laboured. I lay beside him and wept a silent, tearless animal grief when words fail. I had no remedy, only the ability to stay and watch life wane in that tiny body.
All around us lay a prosperous village high fences, polished cars, glimmering windows of pricey houses. From one house drifted music, from another the clink of glasses. Nobody looked up, nobody paused. People hurried past, wrapped up in their own concerns there was no room in their world for two cats huddling on the edge of a lane. I stared at that indifferent world and a knot grew in my chest. Why? Blackie bothered no one. He simply wanted to live.
Then the tide turned. I heard light footsteps and a bright voice of a girl. I lifted my head. Down the lane came a woman and a girl of about ten, the girl carrying a basket of apples, the woman chatting as she glanced around. They stopped at the porch.
Mum, look at the cats! the girl exclaimed, spotting me. Hes as bright as the sun! And the other one oh, he looks hurt!
I tensed but didnt bolt. The girls tone was warm, her eyes full of worry. The woman knelt, glanced at Blackie and frowned.
Poor thing, she whispered, voice trembling. Hes so tiny, yet hes already suffered so much.
She fumbled for her mobile, fingers shaking slightly. I didnt grasp the words, but I felt the air thicken with concern. The girl sat beside Blackie, gently reaching out.
Dont be scared, little one, well help you, she said, her voice breaking with pity.
An hour later a battered van with a catpaw decal pulled up to the porch. Two people stepped out a lad in a worn jacket and a girl with tangled hair. They carried a carrier and a soft blanket. The lad cradled Blackie carefully, bundled him up and whispered something to the girl. She nodded and turned to me.
So youve been looking after him? she smiled. Good lad.
I gave a soft meow, as if to agree, and my heart fluttered. I watched as they lifted Blackie into the van, and for the first time in years I believed the kitten might get a real chance. The people drove off, leaving me alone on the porch, staring at the empty road.
Two weeks later I was chewing on a crust by the fence when the familiar rumble of a motor grew louder. The van returned. The same lad and girl stepped out, followed by the woman and the little girl. The girl held Blackie now clean, his paw healed, his sleek black coat shining, the crooked ear looking almost cosy.
Weve nursed him back! the girl shouted, setting the kitten down. And weve decided to take him home. Well take you too, ginger. Youll live with us!
I froze. Blackie nudged my nose, the girl beamed with happiness, the woman reached out. My heart pounded not with fear, but with a joy I hadnt felt in ages. I stepped forward and brushed my cheek against her hand.
She smiled and said, looking at Blackie, You know, hes a purebred, looks like a MaineCoon. That ear must have been knocked off because of it. To us hes perfect.
That evening the porch lay empty. Blackie and I rode away to a new home where warmth, food and love awaited. The village of polished villas and cold hearts fell behind us, and ahead lay an island of hope small but real, built by those who can see and feel.
