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Of Black Cats and Bards  
by Alex Grehy

“I’ve always been unlucky in Wales.” the Devil mused. 

“Indeed you have.” said the bard, whose banishment to hell for his sharp and ready tongue had taught him nothing.

“Are you laughing at me?” the Devil asked.

“No, no!” replied the bard, “I mean, that old lady who asked you to build a bridge for her in exchange for the first soul to cross – it was obviously all a misunderstanding.  In fact, she did you a favour, as I’m sure the soul of the goat she sent over was less ornery than hers would have been.”

“It wasn’t a goat, it was a dog! If you must speak, at least get it right!” the Devil growled.

“My pardon, dread father of lies, it was indeed a dog, but I didn’t think you’d want me to repeat how its innocent, loyal soul was destined for Hea…”

“Careful…” The Devil grumbled.

“Talking of…him upstairs…you can’t know everything and Welsh place names are tricky. How were you to tell the difference between these villages, all grey stone houses and not a vowel in their names.”

“What? What? Where are you going with this? I weary of your wordplay.”

“Weary, indeed master, it IS wearisome to traverse Wales with a shovelful of heavy earth wondering which river to dam and drown the benighted souls upstream. Thank heavens the cobbler saved you the trip. Why, if he hadn’t shown you that bag of worn shoes as proof of the vast distance he’d walked, you might have carried that soil until you swooned from exhaustion. I mean, what other reason could there be for a mender of shoes to be carrying a bag of them? You were so wise to dump the soil there and then, just where the locals would find the hill useful.” the bard said, innocently.

“Bard!” the devil growled, “You were sent here to be punished, yet it is I that am suffering. Will nothing silence your troublesome tongue?”

“I am a bard, Sire, it is my nature to delight my audience.” The bard bowed to the assembled imps and damned souls, who were smirking and giggling at the Devil’s discomfort.

“ENOUGH!! roared the Devil. “I shall have my revenge. Third time’s the charm, or so they say. You, Bard, shall return to your homeland, transformed. Wordless, friendless, cursed, there you shall do my bidding and bring the souls of the Welsh to me.”

The Devil snapped his taloned fingers and the Bard disappeared.

***

A tiny black kitten appeared in the cobbled farmyard at midnight, as a glacial wind wove threads of icy rain between the farm buildings.

“Meeep” said the kitten, looking around curiously. He tried his new voice again.

“MEEEEEEP” 

The farmhouse door crashed open. Haloed by the golden light within, the farmer’s wife, in her voluminous nightgown, cast a shadow, vast and angelic. 

“You poor thing!” The farmwife ran out in the weather, scooped up the cat and brought it inside. 

The bard mused that this one utterance he’d been allowed had achieved quite a lot, so he tried it again.

“Meep!”

The farmwife rushed to wrap him in blankets and place him in front of the fire. A bowl of warm milk soon followed.

“Meep” said the kitten, content. 

***

The years passed.

The huge black cat, sleek, glossy, full grown, sat on a wall and surveyed his domain. He purred in satisfaction, his work was well done, for who could even count the number of souls he’d sent down. 

The cat grinned – third time’s the charm. Though the dark lord, in his hubris, would never understand the power of three in this mythic land. For firstly, the Devil had failed his due diligence, for in Wales, black cats are regarded as charms of good luck, welcomed, cossetted, treated like kings.

The bard was the Devil’s second mistake. For who could imagine that cats were less eloquent than a master of words? The bard had never been so revered. With a twitch of his tail, or a flick of his ear, an imperious miaow, humans rushed to his devoted care. 

And as for the Devil’s third and biggest mistake? Satan raged and commanded, his kingdom overrun with the souls of the rats and the mice the cat had dispatched, let’s not mention the moles and the voles. Thousands! Millions! Countless! In desperation, the Devil begged the cat to stop, but in vain. For who else would believe a cat might be obedient to anything but their own needs?

So the bard cat lived a fine life free of fear, and the Devil was thwarted in Wales once again.

.

Fiction © Copyright Alex Grehy
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from author Alex Grehy:

Last Species Standing

Alex Grehy (she/her) enjoys writing quirky, thought-provoking horror and is a regular contributor to The Sirens Call and Ladies of Horror Flash Project. Her fiction and essays on being a lady of horror have featured in a range of publications, including Spread: Tales of Deadly Flora. Alex’s first poetry collection, Last Species Standing, which explores mankind’s relationship with nature and technology, is available on Amazon.

Available on Amazon!