Bienvenue

CW: mentions of animal death.

First posted January 2023.

The closing bell rang, and the last of the human visitors made their way to the gate, followed by no less than twenty pairs of little yellow eyes. Car horns and bicycle bells rang in the clear air down from the bridge overhead, and the last sliver of the glowing sun disappeared over the cemetery wall. A crow’s caw echoed off the rows of stone monuments and ivy-covered tombs. In the still and growing dark, a silent paw stepped out from behind a grave marker and onto the cobbled path.

New arrivals were not common, but not unusual. The cats had seen enough human burials to understand the ritual. Roaming around the sprawling cemetery during the day, they kept watch over the old neighbours and the new, provided comfort to grieving visitors, and entertained curious tourists. At night, they played with each other, and walked with the shades that lingered around their resting places.

The difference between the living and the dead didn’t matter much to the cats. The dead didn’t usually feed them, and as such the cats were, as a rule, less interested in their company. But if one found oneself in dire need of forehead scritches in the middle of the night, one learned to make do with those who were present.

A few of the younger cats still rushed to any fresh grave on the first evening, entranced by novelty and the possibility of a new ghost to welcome. On this night, however, there was quite a crowd by the graveside of the most recent arrival. The burial that day had been odd, and even the old guard were curious to see what, if anything, would happen.

It had been a strange and small procession to the grave. At the end of the line was a stoic young woman, walking with her arms crossed over her chest. An older woman, dabbing at her eyes with a delicate lace handkerchief and holding hands with a sniffling child, had followed the director at the front of the procession, who carried with as much dignity as he could muster the smallest casket any of the cats had ever seen. Indeed, none of them had ever seen a casket carried by fewer than two humans, and the director managed this one all by himself.

Few words had been spoken. The usual solemnity accompanied the service, but it was oddly stilted, as if no one was quite sure what to say or do. Still, the usual emotions were present: grief, love, wistfulness. In feeling, it was very much like any other funeral at the cemetery, but something was different — all the cats could sense it.

Now, as the crowd of cats gathered around the headstone, they whispered excitedly to each other as they gestured to the little statue on top of the marker: a bronze cat, staring down at them from the top of the red marble block.

The long-haired grey cat swished her tail and rolled her yellow eyes. “They don’t bury cats,” said Geneviève. “Not here, at least. They never have.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Camille the calico replied. She sniffed at the freshly-turned earth, poking her white paw warily into the dirt.

“What does it say?” The black cat Étienne hopped up on top of the stone, looking with wide, blank eyes at the small plaque beneath the bronze cat.

His twin brother, Louis, sighed wearily. “How should we know?”

The air filled with a sound like a breathless sigh; wind rushed in the cats’ ears, though there was no breeze. The earth heaved but did not move, and suddenly, the glowing ghost of a short-haired cat stood before them, her bright eyes darting around the crowd with wary uncertainty.

Geneviève’s eyes widened, and the twins leaned closer. The ghost shrank back, and her tail phased through the tombstone behind her. Startled, she turned around and looked at what she had touched. Her eyes drifted up toward the bronze cat on top of the stone.

Camille sat at the foot of the grave, curling her tail over her toes. “Hello,” she said, gently.

The ghost’s fur stood on end and her tail hung between her legs. Her head jerked in small movements as she slowly turned back toward Camille.

Perfectly still where she sat, Camille gave the ghost a long, slow blink. The tightness eased from the ghost’s posture and she blinked back.

“What do they call you, chère?”

The ghost’s nose twitched before she replied. “Winnie.”

“Quel beau nom.” Camille inclined her head. “Do you know where you are?”

Winnie looked around in a full circuit of the landscape. Her expression did not change as she took in the rows of tombstones, the crowd of cats, the walls covered in climbing ivy. She returned her gaze to Camille. “What is this place?”

From her perch lounging on a nearby tomb, Geneviève raised her voice. “It’s a cemetery.”

“Hush,” chided Camille. “She doesn’t know what that is.” She walked over to Winnie, sitting close enough for her leg to press against the ghost’s. “This is where humans come when they die. The people who love them bring them here, to rest somewhere beautiful and serene, and to have a memory of them always. Someone loved you very much, and brought you here, too.”

Winnie closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered was warmth, but before that, she knew she had been very cold. She had been so hungry but she could not eat, and her legs would not move. Someone had held her, as the world went dark. Someone whose name would not come to her, but whose face was love. Someone who said she would miss her.

“But — no, she needs me!”

Camille nuzzled her face. “She will miss you very much. But she will come visit you, right here. You will see her again. Until then, you have us.”

Cold wrapped itself around Winnie’s legs and she did not shiver. She looked at the cats around her, watching their chests rise and fall with breathing. “But you are not like me.”

Geneviève shrugged. “It is no difference that matters. We are here, you are here.”

Camille looked over at Geneviève. “It’s true,” she said, turning back to Winnie. “We look after everyone here, living and dead. So, you see, you are in our care. It does not matter if we are alike or not. The humans are not like us, but we love them all the same.”

“Speak for yourself,” Louis grumbled.

Laughing, Camille shrugged. “Well, some of us more than others. It is so with any large group, you know. Tell me, what is your favourite thing to do?”

Winnie’s forehead wrinkled as she thought. “I like to sleep in the sunlight,” she said. “And I like to scratch my post.”

“Ah, you are in luck! Geneviève can show you the best napping places, right where the morning sun shines.”

Geneviève glanced down her nose at Winnie, but gave an acknowledging nod.

“And Étienne, he can show you all the best trees for scratching.”

He hopped down from the top of the stone next to Winnie. “It would be an honour. Shall we go now?”

“Yes!” cried a chorus of younger cats. “Come along, Winnie!”

Looking into Camille’s gentle, encouraging eyes, Winnie felt a warmth tinge the chill flowing through her. “She will be back,” Camille whispered. “We will love you in the meantime.”

Winnie’s vision went wavy, and she blinked away phantom tears. Softly, she headbutted Camille, who chuckled and nuzzled her back before nudging her off toward the group of cats barely able to restrain themselves long enough to wait for her.

“Let’s go!” Étienne waved. “I’ll lead the way.”

Louis pounced, and the twins rolled playfully in the street. “You can’t lead anything! I’ll be the leader,” he snarled.

While the black cats argued, the others ran along the cobbled paths towards a yew tree in the distance. Winnie happily joined the herd, running with moonlight shining through her.