In the morning, you are gone. You’ve left a note for me, inscribed on a birch leaf with fine calligraphy. You dreamt of us, you say: in your dream, we were famous lovers, the masters of an old tower. Our six hundred and thirty seven children became kings and queens and powerful magicians.
The note smells of you. I burn it in a maple fire, so all may catch its scent and know of my prowess. I add a myrtle leaf, to keep my own secret: in my dreams, I travelled with the cat.
That marvellous cat! Had I not been blinded by the rituals of love, I would have given it its full attention. A perfect cat, it was: those shapely ankles, those precise whiskers. How could such a pair as us be parted?
I am quite determined: from the walnut tree where we parted, I trace its lithe passage. The grass resists me, weaving its blades together in defiance. No trail is left, so I ask for help: the owls, the squirrels, the flea circus in the sycamore tree – none have seen my feline partner. I take a gift to the cat councillors in the chapel attic, but that old affair with the flute is not yet forgotten, and they will not speak to me.
In desperation, I sleep. My many children seek me out, sending out carriages pulled by eagles and escorted by plumed bears. What clever children I have! Together, we find the cat at last, handsome in a fine top hat. Oh, what adventures we shall have together!