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THE BLUE CAT OF CASTLE TOWN, by Catherine Cate Coblentz
Copyright © 1949 by Catherine Cate Coblentz
DEDICATION
To
MARY GERRISH HIGLEY
the teacher who carefully sought out
and preserved the source material of
Castleto’n, Vermont,
and to
HULDA COLE
the librarian who loaned the
material to the author and who helped
find the answers to many questions
CHAPTER ONE
THE BLUE CAT OF CASTLE TOWN
Once in a blue moon there comes
A cat that is blue,
Singing the river’s song,
Seeking—for you!
The blue kitten was born under a blue moon in a warm nest of dried clover, Queen Anne’s lace and chickory, which his mother had made for him at the foot of a forgotten haycock in a Vermont meadow. It was the end of the first third of the nineteenth century, or more than a hundred years ago, which is a very long time indeed.
The mother cat had been quite upset when she first saw the blue kitten. She had looked fearfully then toward the river. For, like all cats, she had heard that a blue kitten could learn the river’s song.
Any kitten has a hard enough time to find a home for himself. For every kitten must find a hearth to fit his song. But a kitten who listens to the river and learns the river’s song has the hardest time of all.
Not only must the kitten who sings the river’s song find a hearth to fit that song, but he must teach the keeper of that hearth to sing the same song. The river’s song is very old. And mortals who have ears to hear and hearts to sing are fewer than few.
Yet such folk must be found at least once in a blue moon. For if the river’s song rise no longer from the hearthside, then it is said, the very days of the land itself are numbered.
So a blue kitten is like a knight, a small knight sent forth on a quest, armed only with a song. There are great rewards for knights and kittens who succeed. But no one has ever told what happens to those who fail.
Small wonder the mother cat was afraid. Still, when she found three black hairs on the end of the kitten’s tail she was a bit more hopeful. For as long as a blue kitten has even one black hair, there is a chance that he will live and die an ordinary cat. “And after all,” the mother cat consoled herself, “my kitten has three black hairs, three!” She counted them again to be sure she was right.
“Do not listen to the river,” she warned the blue kitten, as soon as his eyes were wide open and he was old enough to pay attention. “Remember, grasshoppers make you thin. Moles are indigestible. While birds should be killed only when no mortal is looking. Yet though these are important matters, still it is permitted that now and then you may forget. But—whatever you do, never listen to the river!
She turned her back on him then and stalked off, as though she could not bear to tell him any more. Only her tail stood up, straight and tall, moving through the grass stubble, like a horrible warning.
The blue kitten watched, head on one side, his amber eyes puzzled. Perhaps if his mother had turned back and told him why he must not listen, things might have turned out differently. One never knows.
For a long time, however, the kitten paid no attention to the river’s far-off murmuring. Perhaps he thought it all part of the sound of summer, surging up, sweeping down, or wafted over the nest of dried clover, Queen Anne’s lace and chickory.
Besides, the kitten was busy with the business of growing up, which meant playing with a timothy tassel, watching a spider looping his web, or wondering whether for one wonderful second he had really seen the pointed nose and the bright eyes of a field mouse.
The river bided its time. Every day, however, its murmur grew a trifle louder. Oh, the least bit louder. Until one morning the kitten pricked up his blue ears, which deep inside were pink like sea shells. Was that low sound someone talking? Then, as the pointed tips of his ears bent forward, simple, lovely words slipped in, past the blue tips, down into the sea-shell pinkness, like so many notes of music, spilled from the bobolink.
“Castle Town, where I am going, is a lovely town,” came the words. “Nobody knows why it is called Castle Town. But everybody, even a blue kitten, knows that castles are enchanted.”
The blue kitten nodded his head. “Yes, wind,” he said. “Castles are enchanted.” Naturally, living in a meadow, he understood a good deal about enchantment.
“There have even been some folk in Castle Town,” the murmur continued, “and there is one there now, who would break this enchantment. Enchantment is made up of three things—of beauty, peace and content.”
“Beauty, peace and content,” purred the blue kitten, thinking of the wonder of the meadow.
“The one who would break the enchantment,” went on the soft, slow sound, “does not see beauty. He has no peace. He is not content.”
The blue kitten shook his head sadly. Two tears dropped from his amber eyes.
“Not content,” he said.
“More than that, he is weaving a dark spell.” The murmur was so low and so sad that the kitten put his head close to the grass roots to listen.
“Out of greed for gold and power is the dark spell being woven. And if the folk in Castle Town yield to this spell, and do not listen to our song, then the glory of Castle Town will be lost forever.”
It was difficult for the blue kitten to hear. Perhaps if his ears were larger. Or perhaps if he sat up straight. He tried that. Sure enough he could hear much better. Over the widespread leaves of the meadow sorrel, in a low, sweet whisper came the words, “If the glory of Castle Town be not lost forever, you must find some there, blue kitten, who will listen to our song.”
“Listen to our song.” The blue kitten nodded, watching the sorrel nodding too. “Listen…” He stopped and asked sharply, “Are you the wind?”
“I am the river,” came the murmur. “And you will listen to me!”
“Will listen to you,” replied the kitten.
Suddenly he remembered his mother. “She said…” wailed the kitten.
