The Haunt of Toadleap Farm

by Christine Lucas

To the humans, the title 'Lord Pigeon Ward' entailed scrubbing droppings from the royal statues and enduring snide jokes. The cats, however, had earned this title in war, intercepting enemy pigeons and the messages they carried.

Sir Ashpurr, the current lord, napped on warm straw in High Duke Leopold’s stables when the sorcerer’s pet rat peeked through the open door.

“I have a message, milord,” squeaked the rat.

“Go away.” Sir Ashpurr rolled over, exposing his grey belly to the sun. Count on the filthy vermin to ruin his afternoon nap.

“Your service is needed.”

Sir Ashpurr yawned. “What is it now? Have you lost your way again? Have the sorcerer’s pet bats escaped? Have the Duke’s hounds misplaced his seal again?”

The rat raised his chin. “I did not get lost. It’s just something the sorcerer saw in his divination sphere.” He cleared his throat. “A feline family is in dire need. The Toadleap Farm is haunted, and the kittens are very young to travel cross country to seek new residence, especially with winter coming soon. And, milord…”

Sir Ashpurr sat up. “What?”

The rat’s beady eyes darted sideways. His muzzle trembled, and he spoke in a quivering voice. “It’s gross, milord. I saw it in the sphere: a despicable abomination lurking in the shadows of the farm.”

“Perfect.” The rat had called the ghost--or whatever it was-- gross. That didn’t bode well. Sir Ashpurr stretched to rid his muscles of the afternoon drowsiness. If it were true, and not the result of the sorcerer’s over-indulgence to certain mushrooms, then he could not leave helpless kittens to its mercy. “I’ll look into the matter. You can go now.” He licked his whiskers. “Unless you want to stay for …supper?”

The rat squeaked something offensive in his own tongue and scurried away. Sir Ashpurr set off to the Toadleap Farm. Bound by ancient vows, he couldn’t ignore a call for help. He chose a slower but safer path through the back alleys and the dirt paths among the fields, sometimes jumping from trees to roofs to branches and back down on the ground, to avoid dogs and humans alike. Outside the Duke’s castle, most peasants had no respect for his feline lordship at all.

The farm lay at the far end of the Duke’s lands, close to the Misty Marshes and the Didonai River, both crawling with all sorts of eerie creatures. Could one of those have sneaked into the old barn? Once it was a part of a flourishing farm. Since old Toadleap had died childless, four or five winters ago, the place had had no new tenants. The buildings had been left to the mercy of the wind and the rain. The barn, however, had offered shelter to many creatures of the forest.

Sir Ashpurr reached the farm the next morning, hungry and irritable. Sleeping in the company of hens had been warm but humiliating, especially when one of them tried to cover him with her wings like a hatchling. He scratched his head behind his ears. Did hens have fleas?

From the safety of a low pine branch, he measured the old building. The roof seemed sound, unlike the door that was hanging from one rusty hinge, ready to fall. On a pile of worn sacks outside, a calico cat sunned her fur, her eyes half-closed, her gaze never leaving the two kittens wrestling on the grass. When Sir Ashpurr’s scent reached her, she looked up, her ears drawn back.

He approached with caution.

“Ah, Lord Pigeon Ward. So you heard. You left your bowl of cream and your velvet cushion and came.” She licked her whiskers. “I thought nobility wouldn’t give a rat’s tail for barn fleabags like us.”

“It is my duty to defend the weak.” He raised his head, tail twitching wildly. “Is this how you greet visitors to your domain?” He licked his whiskers. No breakfast?

“My apologies.” She yawned. “Damned ghost keeps my kittens up all night. I f they don't sleep well, I don't either .” She turned to the kittens. “Don’t eat that! Thornapple leaves make your stomach hurl!”

The bigger of the two, a brown tabby, cowered at his mother’s yell. He left the thornapple bush alone and pounced on his sister, a slender calico like their mother.

Sir Ashpurr watched the kittens with renewed interest. Of three littermates, only he had survived the harsh winter of his birth. He had never played like Cleo’s kittens did.

She turned back to him. “My apologies. I am Cleo, mistress of all,” her amber eyes followed the outline of the ruined door, “this.”

He sighed, and peered into the gloom inside the barn. “So, there is a ghost?”

“There is a haunting, yes, but I have seen no ghost. Things start flying in the middle of the night, someone-- something sighs and sobs, and it gets cold even in midday.”

He sniffed the air. Moldy hay, fresh clover, bird dropping and, he sniffed again, sulfur? “When did all this start?”

“Stop biting your brother!” Cleo turned back to him. “When it started? When the damned rats discovered sacks of maggot-ridden grain at the far back of the barn. They munched through them right to the ground. You’d think that they’d stop chewing when they hit the soil, but no. The plague-ridden pests, curse on their mangy heads, kept on until they found human remains beneath the sacks.”

“Ah.” Count on the filthy rats to wreak ruin even on an already ruined barn. “So it must be this human’s ghost. I’ve heard the Duke’s sorcerer speak of banishing ghosts. They go away when you remove their bones.”

Cleo’s eyes widened. “I’m not touching those. They may be infested with Catnip knows what. I have my kittens to think of.”

Sir Ashpurr sighed. “Do not worry, Mistress Cleo. I’ll take care of it.”

“You’d better. Otherwise we’ll come to live with you in the castle.”

Oh, wouldn’t the stable master love that! More cats around the Duke’s hounds. He ignored her hiss and entered the gloomy barn, paw after noiseless paw, belly close to the ground. He didn’t expect anything better from peasants. She had never known any better. He’d never shame the title of his forefathers by stooping so low and return her bile. His heart fluttered. Why was it so cold in here?

The stench of sulfur was stronger inside. Brown, moldy hay littered the floor, rusty tools hung from the beams, and many more lay all around him: pitchforks, an axe, leather reins. There were signs of recent feline occupation where Cleo had given birth to her litter, along with several pigeon feathers scattered all over. With every step he took closer to the back, the sulfurous stench waxed stronger. In the gloom, it mixed with unspeakable loneliness.

He found the sacks Cleo had spoken of. They reeked of putrefaction, but it was not the stench that made his fur stand and his tail twitch. It was the ghost sitting a hairball’s throw away.

The ghost of a human male, it seemed, although Sir Ashpurr couldn’t be sure with all that dirty, matted hair hiding its face. He raised his foreleg, claws out, and hissed a warning.

“Foul creature, begone! I’m Sir Ashpurr, Lord Pigeon Ward of the High Duke’s Estate!”

The ghost only whined. It didn’t move. Sir Ashpurr struggled to sound like the Duke’s sorcerer. What would the old goat say?

“I command you to leave this place! Your presence harms my kin. Return to the hell that spawned you!” He rose on his hind legs and clawed the air, quite proud of his performance.

Alas, the ghost didn’t move.

Sir Ashpurr took a tentative step forward. “Will you leave?”

Nothing.

“Please?” He’d rather not face Cleo’s bilious words on his way out, nor the stable master’s temper if they came home with him.

The ghost raised his head, and Sir Ashpurr jumped back, growling, mostly out of reflex. The man’s ethereal face was a withered parchment with countless sorrows written on every wrinkle. A pair of huge, dark eyes dominated a thin face, over a crooked nose and a toothless grin. An old man. How had he come to die there?

The ghost raised his arm, palm up, a circular chain tattoo on it.

Ah. A slave .

The ghost leaned forward as if to touch Sir Ashpurr.

His fur stood up again. “What do you want, wretched creature?”

The ghost opened his mouth. His tongue had been cut off. Pity gripped Sir Ashpurr’s heart. But he didn’t expect anything better from humans. Many years ago, it was common practice to cut off slaves’ tongues so they wouldn’t complain or talk back. The High Duke had recently banned this practice, but couldn’t help those already mutilated.

The ghost reached out again. Sir Ashpurr hesitated for a moment and then let the ethereal fingers touch him. A jolt of lightning ran down his spine and he leaped backwards, all fluffed up, breaking contact.

Cold. Hunger. Moldy sacks for covers. Misty breaths, in, out, in, out--then nothing more than darkness and loneliness .

The ghost reached out again.

Sir Ashpurr retreated. “No. It is too much.”

The ghost’s narrow shoulders slumped.

Sir Ashpurr hung his head. He had failed. Now he longed to be far away from this tortured soul, back to the castle, his bowl of cream and the warm sun spots under the eastern windows. The ghost’s anguish crushed his chest so hard he feared he’d never purr again.

I’m a coward .

The thought hit him hard. I am not! Hadn’t he braved the despicable castle sewers to find the senile sorcerer’s pet rat? He even endured the indignation of returning the filthy creature on his back. He had faced the gang of crows wrecking the herb garden. Would a coward stand against three thieving alley cats raiding the castle’s kitchen? He raised his head and stepped forth.

“Show me,” he told the ghost.

The hint of a smile curled the corners of the cracked lips. He reached out and touched Sir Ashpurr again. The jolt hit him again, but he clenched his jaws. When the deathly chill crept into his bloodstream, it brought images of a life lost.

When old Toadleap died childless his livestock and slaves were sold elsewhere. But no one would buy an old, mute slave, so they set him free. Free, when he had known nothing else than this farm. Free, when he could no longer work to earn his living. Free, when his bones ached when the wind changed. Free, to die from starvation and exposure in the only home he had ever known. Free, without a voice, without a name.

Forgotten .

No one deserved that, human or feline. Not even dogs.

He settled down by the ghost and purred. The sound seemed to calm the ghost. Something new reached into Sir Ashpurr’s mind. A memory, but this time not of anguish, but of peace: a boy curled by a fireplace, the slave mark on his palm, playing with a ginger kitten. A nameless place, a nameless kitten, but not a nameless boy. Not any more.

Ogo , a voice said in his mind.

Sir Ashpurr looked up. “Your name is Ogo.”

The ghost’s face beamed, and a thick layer of sorrow lifted from the air around them.

“And you like cats.”

Ogo nodded and the gloom softened. The breeze carried into the barn the purr of a thousand kittens rolling in catnip.

“Then, Ogo, I have a new task for you.”

Ogo nodded repeatedly, his grin wider.

“I, Lord Pigeon Ward, charge you to stand guard over this barn and its feline occupants. They are my kin, and their safety is important to me. Defend them from those who mean them harm. I will inform Mistress Cleo of this new arrangement.” Sir Ashpurr raised his head, his purr prouder now.

A kitten mewed behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Cleo stood at the threshold, the kittens peeking from behind her back, their eyes huge and dark.

“It’s safe now,” he told them.

Cleo’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?” She sniffed the air. “At least it doesn’t smell like rotting meat any more.” She glared at the kittens. “Stay here.”

With her ears drawn back, she started toward Sir Ashpurr and Ogo. Sure enough, after two steps, the kittens followed her, pouncing on each other, their tails twitching wildly. She stopped a leap away from the ghost. The kittens stayed behind her, their backs arched, their tiny tails like bristle brushes. She measured the ghost, her gaze steady and unblinking.

“Why is it still here?” Her mew reeked of disgust.

“ He is your new servant and guard. Cleo, meet Ogo.”

Ogo bowed.

Her ears perked up. “A servant? For us?”

Sir Ashpurr raised his chin. “It was the least I could do.”

She leaned forward, sniffing Ogo. “And a guard? Well, can he actually guard us? Can he scare the foxes away? The wild dogs? The wolves, when winter comes?”

Ogo grinned. He flicked his wrist and a pitchfork rose into the air, crossed the barn like a spear and pierced the beam over the broken door.

The kittens hissed, arched their backs and jumped backwards, their eyes round with awe.

“That will do. I hope he can watch over the little ones so I can finally get a nap. And bring them supper. And smash their fleas. And--”

Ogo nodded repeatedly, his grin wider.

Sir Ashpurr rolled his eyes. “Happy now?”

“Yes.” She looked away, purring softly. “Thank you.”

“So it’s settled.” Sir Ashpurr hesitated for a moment, then climbed on a crate beside Ogo, so he stood at eye level with the ghost. He touched Ogo’s matted hair with his forepaw. It tingled, so close to the ethereal form. He gulped. What did the Duke say in situations like this?

“Be brave and be true, Ogo of the Toadleap Farm. You will no longer be forgotten.”

 

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