A little cat is curled up atop a windowsill. It has fur the color of stone castle walls and winter clouds that threaten snow. Its eyes gleam golden as they lock onto leaves that fall outside its home. Each flash of red, yellow, and orange draws its focus and aggravates its tail into wild flapping. It occupies this windowsill as part of its morning routine; after all, there is no one else to keep watch once its friend leaves the house. 

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The cottage is quaint. It is tucked several stones’ throws deep into the embrace of the woods, with an unpaved and unmarked path leading to its entrance. The inhabitant of the cat’s home sets off on this path most mornings with the sunrise and returns with the sunset. She returns smelling of pine needles, smoke, parchment, and a variety of other scents that the cat spends every evening dutifully sniffing. 

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For now, though, she is absent, leaving this tiny guard to its duties. 

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After observing the path and the leaves, it stands atop its perch and stretches. Opening its mouth wide, it yawns and arches its back until its front paws splay out and its chest touches the windowsill. It blinks a few times and hops down from its watchtower. The cat’s primary duty is to deter critters and other foes. Its friend keeps a number of aromatic knickknacks about the place: dried herbs, smoked meats, various organs and appendages, and the grandest prize of all, a massive cauldron of bubbling, steaming soup. 

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The cauldron containing the soup is just an ordinary metal container, but whimsy surrounds it. A fire stays at a set temperature with the help of a salamander-bone grate; a ladle made from iridescent metal stirs the mixture; and alongside it all a little feline soldier is slinking its way on a path towards any creature ignorant enough to try stealing any of it. It creeps slowly, its small paws not making a single sound on the wooden floorboards, following an unfamiliar scent. This miniature assassin is poised for any possibility. 

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A sound. The cat’s ears whip to the front, then back. It looks around, trying to determine the location. A sound like a creaky staircase is coming from the pantry. The cat crouches low and prepares to pounce on whatever comes out of the closet. The creaking continues. The cat waits. 

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A spot on the pantry door begins to move. The wood warps and bends as if it is made of paste. The cat’s eyes dilate, and its tail flaps erratically. The warping door forms into a humanoid shape no bigger than a candle. The cat recognizes the appearance of a woodsprite; a small pixie-like creature with skin like tree bark, wings like beetles, and eyes like mischief. It flies directly for the wall opposite the cat’s lookout, back to the forest it came from, carrying a larcenous potato. 

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The woodsprite is slowed by its loot, so the cat adjusts its body and wiggles its hind legs into position. Its muscles tense, its mouth opens, and like a spring it leaps at the sprite. The sprite is shocked; it had not planned for a fight. The cat’s right paw strikes the potato out of the sprite’s grasp and into the scalding pot, but its left just misses the sprite itself. Falling into another crouch, the cat poises itself for another leap. It has never failed to protect its friend’s stores; it will not fail now. The sprite is panicked. Having lost its only purpose for theft, it makes for the wall of the cottage once more. It is frightened. It does not think about how to escape, only of it. The cat predicts its flight path. A straight line, traversed in mere seconds. It does not have long to make its final move. One final shift; one last wiggle; one leap. It sails towards the empty air, and the sprite sails towards it. Twisting to face the sprite, the cat latches onto its wing with one claw and its body with another. Falling to the earth, the sprite’s eyes widen and its mouth opens in a silent scream. 

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It was born, alone, from a tree barely bigger than a fern. With each passing season, the tree grew inches while the others grew yards. It was surrounded and choked by its mightier neighbors as they fought for resources from the earth and sky. It savored the briefest kisses of sunlight and treasured the smallest drops of life that reached its roots. It lived a wretched existence, and yet, it coalesced the barest traces of life that existed within its leaves and gave birth to the one child that might give it a chance at more. 

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The cat quickly sinks its teeth into the hard skin of the woodsprite. It twitches once, then stills. 

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The cat is not partial to the flavor. It picks up the body and places it just in front of the door to show its friend that it is still doing its duty. It does not mind the praise either. It moves several paces away and grooms itself; it deserves a break. 

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The cat moves on. It paces the floor, checking every corner, nook, and cranny it can find, sniffing for any more invaders. Finding none, it decides to take up residence back on its lookout. The sun has passed its highest point, and the cat is ready for a nap. It twirls in a circle and curls up where it first woke. Closing its eyes, it passively awaits its friend’s return.

 

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The woman walks toward her cottage. The smell of soup and smoke greets her as she approaches. With each step, her weariness leaves her behind. She opens the door. 

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Startled, she pauses in the entryway. There is a body lying in her path, and next to it her cat greets her with a mew. It walks out and nuzzles its body on her boots and smells her flowing robe. She is a keen woman and notices a distinct scent coming from the soup that she did not intend on. Understanding the scenario, she pulls a burlap sack from her backpack and tenderly places the poor woodsprite inside. Carrying the sack with her, she walks around the outside of her cottage and grabs a shovel. She chants a few words and a spectral, glowing arrow points from the sack deeper into the woods. She walks the direction it points. The cat follows. 

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The arrow points directly toward the smallest tree in a grove of titans. Hefting her shovel, she digs directly at its base until she hits its roots. She digs deeper using only her hands so she does not injure the desolate tree. Once the hole is large enough, she opens the sack and gingerly places the body of its baby into the warm embrace of its roots. She fills the hole and crouches low, placing her hand above the hole she has dug. 

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“You are a struggler, unrecognized by all. You were placed in a situation outside of your control, and you were made to grow into something you did not choose. No one offered you help. No one cared to help. You were abandoned at birth by those who were given more opportunities for growth, and for that you were forced to commit a crime you did not want to commit. Truly, I am sorry for what I have done to you. Your final struggle came to an unjust end, and I am here to rectify my wrong. I, the sole spectator of your plight, grant you the title of the strongest, the most noble thing in this entire forest. You will be greater than any of your kin. You will be seen by all who walk these woods, and you will be fruitful with multitudes of children that will tell your story of familial generosity to any who will listen. This, on my honor, I will guarantee.” Upon finishing her tearful apology, the woman picks up her cat, stands, and strokes the leaves of the unloved one final time. 

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As she leaves, the tree leaks sap and hunches low over its only child. With each drop of sap, it grows larger and wider. With each unheard sob, its roots reach deeper and branch further. And as it grows, it embraces the ones who sucked it dry and kept it dark into a warm hug that can only come from one who understands what it is to be truly alone, and they embrace it back. With one final flash of light, the grove becomes a clearing, and the tree becomes a pillar, and the woman, back at her cottage, strokes her cat and smiles.