The Dream Stallion and the Night Cat

E.E. King

Once there was a small cat, blacker than midnight, older than time. He lived at the top of a cold winding staircase in a tall stone tower. The stones were carpeted with spongy green moss, and the walls were hung with ferns. At day’s end the tiny black cat would leave the tower, bringing night to the world.

A dark horse waited for him at the foot of the stairs. The horse trotted behind the cat, bringing dreams. That is why bad dreams are called nightmares, even though the horse brought all dreams, good and bad; even though the horse was a stallion.

Still, people always like to name their fears, as if the dreams were not of their making, as if they could hold a horse responsible for their terror. They do not worry so much about labeling their joys. They are glad to take credit for happiness.

The tiny cat and the great dark horse loved each other, though they never discussed it. But one night the horse was not waiting at the bottom of the stairs for the tiny cat.

That night there were no dreams. The tiny cat rushed through the night, eager to return home to see if his friend was waiting for him. The night was short, but with no dreams it seemed long. When the tiny cat returned home, there was no horse.

The cat waited for two days and two nights, but the horse did not return. He sniffed the ground, but as the horse was a creature of dreams and night imaginings, he left no droppings, only a trail of stardust.

On the third night, the cat set off without even a backward glance at the dark tower that had been his home for so long. He wandered near and he wandered far… and if I were to tell you all that the little cat saw, or to catalogue all the creatures that he met, we would be here for many, many years to come.

He slept by day and traveled by night. This was for three reasons: firstly, the little cat brought night with him, so whenever and wherever he traveled, night followed like an obedient dog. Secondly, the little cat, like all cats, was nocturnal. He saw better in dim twilight or by starry sky than under the hot, bright glare of an unforgiving sun. In the glooming the cat’s pupils would widen, allowing every tendril of light, no matter how slender, to penetrate the darkness. And lastly, because he was tracking his friend, who was after all a creature of dreams, it was only logical to pursue him at night. And the little cat was nothing if not logical.

Because the cat was, at least in part, a being of imagination he did not need normal sustenance. He ate the dreams of mice and licked the dew that congealed in droplets on the small, brilliant red and yellow toadstools that sprang from spongy mosses and out of damp soil like poison stars, smelling of dark places beneath the earth. One bite of these mushrooms and you might see visions. Two bites and you might never see again. The little cat, however, knew nothing of this, or if he did, he did not care. His only desire was to find his friend.

Where do dreams go in daylight? They reside in the memories of those who they visit changing reality forever, and so it was with the horse. The more creatures the cat met along the trail, the more he discovered about his friend’s night journeys. Everyone who had slept, and most creatures, magic or not sleep at least occasionally, had seen the horse at some time or another, just not recently.

Why and where had he gone? Without a neigh or a nuzzle, without a whimper or a whinny. Could some dark magician terrified of the terror and truth night brings have captured him? Could he have become trapped in a dream so sweet or so frightening he could not escape?

Finally, tired, and paw-sore, the little cat sank down upon a mossy bank. He closed his eyes, and for the first time ever, the dream stallion visited him in a dream.

The horse pulled back his lips, exposing his teeth. It looked like he was grinning, or maybe even sneering, but in reality, he was wafting scent molecules up a special passage horses have, to his nose. The little cat curled up his mouth in return because cats too have such a passage. Thus, they wordlessly exchanged love and information.

The horse snorted and turned, trotting off deeper into the dream and the little cat followed. It was the first time the cat had ever been inside a dream, and he marveled at the reality of fantasy and the solidity of the intangible. Together they scurried through a forest of melting magenta trees under a deep vermilion sky, the tall cobalt grass swishing damply around their legs. Only the flowers were grey and listless. Further and faster the night-stallion galloped, and soon the little black cat was running as fast as he could just to keep him in sight.

In the world outside of dreams, the night ran, chasing the little cat. People turned in their beds, restless and confused. But as is the way with dreams and darkness, when morning dawned, albeit more rapidly than usual, they forgot all about the rushing night. Still, many yawned throughout the day and wondered why they were so tired. Some blamed the unseasonable weather. Others assumed their fatigue was due to too much rich food or drink. And more than a few considered their unease was caused by heartbreak. They remembered unconsidered words and broken friendships. They recalled old lovers, relatives, and long-lost companions. Most of the time they couldn’t even recall what had caused their disagreements. And that very day they wrote letters, sent emails, or made phone calls or visits to fix old hurts, repair old wounds, correct misunderstandings and restore harmony. So, for many the whooshing night was a blessing.

But things were not so easy or happy for the racing dream stallion and the little cat. As they advanced further and further into the dream – into the nightmare – the color drained from heaven and earth. The ground grew thick as rice pudding. The sky dripped down upon them, sticky and colorless as paste. It coated their eyes, blinding them. It clogged their nostrils and throat. Indeed, if they had not been creatures of the night and magic, they would’ve suffocated. But then, if they had not been creatures of the night and magic, they wouldn’t have been trapped in a nightmare.

Soon the stallion’s hooves were stuck firmly in the dream. The air condensed around them impenetrable as despair. Luckily, the cat was far smaller and lighter. Not only was he magic, he was a cat, most supple and agile of creatures. He coiled, and contorted, bending backwards as if boneless and, after some skillful shimmying, he twisted between the particles of the dream, landing lightly on the body of the dreamer.

The dreamer was a tiny girl, delicate and breakable as a sigh. She lay, pale and almost motionless, except for the uncertain rise and fall of her fractured breathing. The little cat was surprised that such a fragile creature contained such a heavy dream.

Kneeling by the child’s bedside, a woman slept. Lines of despair etched into her still, sad face. Her hand rested upon the girl’s arm, soft but firm, as if to hold her to this life. The woman was young, but her cheeks were lined with tears. Even in her sleep they fell upon the child, hoping to heal, but the child was beyond the help of hope and tears. The bones of her tiny chest had cracked. Each wheezing inhale and exhale threatened to be her last, as if air trickled through the cracks in her skeleton, widening them with every breath.

The little cat could tell all of this in an instant, because cats, even nonmagical ones, can smell illness and sense injury in the tips of their whiskers and the pads of their feet. Light as a dream feather, he straddled the girl’s chest, placing his paws on either side of her heart, and began to knead and purr.

Now the purr of a cat, even an ordinary cat, is a magical thing. Bones strengthen, skin and soft tissues heal in harmony with the vibrations.

So, as the tiny cat made biscuits on the child’s chest, her bones knit, and the muscles, and flesh around them mended. She began to breathe deeply, and drifted into a soothing, dreamless sleep, freeing the dream stallion.

Just as he was drifting out of the girl’s consciousness, the child’s mother woke. Perhaps his hooves had brushed her dreams.

Seeing her daughter’s healthy color and hearing her untroubled, regular breathing, she held her gently and wept softly, thinking some kind of miracle had occurred.

Of course it was not a miracle. It was only the night cat. But being a human adult, the mother could not see him or sense his magic. All she could see, all she needed to see, was her child, flushed and rosy. All she could hear, all she wanted to hear, was her daughter’s breath, smooth as a cat’s purr. It was the music of life, a strong steady beat, a comforting melody, a harmony of continuance.

Released from the nightmare, the dream stallion and the tiny cat returned to the castle. There they curled up together hoof to paw, whisker to muzzle, and slept, dreaming of friendship, daylight, and journey’s ending.

The End

For now,

Until tonight