Catland - a humorous fantasy

Chapter Four: Leopold's Tale

Greg stared at the cat. He must be dreaming. If he was not crazy, then he was dreaming. That was it! Dreaming! How comforting a thought that was. A person could dream about all sorts of things. Anything he liked, really! Nothing strange in it. Well, a little strange perhaps, but that could be forgiven. Besides, no one would have to know! You don't have to tell people your dreams, unless you go to a psychiatrist, and in that case they're not allowed to tell anyone else, so no harm done. Greg was dreaming about talking, sword-fighting cats, and that couldn't be so terribly unusual. It was probably in all the dream books. He wondered vaguely what the dream would turn out to mean.

Of course, there was a simple way to test it. Whether he was dreaming, that is—which he definitely was. All you had to do was pinch or prick yourself in the dream, and if you could feel pain then you weren't actually dreaming, which meant you would have to take charge of the situation and deal with reality, however strange it might be. Greg happened to be holding in his hand—in this strange dream which was definitely definitely a dream—a rather sharp object, which would do the pricking admirably. All he had to do was press the point into his finger. He definitely wouldn't feel it. And then he would be really sure he was dreaming, and all this silly anxiety would just melt away. Perhaps he could even manipulate the dream, and turn the kitchen into a beautiful beach in Tahiti, and the weird little black cat into a beautiful woman with daring taste in swimwear. People did things like that. It was certainly worth a try.

Thus decided, Greg pressed the point of the sword into his fingertip, and the pain was so sharp that he cried out and dropped the sword and pulled his finger to his mouth, and now he knew that he was definitely not dreaming, and moreover his finger really hurt.

"You're not dreaming," said the cat.

Greg glared at the cat murderously. I know that now, he wanted to say.

"I imagine you have a few questions," said the cat.

A few questions? A FEW questions??? Greg decided that he hated cats after all.

"My name is Leopold Bannockburn," continued the cat. "I am the true prince of Catland, and heir to the throne of the Lionblood."

Greg did have a few questions, but they did not include what the cat's name was or what throne it was heir to. These new pieces of information only left Greg with more questions, and he found himself growing increasingly cross.

"Look," said Greg, trying to be reasonable. "You're a cat. You're supposed to meow and sip milk and chase mice around the house. You aren't the heir to the throne of anything. You're a glorified mousetrap. And you really shouldn't be talking."

Greg thought this was a pretty good little speech, under the circumstances. But the cat was not impressed.

"I know you've had a terrible shock," said the cat—which Greg refused to think of as "Leopold Bannockburn," even in his own mind. "But there's no dodging the issue now. You have seen my true nature. You are now initiated into the secret. And I must have your word of honor that you will tell no one else what you have seen."

This was a promise that Greg could easily make. Who would he tell? How would he phrase it? What did it feel like to be locked in a straitjacket? Did they even use straitjackets anymore?

"I promise," said Greg solemnly.

"Your word of honor," persisted the cat.

"My word of honor," said Greg, using a phrase that meant virtually nothing to him. Wasn't that the same thing as a promise? Or was it something more?