cat; and this I can verily believe as I gaze upon him who sitteth purring before
the fire. For the cat is cryptic, and close to strange things which men cannot
see. He is the soul of antique Aegyptus, and bearer of tales from forgotten
cities in Meroe and Ophir. He is the kin of the jungle's lords, and heir to the
secrets of hoary and sinister Africa. The Sphinx is his cousin, and he speaks
her language; but he is more ancient than the Sphinx, and remembers that which
she hath forgotten.
In Ulthar, before ever the burgesses forbade the killing of cats, there dwelt an
old cotter and his wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats of their
neighbors. Why they did this I know not; save that many hate the voice of the
cat in the night, and take it ill that cats should run stealthily about yards
and gardens at twilight. But whatever the reason, this old man and woman took
pleasure in trapping and slaying every cat which came near to their hovel; and
from some of the sounds heard after dark, many villagers fancied that the manner
of slaying was exceedingly peculiar. But the villagers did not discuss such
things with the old man and his wife; because of the habitual expression on the
withered faces of the two, and because their cottage was so small and so darkly
hidden under spreading oaks at the back of a neglected yard. In truth, much as
the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they feared them more; and instead of
berating them as brutal assassins, merely took care that no cherished pet or
mouser should stray toward the remote hovel under the dark trees. When through
some unavoidable oversight a cat was missed, and sounds heard after dark, the
loser would lament impotently; or console himself by thanking Fate that it was
not one of his children who had thus vanished. For the people of Ulthar were
simple, and knew not whence it is all cats first came.
One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the South entered the narrow cobbled
streets of Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk
who passed through the village twice every year. In the market-place they told
fortunes for silver, and bought gay beads from the merchants. What was the land
of these wanderers none could tell; but it was seen that they were given to
strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their wagons strange
figures with human bodies and the heads of cats, hawks, rams and lions. And the
leader of the caravan wore a headdress with two horns and a curious disk betwixt
the horns.
There was in this singular caravan a little boy with no father or mother, but
only a tiny black kitten to cherish. The plague had not been kind to him, yet
had left him this small furry thing to mitigate his sorrow; and when one is very
young, one can find great relief in the lively antics of a black kitten. So the
boy whom the dark people called Menes smiled more often than he wept as he sat
playing with his graceful kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon.
On the third morning of the wanderers' stay in Ulthar, Menes could not find his
kitten; and as he sobbed aloud in the market-place certain villagers told him of
the old man and his wife, and of sounds heard in the night. And when he heard
these things his sobbing gave place to meditation, and finally to prayer. He
stretched out his arms toward the sun and prayed in a tongue no villager could
understand; though indeed the villagers did not try very hard to understand,
since their attention was mostly taken up by the sky and the odd shapes the
clouds were assuming. It was very peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his
petition there seemed to form overhead the shadowy, nebulous figures of exotic
things; of hybrid creatures crowned with horn-flanked disks. Nature is full of
such illusions to impress the imaginative.
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