Frøya

The sun-baked steps each held a deep depression from the thousands of feet that had traveled up and down them over generations, but this step and this depression belonged to Kettlingur. It was just the perfect depth to cradle her body as she napped in the dappled sunlight through the late summer afternoon. She was the oldest and the wisest of the cats that haunted the isle since humans had abandoned it long ago. Below her, in a spot that got less sun, lay Prins who thought he should have the spot.

Kettlingur didn’t pay attention to him, and how his slitted eyes glared at her. He was young and his time would come to have the spot, or it wouldn’t. It was neither here nor there to her.

Instead, she daydreamed about a time when cats were worshiped on this tiny island in the middle of a lake by followers of the Witch Goddess. They had brought offerings of apples for the goddess and delights like smoked trout for the cats. Over the decades fewer and fewer of those followers came until an impossibly old woman rowed her half sinking boat, barely better than two planks of wood stringed together, to the island. She was the last and had laid down at the feet of the wind smoothed statue of the goddess and died. Her final active of piety to a goddess many would rather forget.

Being the familiars of the Witch Goddess, the cats of the isle feasted on this offering, for their deity hadn’t graced the island in longer than memory could bear and wouldn’t grudge them the meal. She had been kind to the cats and had shared many morsels with them.

This was all long before Kettlingur’s time, but the stories had been passed down from dam to kitten. Not just of the last worshiper who fed them her last gift, but of those who came before, giving them their best caught salmon and trout and Witch Goddess herself who gave them leave to hunt the little mice that ran through her garden and cellar.

Now, as the oldest, it was her turn to tell these tales. To keep the Witch Goddess alive for her worshipers, so that they would be ready to serve upon her return. Well after dark, when the hunting was over, they would gather around, even Prins, to hear the tales she had to tell.

Kettlingur arched her body. A good, deep stretch before padding to the other place that belonged to her. As the storyteller, the spot at the feet of the Witch Goddess’ statue belonged to her. A freshly caught bird already waited for her, payment for the story she would tell this night. Pouncing on her meal, she thought about what story she will tell that night. It would need to a good one for the moon was bright and high.

Slowly, the kittens and juveniles and a fair few of the adults came padding through the still warm stones before the statue. It was a small temple, but a place to worship none-the-less.

As they filled the space, Kettlingur looked upon the generations, many stemming from her own womb and decided on a story.

“Long ago before these stones were laid there was a cottage, and our great Witch Goddess lived within,” she started once all were in attendance. “She had a great scrying bowl and could see when cat or human alike needed help on her island or the lands across the water.

“One night, a human, heavily pregnant herself, rowed her boat across the lake with a newborn kitten and her struggling dam nestled in the stern as comfortable as she could make it with rags. The Witch Goddess met her at the shore.

‘What ails your cat?’ she asked carefully lifting the bundle.

‘She struggles to give birth, my lady,’ the woman, girl really, replied, tears streaming down her face. ‘Please help, she’s my only companion.’

“Leading the human to her cottage, the Witch Goddess laid the dam and her kitten before her hearth. With an expert’s eye, she looked over the dam, running a finger along her quivering belly.”

‘The kitten is stuck,’ she told the woman who sobbed beside her. ‘But all is not lost. Take the one already born and keep her warm against your breast.’ The Witch Goddess is wise and knows that kittens can die from being taken away from their dam’s warmth without a replacement source.

“The woman gently picked up the newborn kitten and cupped her to her bosom. She watched as the Witch Goddess stooped before the bundle at the hearth and rubbed and kneaded the struggling dam’s belly.

“Long minutes went by, the kitten mewing with hunger. Finally, the Witch Goddess rose from her haunches having done all she could. Taking the kitten, eyes days from opening, the Witch Goddess nestled her against her dam’s teat.

“The kitten mewed as she searched for sustenance and then clamped down, drawing rich milk from her laboring dam. The dam’s womb quivered from the milk’s let down, and a birth-slick kitten slid out. The last of her exhausted body for she was just as young as the pregnant woman.

“The Witch Goddess gently moved the cat to his mother to clean, and when she ensured all was all well as it would be, she turned to the woman whose tears were drying on her gaunt cheeks.

‘Now, let us speak of your labor, child,’ she said for little got passed her eyes. ‘Other than the bump, you are as thin as a stick. Your labor will be just as hard. Stay here and I will take care of you and the child.”

“But good grandmother, I have no way to repay you!” the woman said knuckles white from clenching the bench beneath her.

“The only payment I desire is your company and assistance. There are little ones to care for now, and I am an old woman.

‘Thus, the Witch Goddess gained her first apprentice who cared for the cats on the island so dear to her,’ Kettlingur finished before licking her paws.

It was a good story especially now with so many of her daughters’ birthing kittens of their own. The goddess would smile on them and the generations to come as she had done with the first cat to come to her island.