Flight from Red Mountain

You may have heard of me. If you’re a cat lover, you most certainly will have heard of me, though you will not necessarily wholly approve of me. I split opinion. Or more to the point, though it doesn’t always feel that way, the Monty Ross cats split opinion.

     I am credited with introducing the breed to this country. Which is, in a sense, true. It is generally believed they are called after a descendant of mine. This is wholly false. My surname is “Ross”, which is handy, but to the best of my knowledge no twice great uncle or three times great grandfather of mine bore the name Monty, Montague, Montmorency, or anything of that nature.

     Everyone agrees that they are quite possibly the most beautiful cats that have ever been seen. Even lifelong ailurophobes exclaim in delight at the sheer aesthetic pleasure of seeing their glowing fur, its rich, pure ivory, interspersed with markings that would make the most perfect peach look wizened and faded, and at their brilliant blue eyes. They cannot resist stroking their fur, that feels like silk and velvet mixed up, and yet would make silk and velvet feel coarse in comparison. 

     They have a miaow that has been compared to the cry of a baby but it is, for the most part, a contented baby, a knowing baby, innocence and wisdom combined.

     But they haven’t been accepted by the Cat Fancy, that curiously named feline equivalent of the Kennel Club. They have cracked down on selective breeding and the like, which I suppose is a good thing. Anyway, none of the Monty Ross cats and their owners would be remotely interested in cat shows. 

     Seven years ago, almost to the day, I was on holiday in Italy. It was one of those holidays that I couldn’t really afford, but I decided that I could justify it – after all, it was heavily discounted. It was to an area that was a bit off the tourist trail, though it wasn’t that far from Lake Como, and though I know it’s the oldest cliché in the book, it was a place where time seemed to have stood still. Oh, let me quantify that! There was electricity, and running water, and a wi-fi signal, and cars, yet, somehow, always the sense that they could have managed perfectly well without them, as long as they had their friendly little streets, and their heady local red wine, and their music, and, always, the prospect of the mountains, wearing their autumn raiment, and seeming both nearby and far away.

     On the third day of my holiday, I decided to take a drive into those mountains. I lived in the flat county of Lincolnshire, and wasn’t used to steep gradients and sheer drops, but by some curious paradox, as the gradients grew steeper and the drops grew sheerer, my unease abated. I steered the car round a hairpin bend, and before me stood Monte Rosso, the Red Mountain. There was no sign saying it was called that, but it was obvious it must be. It seemed to be in a state of perpetual sunset or sunrise, something both natural and magical. When I first glanced it, I was surprised to see a building there, but within a heartbeat, it was almost an organic part of the landscape, its towers and turrets, its windows reflecting the perpetual sunset. 

     I pulled up the car, and realised that someone was coming out to greet me. He was wearing some kind of religious habit, but I would have been hard pushed to relate it to any specific denomination or faith. He bowed in welcome, and I returned it, feeling both his dignity and nobility and his simplicity and warmth. “We thought you may be coming, child,” he said “I am Brother Gaetano”. As he held up his arms, as if in blessing, I realised that inside his capacious sleeves, there were two cats, one on either side, the most beautiful cats I had ever seen, with fur like ivory and peaches and eyes more brilliant blue than the Mediterranean under the strongest sunlight. “Oh, they’re beautiful!” I exclaimed. To this day I’m not sure if we were talking in Italian or English. Or both. Or neither.

     He nodded. “Now, my dear ones, go and greet our visitor.” And even as he spoke, the cats spread their wings and flew from the sanctuary of his sleeves to my waiting arms. They gave me a quizzical look as if to say, what have we done that’s so surprising, and folded their wings into their fur, so they were invisible. 

     “No, your eyes are not deceiving you,” said Brother Gaetano, “And the high altitude has not befuddled your brain. You saw what you saw. There is really nothing strange or bizarre about it, it’s just what most people are not used to. But here at Monte Rosso, they are no oddity, no freak of nature, but our dear friends. That is how it has always been.” I heard a sudden sadness in his voice, and looking into his face realised that I was speaking to a very old man. His own eyes, soft brown ones, were still alive with quick intelligence and intuition, and his back was not crooked, nor his gait hobbling, but I had the sensation that this was the oldest person I had ever met. As if reading my thoughts, he said, “I am not the oldest one here, and some have become infirm. We have not discovered the secret of immortality, or anything like that, and I am glad we have not, though I am sad that this place will soon be empty and overgrown, and only full of echoes. Still, that is the way of things. Our friends grow old, too. Not as quickly as others of their kind, and yet the day comes when they take wing forever. It would, I believe, be a terrible shame if they did not grace this good earth of ours any longer.” He went on to tell me that the cats that were now nestling in my arms, seeming both to sleep and to be alert at the same time, were among the youngest at Monte Rosso, a male and a female. “You were sent to us for a reason. You are entirely at liberty to refuse. But look how they rest and purr in your arms. They know it, too.” I was about to come out with all manner of practical words about it surely being better to find someone in the same country, and how, though I loved cats, I hadn’t intended adopting a new one at the moment. But they evaporated on my lips. I only knew that I had been trusted with something wonderful, and I nodded.

     Of course, those practical considerations came back. It took time to get pet passports and the thought of these gentle, wise, beautiful creatures being confined in even the kindest quarantine was unthinkably awful. But suddenly I knew, without Brother Gaetano needing to tell me, that I had no need to worry about that. They had wings. They could fly. 

     I had a long talk with Brother Gaetano when I went back to Monte Rosso the next day. He said that the cats would never lose their wings, because that was how God made them, nor their ability to fly, but they could take their own night flights, and would not fret in the day time, and had a gentle, loving nature. I didn’t need to be told that. “I would ask you not to tell people, child,” he said, quietly, “Those who are meant to will find out for themselves. And please, keep our secrets, too. Let us rest in the earth of our mountain in the rays of the setting sun.”

     I’m not quite sure when the Monty Ross business occurred to me, though I am pretty certain it wasn’t until the cats that had first nestled in my arms, Felicia and Fernando, welcomed their kittens into the world. And yes, that is exactly what I mean. Monty Ross cats make wonderful, kind fathers. That is another thing that makes people swear that there must have been some genetic manipulation. But I could almost hear Brother Gaetano’s low, musical voice telling me it was a righteous deception, and he had always like plays on words. 

     So people think they know me. Matilda Ross. Either the person who introduced the most beautiful cats who ever existed into this country, or the person who played with nature and is regarded with suspicion. Felicia and Fernando have great grand-kittens, now, and they all are just as beautiful, just as pure ivory and glowing peach, with the same brilliant blue eyes, and they all have wings, though it is up to them whether they choose to show them.

     Some day I may return to that area, but I will not seek out Monte Rosso. I will let it, and its inhabitants, rest in the good earth and the perpetual sunset, watched over by their friends.