El Gato de la Muerte

Dominic sipped espresso as he watched the cat. The thing was all angular bones under tufted black fur, it slunk low to the ground, making Dom think of the Grinch as it stole the Whos’ Joy. Looking at this poor creature, Dom felt his own joy ebbing away.

The thin dark woman selling fish tacos flapped her apron, “Sal de aqui!” she screeched as the cat did also. Dom went to the woman’s stall and pointed at the fried fish. She narrowed her eyes as she assessed his station in life. She could have been 30, she could have been 50, her skin was taut and dark like tanned leather, snake nests of wrinkles wrestled at the corners of her beady black reptile eyes. She batted her eyes (Definitely thirty-something) and cooed, “Cinco dolares.”

“Tres dolares.” Dom took three American bills out of his pocket and held them up.

The woman sucked air in through the gaps in her yellow teeth then nodded.

Dom stuffed the singles into his pocket and pulled out a ten. “Tres tacos.”

She assembled the street food staple deftly. Dom tossed the ten onto the wooden counter, snatched up the greasy paper basket and headed towards the alley the cat had ducked into. It was dim, the air itself soiled and the hot, claustrophobic pressure stifling. It reeked of urine and something more pungent- cat spray. The tiny bones of birds and mice beneath the discarded crates indicated this was the cat’s home. Dom laid the tacos down by the dumpster and backed down the alley.

“Gato de la Muerte.” The voice was low and snake-raspy.

“Aaa!” Dom searched the shadows for the speaker. There. How had he missed her? Or him, it was impossible to tell. The figure was small as a child and thin as a pile of sticks. It was lying on its back. The cat was sitting on its chest, leaning forwards, as if stealing its breath. Dom squatted on his haunches next to the prone figure.

“Heh heh, didn’t see you there.” Another step and Dom would have tripped over it. He was grateful to the dark for concealing his involuntary shudder. “Er...death cat?”

The cat looked up then and leapt from the thin frail chest. The figure sat up and crossed itself as Catholics do, with long thin fingers in a V, then placed the finger V against its forehead and bowed slightly. “Gato de la Iglesia.”

“Iglesia? Church cat?”

“Sssssiii. Iglesia. Museo.”

“RrrrrrrrrrrrRRRrrrrrr.” Purring. The cat was licking the fish in the tacos delicately, as if it had been served in a five-star restaurant.

Dom looked back to the creepy little person. It was gone. The blanket was still there. Dom bent and placed a hand to the center of it. Cold, as if no one had been sitting there just a minute before. He stood and the cat watched him silently. He backed out of the alley slowly, not trusting his feet to not trip him up on things that may or not be real.

A gaggle of filthy, ragged children huddled at the mouth of the alley, uncannily drawn to American money like crows to crumbs- throw a single crumb to a single bird, and suddenly, the air is filled with caws and the frenzied flapping of wings.

Dom held out his hands to keep the dozen or so ninalitos from rushing into the alley. He bought each one a taco. He’d learned when he first came to Oaxaca six years earlier not to give them money, lest he be followed for hours by hordes of chattering children with their grimy hands outstretched. This afternoon, still unnerved by the encounter with the spectre in the alley, he halted his escape from them and came towards the oldest, a girl of about eleven. She was licking the mayo-based spicy sauce from her brown fingers and watching over the younger ones as a shepherd over his flock. As Dom neared, she smiled shyly, her haunted eyes large and beautiful.

She said, “Gracias senor.”

 “De nada. Say…has escuchado de…Iglesia de la Gato?”

“El Museo de la Gato?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Si.”

She crossed herself, placed V shaped fingers to her forehead and bowed.

“It is a church or a museum?”

She shrugged and nodded. Dom was intrigued. She spoke rapidly and he asked her to slow down. Though Mexican of heritage, he’d only learned the language the year before. He’d been born in Texas, graduated with honors, attended college in New York but found the city depressingly crowded. He made a good living as a doctor there, but he had yearned for a higher calling…a fulfillment that was missing. He’d longed to spread his wings wide and soar, something he could not do with all those tall buildings in the way: people stacked upon people, nowhere to fly. The city stank.

So, he’d moved to Oaxaca, Mexico. He worked thirty days straight and loved his work. The people were appreciative and with him to the hospital, he’d brought a wealth of modern medicines and procedures. He lived modestly. Why own a gran casa if you were never there? When his thirty days were done, he took ten days off to explore the country he adored. He travelled with his doctor’s bag, treating minor ailments during his travels. He was currently about a hundred miles from Oaxaca, in a little town called La Gloria.

“Hacia La Reforma,” the girl said and shrugged again.

“Towards La Reforma?”

“Si.”

La Reforma was only five miles north…as the crow flies. But the land was rugged forest, hills, mesas. Better to take the Vicente Camalote road to La Pedrera, then down the Tetella Vicente Camalote, essentially circling around the town and approaching it from the north. It was just after two, he had just under six hours of daylight left. A museum that may or may not be a church, or vice versa, had piqued his interest. And such an intriguing place in the middle of nowhere had his brain tingling with curiosity, and his arms shivering with goosebumps. Museums were his hobby; a close runner-up was churches. Especially those old drafty clapboard ones brimming with ghosts and the echoes of fire and brimstone.

***

Dominic pulled his jeep off the dirt road and looked around at scattering of whitewashed buildings and small boxy homes. He knew from his GPS that the large building at the end of the road was the school and the closest to him was the grocery store/gas station. He could see forest beyond the end of town, stretching far over low hills. Somewhere between it and the town was a tourist attraction, according to Google Maps, a park with cabins called Rancho de Papachelo. That was where he would start his search. He decided to stretch his legs and walk through town.

As he stood and stretched, he felt two things at once: he was being watched…and there was something off about the sky. He looked around, acting casual, at the windows and doorways in sight but the dusty street was deserted. He started walking, and then it hit him, what was wrong was the sun was too low. Yes... indeed, it was setting. But how could that be? It should be only three at the latest. He looked at his old Timex. The hands had stopped moving at 2:30, that would be right around when he’d crossed over the town line. He’d lost three hours somewhere. 'Impossible'... Ten minutes later, he came upon a brown grass field, more of a courtyard really, surrounded by squat cinderblock buildings that resembled public bathrooms more than cabins. Each one of the eight cabins had bars in their single window. Trees encircled three of the four sides of the park, the date palms and palmettos whispered crisply as the wind picked up and the sky darkened further.

Dom tried to see into one of the jailhouse-like cabins, but it was darker inside than the dusk surrounding the park.

“Buscas refugio?” A male voice, loud in the silence.

“AAAAhhh!” Dom whirled and there next to him was a man wearing gloves, carrying a rake, with sweat glistening like silver streaks from the broad forehead under the wide-brimmed straw hat, to the tip of his beard-bristled chin. A groundskeeper. Dom put a hand to his heart to contain the jackhammer just beating under his skin. He said, “No senor…” the thought of sleeping in one of these ‘cabins’ gave him the willies even worse than creepy silent people who popped out of nowhere did. “…estoy buscando…ah…iglesia o musea?”

“Ah, si. Iglesia Del Gato de la Muerte.” He crossed himself and Veed his fingers to his brow and bowed slightly.

“The Church of the Death Cat?” This was getting kookier and kookier.

“Si.” The man nodded then grew nervous, his eyes rounded, the whites glowed like a black-face comedian’s; he was looking at something over Dominic’s shoulder. Dominic turned, expecting a ghost, or a little person, shriveled as a mummy, grinning. At first, he saw nothing. Then a small shadow separated from the shadow of the cabin across the park. It was low to the ground and weasel shaped. A cat. A black one.

The gardener had turned to leave.

“Wait!”

Without turning or slowing, the man pointed at the cat. “Gato de la Iglesia. Gato de la Muerte.”

The man departed into the night. The cat sat licking its paws…and staring at Dominic, its eyes took in what meager light there was and glowed pale neon green, like poltergeist eyes. Dom stepped towards it, and it stood. “Meeerowwwr.” Then it turned and slunk between two cabins. Dom followed, using the light from his iPhone to see by. He followed the cat for two hours, aware he may be getting lost, but so sucked into the adventure he didn’t care.

At last, after another two hours, the woods grew so dense, he was crawling over logs and scrabbling through thick, soft ferns. According to his calculations, if he hiked at a rate of two miles every half hour, he’d walked about 16 miles. His legs were rubbery, but he felt renewed energy as he realized they were headed towards a light. A light in the middle of nowhere. He was so grateful to see a sign of civilization, his eyes grew hot with unshed tears.

It was a church. Pale yellow, with fabulous stained-glass windows that threw fragments of red, green, gold, and royal blue out across the neatly swept front yard. Bushes that resembled twelve-foot-tall camellias were drenched with red and pink blooms. Purple bougainvillea intertwined with the topmost boughs, and arched over the doorway. There was a black iron cat above the arched doorway in place of a sign. The cross on the totem appeared to be impaling the cat. Dom looked around, his black kitty was nowhere in sight.

The door of the building opened slowly before him. He lowered the hand he’d raised to knock. Warm orangey yellow light illuminated a long hall, at the end of it, the cat turned a corner.

“Ingressar…” The voice was mellifluous, androgenous. Dominic saw no one but obeyed and entered the hall. The building inside was vast and spacious. And as clean as any metropolitan museum he’d frequented in New York. Mellow lighting was diffused by the light coming in from the gorgeous windows. ‘Wait. Coming in?’ It was dark outside.

“Ven, estas invitada.” The voice came again.

The hall opened to a larger hall. Along the walls were clusters of old tin type photos and paintings depicting years gone by. The first display was labeled in old-timey hand font, 1565. There were just six figures in it, perhaps a family. The next was 1566, the family, or community had doubled. 1567, 1568, 1569…by 1575, the pictures featured three dozen figures, ranging in age from infant, to ancient elder. The hall went on and on, right up until the present, 2024.

Dominic was awed by this place. He felt…privileged, to be here, and yet didn’t really know where here was. There was something iggling at his brain, no matter the ethereal beauty here, he felt ill at ease. ‘Well, that voice from nowhere for one.’ As if reading his mind, the voice said, “el gato te ha elegido.” It came so close to his ear that he…

Screamed again. “AAAAgh! Enough! Stop that. And what do you mean, the cat has chosen me?” He faced a wizened small form. His first thought was, ‘skinny Yoda.’ The figure was thin though and did not sport long green ears. It was the one from the alley. It followed him as he went back to the first display and re-walked through the past to the present. The old shriveled little person (he still didn’t know if it was male or female) nodded with eyes at half mast, a knowing smile on its turtle-like lips.

Dom frowned, a hand over his mouth as he studied the exhibits again. The little person followed, a step behind him, grinning. Every now and then the elder pointed to the cat in the picture and crossed itself.

After 1575, the population never increased past 36. And in every single picture there was a black cat. The museum/church cat was back at their side. It was not skinny and starving, but Dom knew in his heart it was the same cat from the alley. It trotted out the back door.

Yellow light flickered over the threshold, outside, there was a large bonfire, eight feet high, crackling and spitting. Dom turned to ask something of the little person, but it was gone. He nearly panicked but did not understand why he was freaked out to be alone out here. He stood between the fire and the edge of the yard where tall dry grass and paleo palms rustled in the breeze.

“No estas solo.” The market woman said, right behind him. Dom didn’t scream or jump this time. He was getting used to them sneaking up on him, they were very…cat-like. “I outta put a bell on you,” he said, smiling, as he turned around.

He did jump a little then. There were three dozen people standing around the fire now, all shapes, sizes, ages. The grass rustled louder this time. The little old person came out from the fronds and walked the yard’s border, its shadow thrown against the palms and grasses by the fire like a silhouette against a movie screen; the shadow walked as erect and proud as a mighty warrior.

And then a second shadow appeared. It was barely visible as it slunk close to the ground, sinuous and fluid as a snake. It grew taller as it seemed to stalk the first shadow. Then taller still as it stood on its hind legs.

Dom searched the yard for the cat, but only the shadow of the cat existed then. Miraculously, the upright walking cat grew taller still. Dom was frozen in awe. This was all some sort of entertainment, like a puppet show. The cat grew taller still, until it was a head taller than the warrior. Then it raised an arm and flexed its fingers, each appeared to end in claws as long as steak knives. ‘No. Oh no.’

Dom took a step towards the doomed warrior, but a warm brown hand gripped his bicep like a vise.

“El Gato de la Muerte,” she said in a tone that suggested he understood it all now. But he shook his head as the shadow cat beheaded the shadow warrior.

He looked back at the congregation. They were all bowed at the waist with fingers Veed at their foreheads. Impossibly, the sky was lightening behind the church. It was as if he’d been inside studying the museum exhibits for over six hours. He went to the edge of the field and pushed through the shrubbery where he’d last seen the human figure’s shadow. At the edge of the vast cemetery was a new grave, the earth still dark and fresh smelling.

***

Dominic was back at work the next week, putting in 16- and 18-hour days in an effort to fall into sleepless exhaustion. He was losing weight and suffering panic attacks. He feared for his mental health.

On his eighth day back, he went outside at noon for some air. The street food vendor outside the hospital was the woman. She smiled. “Tiempo de ir a casa.”

Dom nodded wearily. It was time for some closure.

***

He had no trouble at all finding the museo iglesia again. It was like GPS in his soul. The second he crossed the front threshold, his headache abated, and his racing heartbeat slowed to a comfortable beat. He again marveled at the photos and paintings and portraits. He realized the ancient one from the alley was in the last 120 exhibits! He studied a portrait of a young man in uniform in 1944. He was perhaps 5’9” and handsome, smiling, and gap-toothed. He’d been Alfredo Augustus Domingez.

“Si. 120 anos.” The woman he was expecting.

“Si. A very long life.”

“La siguiente no tan vieja,” she said sadly.

“What do you mean? The next one?”

The woman led Dom out of the church grounds and to the closest tiny house in the cluster of them gathered around the field. She pushed the door open without knocking. Three people sat around a bed, the only light coming in was through the window over the bed. A mother, father, and child of about twelve. They were not crying or wailing or clutching rosary beads. They were watching the cat as it sat upon the chest of a young girl. The girl was perhaps five, pale grey, soaked wet, and shivering with fever. The cat leaned forward…as if stealing the girl’s breath.