Once upon a time, an old woman stirred the pot on the hearth and complained about her husband, who was late in coming home.
"I told Jeremy to come straight from the butchers. I told him not to stop at the ale-house. I told him that I was cooking his favorite stew. Why doesn't he listen?"
Lying on the floor and enjoying the fire's warmth, a large black cat with a white spot on his forehead listened. "Meow, meow," he said.
"You're quite right, Tom Cat," she
continued. "I'd be here all alone if it weren't for you. My Jeremy walks to the village to get a chicken for dinner and doesn't come home till the middle of the night. I should make him sleep in the barn. Just see if I don't. And another thing ..."
She didn't finish her sentence because the cottage door swung open and Jeremy walked in. He carried a plucked bird in one hand and used the other one to hold himself up.
He wasn't tipsy from too much ale. He was frightened, frightened nearly to death.
"Jeremy, dear Jeremy, whatever is wrong?" she asked.
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," he said, sitting in the rocking chair next to the hearth.
"You must tell me. Tom Cat and I have been worried about you all these long hours.
Haven't we, Tom?"
"Meow, meow," agreed Tom.
"It was strange, so very strange," began Jeremy. "I bought the hen and stopped by the alehouse for one pint, just one, mind.
Then I took the shortcut through the church cemetery. I wish now that I hadn't. I should have taken the long way 'round."
"But you didn't," said his wife, coaxing the story from her husband. "You took the short-cut. Then what happened?"
"I saw a procession of black cats. The moon is half full tonight, and there was just enough light. There were nine of them."
Tom Cat's ears perked up at the mention of nine black cats.
"Nine black cats, you say..." said his wife.
"Yes, nine, and they were carrying a small coffin. Four cats were on each side, and the biggest cat was leading them down the pathway. And all nine cats were black and each had a white spot on his head, just
like our Tom."
"Meow?" said Tom Cat, standing up on all four legs and moving closer to Jeremy's chair.
"Would you look at that," said the wife. "Our
Tom seems quite interested in your story."
"That he does," agreed Jeremy. "It seems he understands what I'm saying."
"Then what happened?" she asked impatiently.
"They walked right up to me, they did. I stood rooted to the ground with my mouth hanging open. I was shaking all over, like a tree in the wind, but my feet wouldn't run.
The lead cat spoke words. I don't know what they mean, but I heard them clear, I did."
Tom Cat stood up on his hind legs placing his forepaws on Jeremy's knee.
"Looks like our cat wants to know what I
heard," said Jeremy.
"So do I, so do I," cried his wife.
"It was 'Tell Tom Tildrum that old Tom Toldrum's dead! That's what he said, just as plain as day, except it was night. But I don't know what it means."
"Who's Tom Tildrum?" asked the wife.
Tom Cat leapt into the air and seemed to
grow to twice his size before landing back on the floor. "I'm Tom Tildrum," he said excit-edly. "If Tom Toldrum's dead, then I'm King of the Cats!"
Letting out a screech and yowl, he ran up the chimney and was gone into the night.
The old couple never saw him again.