The following morning, once the squalls had
passed, Timothy stepped out again into the big, wide world — and was instantly
entranced by what he saw.
The land before him was still moist, and it
glittered in the early morning sunshine, adding a new layer of color to an
already complex palette. In a flight of fancy, Timothy imagined the Maker’s
emissaries descending from the firmament during the night and draping the field
in a web of diamonds.
And there was more. For you see, Timothy
recognized in a flash that his initial judgment of the plain had been faulty.
It wasn’t uninhabited; on the contrary, it was teeming with life.
To his right, an industrious brown spider swung between blades of grass,
weaving a web with a geometric precision that rivaled the blueprints of
Peacefield’s most famous engineers. To his left, a butterfly lit on a nearby
blossom to feed on the nectar within, spreading its spectacular orange wings to
take in the warmth of the dawn. And swarming by his feet was a line of black
ants who marched off to Maker knew where, chittering and waving their antennae
as they communicated amongst themselves.
These were lesser creatures - creatures that
hadn’t been touched with the light of the Mind - but they were the Maker’s all
the same. And for that reason alone, they were beautiful.
“You seem quite transported, my dear mouse.”
Timothy startled, then turned to his teacher,
who was currently hunched before the flag and pawing at the soil to scare up
his morning’s repast. Timothy grimaced a little as he watched Master John
snatch and swallow a fat green caterpillar. “Does it bother you sometimes,” he
asked, hesitant, “that you must hunt meat to live?”
“Hmm.” The cat sat back on his haunches, his
expression thoughtful. “It would be rather silly for me to resent my Nature.
The Maker designed me this way for reasons beyond my ken. But it does
bother me when others of my kind allow Nature to dictate their every act. Our
instincts are meant to be harnessed by rules — by Reason.”
“And that’s why you only eat the lesser
animals?”
“That’s right.” Off Timothy’s uncertain
expression, Master John then added, “But make no mistake, young Timothy: I
respect these creatures too. I never consume more than I require for
sustenance. And I never toy with them before I eat. That is feral — beneath a
proper cat.”
Timothy gazed again at the spider’s web, which
had grown more complex as he and Master John had conversed. “Still — it seems a
shame that you are forced to destroy things that are capable of such feats.”
“Ah. Well, you are not the first to express such
sentiments. Come — take your place on my back, and I will tell you another
story of my brief time at Alexandria.”
This time, as Master John walked in the
direction of the White Flower Inn, Timothy felt bold enough to reach out his
paw and seize one of the purple flowers that grew along their path. He closely
examined the bloom’s silky petals and yellow stamen as his companion launched
into his tale.
“Among Mistress Rachel’s many disciples was a
philosopher cat by the name of Master Dunkin who taught that Nature was, in
fact, a lie — that what we call Nature could be remade through the application
of Will. And he railed most passionately against predation and the consumption
of flesh.”
“So what happened to him?”
Master John wound his way around a rock that
impeded their progress and leapt across a small stream. “Well, like Mistress
Rachel, he was quite persuasive. Many young students joined his pact and
limited their meals to plants and seeds.”
“And then?”
“And then they discovered fairly quickly that such a diet could not sustain a cat. They became ill and listless. And eventually, the more sensible among this group gave up their quest and returned to eating meat.” Then Master John sighed. “But sadly, Master Dunkin refused to admit that he had erred — even after he went blind and his heart started to fail.”
Timothy shuddered, disturbed by the account.
“Why would he do that? Why would anyone choose to disbelieve the evidence of
their own senses?”
“Reason is not a perfect instrument, little one.
If we are possessed by Ideology, we will see what we want to see — and not what
is.”
Timothy carefully placed his earlier acquisition
in his pack, touching the flower one more time before he closed the flap. As an
artist, he would always remain in the realm of the real. After all, there was
enough in the Maker’s world to inspire a thousand paintings.
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