Royal Archives of the Midnight Kingdom
Archive Record #BK-01
The Bells and the Mountain
As remembered by Lily
Our first evening in the house found us exactly where sensible kittens belonged: hidden.
The humans had spent the entire afternoon carrying us from room to room, introducing us to food dishes, litter boxes, scratching posts, and furniture that smelled strongly of strangers who no longer lived there. Every doorway opened into another enormous space filled with unfamiliar sounds. Appliances hummed behind walls. Floorboards creaked when nobody seemed to be walking on them. Voices drifted through vents from places we couldn't see. Somewhere deep in the house, a clock ticked steadily, measuring time we had no interest in keeping.
Apparently, we were expected to trust all of it immediately.
We trusted none of it.
Instead, Zephyr and I retreated to the spare room. Old books filled an entire wall from floor to ceiling, and the room carried the comforting scent of paper, dust, wood polish, and sunlight that had been warming the shelves all afternoon. The lower bookcases offered several excellent hiding places, and from our chosen position we could watch the doorway while remaining completely concealed.
It was a perfect arrangement.
At least it had been until the bells happened.
The human claims the bells were necessary. According to them, two tiny Bengal kittens loose in a new house were difficult to tell apart. Personally, I have always considered this explanation questionable. Zephyr and I looked nothing alike. At least not to anyone paying attention.
Unfortunately, humans rarely do.
The evidence arrived in the form of two collars, each fitted with a tiny brass bell.
The collars were acceptable.
The bells were not.
The moment Zephyr moved, the problem became obvious.
She shifted her front paws.
Jingle.
She turned her head.
Jingle.
Her ears flattened.
Jingle.
Across the shelf, I had to look away before I laughed.
"I hate it," she announced.
"You've mentioned that."
"I know. I still hate it."
The bell punctuated the statement with another cheerful jingle.
Zephyr glared at it. The bell appeared entirely unconcerned.
For the next several minutes she launched an increasingly determined campaign against the offending object. She scratched at it, bit at it, rolled onto her back, and attempted to trap it beneath both paws. Every effort only produced more jingling. The bell seemed delighted by the attention.
I observed from a safe distance.
Experience had already taught me that Zephyr approaching a problem with enthusiasm rarely improved the situation.
Eventually she sat upright and fixed me with a look of profound irritation.
"They said this helps them tell us apart."
"That's what they said."
"We look completely different."
"Obviously."
To us, the differences seemed impossible to miss. Zephyr was bold where I was cautious. She investigated danger directly. I preferred gathering information from a safe distance and then deciding whether danger deserved further attention. She moved first and considered consequences later. I considered consequences immediately and often found them persuasive.
Yet somehow the human remained confused.
Zephyr glanced toward the hallway where they had disappeared.
"Maybe they're blind."
"It's possible."
"It would explain a lot."
"It really would."
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of food.
The humans returned carrying bowls, and both of us abandoned our complaints immediately. Some priorities transcend personal suffering. We climbed down from the bookshelf and followed. The bells announced our approach long before we arrived.
The human laughed. "Listen to them."
"They're so tiny."
Tiny. I disliked that word. Unfortunately, it was accurate. At that age the world felt impossibly large. The couch resembled a cliff face. Dining chairs looked like climbing equipment. Kitchen counters seemed to exist in another atmosphere entirely. Even the humans appeared absurdly tall. Which is why both of us stopped the moment we entered the living room. At the far end of the room stood a cat tree. To call it a cat tree feels inadequate. It was a monument.
The structure rose nearly to the ceiling on massive scratching posts wrapped in rope. Platforms branched outward in every direction. Tunnels connected levels. Hammocks hung between supports. Sunlight from a nearby window illuminated the upper reaches, turning them gold.
For a long moment neither of us spoke.
Then Zephyr breathed, "Oh."
That single word contained enough excitement to make me nervous.
"That's high," I observed.
"It's magnificent."
"It looks dangerous."
"It looks important."
Those statements were not mutually exclusive.
The humans continued talking somewhere behind us, but neither kitten heard a word. Our attention belonged entirely to the mountain.
Beside me, Zephyr took a step forward.
The bell jingled.
I closed my eyes.
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You don't have to."
"What does that mean?"
"You have the climbing look."
"I do not have a climbing look."
"You absolutely do."
She glanced toward the highest platform. Then she glanced at me. Then she looked back at the platform again.
"We should climb it."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because we just got here."
"Exactly."
"That's not a reason."
"It is if you're me."
Unfortunately, it was.
The first leap did not go entirely according to plan. Zephyr launched herself toward the lowest platform with tremendous confidence and only moderate success. She hit the edge, slid halfway back down, caught herself with all four paws, and scrambled upward in a blur of claws and determination.
A moment later she peered over the edge.
"I meant to do that."
"No, you didn't."
"Mostly."
From the floor, I considered my options. Remaining where I was seemed sensible. Following Zephyr seemed inevitable. A few minutes later I found myself climbing. The rope felt rough beneath my paws, and the higher we went, the more the house began to change.
From the floor everything had felt enormous and unfamiliar. From the tree, we could see the shape of things. Hallways connected to rooms. Rooms connected to other rooms. Windows offered lookout points. Furniture created pathways. Hiding places revealed themselves from above.
The mountain wasn't simply furniture.
It was information.
Every level offered a new discovery. A tunnel led to a hammock. The hammock swallowed Zephyr almost immediately. A dangling mouse demanded investigation. A hidden perch overlooked the front door. Another platform provided a perfect view of the kitchen.
Each discovery delayed the climb.
Neither of us minded.
By the time we finally stopped, we had reached a broad platform overlooking most of the room. Warm sunlight settled across our fur, and far below us the humans moved through the house carrying boxes and talking quietly.
The couch seemed smaller from up here.
The room felt friendlier.
The world no longer appeared quite so overwhelming.
For a while we simply sat together and watched.
Then Zephyr leaned lightly against my shoulder.
"You know," she said, "I think we're going to like it here."
I looked around at the sunlight, the mountain, the endless rooms waiting to be explored, and the humans below. Then I looked at my sister. For once, I found myself agreeing. "Maybe," I said.
Above us, the highest platform still waited.
But mountains are patient things.
There would be time for summits tomorrow.
