One life. Many chapters. Beneath the stars of Matariki.
This short story imagines an old cat reflecting on a lifetime of love, loss, belonging and change beneath the winter sky over Diamond Harbour.
* * * * * * * * *
Before dawn, the harbour barely breathes.
I sit on the seat at the jetty. Across the water, the lights of Lyttelton Port shimmer beneath the stars. Every year, when the nights are longest, the nine whetu in the Matariki group return. I’ve watched for them through many winters.
Humans say that cats have nine lives. I never believed that. I have had only one. But it has held many lives inside it.
First, I was the smallest thing, shivering under the shed in a wet paddock. My mother did not come back. I almost didn’t either. The first star rises.
Then came the boy with muddy knees and a quiet voice. He smelled of grass and milk and kindness. He picked me up and my heart, which had raced like a frightened drum, learned a new beat. The second star glows.
I learned to love lying in the warm sun on the doorstep. I even learned to love the dog who wanted to be my friend. We patrolled the boundary together, two creatures who belonged. The third star joins the others.
Years pass. The boy grew tall and his voice deepened. He left with a bag and a promise to return. I waited on the step for many evenings, but I never saw him again. The fourth star burns steadily.
Then came the night of the storm. The wind tore at the trees. Every familiar smell disappeared beneath the rain. I ran until my paws hurt, searching for the boy, the dog, for home. In the morning, the world smelled new and washed. The fifth star flickers.
Later, the woman with silver hair arrived. She spoke softly and left a saucer by the back door. She did not try to touch me. She didn’t need to. We are both old. The sixth star rises.
There were long seasons of mice and long seasons of sleep. I knew every stone in the garden, every turn of the path, every window and the faces that looked out from them.
Sometimes there were new faces, small ones, with sticky hands and flushed cheeks. Sometimes were are no faces at all, only wind. The seventh star shimmers.
My joints have become stiff and stairs are for younger cats. I choose the flat places now, and the sun when it appears. I have learned that everything changes and yet everything remains. The eighth star hangs above the harbour.
And now—this night. The air smells of frost and smoke from someone’s log burner. The town is hushed and the water is ink. I am an old cat with a rough coat and slow steps, and I am not afraid of the darkness.
The ninth star joins its sisters.
Humans always said cats had nine lives. Beneath the stars of Matariki, with the harbour before me as it has always been, I realise they were wrong. I have only ever had one. It has simply been full.
That is enough.