“He lost it in a storm!” said some.

“A mischievous fairy took it in exchange for a secret!” said others.

“He left it behind in exchange for wisdom at the edge of the world!” whispered the cleverest of all.

Cat, however, would not say. Sometimes, to amuse himself, he swished the air behind him as though his tail were there, invisible to those too simple to see it.

But, Best Beloved, Cat carried a secret, and it curled inside him like the shadow he wished he could stretch. He felt small. His shadow, stubby and short, did not leap and bound across the meadow like Rabbit’s. No matter how he stretched or how he stood, his shadow refused to change. Though he was clever, nimble, and proud—as a cat ought to be—he could not help but feel less than he was.

One evening, as the shadows grew long and the other animals gathered to marvel at Rabbit’s elegant silhouette, Cat sat apart. He watched their shadows stretch across the meadow, long and graceful, and glanced at his own, stubby and unremarkable.

He stretched, he arched his back, but his shadow stubbornly remained as it was. Cat could bear it no longer. Without a word, he slipped away into the Forest of Devastation, where the trees grew tall and crooked, and their branches whispered secrets to one another.

Now, Cat did not know where he was going. He padded past mossy roots and beneath boughs that swayed as though sighing. The deeper he went, the darker the forest became until, at last, he came to the Old Oak, the oldest tree in The Glen. There, Owl perched, his great eyes gleaming like moons.

“Why do you wander, Cat-with-no-Tail?” asked Owl, and his voice was deep and slow, like the turning of the stars.

“My shadow is too small,” said Cat. “It does not look beautiful like Rabbit’s, and I feel I am less because of it.”

Owl blinked once, very slowly. “If you wish to understand, you must seek The Pool of Folly, where truths are spoken and hidden things are revealed. But beware—it is not bound to one place. It appears only to those who walk the path meant for them. And to see its truth, you must gather three things.”

“What three things?” asked Cat.

The Owl spread his wings, casting a great shadow over the forest floor, then ruffled his feathers as though it had been waiting to say the words for centuries. “You must gather a Fragment of the Eternal Dream, a Thread of the Moon’s Courage, and a Feather of the Forgotten King. These are not ordinary things, Cat-with-no-Tail. They are treasures carried by those who have known longing, loss, and love.”

Cat tilted his head, for he was clever and curious and did not yet understand. “Where will I find them?”

“Follow the path that lies before you,” said the Owl, and then, he closed his eyes slowly and turned his head just slightly to the side, as though listening to something far away, and said no more, for Owls are like that.

Feeling daunted and determined, Cat wandered deeper into the forest, where shadows grew heavier, and the air carried magic.

It was near a soft patch of moss that he met the Snail. The Snail was inching along, his shell catching the moonlight in soft swirls, and beside him lay an open book, its pages turning ever so slowly.

“What are you reading, Snail?” said Cat.

“I am reading,” said the Snail. “I am dreaming.”

“Dreaming of what?” said Cat.

“Of the stars,” said the Snail. “I dream of climbing the tallest tree and touching them, though I know I never will. My shell is too heavy, and my path is too slow. But the dreaming makes my world brighter.”

Cat twitched his ears. “If you can never reach the stars, what is the point of dreaming?”

The Snail gave him a slow, sad smile. “Because, Cat-with-no-Tail, even though I will never reach them, the stars remind me that I am part of something vast. That is enough.”

Cat blinked. “Can I take your dream with me?”

The Snail considered. “Take this.” He turned a page of his book, carefully tearing it out, and handed it to Cat. The page glowed softly as though the words themselves held the heavens above. “This is a Fragment of the Eternal Dream. Carry it carefully.”

Cat took the page and tucked it beneath his cloak.

The next creature he met was the Moth, who once had been the most beautiful and daring creature in The Glen. Her wings, painted with moonlight, had once carried her into storms and bright moonbeams, but now they were tattered and torn. Beside her lay a piece of fine embroidery, a half-finished design woven from starlight.

“Why do you sit here, Moth-with-the-Broken-Wings?” asked Cat.

“I used to fly,” said the Moth, softly. “But the wind betrayed me, and my wings were torn. Now, I sew instead. My stitches carry the dreams I once followed.”

Cat tilted his head, watching her delicate movements. “What’s the point of sewing dreams into cloth?”

The Moth smiled, though her wings trembled. “Because even now, grounded as I am, I see the world in ways I never did. My wings may not carry me, but my hands create new paths.”

She plucked a single thread from her embroidery, a silver strand, and handed it to Cat. “Take this. It is the Thread of the Moon’s Courage, for even those who have fallen can still find their light.”

Cat bowed his head and took the thread.

The last creature he met was the Raven, perched on a low branch. His feathers gleamed like spilt ink, and his crooked wings drooped at his side.

“Why are you here, Cat-with-no-Tail?” asked the Raven.

“I am searching for a feather,” said Cat.

“Then take mine,” said the Raven. “It carries the weight of a story. I wanted to lead, but I failed. My wings were strong, but my heart was not wise enough.”

“What did you do?” asked Cat.

“I listened,” said the Raven. “To the roots and the stones and the voices I had once ignored. I may not lead, but I guide in other ways.”

He plucked a feather from his crooked wing. “Take this. It is the Feather of the Forgotten King. It carries the weight of falling and finding a new place.”

Cat took the feather and padded on.

At last, The Pool of Folly revealed itself, as it does only to those who are meant to find it. Its surface was still as glass, and the stars above trembled in its depths. Cat set the treasures before him and waited.

“What is your truth?” asked the Pool.

Cat hesitated. “I… I don’t know.”

The light in the pool rippled, showing his shadow beside him—short and steady, perfectly matched to his form.

“Your truth,” the Pool whispered, “is that you are enough as you are.”

Cat’s voice trembled. “But I am lonely.”

“Loneliness is not the absence of worth,” the Pool said. “It is a reminder to reach out, to seek and be sought. You carry a dream, a story, and a truth. Share them, and you will find that you do not need to walk alone.”

When Cat returned to The Glen, the animals gathered, curious and awed by the treasures he carried. And as the sun set, his shadow stretched across the grass—not long, but steady and true.

And for the first time, Cat loved the way it was. Just so.

And now, Best Beloveds, on this quiet Sunday evening, as the fire crackles softly and the shadows stretch long across the meadow, Cat closes the storybook. He has been sitting by the hearth, reading to all who have gathered here in The Glen, where stories are the finest feast for the soul.

The little ones, their eyes heavy with dreams, are curled up in Cat’s arms, purring like the softest lullaby. The tale of the Pool of Folly has woven its magic through the room, and even the wind outside seems to have paused to listen.

“Carry the dreams you’ve heard tonight with you,” says Cat, his voice as steady as his shadow. “They belong to you now—small treasures to light your path.”

From the doorway, Mother Cat calls gently, her voice as warm as the firelight. “It’s time for bed, little ones.” The kittens stretch and yawn, blinking sleepily as they nestle closer to Cat before being gathered into their mother’s arms.

As they leave, Cat looks around the room. “To all of you listening tonight, may you find your courage, your dreams, and your truth. And remember—your shadow is yours alone, steady and strong.”

The fire flickers, the storybook rests, and The Glen sighs into the night. Wherever you are, dear listener, may your heart be full and your dreams carry you to the stars. Sleep well.

Until next time.

Follow Victoria Beata’s Storybook for a journey into the Glen, where we always have a tale to tell. Join us for adventures, heartwarming moments, and magic. There’s always a new story waiting just for you.

A little story written and illustrated for you by Victoria Beata

Copyright © 2025 Victoria Beata. All rights reserved.