Slaves of the Mastery by William Nicholson Page B

hundreds of years, guarding a small spring of clear water that, it’s said, never runs dry. Dogface chose the old yew for its solitary position, and for the
fresh water supply. He eats very little, but he drinks a lot. The tree has other virtues: it’s evergreen, and so provides shelter in winter and shade in summer; its principal branches fork
above the main trunk in such a way that he has been able to build a small but secure house here; and the view to the south is spectacular.
    Dogface is a tree hermit, and therefore in theory he has no possessions. There’s the snug thatched tree-house, which he occupies but doesn’t own. There’s a water jug on a long
cord, which he uses but doesn’t own. And there’s a long thin sinuous grey cat called Mist, who keeps him company, but he doesn’t own. Here at least there’s no doubt of any
kind. Nobody owns Mist.
    This morning, the morning that everything changes, begins no differently to any other. When Dogface wakes with the dawn, Mist is there as usual, sitting on the sill of the glassless window,
watching him with a look of mild disapproval.
    ‘I do sometimes ask myself,’ says Dogface as he sits up and stretches, and shrugs off his nightgown, ‘why you trouble to stay with me. You seem to get so little pleasure from
my company.’
    ‘I don’t stay with you,’ replies Mist. ‘I’m here. You’re in my vicinity.’
    ‘So you say, Mist, so you say.’ Dogface makes his way to the hole in the tree-house floor through which he relieves himself. A narrow line of brown yew leaves below testify to the
daily cascade, as does the circle of brown grass on the ground. ‘And yet you must like me, I tell myself, or you would choose some other vicinity.’
    ‘Like you?’ says Mist. ‘Why would I like you?’
    ‘I don’t say there’s any reason to like me.’
    Dogface is not a vain man. He knows he’s strikingly ugly, with his long dog-like features and his bad eye. He knows he smells, not because he can smell himself, but because he hasn’t
washed since he settled in the tree, which is now three years, eight months and eleven days ago. Furthermore he knows he has nothing the cat wants, for the simple reason that he has nothing. But
the cat still chooses to stay.
    ‘I’ve come to the conclusion,’ he says, unreeling the jug on its long cord, ‘that your kindness to me, which I haven’t in any way earned, must come from your own
affectionate nature.’
    ‘My own affectionate nature?’ Mist watches the hermit lower the jug all the way down into the little pool at the foot of the tree. ‘You know perfectly well I’m incapable
of affection.’
    ‘So you say, Mist, so you say.’
    Dogface draws up the cord hand over hand, and swings the heavy dripping jug back into the tree-house. He holds it towards the cat. Mist jumps down from the sill, and takes three or four laps at
its brimming top. When he’s done, Dogface drinks, long and steadily, and then splashes the remainder over his face. Refreshed, he draws a deep breath, and settles down to sing the morning
song.
    Had there been a passer-by, and there are none, for there’s no road or track within sight, he would have heard nothing of the discussion between the hermit and the cat. It has taken place,
but not aloud. Dogface has lived alone for so long now that he has forgotten there’s a kind of speech that makes vibrations in the air. As for Mist, cats can’t talk. But in every other
way than sound, they have ordinary conversations, much like anyone else; and had Dogface stopped to think about this, he would have realised that this is his special value to the cat. The more
thoughtful species of animals greatly appreciate conversations with humans, but very few humans know how to do it. Mist finds Dogface ridiculous, and his chosen way of life incomprehensible, but at
least he replies when spoken to. From Mist’s point of view, there’s no way of telling which humans have this knack. All you can