Her eyes were of gold, of gold, of gold
And she was most old, most old

Lucas was the first to leave. In her hut at the village edge, Old Ana stirred her midnight brew and watched him stumble past, a witch-led boy taking footstep after footstep in the wake of a luscious beast. She wore the likeness of a jaguar, with fat and silent tread. Her eyes glimmered like the foil with which we wrap festival sweets; her pelt was amber spotted with chocolate.

We raised lanterns, shook the trees in case Lucas might fall out, but all we did was fill our hair with leaves, puddle our boots in mud. At heart, we knew where he was gone. Knew who’d taken him. Knew it would be minutes and not hours before we followed, each and every one. A trickle became a stream, became a torrent as we crossed the bridge between worlds and into our new home.

Her eyes were of gold, of gold, of gold
And she was most old, most old

In one night, we shook off the dust of human: shook off hatred, envy, anger, argument, all that tastes untrue. Fools say we lost everything. We declare it was a rejoicing to shrug such weight from our shoulders.

From the greatest to the smallest, we are feline kin: leopard godmothers, ocelot sisters, cougar uncles, tiger brothers, caracal cousins. Most wonderful of all, our jaguar mother who saved us from a broken land, where night was fearsome with starveling shadows. Here, the darkness is delicious.

Her eyes were of gold, of gold, of gold
And she was most old, most old

When you are grown, I shall take you to the brink of our kingdom and show you the ruins of all we left behind. We shall greet Old Ana, stirring her brew of wondrous herbs, and she will bend and pet us from tip to tail. We shall curl around her ankles and she will remark what a pretty thing you are, and we shall bestow upon her a generosity of purring.

When we murmur, Come with us, Ana will smile and shake her head. Someone must watch over the gate. Someone must act the giddy bird when men come with cameras and microphones and machines for detecting disappearance. She knows the truth of what and where we are. Knows about the night of our escape and keeps our secret.

So, sleep my little one. Rest safe, my kitten. Here, the midnight sky is beaten silver, the constellations a river of indigo. See, Mama is stretching to pluck the sweetest from the heavens, to make you a supper of stars.

Her eyes were of gold, of gold, of gold
And she was most old, most old