Cath Palug, the clawed one.

Cats have lived with humans for centuries. We were worshipped in ancient times as gods. Now we live as pets and are shaped by humans to fit their lives. They spay us, they take out our claws. If we have kittens they are taken from us and drowned in water by callous people. They use us as they wish in the name of science.
If we are lucky we are cherished, but many a cat is thrown aside to live or die on the streets.
But once we ruled over people and one day Cath Palug will come again to avenge us.
This is her story, a story told to kittens as they curl in the warm circle of their mother’s fur. A story as rich as the warm cat milk they drink.

She was born on the edge of the land, on the edge of a storm, eyes closed fast against the world, a tiny mewling thing. No comfort from her mother, for she was a wild thing, and magical, born of a wild boar, her sister a wolf, her brother an eagle. All would grow to be the scourge of Arthur’s Britain.
A shepherd found her. He picked up the small, black scrap and she became claws. Deep ribbons of blood flowed from his hands and he threw her from him, out over the cliffs and she fell and turned and twisted and tumbled into the raging waters of The Menai Straits.
Her world became water as down she sank, but she fought against even the power of the Straits, clawing the waves as she swam, away from the land through water so swift the surface was like mirror glass. She swam, and the current pulled her on, until exhaustion claimed her. For a moment she floated, still on the surface, then the weight of water began to pull her down. As she gave herself up to death warm hands scooped her up, wrapped around her and placed her inside a dark warm cave against skin. She slipped into a sleep.

They called her Cath Palug, a miracle cat of claw and bone. She was ever the shadow of Palug’s son, would walk with him, eat with him and slept curled around his head at night. She grew, first as big as a cat, then a hound, then a horse. In any other place the boy would have been burned as a witch along with this unnatural creature, but this was Ynys Mon, the Island of Dreamers. She hunted with Palug’s boy and his hounds and she was ever the swiftest. Her claws were sharp as swords, curved like the new moon, her teeth like daggers. Most times she was the shadow of the boy, but when the moon was full, for a few days she would be gone. No one knew where, but tales would be told of devastation on the mainland, of cattle taken, of hunters who disappeared.
And so Cath Palug came to the attention of the Great King Arthur feasting at his round table in the court at Glastonbury. Boastful and bragging that he would rid the country of all who stood against his rule of law he sent out his knights to hunt the legendary wild lion of Wales. Cai went forth, with many a knight.

The day was hot when the knights came to the shore and looked across the treacherous waters to the Dreamers Isle. Sun glinted on armour and swords and spears. Flags waved in a gentle breeze. In the hush before battle the buzzards called. Distant clouds began to build, dark clouds of raven summoned by rumour of battle. And on the shore of Ynys Mon Cath Palug waited and watched, amber eyes like fire, watching the mice-men.
Little is known of the battle that followed, for humans like only to tell of their victories. Some say that Cai returned to the court of King Arthur with the head of the lion of Ynys Mon as a trophy gift to his lord. They lie.
The battle was fierce and the battle was bloody. Side by side the Dreamers and the cat fought. She clawed and she spat and she ripped and she crushed with claw and with jaw. Her claws ripped the metal of the shields, sliced through armour. Her jaws crushed the helmets and splintered bone. Nine score warriors fell before her and when the battle was over few were left to crawl back home. She feasted with the raven and buzzard and kites on the bodies of these heroes and Cai, seeing his comrades so destroyed, ran into the woods, driven mad by the slaughter until he too died and became food for the wolves.

From that day Cath Palug, the clawed one, disappeared into myth and memory. No one knew where she went, but some say that she swam across the sea to Ireland where she mated with Murchata, the Irish sea-cat. Together they would lash their tails in the water to summon up storms. And together they would swim out into the sea and claw boats down into the watery depths, hunting the sailors like cats hunt mice and amassing a huge treasure hoard. Their children are still seen today by the lucky few, when the moon is a claw moon and the shadows are deep, a movement on a hillside, a dark shape in a forest. These are the children of Cath Palug and Murchata, a shape in the gloaming, a scream in the valley.

At Ynys Mon, every year, the ravens still gather in great numbers. Thousands come from all over Wales and Ireland to roost in the trees and to remember the great battle of Cath Palug.