In which Pascal Spronk approaches Aine Kepa and what follows in Pascal's journey to maturity

Pascal reached Aine’s house and hesitated outside the property by a large oak tree. He knew she was out with her pets; he could hear her holding quiet conversation with them. He pondered how best to approach his future queen in a way that would make her think later she had chosen that path. Pascal looked down at the box in his hands. The duckling made a faint scratching sound from within its prison as it shifted position. Pascal straightened up and strode forward on short but purposeful legs.

Aine was out playing storm-the-moat with her guinea pigs and a couple of sticks. Aine’s games always involved more imagination than Pascal had and he struggled with deciphering her play whenever he came across it. The sticks indicated the front of the castle and the moat; a twig was one guinea’s weapon of choice, and the guinea playing the part of the princess wore only a wreath of dried grasses for a tiara. Pascal understood none of this and was somewhat perplexed by the levels of imagination he could not grasp.

“Hello, Aine,” he said, approaching.

Aine stopped her play and looked up.

“Hello,” she said.

“How are you doing?” Pascal asked.

“Good,” said Aine; too distracted to bother with proper grammar.

“I found a duckling,” Pascall said—forgetting all the conversational build-up he’d imagined previously.

Aine’s eyes lost their distant quality. Her black little corneas flitted past Pascal’s face and landed firmly on the box he held. She was concentrated and engaged. A guinea pig took advantage of this moment to scamper towards a delicious-looking bush, but the other stayed put, chewing a piece of hay and looking in two directions at once.

Pascal decided he must act swiftly. He crouched down and set the box in front of Aine. Her quick little fingers jumped forward and pried the box flaps apart. She peered over the top. The duckling crouched in a corner, looking up at her. His breathing had slowed to less-stressful steadiness and it seemed he was beginning to accept his adventure and perhaps enjoy it a little.

“I bet it belongs at the park,” Aine said with frightening alacrity. Pascal murmured something about how he had in fact found it there.

“Oh,” said Aine. “Then I bet the mother was around somewhere. You might have made it worse by picking it up; we might not be able to find her again.”

“Oh,” said Pascal, deflating a little as she chid him.  “Wouldn’t it be better for you to keep it, then?”

“I want to,” Aine said, her eyes never leaving the duckling and her fingers tapping on the box to keep from swooping in to seize the downy mite. “If we can find his family it might be better, though. It’s getting cold, so he might have a better chance staying with me.”

Pascal was disoriented with the jumps her brain made. “So you’ll keep him?” he asked, feeling stupid.

“No. Maybe. Well, yes if we can’t find his mother duck,” was Aine’s somewhat perplexing answer. Her fingers couldn’t stand the strain anymore, they pounced on the duckling and scooped him up to hold him close to her cheek. “I can hear his heart beating,” she said. “Look at his little feet!”

Pascal looked. The toes had tiny, translucent little claws and skin like a bat’s between each. Little veins threaded over and between each toe. After this closer look Pascal still failed to understand the tone of delight in Aine’s voice.

“He’s calmed down a little,” Pascal offered.

“You probably scared him—taking him from his home like that.”

Pascal had not previously considered his actions in this light and now felt somewhat ashamed of himself.

“I didn’t think of that,” he said. They were hard words for him to utter.

“That’s okay,” Aine’s forgiveness was quick and devastating: “you didn’t know.”

Pascal was silenced.

“Let’s go take him back and see if we can find his family,” Aine suggested, scrambling up and making time to smile at Pascal.

This was even more painful for Pascal, who rose, chastened and ready to take orders from the little girl in rainbow striped tights and a faux-fur-lined jacket. Aine gently pressed her lips against the side of the duckling’s hard, walnut-like head and put him back in his box. The duckling cheeped once from the recesses of his prison and then fell silent. Aine realized her guinea pigs were scattered through the yard. She scooped up the one by her feet, then chased down the one foraging amongst the dead leaves under the bush. Aine returned them to their cage, latched it, and then made her way back to Pascal and the box, lips moving as she had a conversation with herself and the invisible spirits and animals always hovering around her. She reached Pascal, picked up the box, and started walking out of the yard. 

It took Pascal a moment to get his body working—he was still stunned from the revelation that he had made a thoughtless decision and acted in a way that was not beneficial to one of his subjects. He trailed sadly after Aine, all the more dejected because she had refused his offer to carry the box. Her eyes had widened slightly with surprise at the thought that she might need help to carry a cardboard box containing only a now-empty water dish and a several-ounce duckling.

For the first time in his life Pascal felt unnecessary.  

In which Pascal has lunch with his parents and also makes a plan

During lunch Pascal went out of his way to be gracious and thoughtful towards the Spronks; he answered their questions and asked them about what they expected of work and play for the next week. Pascal was a very tactful child and knew it would be inappropriate to ask them about their morning. The Spronks recognized that their child was a bit odd. He was, however, an intelligent, polite, handsome little boy, and they accepted his quirks unflinchingly so long as they didn’t bring him or anyone else to any harm. Due to his politic maneuverings at the lunch table, Pascal thought the Spronks would be open to his request for further outdoors adventuring that afternoon. He asked. The Spronks were clever and sometimes knew when they were being manipulated. They realized this was one of those times, but nevertheless they granted their son’s request.

“One stipulation,” Mr. Spronk said. “You need to tell us where you’re going to be, and be there.”

“Okay,” said Pascal, reasoning that this was very fair. “I’ll stay in our backyard… or the Kepas’.” He suddenly remembered he’d better include that vital information.

“The Kepas’?” inquired Mrs. Spronk, intrigued.

“It’s for a project.” Pascal looked to his father to see if he’d picked up on the hint. Mr. Spronk had just put a fork full of food in his mouth but quickly withdrew it.

“Ah,” he said. “Pascal was telling me about that; he’ll show us later. I guess Aine’s helping him with it.”

“That's fine, then.” Mrs. Spronk was satisfied.

Pascal thought to himself that he’d been given very excellent subjects to rule over. They cared for him very well, but did not let the responsibility they’d been entrusted with get the best of their better natures. They stayed humble and relaxed about Pascal’s gentle insistence that he sometimes had important things to do that did not require their assistance.

Pascal asked to be excused, and waited until he was given permission. He put his dishes in the sink and padded across the kitchen floor to the back door, leaving his parents in quiet communion with each other. Pascal put on his shoes, pulled on his coat, and went outside. He walked across the backyard and opened the shed door. He heard a sudden scrabbling in the cardboard duckling prison, and was glad that his leverage was still alive. Pascal opened the top of the box and peeked in. The bread crusts were gone and the duckling was standing quite still in a corner of the box and looking up at Pascal. The boy closed the lid up again and sat down to think out his strategy. 

He finally decided on the story that would allow him to be the most honest with Aine without admitting he made up the necessity. He would bring the duckling to Aine and request her help in caring for it. Pascal was quite sure that she must be very intelligent because of the way she never noticed anything anybody said or did; her own private mental landscape provided her with enough stimulation that there was no need for any other human interaction. She would make a good queen. Pascal, of course, failed to remember that he also was human and therefore unnecessary for Aine’s happiness. But never mind that now. 

Pascal reopened the box and hesitated. He wished to take the water dish out but was unsure about how aggressive the duckling would be. He’d heard that generally it was the mother duck that attacked, but perhaps a duckling would also be defensive. Pascal would not blame the duckling if that was the case. Pascal recalled he wasn’t sure of the dentition of Anatidae family members. This thusly decided his next course of action; he would leave the water dish well enough alone and let it slosh around as it desired. Pascal carefully picked up the cardboard box and began the walk to Aine’s house. 

In which Pascal has duckling success but fails to be a perfect potentate

As Pascal traversed the backyards and asphalt roads to his duckling destination, he found that the empty, hollow place in his soul was momentarily filled with purpose and meaning. He thought about Aine and her eyes, he thought about how Aine’s kingdom and his would mesh perfectly and spread out lovely reaching fingers to gather up the tattered, ravaged backyards into a powerful and lovely land. Aine’s backyard would be the mecca of it all. Grateful and awe-filled subjects would travel there regularly to pay their respects to their queen’s birthplace. Suddenly Pascal realized he was standing at the outskirts of the park.

The day was chilly and there were only a few people and some leaves were scattered over the public property. Pascal saw no ducks and for a long, cold instant he thought he had imagined them. But no, there was a duckling poking at a dried leaf under a weary-looking bush. Pascal pondered his means of attack. He imagined he could outrun a duckling, but if it took to the water Pascal’s cause was lost. He would also need to account for the ferocious mother duck. He couldn’t see her, but he remembered being bitten at a younger and tender age by a possessive duck who thought he was expressing too much interest in her nest. Pascal put his finger in his mouth and sucked on it, remembering bygone pain. Pascal took the finger out again quickly—he’d spied the mother duck. She and her brood were some distance away being fed stale morsels that fell through trembly old hands. She was distracted. Now Pascal could concentrate on stalking the duckling without fear of an offensive by an irate hen-duck. Pascal felt a sudden bond with the loner duckling; he admired independence and was drawn to this duckling that gave up the sure reward of a handout breadcrumb dinner for the satisfaction a few self-captured crickets would give. If ducklings ate crickets. Pascal wasn’t sure what they ate besides bread-products, but he was fairly sure they didn’t nurse.

Pascal looked around, and began strolling along the right-hand side of the pond’s shore, so as to secure a position betwixt the duckling and its escape route. The path curved away to the left of the duckling and Pascal had to leave it and trek through soggy ground to reach his destination. As his socks and feet grew wetter, he sighed, but persevered. The duckling had yet to notice him, and Pascal rejoiced a little.

Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Spronk had discovered that Pascal Spronk was not in any of the conjoining backyards and after a brief meeting, Mr. Spronk had set out on foot to search while Mrs. Spronk called around to ask if any neighbours were aiding and abetting Pascal in their kitchens.

“Such a nice boy!” they always said when they returned him.

Pascal thought it wise to keep up good relations with his various subjects, and would sometimes drop by for a chat and some tea and cookies. The Spronks were fairly unperturbed about losing Pascal, as it frequently happened, and he had an odd habit of never really getting in trouble. Nevertheless, it was then, and is now good parenting to know where one’s child is at all times. Consequently Mr. Spronk was out walking and calling Pascal’s name to the surrounding areas in a conversational sort of tone, and Mrs. Spronk was calling up the neighbours and inquiring about their days and state of wellness before bringing up the subject of her misplaced child.

“By the way,” she would add, as she was about to hang up. “Have you seen Pascal?”

Gradually Mr. Spronk made his way to the park, still calling. The sounds of the public sphere blocked any noticeable reception of sounds from the parental sphere, and Pascal continued, uninterrupted, in his duckling stalk. He had almost reached the ideal spot between the duckling and the water when the duckling looked up at him. Pascal stopped and looked back. The duckling cocked its head to the side and swayed a little on its unsteady feet as a gust of wind blew by. Pascal was close enough he could see its downy chest heaving quickly. He knew he had to act. He set the cardboard box down and shook out the dishcloth to its full size. Then he began to move toward the duckling. The duckling hesitated one moment, then shot away from him and began skimming the ground toward the pond. Pascal ran. He knew he would have no chance if the duckling reached the water, and the thought of Aine’s attentions gave his feet wings. He soared like Hermes to his goal and was somewhat surprised when he broke from his god-like reverie and his run to find himself standing by the shore with a struggling duckling swaddled in the dishcloth.

“Success,” Pascal said to the duckling. 

It stopped struggling and lay supine in his hands. Pascal looked at it for a moment, then began walking back to his abandoned cardboard box. He reached it, crouched down, placed the duckling inside, and closed the lid. He stood up and looked down at the box. It suddenly hit him that he should probably feed the duckling to keep it well and content in its captivity. Pascal pulled the bread and crackers out of his voluminous pockets, opened them, and decided to try a few crackers himself as a reward for his hard work. He dropped the rest in the box, closed it up again, and picked the box up. The taste of success filled his mouth along with the leftover crackers. 

Suddenly he heard his name called. Pascal turned around and saw Mr. Spronk striding toward him.

“There you are,” Mr. Spronk said. “You didn’t tell your mother you were coming to the park.”

“Oh,” said Pascal, slightly taken aback. “No, I didn't.”

Mr. Spronk sighed. “We don’t mind you visiting the neighbours, but there are a lot of strangers who come through here—next time you need to go with someone else and let us know where you are.”

Pascal apologized. As the Spronks did not usually mind his wanderings, it had not occurred to him to inform them of his whereabouts. He regretted that his actions had caused them any worry—and he suspected that it had—and resolved not to do it again. The two of them began to walk home. Mr. Spronk looked down at Pascal.

“Want me to carry that for you?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” Pascal said. “It’s not heavy.”

“What’s in it?” Mr. Spronk asked.

“A useful thing for a project I’m doing,” Pascal responded. He was not a liar, but he was private. Then he felt badly about worrying Mr. Spronk by not warning him about his adventure. “I’ll show you later,” he added, to encourage Mr. Spronk. “I want to make sure it works first.”

Pascal not being the type to regularly express interest in adopting animals—a very real worry for most parents—Mr. Spronk didn’t suspect that the box contained anything but some sort of harmless inanimate object. He understood his son’s reserve.

“That’s alright, then,” he said, ruffling his son’s hair with his hand.

Pascal bore it with good will, remembering he was partly at fault in all of this. It was kind of Mr. Spronk not to pry into matters that didn’t concern him.

They reached home in time for lunch. Mrs. Spronk was beginning to worry a bit, since no phone call had given her any information about her son’s whereabouts. Mr. Spronk went inside to tell his wife he’d found their wayward son and Pascal went to install the duckling in a temporary home in the shed. He gave his captive a dish of water, crumbled up the bread, and sprinkled it in the box. A few pieces fell on the duckling; he shook them off and eyed Pascal with bright black duckling eyes like little black-beetle exoskeletons. Pascal eyed him back, and then he closed up the box and went in to lunch, satisfied with his morning’s work.

In which Pascal makes plans and a tempting and somewhat inappropriate idea suggests itself

The next day Pascal got up and had a polite and chill breakfast with the Spronks. He then took an apple from the fruit bowl and went outside. Climbing onto the chicken shed roof he sat down and began to plan his mode of attack—not on Aine’s affections, but merely her consciousness. He knew it would take a small, defenseless, and possibly wounded animal. He occasionally came across small, defenseless, and wounded animals and cared for them. They always died. He assumed this was the normal way of things and failed to see how a small dead creature would help him work his way into Aine’s consciousness. It seemed rather counter-intuitive to him. But somehow he knew she would appreciate receiving a small animal despite the fact that its untimely demise would soon follow. Pascal took a bite of the apple and pondered this. He would have to pretend he needed Aine's help. They would bond over their inability to save whatever poor creature fell into their lives. Idly he scanned the surrounding countryside from his perch and suddenly he snapped out of his reverie. A couple streets over was a small park. In this park there was a pond. Several types of ducks lived in this pond, and, wonder of wonders, Pascal had just spied a duck leading a very untimely batch of ducklings. The feathery puffs skimmed along the ground after their mother, pompoms of cuteness tearing a hole in the fabric of autumn.  

They all appeared completely healthy and would doubtless be difficult to apprehend, but when Pascal looked at them, all he could see were Aine’s large, blue eyes, looking up at him and registering his existence in the world.

It was too tempting; Pascal would steal a duckling and present it to Aine. He would pretend he’d found it weeping small duckling tears beside its mother’s broken body. The mother would have been slain by a passing Audi. Or perhaps a scooter. Pascal was unsure which would be more likely to elicit sympathy from Aine and supply much-needed veracity to his fabrication. He would think about that later. For now he needed to catch a duckling. He slid to the ground and abandoned the rest of his apple; he would be unable to taste and enjoy the sweet fruit of the earth until he had fulfilled his duckling quest.

Pascal Spronk found a cardboard box amongst the sprawling cobwebs of the shed, appropriated three slices of bread and a package of crackers from the Spronk larders, and began the trek to the park.

In which we continue to meet Aine Kepa and also witness an interaction betwixt our protagonists

Aine never thought of her life as a rulership. She had a grey striped cat named Mitt, a budgederie named Bird, and a Mini Rex rabbit and two guinea pigs with no names at all. She cared for them and they worshipped her in the respectful and terrified way small animals of limited intelligence do—quivering with pleasure and worry every time she noted them. Aine had been given charge of them, but she didn’t realize how much power she had. She was equally unaware of the power she had over her parents. At any rate, she ruled as benevolently as did her neighbor, Pascal, but a good deal more ignorant of her  rule than he was of his.

It was Friday afternoon. Aine would return home from school every Friday and clean her subjects’ cages. On this particular Friday Aine had finished these duties and was playing with her rabbit. She proffered a clover leaf trio to him and he devoured it slowly, his jaws working frantically and his body not moving an inch. So engrossed in this was Aine that she failed to notice Pascal’s approach. He stood in front of her, straddling the ground, arms locked behind his back. He was used to being noticed. That fact that Aine didn’t always notice him was frustrating and appealing. He coughed. The rabbit froze, a clover stem lunging out from between his furry lips. His eyes glazed over, and Aine looked up.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello, Aine,” Pascal said. He always called his subjects and peers by their names, to be courteous.

Aine poked the end of the clover stem and applied a slight, constant pressure on it. Pascal didn’t move. The rabbit’s heart began beating again and he finishing masticating his dinner.

“What’re you doing?” Pascal said.

Aine looked up at him, her eyes wide and clear of thoughts. “Playing,” she said. “Do you want to?” she asked, to be polite. She hadn’t really any use for company.

“No, thank you” Pascal said, turning his head to look at a tree so Aine wouldn’t notice how much he did want to join her. “I better get home,” he said, after a moment.

“Okay,” Aine responded, distracted by her rabbit’s twitching whiskers.

Pascal waited for Aine’s valediction, but it didn’t come. “Well, goodbye,” he said.

“Bye.” Aine was examining the variations of design in her rabbit’s fur and marveling silently at its softness.

Pascal watched her for another moment before he lost hope of more of a farewell from her. He turned and walked back across her yard and slipped through a break in the bushes. He plucked a dead branch off of one and made his way home, whipping it at things along the way, and nodding to his scurrying subjects as he passed them. 

As he journeyed through his serfs’ lands towards his own little palace yards, Pascal pondered ways to get Aine to notice him. His adoration recognized Aine as a neighbour’s princess-daughter, not as Pascal’s own subject. He had no power over her, and was painfully conscious that she was not in awe of him. It would be tricky, but Pascal knew that he was clever and that he had forces at his command: forces Aine would notice. Pascal had observed her discreetly for months. He knew that she cared very much for the little animals under her care and noticed precisely nothing else. Pascal would use this to his advantage.

Aine, meanwhile, had already forgotten about her tête-à-tête with Pascal and was proffering her rabbit a wilting dandelion leaf. 

In which we begin to meet Aine Kepa, but do not finish meeting her because work was three hours longer than expected today, and I fell into the black hole of awesomeness that is "Scrubs"

Pascal Spronk was in love. As passionate a love as a boy of his age could be in, anyhow. Five houses down and two over there lived a girl named Aine Kepa. She was not lord and emperor of her land the way Pascal was of his. As a matter of fact, Aine did not know that she ruled over anything. In the morning she would sit at a plain wooden table and eat cornflakes. During this time she would stare with great concentration at the back of the cereal box. Her parents thought that she was very intelligent because she was able to sit quietly and concentrate for long periods of time, her little legs swinging a bit because they couldn’t reach the tile floor beneath her. When Aine finished her cereal she would slip to the ground and pad softly across the kitchen floor, her blue socks a buffer against the cold tiles for her tiny feet.  She would place her bowl into the sink where it would make a wet clinking noise she always appreciated. Her mother would ask what she had been thinking of, and Aine would look up at her, her wide, wise eyes expressing surprise, and reply that she didn’t know.

“It’s because she’s so smart,” Aine’s parents told the pediatrician. “She thinks so much she can’t remember everything that goes through her head.”

The pediatrician did not have a reply to this comment that would allow him to keep the Kepas’ business. Besides, he liked Aine and was interested in her as a personality. She was polite and she was quiet and solemn when she was required to receive injections. She would sit still, her legs swinging from the table, and watch the nurse’s preparations and follow-through with interest. She never cried. She seemed mostly intrigued and mildly perplexed by the fuss the adults made, hoping to stave off hysterics. The trouble they went through was unnecessary. Aine would take the proffered stickers in basic colours featuring ducks and giraffes in happy harmony. She would accept the lollipop graciously, thank the nurse, and pad quietly out of the office, gripping her mother’s hand. 

In which we meet Pascal Spronk

Pascal Spronk stood atop the chicken shed roof, surveying his kingdom. It was a vast and impressive empire, sprawling from the Adamses’ broken hammock to the Joneses’ now-empty kennel. Pascal missed the Joneses’ bloodhound dog, Robert. The Joneses had called him “Bob,” but Pascal disdained such presumptive familiarity and had always greeted the dog by his proper name. Robert had been dutifully awed by and accepting of Pascal’s rule, and very appreciative of any and all sandwich crumbs. Whenever Pascal had mitigated a possibly nuclear situation betwixt the neighbourhood cats, or pronounced some particularly wise ruling for the Adamses' toddler, playing in the sandbox, he would bring his juicebox and cookies over to the Jones’ kennel. Once there he gripped chain-link with toes and grubby, prehensile fingers, and climbed nimbly over with the air of one who knows his will is unchallenged. Pascal would then lean against the bloodhound’s cavernous chest and feed him cookies (Robert preferred oatmeal cranberry); both boy and dog were content in each other’s company.

Now Robert was gone—the victim of some disease Pascal did not understand and was not informed of by either the Joneses or the middle-aged couple that lived in Pascal’s house. He wondered, sometimes, about it. But Pascal must ignore all that he does not know—he has not yet reached the age where understanding is linked with the acceptance of ignorance. That understanding would come, when his rule would extend over more territory than currently. For the time at hand, though, he ruled his remaining subjects with a benevolent, if slightly self-gratified rule.

Pascal Spronk did not recall a day he had not ruled. His earliest memories involved the middle-aged couple leaping about in shameful ways to fulfill his every desire and need. As he grew older, and in wisdom and kindness, Pascal took pity on them and tried to make his demands less burdensome. Their embarrassing reactions had lessened accordingly, the pitches of their voices lowered and calmed, and they wept less often than before. He brought them his art projects from the university and gifts from the fields. They loved it all. So proud were they of their emperor, they displayed his gifts to them ostentatiously on their appliances for their common friends to see. Pascal blushed a little at all of this, but the shallow corner of his soul was gratified by their delight. He graciously continued to offer them gifts, since he saw how well it pleased them.

Pascal’s subjects were happy and prosperous, and that is the universal sign that a good emperor rules a land.

But now Pascal stood atop the chicken shed, empty now of all chickens, and surveyed his kingdom, and felt a sadness he did not understand. He had felt sadness before, but that was briefly and, in context, understandable: when Robert had passed away; when Pascal had thoughtlessly made a comment to the middle-aged woman that caused her to cry; when Pascal had rescued a baby bird from the tomcat across the road, but had only made it in time to feel the little bird’s chest rise and fall several times in quick terror before it stretched out its tiny stick legs and, tremblingly grasping at Pascal’s pinky finger, died.  

Pascal had had reasons for all those sadnesses; this was a sadness that made no sense. His subjects were still happy and prosperous, and Pascal had been productive that day—rising early, working quietly and gently with his royal construction company so as not to disturb the middle-aged couple’s repose, and making his own little breakfast before leaving the comfort of his palace to see to the welfare and comfort of his outdoor subjects.

Pascal pondered this tenacious sadness and tried to discover its origin. Some things were changing—his university classes had begun again, and the leaves had passed their autumn peak and begun to fall and crisp, leaving their parents bare, thin, and sad. The wind’s coming was no longer a delight to flushed cheeks, but a cause to withdraw inwards upon oneself and seek shelter. These were merely changes that must have happened before. Pascal Spronk did not understand why there now seemed to be a correlation between the changes, and an abiding sadness. Perhaps it was only now that he was noticing the changes and pondering them, and that was causing his sadness. This still did not make sense to him; he enjoyed his university, classmates, and classes, and he loved the colours of fall. One of his chief joys in life was playing solemnly in a pile of sugar maple leaves for hours at a time. The leaves seemed almost, in some lights, to take on a glow as if they were being lit from behind, or as if they were the cocoons of magical butterflies, preparing to emerge in a dazzle of light and brilliance.

How are these things that cause sadness?

Pascal watched a yellow leaf slip from amongst its brethren in the upper reaches of a mighty tree and fall quietly to the ground. Pascal’s heart was pierced by the beauty of the thing. Briefly he felt a flash of joy and the sharp pain of sorrow, and then the feelings subsided. Pascal released the remains of a cookie from the depths of the patched pocket of his pants and chewed on them, wondering. Sated physically, yet still confused in soul, Pascal slipped down from the chicken shed roof. He knew a neighbour’s eyes were on him, but ignored them. He was not in the frame of mind to talk to his subject right now. Anyway, he had matters of his own to attend to.

It was almost the time of day that a skinny mother cat would show up for the food assistance Pascal could provide for her. She was shy and refused to let him touch or look at her. He understood her actions were a result of fear and mistreatment at another ruler’s hands, and did not begrudge her that. Every day Pascal saved her a little piece of bread or meat from his breakfast and placed it under a rhododendron bush against the back fence. The mother cat would creep under a gap in the fence, keeping to the sparse shadows of the generic landscaping choices, and make her shy way to the rhododendron. She would delicately snatch the morsel up, while keeping Pascal in her sights. Then she would turn, and slip back quietly from whence she came. Pascal, out of kindness, would busy himself with other matters and turn his back to her when she came to receive his gift to her. She was proud and afraid, and he cared for her.

Pascal ruled well.