Once upon a time in England, there lived an old man and woman, good folk, and hardworking. Jack, for that was the old man's name, worked as a gravedigger in the graveyard near the church, and it was here that the bones of many of the people of the village lay buried.
Many times in that old graveyard as Jack picked at the dirt, he said his prayers. Sometimes he wondered if the spirits were watching him work, and Jack would try to talk to them. "Are ye thinking of the good old days?" he wondered aloud one evening, looking at the grave of his old friend Bill.He listened closely to hear if there was an answer to his call, but heard only the wail of the wind rushing through leaves. He listened harder. "Is that ye, Wheeler?" he asked, standing beside the fresh grave of his friend Dan Wheeler, who had died just weeks before. And then he felt something brush past his leg. He let out a gasp.
"That you, Dan Wheeler?"
He held himself still as stone. Once again he felt something brush past his leg. Peering through the fading light, he looked down, and found himself staring into one bright yellow eye. He blinked, and when he looked again, he saw another eye, this one bright green.
Trembling from head to toe, old Jack bent down, and that's when he heard the loud "Meeeooowww."
He laughed most heartily with relief. "Why, it's a cat," he said aloud, and the cat meowed once more, answering him.
"Old fella, you frightened me," Jack said. "I thought you might just be the spirits moving through." Then he slung his pick and shovel over his shoulder and trudged back home, thinking all the while of the fine supper his wife, Elizabeth, would have waiting for him.
When he arrived, he saw that the cat had followed him. Elizabeth came out on the porch to meet him.
"This cat followed me home," Jack said.
Elizabeth looked at the cat and smiled. "He's a large fellow," she said, for indeed he was.
That night the great black cat with a white patch on his chest, one green eye and one yellow, and a crook in his tail moved into their tiny cottage.
For many years Jack and Elizabeth and Tom, for that is what they called the cat, lived happily together.
One All Hallows Eve, Jack was standing in the graveyard, admiring his long day's work. He smiled, enjoying the cool autumn evening, and puffed away on his pipe. A sliver of a moon was visible in the sky. "Now, spirits," Jack said in a hush, for Elizabeth often teased him for thinking he could speak to spirits, "it's time I head home."
Just then he heard a sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his arms break out in goose bumps.
He heard the moaning once again, and a long, deep meow. "Must be Tom," Jack said, but he knew that could not be. Tom wouldn't be here now. Tom never went into the cold when he could lie by the fire. He was a lazy fellow, and in all these years, Tom had become lazier still.
The moaning came again, and Jack turned and looked over his shoulder. He squinted into the fading light, in the direction of the sound, staring hard through the dozens of tombstones.
Now Jack began to tremble, for he was certain he could see something move. His heart began to pound in his chest, and sweat poured from his brow. "I'm imagining things," he said aloud, but sure enough, he could see clearly. Through the graveyard came a huge black cat, walking proudly along, and behind him came eight more, walking on hind legs, carrying on their shoulders a tiny coffin draped in purple. Atop the coffin lay a golden crown.
Jack could not move, so frightened was he. The nine cats were marching toward him, and with each step they howled as if in agony.
As they came closer, Jack could see their bright golden eyes shining in the fading light, and the sound of their moaning was the saddest sound he'd ever heard. He began to mutter every prayer he could remember. "Bless me, Father, for I . . . am scared," and his teeth began to chatter, and his knees began to quake.
Just then the cats stopped marching toward him. They stood still as could be, the coffin on their shoulders, and the big black cat who led the procession called out, "You there. Jack!"
Jack's heart pounded so hard, he could barely hear over the sound. He stared back at the cat but could not speak.
"Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toldrum's dead."
Well, that was enough for poor old Jack. He dropped his pick and shovel and bolted down the road. When he reached the house, he ran inside and locked the door behind him.
"Jack, what's wrong?" asked Elizabeth, staring at his pale face and the sweat pouring from his forehead.
He stood against the door and gasped for breath. "Who is Tom Tildrum, that's what I'd like to know."
"Never heard of him," said Elizabeth. "Who wants to know? Were ye talking to the spirits again now, Jack?" she asked gently.
"You'll never believe this," Jack groaned, and began to tell his tale.
Now as he was speaking, old Tom perked up. He opened one eye, and his whiskers twitched, and he sidled close to listen.
"Look here," said Jack, pointing down at Tom, "it's almost as if he's listening."
"Don't be silly," said Elizabeth. "Go on. Tell the story."
"There were nine cats," he said, and he told her about the coffin and the crown on its top, and began to imitate the way they all meowed. And then old Tom sat straight up, and his ears rose, too. He meowed.
"Just like that," said Jack, "and then the biggest cat of all said this to me, said he, `Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toldrum's dead.' "
Now old Tom opened both eyes and arched his back. His kinked tail stood up straight as an arrow, and he swelled so big he was bigger than a dog.
"Look at our Tom," Elizabeth cried.
Just when she said that, Tom opened his mouth, and he said: "What? Old Tim is dead? That means I'm King of the Cats!"
And before Jack and Elizabeth could say another word, Tom leaped up the chimney and disappeared in a cloud of soot, and the old couple never saw him again. But many people tell the tale of the King of the Cats, for a great many people say they have met him!