The First Life of Princess Jellybean

Over a decade ago, the sun held low in the sky as it does now.

He laid still in his nest. She traced a delicate paw over his neck, stopping just below his left shoulder. Silence.

As she carefully removed his velvet cloak, she wondered again how the fabric looked so pristine against the tattered ruins around him. Up close, though, she could finally see the frayed edges. It was softer than it looked.

She dragged the cloak across the spotless floor until she reached the window. She swung it through the opening, impaled it on the cloudy broken glass. It hung like a tapestry, a flag, a sign for the cats hidden in wait below. She almost expected some immediate reaction—maybe the birds would stop singing, maybe cats would yowl in triumph or fury—but the day was yet unchanged.

She turned away from the window and walked back to the despot’s corpse. His eyes were still open, face still twisted with fury and betrayal. With a gentle paw she closed his lips and eyes. It wasn’t a gesture of respect, but it might buy her some time. If one of his allies came to his quarters, perhaps they would find him in assumed sleep.

It was time to leave, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the now-peaceful body. The cat in front of her wouldn’t again breathe or run or even curl up in sleep. Was this how Bonbon, her mother, had looked when she was still too small to open her eyes?

Black spots threatened to overwhelm her vision, and she choked back her misplaced grief. Bonbon had loved and been loved. The despot had loved none but himself, taking more and more from the cats he ruled over until they were hungry and sick and, some of them, as dead as he was now.

She hated him. Despised him, loathed him even now as his body grew cold in front of her. Her only solace was knowing that no cats would ever again suffer under the despot’s rule. She’d committed herself to healing his colony. Who could have foreseen that foxglove would be the final cure for what ailed them?

When she left the despot’s quarters, she didn’t look back.

The Stronghold was a sprawling, ruinous maze where they said humans once taught their young. She’d grown familiar with its many corridors in the months since she’d been taken there, summoned to ease the Rot of the ruling caste while their subjects suffered outside.

She kept her head low, murmuring polite greetings to the few cats late to sleep as she passed. They were the enemy now, she reminded herself. Her ears were pointed back as if waiting for an alarm cry to raise, and her anxiety multiplied with every step. She forced the fur on her back to lie flat, her paws not to run.

At last she made it to the disused storage closet on the ground floor where a flimsy cabinet door covered the lone unguarded entrance to the building. The narrow hole was concealed by rosebushes from the outside, and she was quite sure that none of the Stronghold cats knew of its existence. The building’s crumbling walls were full of gaps, but all of the others were either long since patched or guarded by sentries. When she’d found this hole a month prior, she could hardly fit a paw into it. She’d since clawed it wide enough for her to slip through, then wide enough for a larger cat.

“Princess Jellybean!”

She’d only opened the cabinet door when the voice made her startle. There was only one cat who would expect her here, only one cat who would use both of her names instead of dropping the Princess out of overzealous respect to the despot’s authority. “Lazlo!”

For a moment she thought her friend was outside, until she saw his yellow eyes reflecting the low light of the entrance. He’d tucked himself into the cabinet, legs akimbo, his crow-black pelt melting into the shadows.

Princess Jellybean almost wanted to laugh at the sight of him, or to weep with relief that she had made it to him and to the outside. Instead, all she said was “I killed him."

“I know,” Lazlo said, his voice gentle as it always was. “We saw his cloak in the window. Are you okay?”

PJ had to consider the question—she’d been expecting merely praise or congratulations. But she didn’t feel any doubt when she finally smiled. “Never better.”

She followed the young tomcat outside and through the roses lining the building until they reached the other cats gathered in wait. She’d met a few of them passing messages to and from the Stronghold, but their numbers surprised her. Were there really so many cats willing to risk everything for the goal they shared? The answer was clear in their faces—many were sick or starving or old, but all had the same hungry determination in their eyes.

“They’re waiting for you to lead us,” Lazlo said, and PJ balked. “You’re the only rebel who’s spent time inside the Stronghold,” He explained. “I know you’re not a fighter, but you’re clever and brave. Will you guide us?”

PJ looked across the gathered cats. She expected condescending, skeptical gazes like the ones she’d grown used to seeing on the faces of nobles. To them she was only the little healer, barely more than a girl, perhaps good with a few plants and berries but hardly worth taking seriously. Now, though, Princess Jellybean was looked at with eyes full of respect and admiration. She was the killer of the despot.

“I will,” She said, and she led the way.

When the last rebel had made it through the hole and into the storage closet, PJ explained her plan. “The ground floor is occupied by soldiers and some staff lucky enough to den here instead of in the basement. Lower nobles and commanders live on the second. The despot is dead, of course, and his closest allies are on the third floor. The soldiers should be in their barracks. If we can sneak past them, we can take our fight right to the cats who deserve it.”

As they crept through the deserted hallways, PJ at the helm, Lazlo kept close to her. “When we’re finished here, things will be different,” He whispered to her, his voice light and earnest despite the tense circumstances. “Our lives will be whatever we want them to be.”

Princess Jellybean suddenly knew what she wanted her life to be. She turned and quickly pressed her nose to Lazlo’s. The pair continued to the third floor in happy, blushing silence until a thunder of pawsteps below them pulled them from their daydreams. A yowl rang out as the Stronghold soldiers met the rebels posted on the stairwell.

Almost at once the third floor nobles rushed into the hallway, and PJ’s rebels were surrounded. She whipped around to face the soldiers as they reached the third floor and threw themselves into the fight. The nobles wouldn’t dirty their own claws, not when they had their army at the ready.

The colliding groups of cats descended into chaos. Brown fur flashed across PJ’s vision and before she could react, Lazlo was pinned beneath a tabby soldier. She hurled herself against the soldier, but she was soft and small and Lazlo had been right that she wasn’t a fighter. The tabby easily batted her away, and as PJ fell, recognition dawned in both mollies’ eyes. PJ had been a midwife to the soldier near the beginning of her stay at the Stronghold.

“Please,” She begged, “Don’t hurt him.”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t,” The soldier growled. Her claws dug into the dark tom’s neck, but her eyes betrayed confliction.

“You’re a soldier,” PJ began as she stood, “So you outrank me, a healer. You fight for these cats.” She waved her tail at the bright-eyed nobility watching the battle. “And for your service they give you meager meals, a bed to sleep in. But what of your kittens?”

The hallway seemed to quiet, or maybe PJ’s voice was merely louder. She kept her eyes on the tabby soldier. “Your kittens won’t inherit your rank. Will they grow up to follow in your pawsteps, expendable lives in the eyes of those above them? Or will they be cast out of the Stronghold and onto the streets, fending for themselves while the cats in power take every third fish they catch from the lake and half of every plant they grow?”

“I’m not expendable,” The soldier spat. Her claws were retracted.

“Then why do they not fight with you?” PJ glanced at the nobles, who were watching the battle with keen interest but making no moves to join in. The hallway had grown quieter, and PJ was certain now that other soldiers were listening.

“Your leader is dead!” PJ yowled, and the corridor fell still. The nobles glanced nervously amongst themselves, aware that the despot was not among them and surely wondering if their healer’s words could be true. “We are not your enemy! Our enemy is the Stronghold, and if you join us we can end their rule over us!”

Lazlo now stood at PJ’s side, the tabby soldier at his. PJ turned away from the soldiers when it was clear that the fight was over.

“Do you yield?” She addressed the nobles who stood uncertainly in front of their open doors. None dared speak. “I said, do you yield?!”