IT was a cold and damp morning, and the threat of more rain hung darkly in the sky. Arista opened the door of the small wooden house where she lived, and a wisp of cold wind stung her face. She gasped, but still stood looking across at the green pastures, where the mist hung like a thick blanket. The early morning view she always photographed in her mind, as the beginning of every new day — be it the mist, the rain or sunshine.
Art she loved, and on her sketchpad were numerous scenes of nature and life that fascinated her young mind.
She was a dark and petite ten-year-old with long, curly black hair and big black eyes that always had a sparkle, never mind there was not always enough food on the table, or the shoes she wore had worn thin. She had dreams that she hoped could one day be realized as she carried a faded satchel with her precious few tools for learning.
A poor little girl she was, living in a squatters’ settlement because her father, a gardener, and her mother, a part-time maid, could do no better with six children in the family. She had learnt that, even though she had so little, she should give thanks and share love and kindness to all. “Artista!” her mother was calling. “I’ll be late today and I need you to be home early.” “Yes, mama!”
Arista would, ever so often, wander around, peering into flower gardens through the intricately designed grill fences of the wealthy, talking with the domestic animals she saw on the roadway, and picking wild flowers by the wayside for the lone cracked vase in her little house. “I wish,” she had often mused,” to live in a big, beautiful house with glass doors and a beautiful garden.” She knew though, that at her young age it was but just a wish.
She hurried home from school that afternoon, pausing briefly by the one house that fascinated her the most, because the design was so much like a castle and the sprawling lawn like a courtyard, when she heard a little sound, soft and weak, “Meow.” Artista looked around but saw nothing, then the sound came again from within the overgrown ginger lilies on the courtyard’s outer borders. She searched between the long stalks and looked down at a small, black kitten, wet and bedraggled, staring up at her with pitiful eyes. She picked it up gingerly and jumped back, startled as a vicious Doberman lunged at her from within the barricade of the fence.
“Bad dog!” she admonished, holding up the kitten. “Don’t you see she needs help?” The dog growled menacingly, and Arista, wrapping the trembling kitten with her face rag, put it in her satchel and ran home. She made a cozy bed for it under her bed, fed it with some of the precious little milk they had, and kept her hidden because her mother wanted no pets in the cramped house.

That night, she lay in bed listening to the howling wind, and prayed earnestly that the house doesn`t get blown down. Life was bad enough, as it was.
As she slept, the kitten, whom she had named Velvet, awoke, jumped on the bed and stared at the sleeping child. It ‘meowed’ softly, its emerald green eyes sparkling in the dark. So many days it had wandered, looking for a home, for someone to care for her and be her friend; and this poor little girl whose plate was always almost empty and who lived in an old shack had fulfilled that desire.

A black cat, tradition says, brings bad luck; but this kitten, who wore a white crest on her underbelly, could stave away the bad luck and instead bring good luck. This cat had come from a long line of felines, a dynasty when kings ruled and witches flew on brooms and cast spells and curses. She had gotten her power from a good witch with whom she had lived centuries ago, and she came back birth after birth in many homes, for the good witch had cast that spell, telling her: “One day you will find someone like me again. I have transcended some of my power to you, so when that day comes, you will bestow it on her, and our legacy will continue.”
But never did she find the one like whom she had belonged with until now.

Because of her kind heart, the poor little girl was the one, and as she slept snuggled between the patched sheets, the magical powers of a century old dynasty were bestowed upon her.
Arista knew not, as she walked to school the next morning, how much life would change for her. She stood at the side of the pot-holed road waiting to cross, but a little boy, a short distance away, grew impatient and, pulling away from his mother’s hand, ran across the road and into the path of a black land cruiser. His mother screamed, and before anyone else could move, Arista sprung forward, grabbing the child and pulling him back, saving his life by a whisker.
The mother gasped, astounded by the girl’s swift reflexes; but Arista, not waiting for anyone to say anything, hurried on to school. She herself was stunned by what had just happened.
“How did I do that?” she wondered.

She sat in class pondering the incident, until someone from the back threw a hard ball of paper that could have hit her any other day, but not today; as she spun around and caught it in a swift movement inches from her face. There were loud gasps instead of the laughter such mischief caused, and the torture of being treated as a misfit because she was a poor girl and had to endure the scorn and the taunts from the well-to-do kids.
It interrupted her focus and interest in school, and she often questioned herself, “Would I become a maid like my mother, or someone big like a manager or a doctor?”
She was a dreamer who wore rags; how real could any of her dreams become?
In art class that afternoon, her fingers seemed to have a way of their own over the art pad, and Arista stared in amazement at the finished work – a perfect sketch of a witch and a black cat.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed softly. “This will cause more taunting.”
But surprisingly, everyone praised her work, and she saw smiles on faces that had always borne looks of scorn.
“I wonder what’s going on.” Arista mused, and looking once more at the sketch, she saw — or thought she saw — a little smile on the good witch’s face.
On her way home, she paused by the castle-like house, and through the ornate gate, she saw a pretty little girl standing by the water fountain, looking at the birds. Arista had often seen her, but never once did the little girl, who looked like a princess, look her way; until today!
She turned, a sweet little smile on her face, and Arista gasped, totally surprised.

“Is there magic in the air?” she wondered, as she ran home, unaware how close she was to the answer. She reached home in a jiffy, running adroitly between moving vehicles.
“I’m so hungry,” she groaned as she pushed open the old, rickety gate. “I hope my big brother didn’t eat all the food.”
Lo and behold, the small kitchen table was filled with dishes of delicious food, and her mother was humming a little tune, a smile on her usually worried face.
Arista sat down, almost falling off the chair, and said, “Tell me this is a dream.”
“No,” her mother answered, “My mistress was in an unusually generous mood today.”
Arista sat down in deep thought for a moment, forgetting her hunger. Then she remembered Velvet. She ran to her room and found her curled up behind an old carton box. She lifted her gently, soothing her velvet fur, and it was at that moment it dawned on the little girl as she looked into the kitten’s eyes.
“It’s you Velvet, isn’t it? You have brought luck into my life.”
“Meooow!” the kitten answered, and Arista laughed, hugging her.
She used that good moment to introduce her to the family, and her mother was aghast.
“A black cat? Just when luck has come our way?” she asked.
“No mama, she’s not bad luck, she was here all the time under my bed. Look at this.”
She showed them the white crest, “I think she has brought us good luck. Please let me keep her.”
Father and mother exchanged looks, then nodded their heads.
“Okay, she can stay, but if bad tidings follow us she goes.”
Arista smiled, a strange new feeling filling her heart, and holding the kitten close, she said, “She will change our lives for the better.”
That night, as Arista slept, dreams took her across lands and seas and back into time, amongst kings and queens, witches and wizards, and battles engaged in forests and caves. She awoke in the middle of the night and sat up in bed, her wits sharp, her senses alert, a sparkle in her eyes.
Something has changed!
She stood up and walked to the door, her feet soundless on the floor, her bright eyes piercing through the dark night.
The kitten grazed against her legs, and picking her up, Arista felt the connection as she looked into her eyes. The magical power of a good witch of centuries ago and her feline companion had been transcended to her in this modern era, bringing good luck. The rags of her life were thrown to the wind as she continued now, the legacy of the good witch as a cat girl.