Seven
Sage
Revolt, Part 1
I’m not the most interesting cat you’ll meet.
If you’re wondering, my story goes a bit like this.
My name is Sage.
I am twelve moons old.
I am part of the River province.
And I hate the number seven.
I hate a lot of things, and most of the time I have a reason for hating something.
For instance, I’ve hated the number seven from the first time I was referred to as “that Seven”, to today, and to every second of my dismal future to come.
I’m not a very cheery person, if you noticed. If you were a Seven, you’d understand. But you’re not, so allow me to explain.
In the League, we are the lowest of the low, the ones with mud constantly caked into our pelts, the ones who clean soiled bedding, the ones that even kits know they are superior to.
Sevens.
The only caste that’s closer to being equivalent to fox dung than we are are the Eights. Exiles, outcasts - basically anyone that League doesn’t like.
The caste system has been part of the League's four provinces for as long as any cat can remember. It supposedly helps bring order to our daily lives, but it’s not really helping.Of course, it benefits everyone but the Sevens and Eights, so I guess it makes sense to the upper castes.
I, along with every Seven, has had to accept the caste system for what it is. After all, if we argued with it, we would get killed. Sevens are replaceable. Feather-brained warriors evidently aren’t.
I flick a clump of dirt out from between my claws, and arch my aching back briefly.
“Hey! Seven with the grey pelt! Yeah, I’m talking to you! Get to work!” a squeaky voice orders.
I glance in the direction of the mew. A pair of amber eyes glare back at me. I roll my own green ones when he turns away, and continue to scrape clumps of moss from the base of the tree. One of the jobs of a Seven is to collect, replace, and dispose of moss, so that no cat has a chance of sleeping discomfort. Plenty of times I’ve slept on the cold forest floor because I broke some stupid rule. Maybe the upper castes should try it out themselves and redefine ‘discomfort’.
The Sevens are essentially servants, attending to the League’s every need. Today they’ve assigned us a group of newly promoted warriors - Fours - as supervisors, puffing out their chests like idiots while they watch us sweat. Like we even need supervision. It’s nearly impossible to run away, considering the amount of guards they station everywhere, though it has been done before. The cost of being caught is death. Naturally.
A League cat’s life is built eighty percent around wanting to compete in the Selection, and the other twenty percent actually being productive. The Selection is a silly event where fifty cats are chosen from across the four Provinces to flirt with the League heir and one gets selected to live happily ever after. Unless you’re a Seven, you can’t compete. And Eights obviously would be killed on the spot.
The four provinces are called Thunder, Shadow, River, and Wind. Not very original, if you ask me. Every province has a fair amount of cats living in so-called harmony. Each province is lead by Twos, a Chancellor and their deputy. The choice of a province’s deputy is influenced by how popular they are, and if they’re related to the Chancellor or not.
I hear the Fours discussing the Selection again.. Fours are warriors. They’re assigned to really any task that doesn’t require them getting their perfect pelts dirty. Only if it’s some brawl that guarantees scars or a hunting trip where they can boast three mice, you’ll just see them gossiping. Like a bunch of kits.
Kits are one caste above Sevens. The queens are always drilling into their three-sunset-old heads that they’re better than the “dirty, vile, scum-filled, insert-other-demoralizing-adjective-here flea-pelts”. After they reach six moons, they become Fives and are apprenticed to Threes or Fours. They learn how to keep their paws clean, order Sevens around, speculate silly rumors, and some even figure out how to unsheathe their claws. When their mentor decides they’re capable of not tripping over their paws and embarrassing themselves, they become Fours, or warriors. Their judgement could use a lot of improvement.
Sometimes, a Four gets a special promotion to a Three, because they stopped gossiping for three seconds to kill a den of dying fox cubs. Or, they’ve just sat around longer than other Fours and are considered “senior”. The medicine cat and elders are also Threes.
“Prince Jay will be sixteen moons soon!” an excited voice mews.
“I wonder who’ll get chosen to compete?” another whispers.
“I heard the prince prefers brown pelts over white ones! Do you think I have a chance?” the first exclaims.
I snort, waiting for the Four’s overseer to scold them. Maybe give them a good cuff over the ears, too.
“Leaf and Trout,” a voice snaps. I recognize it as Brook, one of the Threes. She seems to scorn us more than most. I imagine her blue eyes flashing in annoyance. “I’m sure His Royal Highness the Prince would be flattered to claw your fur off. Get to work, and maybe he’ll be waiting in the nursery to play a nice game of mossball with you!”
I scrape another piece of moss away from the tree trunk with an expertly trained claw. Most of the Sevens are impassive, and have learned to just do what other cats tell them to. Back at the Sevens’ sleeping nests, it’s not uncommon to hear a couple of Sevens whispering about plans to escape. I wonder if they’ll ever follow through. It’s hard being invisible, but you get used to it. After all, we’re just moving bodies that complete tasks, and the rest of the population is accustomed to our existence.
“Sunhigh, Sevens! Get moving, you lazy bunch!” Brooke commands.
I wrinkle my nose in disgust. She spent all of yesterday sunning herself on a rock, and ordering us to bring her water-soaked moss and groom her fur. Some lazy bunch we are. I pile all the moss I’d collected into a neat stack, and pick it up in my jaws.
“If one of you drops even a single piece, I’ll make sure Willow hears about this!” a Four says nervously, yelping when Brook slaps him with her tail. I recognize him as the amber-eyed warrior who scolded me earlier.
“I think you’re forgetting who’s your overseer, Dusk,” Brook says frostily. “Perhaps I’ll include this in my report to Willow and Surge. Yes, I think I will.”
Willow is the Chancellor of River. She’s one of the more level-headed Chancellors from what I’ve heard, though she’s as fierce as a hungry badger when it comes to fighting. Surge is her deputy and brother, and he’s explosive and psychotic, and just so happens to be Brook’s mate. They’re perfect for each other. I mean, their relationship was the hot gossip of River for moons. That’s how shallow our province is. Somehow, we’re not as shallow as Thunder, whose rumors make my fur crawl.
I pad over to the Three. Five other Sevens follow suit, each with a thick bundle of moss like mine. Brook signals for us to start moving. The Sevens trail behind Brook and two Fours, and another two warriors bring up the rear. We walk in silence all the way to camp. I suppose this is how it feels for prisoners after getting captured.
“Minnow, come with me to report. Dusk, Leaf, Trout - make yourself useful by directing these Sevens, then you can visit the nursery to see Prince Jay.” Trout flinches, and I swallow my amusement.
By “directing”, she means ordering us to individual dens to take out all the moss from before and replace it. We rarely are able to address higher castes unless spoken to first, and in the event we are talking to them without being called upon, it’s for complimenting them with fake praise or saying “You’re pelt is free of fleas, now, kindly stuff your head down a snake hole.”
The Three turns tail with Minnow struggling to keep up with Brook’s purposeful gait. I watch them until they disappear into Willow’s den, where I’m sure she’s discussing with Surge all the things we’ve done wrong today.
“A speck of dust got on my pelt because I was hovering over that stupid Seven’s shoulder! I was bound to get dirty, but I’ve got no common sense, so I gave them a sting to remember. Isn’t that horrible?” I grimace, hoping that the Seven - his name was Flicker, for bright eyes - wouldn’t get punished. My thoughts were interrupted by a familiar mew.
“You guys are the worst bunch of Sevens I’ve ever met. And that’s saying a lot, because you lot happen to be awful at everything you do.” Dusk sneers.
Leaf and Trout nod vigorously.
“You three all the way on the end? The entire warriors den needs moss. Hurry up, you don’t have forever!” Leaf says, flicking her tail in direction of the den. Knowing the Fours, they probably soiled it on purpose.
“And you, with the brown fur - no, not you, dimwit, we all know your fur is actually white, - yeah, you, go work on the nursery. I heard that a huge thorn was found in the moss yesterday, so don’t screw this up!”
“And you, what’s your name?” Dusk says silkily, looking at me.
“Sage.” I reply automatically, then I mentally curse.
“Sage, for not doing your job, you can check the elders for ticks and fleas. Then, you can provide them with fresh moss. And I do hope this other Seven doesn’t hate you too much for being forced to work with you.” Dusk stalks off, Leaf and Trout scrambling after him, probably discussing the latest news.
I seethe behind him, thinking of all the awful things I could do to him instead of being the submissive little Seven I am. The cat he assigned to me is Ripple, and she and I grew up together. The Sevens tend to be good friends, bonding over caste system hatred and complaints, so she doesn’t mind. If Ripple wasn’t a Seven, she would win the Selection. I’ve told her that before and she just ducks her head in embarrassment and purrs.
“What did you do, Sage, to be so disrespectful? I’m ashamed.” Ripple asks, amused, as we approach the elders’ den.
“Apparently, two seconds is the equivalent of two moons for that dolt.”
“Shh, if someone catches you...” she says, pushing me gently.
“He’s trying too hard to become a Three. I know his dream is to be an officer at the Royal City, but can’t argue that Dusk is at severe risk of self-detonation. His chest is sure to burst one day, he struts around with it puffed out so much. ” I respond, lowering my voice against my own will as we near the den the two elders share.
“Ah, two Sevens, wonderful,” a wiry brown she-cat says. Her sightless blue gaze looks up as one of her denmates pricks their ears.
“Relax,” I say, looking down at my paws. “Your pelts are to be groomed and your bedding replaced.” I cringe, as I always do. I know I sound pathetic and weak, but that’s what Sevens are.
“Speak up, I can’t hear you. Young ‘uns these days!” the elder who greeted us snaps.
“Our apologies,” Ripple cuts before I can reply. “Just sit still and we’ll do the work.”
She leans over to crack a flea clinging to a gray tom, wrinkling her nose as it falls to the floor. I tug on a tick embedded in the blind elder’s fur, and she pulls back in annoyance.
“I see Sevens are getting no better at their job.” she grunts. “They never know how to do this properly.”
I hold back a biting retort, forcing a neutral tone. “Forgive me, I’ll be gentler.” I wait for a response only to realize she’s snoring softly in her sleep. That time I can’t help but mutter under my breath.
~
Ripple and I get back to the Seven’s sleeping quarters by nightfall. It’s a bit of a ways from the main camp, down a discreet passageway through some bushes. Tucked away neatly so the upper castes can almost - almost - forget we exist.
There is a shallow impression in the ground where the Sevens sleep, giving our “camp” the nickname “the Pit”. Most of the dens are woven out of willow stems and reeds, without shiny rocks and shells decorating the entrances. Practical, just like everything the Sevens do. I think of the grandeur of the various River dens. The Pit is rarely visited by anyone other than the Sevens, but if one were to see it, they would probably sniff disdainfully at the drabness of the camp. I love the simplicity of it all. It’s a break from all the annoyances of the caste system.
I still stink of mouse bile, and so does Ripple. I begin to mutter the phrases that make me feel better after any task I am ordered to do as I stand in a small stream on the far edge of the Pit, cleaning my fur. Before I was able to start my nightly rant, Ripple broke the silence, much to my surprise.
“Threes are so…” Ripple searches for a word, leaving me free to give suggestions.
“Self-centered? Conceited? Shallow? Oh, here’s a good one - ” She interrupts me with a glare.
“I was thinking more on the lines of ‘annoying’.”
We both step out of the stream, retreating in the direction of our nests.
“Anyway, I caught that new senior warrior, the one with the silly name -”
“I can name several, and even more if you count those with silly personalities. But I assume you’re talking about Primrose.” I intercede.
Ripple huffs with a stiff nod. “She was weeping in the dirt place after we finished the moss because Dusk decided she wasn’t good enough anymore. It was quite pathetic.”
I raise my mew an octave higher. “Great skies, I can’t even comprehend how she’s feeling! Her live must be ruined!” I stop, speaking normally again. “Do they even use the word ‘comprehend’?” I ask, masking my amusement with a front of seriousness. I shrug, continuing.
Didn’t they declare their undying love for each other yesterday?”
“Yes, in the middle of camp. Stars, everyone is so dramatic.”
“You just realized?” I tease. “It’s only going to get worse when the Selection begins. Speaking of which, I hope Primrose gets chosen so we don’t have to deal with her tantrums.”
Ripple doesn’t respond, curling up in her nest without another word.
I settle down comfortably. The soft snoring of different Sevens becomes a warm rumble, and I feel my eyes drooping with tiredness.