Of course young Wilbur was eager to enjoy his new incarnation as a man of property.

But he soon realized he must do as the moth commanded. He was simply too good and moral a youth to prosper from treasure earned through evil deeds and questionable practices. So, like a sinner carrying a burden of guilt, he carried his box of gold to the lip of the land.

As a sullen fog wiped color from the world, Wilbur watched waves roll and listened to the heavy hiss of the surf. He breathed deeply of the salty air, shrugged, then hurled handfuls of shimmering coins into the bottomless void.

Orphaned, and destitute, Wilbur felt that he, too, might as well be a corpse. He fell onto the beach in a faint, hoping as he lost consciousness that the incoming tide would soon end his misery. And his bones would have been toys for a mermaid, but for a school of mindless sardines which ventured toward shore, attracted by the sparkles of gold that had rained on the water.

The dean of sardines informed his followers that the golden sparks must be caused by hundreds of fish-cherubs frolicking in the rollers. Thus, when the tide lifted Wilbur in its wet arms and carried him off toward the horizon, those misguided sardines formed a natural raft that supported his body and bore him to an alien part of the world.

While he traveled, Wilbur dreamed of the moth again. This time it was busy pulling itself free from the web of a smug and patient spider.

Considering that this moth had caused him to surrender all chance for happy affluence, Wilbur sided with the spider. It would be a cheerful thing to watch that winged conscience stung, then sucked dry of its preaching. But the resourceful moth managed to escape.

"You did the right thing," it said to Wilbur, gasping after its ordeal. "Your reward will be peace of mind. And remember, sometimes great sacrifice transforms to great gain." The frustrated spider snickered and broke wind, which Wilbur himself might have done had his responses been quicker.

"How could I have been such a fool as to take the word of a vaporized spirit from the realm of darkness? What must my father and mother think of me now?"

"Fair question," the moth said. "Frankly, I was taken aback by your gullibility. Most people give me short shrift or worse. I can only conclude that you are the product of excellent nurture, tranquil toilet training, and a mother who was close to a saint."

Wilbur woke, drenched and weak, on a foreign shore. He learned he was still alive when a scavenger crab bit his toe. While he howled in pain, he surveyed a landscape more barren and ominous than the one he had left.

Mounds of black ash and rock stretched to a forest where from a few stumpy trees dangled pinched, wrinkled fruit. Even the sparse population of birds looked exhausted and depressed. They wailed like mourning doves.

Wilbur took stock of his assets. His total currency was his youth and three wriggling sardines he found trapped in the pocket of his tunic.

At least he could have a snack before exploring this unknown kingdom. Wilbur laid the wrigglers on a flat stone and tucked a frayed handkerchief into his shirt to serve as a bib. But before he could enjoy even that modest morsel, it was stolen from him. The strangest beast he had ever seen came bounding out of nowhere, a black furry thing with a tail like a brush and a mouth full of menacing teeth. It moved quick as time, jumping and dodging every obstacle. In a blink, the creature gobbled up the doomed sardines and vanished.

Wilbur sighed, the experience confirming that this new country was no hospitable host. Still, he shook off his lethargy and trudged in the direction of the sunset.

After walking many miles over treacherous terrain, now with the moon at his back, Wilbur spotted a pinpoint of light. Falling into holes and stumbling on gnarled vines, he made the light his beacon, even as his nemesis moth would have done, driven by instinct, hypnotized beyond risk.

If that light was the fire destined to consume him, so be it. Wilbur was too weary, hungry, and thirsty to consider wiser choices.

Finally, Wilbur saw a nice enough house made more cheerful by a cluster of candles he could see through the window and the smells of hot food. He girded his loins, smoothed back his hair, tucked in his shirt, and ventured to tap at the door.

His tap got no answer so he rapped harder, then forgot the better rules of conduct and pushed at the barrier. The door swung open as if bolts and locks had not been invented.

Wilbur found himself in a well-furnished room. He heard sounds of creaky singing. He peered into a kitchen where a fire blazed in the hearth and quickly determined that the broken chords of song came from the oldest crone he had ever seen. As she chanted her buoyant, if fractured, melody, she leaned over a stove where delicious things fried, boiled, and simmered, making music of their own.

"Excuse me, grandmother," Wilbur said. "I am a famished stranger and mean no harm. I come in peace and ask only . . . " The woman paid him no heed. It did not take long for him to realize she was as deaf as indifference and blind as certainty.

While she carried a splendid assortment of vittles to her table, Wilbur reached out to touch her brittle shoulder. "Stop that, you ignorant cat," she snapped. "Where have you been? They came from the palace to fetch you and were very cross with me, I can tell you. Since the King's ambassadors will not return until tomorrow, have your dinner and sleep. I want you at your best, believe me, for you must justify your high price. Our beloved ruler is a fair and tolerant man, but a stickler for value."

"As was my father," Wilbur said, though he talked to a post. "I think you have confused me with someone or something you call cat, madam. Whatever cat may be, it isn't me."

Wilbur's own village was too poor to sustain pets of any kind, or even support the notion of cats, dogs, or canaries. What scant edibles there were went to soothe growling human stomachs. The only animals he knew from experience were cows with strained udders, mules with visible skeletons, overworked chickens, and two anxious pigs who belonged to the tax collector. Past those, he had never even seen a mouse.

"Now, cat, let me fill your dish. Eat well. This is our last and final meal together," the woman said, while Wilbur, amazed, watched her spoon meat and vegetables into a plate on the floor. He could only conclude that this cat she addressed must be some kind of midget or infant with an insatiable appetite.

He knew he could correct her misconception simply by forcing her to run a hand over his amiable face. But the dish was tempting, the room was warm, and too much revelation might result in quick banishment.

"I must confess, cat, when you first entered my life I thought you intrusive. But I have grown to like you, and I certainly appreciate your talents. When the poor shipwrecked sailor who brought you to me gave up his ghost, I never dreamed what a treasure you would bring. But, being the only cat in this kingdom and something of a marvel, even a miracle, I have developed a feeling akin to affection for you. Though you are a self-centered, undependable wretch. I hope you will remember me fondly long after you shift allegiance to your new master."

Wilbur was already squatting to devour his feast. The crone bent over and patted the hair on his head. "What a mat," she said. "But I have combed you and bathed you once, and that is enough." Then she sat at the table and had her own supper.

Wilbur was so filled by the meal, so lulled by his comfortable surroundings, he dozed on the floor. His sensible plan was to rise at first light and depart with no harm done. The only possible problem might come from cat itself, who might return to resent the intruder. But he could explain himself easily enough, and if the thing called cat had an ounce of compassion, Wilbur could expect a reasonable chance for detente.

That night, Wilbur's sleep was untroubled. No moth flew through his mind spouting platitudes. But his awakening was abrupt. He felt a pull, then a yank. The woman had tied a leather thong around his neck, attached to a leash. Wilbur opened his eyes and found himself tethered, gazing at four grimly polished boots.

"That is the cat?" said a booming voice. Wilbur stared up at two soldiers in uniforms covered with acres of braid. The one who spoke held the end of the tether in a white-gloved hand.

"Of course that is the cat," the crone answered. "What did you expect?"

"I'm not sure," the soldier said. "Something different. But if that is the cat, then that is the cat and best we get moving. It is no short journey to the royal palace, and you have caused us to make the trip twice."

Wilbur remembered the woman's words about the only cat in the country and its unusual origin. He was about to speak up when he had second thoughts. These soldiers already complained of the inconvenience they had endured on their cat-fetching mission.

Now, if they learned that they had an impostor on their hands, he might well feel their wrath. And he knew of the wrath of soldiers. If they'd come for cat, he would be cat until he found a better time for explanations.

Wilbur rode to his new home in a coach shaped like a plum he had once been given for Christmas. The soldiers who escorted him rode magnificent horses decked out in plumes and jeweled bridles, a far cry from the spavined mules of Wilbur's acquaintance.

The regal procession reached a most satisfactory palace built on a high hill and guarded by a moat. Its drawbridge had already been lowered and lined with twenty trumpeters blowing rousing fanfares. King Axel himself stood at the palace gate, a round fellow wrapped in a cloud of ermine. Under a massive crown, his face was cherry red, jolly, and full of anticipation.

Wilbur jumped down from the coach, staying close to the ground since that seemed expected of him. The King could not restrain his curiosity. The monarch waddled to examine this cat he had heard so much about. Thus Wilbur was probed, sniffed, scratched, and even kissed on his forehead, no small greeting from one so supremely powerful.

"Something of a disappointment," the King said, "but nothing can match one's imagination. I wish that my Queen had lived to see this beast. At least the Princess will be delighted with our new courtier."

Wilbur followed King Axel into a fabulous throne room. When his majesty took his traditional seat on the grand chair Wilbur found a place at his slippered feet.

"Where is my daughter? Summon my darling Etoile this minute. For days she has speculated on what this cat of ours would look like and was nowhere close in her fantasies. Twelve dangling legs, five rolling eyes, a tongue as long as a hall rug. Ah, that child has a limitless capacity for fantasy. And someday she is destined to rule this land. Lord help the common folk."

Soon after, the Princess arrived with her ladies-in-waiting. Wilbur had prepared to announce his duplicity and throw himself on King Axel's mercy, but when he saw Etoile he could only let out a gush of astonishment. If he had never seen a cat, he certainly was unprepared for this Princess, in the full bloom of splendor.

Wilbur had heard tales of love and beauty but assumed they were only the lies of minstrels paid to manufacture impossible trinkets in rhyme. Now he was struck by a barrage of honey-dipped arrows that pierced him in places that had never seen the sun. He heard himself issue another noise, a high-pitched squeal whose recipe called for equal measures of dazzle and delight.

"So that is our cat!" Etoile said. "And that is its voice! So much for rumors and secondhand descriptions. I envisioned it more like a truncated dragon."

"Yes," King Axel said, "you were way off the mark, my child. And who told you the real thing always falls short of its billing?"

"You did, my King," Etoile said in a twinkling tinkle. "I have learned yet another valuable lesson though; dragon or not, I think I am most pleased with this cat."

"Then take responsibility for its well-being," her father said, beaming. "Will you do so? That, too, should prove instructional for a future Queen. Life leaves messes, and each moment of joy demands compensation."

"Most willingly do I accept your mandate, Father. Until the chore challenges my attention. I am easily bored, as you know, Sire. I hope, though, that this cat does not defecate."

"The old crone who charged me a ransom has left a list of instructions and suggestions for its maintenance. It seems this animal is subject to fits of temperament and must be constantly cuddled and humored in order to perform its duties at maximum. As for its habits, we will be obliged to cope."

Then the King turned his large face to Wilbur, and said, "My daughter, the Princess Etoile, will be your keeper and protector until the time when your antics cause her to yawn. So, cat, do your best to provide her with a variety of amusements. But never forget your reason for being here. We all carry our weight in this palace, and some carry more weight than others, eh?"

The courtiers and ladies all chuckled and applauded the King's witticism. Wilbur kept silent and pretended not to understand a word. He did not yet know how a cat behaved, nor what were its virtues or limitations. But he did grin shyly and heard 000hs and ahhhs of approval at his enigmatic expression.

Then there was a scream from one of Etoile's attendants. She danced in place though no music inspired her. Wilbur saw a miserable object rush down her leg and skitter across the marble floor. It was the size of three large sausages, had a tail like a needle and eyes like the buttons on a devil's vest.

"Oh, good, good. A rat!" the King shouted. "A fat, oh-noxious rat for the taking. Don't you see it, cat? Well, then? Pounce. Rip. Tear. Show us that what we have heard is the truth."

Wilbur made no move except to back away from the disgusting and arrogant invader. He was too frightened to breathe.

"What explains this reticence?" roared the King, with venom in his voice.

"Oh, Father," Etoile chimed. "Our cat has just arrived. It must be dizzy from so abrupt a displacement. Give it time to grow acclimated. Would you expect even your best warrior to draw his sword and slay an enemy before the traditional salute? Patience, as you have told me so many times, in all things."

"Patience. Yes. Let me be patient. It is only that I so despise those rebel rodents that I long to see their nemesis at work to free us from the plague of vermin."

"And so it shall he," Princess Etoile assured him. "Today, let this cat rest. Tomorrow, he will hunt."

Slowly, Wilbur realized the royal problem. The first rat proved only an appetizer. Dozens of vile relatives emerged from hidden places behind curtains and under furniture. They rushed helter-skelter wherever they wanted without obedience to, or fear of, any higher authority.

When evening came, Wilbur watched them cavort on the King's table and suck up turtle soup from Princess Etoile's delicate bowl. It dawned on him that, as resident cat, his job was to end the invasion. That was the reason the crone had been persuaded, even commanded, to sell him.

Since he had not the slightest idea of how to accomplish such a task, he thought it prudent to flee for his life at the earliest possible moment. It was too late for honesty.

His decision to escape the palace created a treacherous undertow of emotion. The very thought of leaving Princess Etoile produced the most intense anguish. But continuing his dastardly charade would be terminal.

After the banquet ended, it was the Princess who led Wilbur to her chamber. It was already late. A bouquet of candles flickered around her downy bed. Etoile vanished into an anteroom, where her maids helped her dress for repose.

Wilbur curled on the floor, making note of possible exits. It would be out the window for him, then into the moat, a short swim and a long dash to safety. There was no other way.

He thought again of the duplicity of the moth who had caused him to divest his assets, then promised hope of some palpable gain. Now he faced obliteration or, even at best, the loss of the glorious Etoile and a pain he would carry forever.

"Vile moth," Wilbur said in a whisper as a hairy rat dashed for the Princess's nighttime snack of crackers and caviar. "Is it my fault that you are no butterfly? Why have you inflicted such punishment on a good person like me, who deserves only grace?"

Wilbur's self-pity abated when Etoile entered her boudoir. If she was radiant before, she was luminous now beyond suns and moons. A sound escaped him so primitive that even the rat dropped a bead of Beluga and sprinted for cover.

"Sad cat on a cold floor," Etoile hummed. "Come share my bed. In the manual your last owner provided, she explained how you liked nothing more than to cuddle and snuggle.

"And so you shall. But first let me throw off this burdensome gown. It is our little secret, cat, that Princess Etoile greets her sleep wearing only the fabric of darkness."

On that day so filled with variety, Wilbur now found himself gazing at the landscape of Paradise. The mountains and valleys, the cliffs and the clefts, the endless plains, the forests of silken hair left him beyond all dimension of gratitude.

He turned crimson as Etoile extinguished the last small candle flame with her perfumed breath. It was very wrong to take such advantage, but Wilbur jumped onto her bed as he was commanded and there did his best to be more than the cat she wished him to be.

"Come out of your garments," Etoile coaxed him. "Be naked. I have never enjoyed seeing God's lesser creatures forced to wear costumes that only mask their true nature. There is pomp enough in my species, sweet cat, and no need for you to hide the beauty of your natural body."

Wilbur allowed himself to be undressed by hands as gentle as spring zephyrs. Following the list of instructions drawn by the crone, the Princess proceeded to snuggle and cuddle her curious cat, making sonorous noises for a lullaby. This was past all endurance for Wilbur, who felt his sap rise until he feared bursting.

"There is something you must know. I am a man, not a cat," he said. While he said it he could feel the executioner's cold blade. He would be split like a melon and thrown to the crows.

"As you wish," Etoile said, "and it is a charming conceit. You are the man and I am the cat and let it be so. Who thought of this game? I did, I am sure, since I could swear I heard you speak, which is, of course, quite impossible. But tomorrow it is you and not me who will chase away the nasty rats, and that is your purpose. My purpose tonight is to make you feel at home and entirely pleasured."

In the hours that followed, Wilbur blessed the moth many times over, apologizing for past lamentations. But when Etoile dozed, an angel at peace, he remembered it was the hour for urgent departure. The last night birds were already seeking their nests. Wilbur dressed with stealth, left the marvelous cocoon of Etoile's bed, and climbed to the window ledge. If he survived the dive to the moat without excessive breakage, and if the guards were distracted by dreams of their own, there was a last chance at freedom.

But Wilbur stepped down from the window and returned to kiss his Princess one last time. She drew him to her and wrapped around him and he knew he was lost and accepted destruction.

"Oh, cat," Etoile said, "if you are only half so ardent in your work and a fraction so expert, I do not envy your enemies."

In the morning, when Wilbur roused from his best-ever sleep, Etoile was already dressed and ready for breakfast.

"I hope you are as hungry as I," she said. "Rejoice, little cat, for your diet of rodents awaits you. Hurry downstairs, for the King's expectations must be promptly met, lest you feel his displeasure. My father is kindly, but he can be a vengeful old son of a bitch if riled."

Wilbur followed his beloved downstairs, quaking at the tortures that awaited him. He crawled to King Axel, who was engaged in a tug-of-war with a huge rodent over a slab of crisp bacon. On the verge of confessing his terrible history, Wilbur heard a chorus of unearthly shrieking as if all the imps in Hell joined in choir.

Every rat in the place ran for the door, which was left open to let in some air. Whole battalions, in panic, hurled themselves into the fatal waters of the brimming moat. Their ghosts rose in bubbles that burst like boils.

Wilbur saw that the cause of this carnage was the very same beast who had snatched away his trio of sardines when he first came ashore in King Axel's domain. It had somehow accessed the palace through a breach in the wall and was now ripping and tearing and snarling and feasting in an orgy of feline virtuosity.

"What is that thing," screamed Princess Etoile, "that is gobbling cat's breakfast?"

Undoubtedly inspired by love, Wilbur jumped over a chair and pounced on the voracious lump of fur which, he quickly realized, must surely be the cat he'd reluctantly replaced. He wrestled it to submission, then proclaimed, "At last I am liberated! My soul is my own!"

The King and his Council requested an immediate explanation.

"There is your cat," Wilbur said. "There, with the blood on its jaw and eyes like time. That remorseless demon found me helpless on your beach and, in its greed, made off with my very essence. The brute attempted to live as a man but this morning old appetites betrayed it. And thank God for that, since it came here to pay court to the Princess Etoile."

"Who are you, then?" asked the King.

"I am without disguise, Your Highness. Only a loyal subject in love with your perfect daughter and ready to serve her all the days of my life."

"Well which of you has the power over rats?" the King questioned. "For it is that one who has my full appreciation."

"The cat has that power," Wilbur said. "But it is now in my debt, and will follow only my commands."

Princess Etoile wept at that disclosure. But she quickly regained her composure and asked friskily, "And which did I minister to last night, the cat or the man? And which shall I snuggle and cuddle tonight?"

Wilbur blushed. He fervently hoped Etoile's choice would come clear as the day wore on. Had not the moth made implicit commitments? But, then again, were the utterances of so ambiguous a moth to be trusted?

Wilbur glowered at the cat, who first arched in tribute to King Axel, then came to curl at Etoile's dainty feet.

The good youth now knew that there are some for whom no blessings come easily, nor can they ever be certain of privilege, however deserved. For those, fate and effort are indelibly linked, yet they must trust to their luck in the long run.

DON WEBB.

Don Webb lives in Austin with his wife Rosemary. His recent books are A Spell for the Fulfillment of Desire, Stealing My Rules, and The Seven Faces of Darkness.