Chapter 2: The Trail to the Eastern Hill

Bobutė’s words echoed in his ears: “Be curious. Be brave. And be careful about believing everything a cow tells you.”

Mikutis paused at the gate. The wooden bars were old and weathered, but there was a gap at the bottom just wide enough for a determined cat to squeeze through. He wiggled his shoulders and slipped under, emerging on the other side with a soft grunt.

Now he was in the outer pasture, a stretch of land that sloped gently toward the dark hump of the eastern hill. The grass here was taller and coarser, dotted with thistles and wildflowers that had gone to sleep for the night. Crickets sang a steady chorus, and somewhere in the distance an owl called.

Mikutis lifted his nose and sniffed.

There it was. Faint but unmistakable — a sharp, sour smell like something between rotten eggs and the gas lamps in the village square. It was coming from somewhere ahead, near the base of the hill.

His whiskers twitched with excitement. He crept forward, keeping low to the ground, his green eyes scanning every shadow. The smell grew stronger as he approached a thicket of brambles that grew along a dry ditch.

And then he saw it.

Tucked among the thorny branches was a large, crumpled ball of something that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. It was made of some kind of thin, leathery material, and it was deflated, lying in a heap like a giant discarded skin. Attached to it by a tangle of ropes was a small woven basket, no bigger than the farmer’s hat.

Mikutis crept closer, his heart hammering. This was it. This was one of Marija’s floating things.

He sniffed the basket. It smelled strongly of the sour gas, but also of hay and something else — something human. He nudged the leathery balloon with his nose. It was surprisingly light.

“So you found it, then.”

Mikutis nearly jumped out of his fur. He spun around to see a figure sitting on a rock a few paces away. It was a man — a village man, by the look of his patched coat and muddy boots. But he wasn’t staggering or laughing like the drunkards at the market. He was just sitting, staring at the balloon with sad, tired eyes.

“I’m not a drunkard,” the man said, as if reading Mikutis’s thoughts. “Though I suppose that’s what everyone thinks.” He sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. “My name is Jonas. I’m an inventor. Or I try to be.”

Mikutis sat down, his tail curling around his paws. He didn’t understand everything the man said, but he understood the sadness in his voice. And he understood that this man was connected to the balloon.

“I’ve been trying to fly,” Jonas continued, speaking more to himself than to the cat. “For years. I read about hot air balloons in a book from the city. They fill them with hot air and rise into the sky. But I don’t have the right materials. So I tried using gas from fermented cow dung. It worked — sort of. I got the balloon to float for a while. But the gas is unstable. The balloon tore. I crashed over the hill.”

He gestured toward the dark slope. “I’ve been walking back to the village all evening. I didn’t expect anyone to find this old thing.”

Mikutis’s ears perked up. So the gas balloons were not for drinking — they were for flying! The drunkards in the village must have seen Jonas experimenting and thought he was just another fool with a balloon. But Jonas was trying to do something wonderful.

He padded closer to the man and rubbed against his leg. Jonas looked down, surprised, and then smiled a small, tired smile.

“You’re a friendly one, aren’t you? You wouldn’t happen to know a good spot to hide this balloon, would you? I don’t want anyone to steal my idea before I get it right.”

Mikutis blinked slowly. He understood. The eastern hill was where things disappeared. Maybe it could hide a balloon too.

He turned and walked a few steps toward the hill, then looked back at Jonas. The man’s eyes widened.

“You want to show me something?”

Mikutis meowed softly and continued walking. Jonas scrambled to his feet and gathered the deflated balloon and basket, bundling them under his arm. He followed the ginger cat up the slope, stumbling over rocks and roots.

They reached the top of the eastern hill just as the moon rose full and round. The valley below lay silver and still. And there, in the center of the hilltop, was a strange sight: a circle of stones, arranged in a ring, with a single flat stone in the middle.

Jonas gasped. “It’s an old gathering place. I’ve heard stories about this.”

Mikutis sat down and looked at the stone circle. It felt old and peaceful. And it felt like a secret.

“This is perfect,” Jonas whispered. “I can work here. I can build my balloon here, away from prying eyes.” He set down the balloon and looked at Mikutis with gratitude. “Thank you, little cat. You’ve helped me more than you know.”

Mikutis purred. He had found the source of the mystery. But now a new question stirred in his mind: what would it feel like to ride in that balloon, up among the stars?

As if in answer, a tiny light flickered at the edge of the stone circle — a firefly, perhaps, but brighter. It drifted upward, and for a moment Mikutis thought he saw the shape of a cat in the glow.

Then it was gone.

And he knew his adventure had only just begun.