Celtic knotwork cat design

You asked whether the cat has yet been sent back to the mainland with the salt boat. She has not, and I have stopped pretending she will be. She came over the wall of the scriptorium in the week of the Easter tables, a black creature with ears like folded linen and a tail that curls up behind her like a question nobody has answered. Abbot Dúnlaing says she is a sign. I say she is a cat who has learnt that the warm side of the ink-pot is the warm side of the room.

Something happened on the Feast of Brigid. I had been laying out the interlace for the great gospel, the long ribbons that must pass over and under one another without a single loose end, and I had lost my count. Three strands ran into a knot that could not close. I sat with my pen lifted and wanted to weep, and the cat came and pressed herself against my wrist and walked her length along the sheet, back and forth, slow as a monk at the office. Her spine rose and fell along the bands of ink I had just laid. When she left, the knot had closed. I cannot say how. I have checked it three times with a glass and it is right.

Brother Fiachra, I have decided to leave it. The abbot wants to scrape the line and begin again. I have told him the knot was made by a hand that knew the pattern better than I did, and that he may tell the bishop what he likes. Come over before the equinox gales and see it for yourself. Bring a dry cloak and do not, under any circumstances, bring a dog.