Amadeus the Cat, the Rock Musician and the First String of Thunder

More about Amadeus the Cat, the Rock Musician and the First String of Thunder

No one knew exactly where he came from. One day, he was simply there – a fluffy tomcat with honey-colored fur, emerald-green eyes, and a red electric guitar whose varnish shone like the light after a summer thunderstorm. His whiskers vibrated in the wind like antennas for music. In the old alley of Klangstadt, where rain puddles collected like flat mirrors, he stood on the edge of the fountain and played the first note. But what sounded was no ordinary playing. No. As his paws glided over the strings, the ground shook slightly. The first note was like a deep, rich rumble – as if a mountain had learned to breathe. One of the pigeons on the roof lost its balance, and a dachshund, sniffing at a lamppost, yelped and bolted. Then came the rhythm. And with him, wonder. Amadeus played as if he had stolen the heart of heaven and implanted it in his guitar. His right paw whirled with the precision of a metronome, his left danced over the frets like a memory of long-forgotten melodies. It was as if the guitar sang with his soul. The sounds were rough and wild, yet there was something gentle within them—a promise that harmony could be found even in the storm. The other cats watched him, their fur bristling and their pupils dilated. And then they came closer. Rats, hedgehogs, raccoons too—they all crawled out of their hiding places, perched on paving stones, bricks, and drain covers. They listened. At first skeptically. Then spellbound. Soon they called him "the Thunder Cat." And like an echo, this name reverberated through the backyards. Even the wind seemed to breathe in time, and the garbage cans rattled like drums when he played. Some said he could make the moon smile. Others that he once pulled a rainbow backward with his solo. No one dared to ask where the guitar came from. It looked old—but not like something lost in time. More like something swallowing time. Golden screws, a crooked flash of lightning on the body, a sound as if thunder had been preserved inside. Amadeus had found it in a dusty antique shop, back in the corner where things lie that you don't look for. It had been waiting for him. And it wasn't alone. One evening, as a shimmering golden wind swept through the alleys, a dark figure approached. Tall, with a coat draped over the floor, it carried a black saxophone like a shadow under its arm. "So you're the new guy," it whispered. "They call me Misttongue. I've come to silence you." The crowd backed away. Cats whispered. The old hedgehog raised his trembling ear. Amadeus, however, remained calm. He placed his paws on the strings. The guitar hummed softly, like a cat about to pounce. "Those who come with silence," he said, "should know that my music lives there too." A glimmer flitted across Nebelzunge's saxophone. Then—the first note. Muffled, strange, rumbling. Amadeus answered. And the air began to vibrate. The animals moved closer. The duel of sounds had begun.