The Death of a Cat: Killing a Central Character

In writing my first book, The Tygrine Cat, I wanted to explore the secret lives of felines: their loves and losses; their battles and betrayals. Here was a world where humans lingered on the outskirts – where tribal loyalties were tested to the limits. Life was brutal and often short. Cats could be cruel, foolish, or proud. Evil was there to be fought and overcome. But what about the brave and the good? 

I am currently writing the sequel to The Tygrine Cat and have encountered a dilemma: is it acceptable to kill a central player? In the context of a children’s book, who is allowed to die, and how? J K Rowling famously killed off favourites in the Harry Potter series but does the demise of a major character – a ‘good’ character – remain a children’s book taboo? 

Let us be clear: I really didn’t want to kill this particular cat, of whom I had grown fond. But a story can take on a will of its own; this one demanded a sacrifice. The cat’s death would serve a purpose, affecting the remaining ferals and altering the nature of their journey. A death can leave characters feeling reflective and melancholy, while encouraging them to appreciate the value of life. It can also make them tougher – and perhaps some toughness is necessary before doing battle with evil spirits. ‘Don’t do it,’ said my mum – unofficial life coach and faithful oracle. ‘The readers will be so sad – why upset them?’ But isn’t drawing out a range of emotions part of what we hope for as writers?

I pondered the fantasy fiction of my youth. From Tolkien to Le Guin, violence and death were common, but rarely too arresting and never (from what I could recall) among key characters, at least not mid-story. I found myself wondering how different The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe would have been had Edmund not been saved by Aslan’s elixir. What if Shelob had prevailed in The Lord of the Rings? The unspoken rule seemed to be that peripheral players could die, particularly if they had done something wrong. Evil characters fell in large numbers. But the central figures, the leaders, the wise and the good were usually to be spared. Had things really changed since the epics of my childhood?

I put it to my UK editor at Walker Books and my US editor at Candlewick Press. While neither condoned a killing-spree, both agreed that there were times when the plot permitted or even demanded such a death. After all, death occurs in the real world – an aphorism, no doubt, that it’s the one unavoidable truth. A note of caution was added: the character should be written out thoughtfully, with consideration and suitable regret.

With this in mind, it seems as though it’s acceptable to kill a good character, provided it’s reasoned and handled appropriately. Much depends on the audience for the book – the broad umbrella of ‘children’s fiction’ covers a huge range of ages and abilities. A child of 12 may be better equipped to deal with challenging topics than a nine-year-old, but even within an age range there are notable discrepancies. Particular genres have their own conventions. Death in junior fantasy may be a regular spectacle, but it is probably just as well to tread lightly.

It’s an exciting time to write for young people, with so many possibilities and so little proscribed. I read somewhere that despair is the final taboo: you can leave the reader with sadness, you can leave them with regret, but a kernel of hope must remain. Perhaps this is the last remaining boundary between adult and children’s fiction – the one rule that is sacrosanct. Because childhood is transitory, special, worth protecting – there’s enough despair in an adult life.

In the end I decided that the cat’s death was warranted. But all is not lost for the remaining band of ferals. It signifies an end – but not the end. While the last cat stands, there is always hope.

Next week – Eastern Cats and Western Eggs: The Trouble with Titles