A Familiar Tale
I was lying curled up in a ball on the old sofa, fast asleep, when the first rays of morning sunshine shone through the window. Awakened by the light, I opened my green eyes, stretched my legs and yawned. The house was quiet, too quiet. Being a familiar, I knew before the others that something was amiss. I sat up and began to clean myself, first licking my right paw and then washing my face and ears. I sensed the day would be an eventful one, and I wanted to look my best.
The other cats—there were more than a dozen of us living in the house, although I rarely included myself in their group—began waking up and instinctively heading toward the kitchen where a motley assortment of mismatched bowls was lined up in front of the lower cabinets. This was where the old women customarily fed us. That morning, however, all the bowls were empty.
Several of the cats impatiently paced back and forth, waiting for their breakfast. When no food arrived, a few of them became anxious and began hissing, spitting and striking out at the others with their claws. I couldn't blame them for their bad behavior. They were hungry, and the old woman had not left them any food. It wasn't long before a chorus of meows filled the small kitchen, and the younger and friskier members of the brood jumped up on the countertops and the kitchen table, scavenging for leftovers.
A small detachment then broke off from the main group, headed down the hall and serenaded the old woman outside her closed bedroom door. Still, she did not get up. I could have told them she wouldn't, if they had the mental capacity to understand me, that is; but they didn't. They couldn't. They were ordinary housecats, after all.
It was up to me to take charge, I realized. After a final stretch of my back muscles, I jumped down from the sofa and walked down the hall. A large orange tabby was valiantly pushing against the wooden door with his nose and scratching at it with his paws, but to no avail.
Stand aside, I thought, filled with self-importance. This isn't a job for Morris.
Narrowing my green eyes, I stared at the door in deep concentration. I soon felt the odd tickling sensation along my spine, an indication that my magic powers were at work. Immediately the door opened. Several cats ran into the room, jumped up on the bed and tried to wake the old woman, but it was just as I had suspected. The old woman had died during the night.
Ignoring the piteous meows from the kitchen, I walked into the bathroom and got a drink out of the toilet. Then I went into one of the half dozen litter boxes the old woman had scattered around the house, not only to relieve myself but also to consider my options.
I am a familiar, a rare and magical creature once prized and revered by members of the craft. These days, though, true witches are rarer than honest politicians. For the past century, I have vainly searched New England for one. Unable to locate a master or mistress learned in witchcraft, I settled for a succession of comfortable homes with good-hearted, animal-loving humans.
With the old woman dead, I found myself locked in a house with a collection of non-magical felines, who at that very moment were only just beginning to understand the precarious nature of their predicament. They were pets, little more than ornaments who spent their days sleeping, eating and purring on cue whenever the old woman scratched beneath their necks or petted their heads. They would starve if someone did not come to their rescue.
Fortunately for them, I was able to take control of the situation. I would get help. First, though, I would find myself something to eat. It had been a while since I'd had to hunt for my own meals, but I had no doubts I could do it. After all, I still had my keen sense of smell, my claws and my teeth. And—just in case you're wondering—my manhood is still intact. I was never "fixed" like most of the poor neutered males the old woman kept as pets.
With the hissing, spitting and meowing growing louder around me, I decided to leave immediately. I again narrowed my eyes in concentration. A few moments later the bedroom window opened, and I jumped onto the sill and then down onto the grass. As I headed off through the backyard in search of a nice juicy mouse or a tasty chipmunk, I turned and looked back toward the open window. Not one of the other cats had followed me outside.
* * *
I returned to the house later that morning after a thoroughly unappetizing meal. I could not fault my hunting skills as much as the lack of prey. There just were not any rodents to be found. With no fresh meat available, I had to settle for a can of Friskies ocean whitefish, one of several the old woman had placed outside for feral strays. Unfortunately, it had been left outside since the previous day, and there was a hard, dry crust on top. I should have used my magic powers to freshen it up, but I was lazy—a sure sign that I was becoming a spoiled, domestic creature.
Once my hunger was somewhat satisfied, I turned my attention to saving the animals inside the home. It might be days or even weeks before anyone missed the old woman and went to the house to investigate. I had to alert someone to their dilemma before they starved to death.
Several cars drove by, but they were of no help. It is not easy—rusty as my magic has become—to concentrate on a rapidly moving target. So, I sat down on the grass and waited for a pedestrian to walk by. Behind me, I could hear the cats complaining inside the old woman's house. I wanted to assure them that help was on the way, but as I said before, I couldn't communicate with them. They knew nothing of magic or the ways of man. They were creatures of habit, and none of them saw me as anything but another dumb animal with whom they had to share their living space, their litter boxes and their food.
The wait was longer than I had anticipated, and I grew tired. I closed my eyes for a brief cat nap, but I was soon awakened by the sound of approaching footsteps. I crouched down on the grass, and my eyes zeroed in on the target: the old woman's postal carrier. The uniformed mail lady drew closer, and my eyelids narrowed slightly. As I concentrated, once more feeling the tickling along my spine, the young woman looked toward the house. Rather than place the mail in the box near the driveway, she walked up to the front stoop and knocked on the door. She waited several minutes and then knocked again, calling the old woman's name.
"She must not be home," the postal worker said and turned to leave.
My eyes closed further, and I sent out a stronger telepathic signal to the human.
"I hope she's okay. She's getting up there in years."
Wham!
The young woman caught my signal, walked around to the back of the house and peered into the bedroom window.
Following the postal worker's grim discovery, there was a good deal of bustle and commotion at the old woman's house. The police arrived first, and then came the EMTs and volunteers from the humane society. Only after I had seen the living and the dead safely removed from the house did I say goodbye to my latest home.
Uncertain of where I should go next, I raised my nose in the air and breathed deeply. I could smell the unmistakable scent of the ocean in the distance. My stomach growled, and my mouth watered at the thought of fresh seafood. As though following an internal GPS guide, I turned and headed east.
Being careful to avoid the passing cars, I followed the road and arrived at a small coastal village just in time for my next meal. I immediately headed toward the docks where several fishermen had recently unloaded their boats. I feasted well, giving no thought to my waistline (a habit I had picked up living in close proximity to humans). When I finished eating, I cleaned my paws and face thoroughly. Then I stretched out on the dock and gave serious thought to the idea of becoming a beach bum.
* * *
For the next several days, I lived a life fit for a king—a cat king, that is. I enjoyed a limitless supply of food, and I basked in the warm sun, far from snarling dogs and well-meaning but annoying animal lovers who wished to curtail my freedom. As if that were not enough, I had the use of an entire beach for a litter box, one I would not have to share with a dozen housecats.
The last thing I had expected to encounter in that sleepy little New England town was a witch. The shock of my discovery was compounded tenfold when I realized that the witch in question—the first I had come across in more than a century—had no knowledge of her own powers!
I knew only too well that true magic was a rare commodity in the twenty-first century. The New Age movement led to an abundant crop of modern-day neo-pagans and witches. Wiccans, for instance, worshipped alone or in covens and held semi-religious rituals inside magic circles. Witches of the old school, however, had no need of candles, pentagrams, athames or cauldrons to cast spells. Magic emanated from their minds and radiated through their beings without the need for any props or ceremonies.
The potential for magic was so great in Millicent King that when she passed by me that day as I lay asleep on the dock, I woke with a start. I looked at her and immediately knew her for what she was, yet there was no recognition in her eyes. To her, I was nothing more than a lazy, overfed black cat. As she continued walking down the street, I scrambled to get to my feet and followed her. I had no intention of letting a witch out of my sight.
I followed Millicent to a large old house that had recently been renovated and turned into an inn.
"Looks like you've got company," the man behind the front desk told the witch when he saw me sneak inside.
"He must have followed me home from town," the witch replied. "He's not wearing a collar. I wonder whether he's a stray or someone's pet."
"He looks too well-fed to be a stray," the man laughed.
He should talk, I thought, offended by his observation. He's no lightweight himself.
"I'll see if he wants something to drink."
I followed the attractive young witch into the kitchen, trying to make contact with her. Unable to do so, I drank the proffered bowl of milk. I was wiping my wet whiskers and chin with my paw when into the room came the cook, a harpy of a woman if ever I had seen one.
"What's that animal doing in here?" she cried and then grabbed a broom, intent on chasing me from her domain. "Scat! Out with you, you wicked creature!"
"What's all the fuss about, Fern?" the witch asked. "It's just a cat."
"It's a black cat," the harpy contended in a voice that had the same effect on people's ears as nails scratching on a blackboard. "They're nothing but bad luck."
"Nonsense!" the witch exclaimed with melodic laughter. "That's just another one of your silly superstitions."
"You think so? You mark my words, young lady. If you allow that animal to stay around here, he'll bring you nothing but trouble."
Millicent bent over, scooped me up in her arms and carried me into her office.
"You can stay in here with me," she said, gently depositing me on a comfortably overstuffed chair.
That was fine by me, I decided, as I curled up to take a nap. The less I had to deal with that harridan in the kitchen, the happier I would be.
* * *
Except for the foul-tempered cook, no one seemed to mind my moving into the Ocean View Inn. (I suspect some of the employees did not even take notice of me.) It was not long before I fell into a comfortable routine. Each morning, I woke and had the first of my three daily meals, after which I was let outside where I was free to chase seagulls, scavenge for fish on the beach or court the female felines in the neighborhood.
The afternoon was the busiest time of day at the inn. Between the hours when departing guests checked out and arriving guests checked in, there was a brief window of opportunity for the housekeeping staff to change linens, vacuum rugs and scour the bathrooms. This was also the time the kitchen staff prepared for the busy dinner trade. During this hectic period, I escaped to the wicker lounge chair on the long back porch of the inn and slept.
It was only after the dining room was cleaned and the kitchen closed for the night that I followed Millicent into the quiet sanctuary of her office. Alone with her, I continued to try to break through her mental barrier in hopes of awakening her dormant powers, but I was having no more luck than I had on our first meeting.
The only blemish on my otherwise happy life at the Ocean View Inn was the constant presence of Fern Littleton, the cantankerous cook. When she was not in the kitchen baking cranberry nut bread, making shepherd's pie, preparing vegetables for Yankee pot roast or delighting the inn's diners with cinnamon and nutmeg spiced apple crisp, the nasty old biddy was devising plans to chase me away.
Although her attempts stopped just short of having Father Lankester Merrin perform an exorcism, her efforts did little good. I intended to stay right where I was. So, I put up with her lacing my saucers of half and half with holy water, I ignored the crucifix she hid beneath the cushion of the chair I slept on at night and I endured the garlic she added to my Nine Lives super supper.
What did the foolish old woman think I was anyway, a vampire?
* * *
One dismal, chilly, rainy day in October my patience and perseverance paid off. I made first contact with the witch. It was a holiday for humans, a time commemorating the man who is somewhat inaccurately credited with the discovery of America. Long weekends always brought crowds of people to scenic New England towns, as did the colorful fall foliage. The combination of the three-day weekend and the turning leaves made for a nightmare influx of tourists and leaf peepers.
Naturally, the inn was booked to capacity. And it was not only the overnight guests the staff of the Ocean View Inn had to contend with. There were the local diners as well. Fern—a superstitious, religious crackpot notwithstanding—was a talented cook, and the inn's restaurant had earned an excellent reputation throughout the north-of-Boston region. The holiday weekend business was so brisk that even patrons who had made reservations in advance were forced to wait twenty to thirty minutes for a table.
Given the number of people crowding the lobby and bar, waiting to be seated, I looked for a place that was out of harm's way. Since the wicker lounge on the back porch was drenched from the rain, I snuck into the office and sought my comfortably overstuffed chair. It was not until long past midnight that Millicent came into the room.
The poor woman looked exhausted, which was to be expected after having worked so hard all day, but there was something else I noticed, too. She appeared vulnerable and sad. Had I been a human, I might have given her a hug and a warm smile to comfort and reassure her, but since I'm not, I did the next best thing. I jumped up on her lap, rubbed my head against her chin and purred.
"Aren't you the affectionate one?" she said, gently scratching my head beneath my right ear.
This is the life! I haven't felt this good since the eighteenth century.
Millicent immediately stopped petting me, and a look of confusion and disbelief crossed her attractive face.
"Now I know I need some sleep!" she exclaimed. "Either that or a padded room."
With a mixture of surprise and exhilaration, I knew she had read my thoughts, although she believed them to be nothing more than a trick of her imagination brought on by her fatigue.
You didn't imagine it. I'm no ordinary cat; I'm a familiar, and you're a ....
It was as though a door had slammed shut on her mind, effectively silencing my revelation.
"I'm going to bed," she announced as she stood up and returned me to my chair. "I've got another busy day ahead of me tomorrow."
Long after she left me, I still could not go back to sleep; I was far too impatient and excited. I had "spoken," and she had "heard" me. We took that all-important first step in establishing the witch-familiar relationship, a symbiotic bond that I had sought for more than a century, a spiritual marriage of two magical creatures that would form a unit far stronger than the sum of its parts. In the human world, one plus one equals two, yet in the metaphysical world, one witch plus one familiar equals an infinite number of possibilities.
* * *
The following day, the middle of the three-day Columbus Day weekend, was sunny and mild. Most overnight guests took to their cars and drove inland, hoping to view the colored leaves at their peak. The others scattered throughout the seaside town, visiting its quaint shops and restaurants or attending the harvest festival and rummage sale being held on the Common.
I found my usual spot on the wicker lounge chair on the back porch. My lack of sleep the previous evening caught up with me, and I closed my eyes to nap. A strange noise woke me, and I opened my eyes in time to see Fern with a meat cleaver, poised and ready to strike. With no time for magic, I resorted to my purely feline instincts. Claws bared, I leaped and pounced on my would-be attacker. As I dug my pin-prick nails into the soft, fleshly part of her upper arm, the cook screamed and dropped the deadly knife. Then, with my enemy off balance, I ran toward the safety of the crawlspace.
"You spawn of hell!" the crazed woman shouted after my retreating form. "I'll get you yet. The Good Lord is on my side."
The cook returned to her kitchen; nonetheless, I stayed in the dark, dusty crawlspace where I was safe. I had believed Fern was nothing more than an ignorant, closed-minded old woman who clung to her superstitions and fanatical religious beliefs. But in light of her attempt to kill me, I realized she was no harmless eccentric.
Why did she want to go to such drastic extremes to get rid of me? Was it more than just a medieval prejudice against black cats? Although the idea of peeking into Fern's mind repulsed me, I had little choice if I wanted answers to my questions.
To read the cook's thoughts, I had to catch her with her guard down. This was no easy task. I waited until the dinner time rush was at its peak to sneak up on her. I crouched down, squinted my eyes and concentrated. The collision of her mind and mine had the impact of a speeding train hitting a brick wall. I reeled from the blow. Fern dropped the can of stewed tomatoes she was holding, turned and stared at me. Her mask was off. Although I could not discern precisely what she was or what her purpose might be, I did know beyond the shadow of a doubt that the cook was not human.
When I saw her hand reach for a butcher knife, I ran. Now that I had a glimpse of the evil thing that lived behind the façade of the Bible-toting, God-fearing Christian, I knew I would find no safe harbor at the Ocean View Inn. My enemy would stop at nothing to destroy me.
The creature in the guise of a cook was not the only one who could camouflage her identity, however. Hadn't I myself been masquerading as a common housecat for more than a century? Thus, in need of a temporary home, I walked along Gloucester Street until I came to a brightly lit storefront. The sign above the door read NEWTON'S FINELY CRAFTED FURNITURE.
The thought of Millicent's comfortably overstuffed chair tugged at my heartstrings. I wanted to return to that chair and to my life at the Ocean View Inn, but mostly I longed to be with the pretty young witch who owned it. But before I could do so, I would have to erase Fern Littleton from the picture. Until I succeeded in doing so, Newton's shop would have to suffice.
After opening the door with my magic power, I went inside and jumped up on a reproduction Queen Anne wing chair. It was not anywhere near as comfortable as the chair in Millicent's office, but at least I would be able to rest without the fear of being murdered in my sleep.
"How on earth did you get in here?" a male voice asked.
I turned and saw Joaquin Newton eyeing me with amusement. I knew I had to win him over if I wanted to remain in his shop, so I looked at him, my green eyes taking on a sad waif expression, and meowed. As usual, the pathetic stray routine worked.
"Sorry, fellow, but you're going to get cat hair on that chair, and I won't be able to sell it," he said.
Then he picked me up and carried me to the back room where he had a desk, a small kitchen table and a worn couch.
"I was just about to eat. You're welcome to join me."
Even a non-familiar would have been able to see that the man was lonely. Why else would he be eating by himself and having a one-sided conversation with a cat?
He took a brown bag from off his desk, opened it and placed its contents on the kitchen table: a deli-made roast beef sandwich on a Kaiser roll, a single-serving pack of Oreos, a bag of Wise potato chips and a can of Coke.
A bachelor's meal, I thought. Joaquin sat down, broke off a piece of his roast beef sandwich and handed it to me. I immediately liked him.
* * *
Meanwhile, Millicent must have noticed my absence, and she began to miss me. Once the Columbus Day tourists packed up and returned to New York and New Jersey, my lovely witch tried to find me. On Tuesday morning, fate brought her into Newton's Finely Crafted Furniture.
"Excuse me," she said, addressing Joaquin, with a handful of brightly colored papers in her hand. "I'm looking for my lost cat. I was wondering if I could put a flyer in your window."
Joaquin smiled at her. She was the most beautiful woman he had met since moving to New England.
"It wouldn't be a black cat, would it?" he asked.
"Yes. Have you seen him?"
"I don't know if it's the same one you're looking for, but I found a rather well-fed black cat sleeping on a chair in my shop Sunday night."
"That's got to be him," the witch replied. "I haven't seen him since Sunday afternoon."
What should I do? I wondered.
More than anything in the world, I wanted to go back to the inn, but the creature in cook's clothes was undoubtedly still there.
"He's probably sleeping in the back," Joaquin deduced.
When the two young people entered the rear room, however, all they saw was the tip of my tail as I scrambled out the window.
"Don't worry; we'll find him," Joaquin assured Millicent. "That cat's got a construction worker's appetite. I'm sure he'll show up when he gets hungry."
* * *
I tried to stay away, but I couldn't. Pickings at the dock were slim that day, and I was famished.
"There you are," Joaquin exclaimed when I returned to the furniture shop. "Your owner has been worried sick about you."
He was quick for a human. Before I realized what he was up to, I was trapped inside a cardboard box. While this would have presented a problem for an ordinary cat, I used my magic powers and was soon free.
"How did you get out of the box?" Joaquin asked rhetorically.
"He's not a normal cat; that's how."
Both the young man and I turned at the sound of the voice and were surprised to see Fern Littleton standing in the doorway.
"Has Miss King sent you here to fetch her cat?"
The creature ignored him and took several menacing steps toward me. The fur on my back stood up, and my tail bushed out as I hissed and growled.
Joaquin stepped between us.
"Maybe it would be better if I took him home."
"Stand back, mortal!"
The young man was thrown against the wall with an invisible force so powerful that the impact temporarily knocked the wind out of him.
"Who are you?" he asked when he caught his breath.
"Silence! I'll deal with you next. But first, I will rid the world of this meddlesome familiar."
Like a fiend from hell, she descended upon me. I howled when she grabbed me, fearing she would tear me limb from limb with her bare hands.
Suddenly she released me and fell to the floor. Behind her, Joaquin was clutching a wooden table leg in his hand.
"Crazy old bat!" my rescuer said.
* * *
With the deadly creature unconscious, I was able to send out a message to the witch, and thankfully she was able to receive it. She showed up at the furniture store while I was mentally directing Joaquin to lock the cook in a cedar chest. The bond I had longed to form with Millicent was immediately established.
I'm a witch, she thought at long last. And you are a familiar.
Under normal circumstances, Millicent and I might have rejoiced at her metaphysical awakening and immediately closeted ourselves in a room somewhere so that we could explore together the depth of her newfound powers. At that moment, however, we had more pressing business to attend to: the creature in the cedar chest and the human who had already witnessed more than he should have.
The message Millicent sent me was loud and clear: I don't want to hurt him.
My reply was equally apparent: Neither do I.
What should we do with him, then?
He looks a little tired. I think he should sleep for a while.
The tickle along my spine was much greater as my powers combined with hers. Poor Joaquin fell to the floor as though he had been zapped by an alien stun gun.
Don't worry, I assured the witch. He'll be fine, but we won't be if the harpy in the box wakes up.
The pupils of my green eyes met those of the witch's blue ones. Our gazes locked, creating a field of magical energy that radiated outward. Alone, I would never have been able to ascertain the creature's true identity, but with Millicent's help, I saw the cook for what she was: a formless, soulless creature who had existed since before the time of the Black Death. Like the fabled vampire, she lived off others, draining her victims, not of blood but of their psychic energies. In the case of a witch, those energies were considerable.
I quickly demonstrated to Millicent how she could reverse the flow of her power and destroy the creature who was feeding off her.
Electric sparks shot around the cedar chest, and with a loud, echoing pop, the lid flew open and the cook's body transformed into millions of tiny, shimmering particles as though she were being beamed up by the Starship Enterprise's transporter.
"Nice trick! It was like turning on a vacuum cleaner," the witch laughed, after the being we knew as Fern Littleton was essentially "sucked up" into the cosmos.
* * *
"What happened?" the young man asked when he woke on the worn couch in the back room of his furniture shop.
"You must have tripped and hit your head on the table. I found you unconscious on the floor when I got here."
Millicent was normally an honest person, but she was able to tell a convincing lie when necessary.
Joaquin, who could not remember anything of what had transpired after he unsuccessfully tried to put me in a cardboard box, accepted her explanation without question.
"Anyway," he said, rising to his feet, "I found your cat, as you can see. I don't suppose there was a reward being offered?"
The witch raised her eyebrow.
"What kind of reward did you have in mind?"
Joaquin smiled at her and replied, "I was hoping for a free meal at the Ocean View."
"Will you take a rain check on the dinner?" Millicent asked, her eyes darting toward the cedar chest where the creature had recently been held prisoner.
"Sure," he said, his disappointment evident in his voice and in the hangdog expression on his face.
"The restaurant is temporarily closed," she explained. "But if you're hungry, we can always go to the Sons of Liberty Tavern or the Green Man Pub for a quick bite—my treat."
I don't normally approve of close relationships between witches and humans. However, the chemistry between these two was unmistakable, so I couldn't very well withhold my approval.
Millicent and Joaquin drove off in the witch's car, and I returned to the inn on foot. As I passed through the front door, I squinted my eyes in concentration, and I felt the familiar tickle of magic along my spine. Suddenly, at my bidding a sign appeared in the front window: COOK WANTED - APPLY WITHIN.
With that problem taken care of, I walked into Millicent's office, jumped onto the comfortably overstuffed chair and promptly fell asleep.
An overfed, lazy black cat that likes to eat and sleep. Hmmm... I wonder where I got the idea for this story!
