A Cat And His Boy

By Victoria

*   *   *

                It shouldn't have been this way.

                Well … that's what I tell myself every night, anyway.  It can't possibly have been my destiny to be turned into a cat … cat-like boy.  Thing.

                Maybe I should back up a bit.

                Four cycles ago, I had the misfortune of running afoul of a mage, and he turned me into a kitten.  It was a terrifying experience I don't care to repeat.

                Needless to say, my parents didn't quite believe that I was actually the kitten that started traipsing around their house, so they kicked me out and continued looking for their lost son.  Confused and thrown by my parents' rejection, I found the mage who had changed me.  To this day, I have no idea how he understood my mewling meant that I wanted to be human again.

                Anyway, the mage, pretending to be generous, gave me the closest thing to an antidote that he had.  Now I'm not a cat full-time; I'm a half-beast during the full moon and new moon, and often, if the mage is in A Mood, he'll change me temporarily in between.

                By the way, Mother and Father didn't believe that the terrified, trembling, cat-eared thing that appeared on their doorstep, begging its parents to recognize it, was their 12-cycle-old son either.

                After that incident, it was somehow less painful to stay with Lang, the Black Mage.

                Master Lang prefers high places, and I couldn't honestly say that I mind.  The ascent to his top-floor bedroom in this upper-class part of town is hardly a trick; the ledges are numerous and arranged almost as if to act as a sort of set of stairs for a cat, and if I wake up early enough, I'll be mistaken for one of the mouser cats and will be able to escape the house by the stairs instead of the back ledges.

                But even though it's easy to get away, I always come back.  There's no other choice.

                One smooth leap takes me from the highest ledge to the window sill, and for a moment, I hover there, on the edge of a nearly tangible magic and the scent of a danger that never leaves, before finally forging forward, jumping off the sill and landing on the wooden floor.

                "You're home, Namir.  Good."

                I can't help but shiver when I hear him call me; no matter where he is, he knows when I'm back.  It's unsettling no matter how I look at it …

                Usually when I get home I slink off somewhere to sleep; there are a hundred little cabinets, crooks, and corners to hide in on this oversized flat.  But to ignore Master Lang like that is … taboo.  Or just stupid.  I offer a little housecat snort in response and trot into the kettle room, where, sure enough, Master is stirring away, making something that smells of burning leather.  The scent's a bit strong, and I sneeze.

                "Well, now, there you are."  Master Lang edges around the pot and smiles at me indulgently.  I sit on my haunches and swish my tail, cautious and uncomfortable; the room smells really bad, and everything about Master's attitude is bugging me.  "You've been out late these last few nights."

                That statement is heavy with dangerous undertones, but there's not much I can say to it.  Actually, there's not much I can say at all, since I'm a cat.

                "Meeyor," I say.

                Master Lang can't understand cat-speak.  I can't say that upsets me.  Sometimes I even play dumb; this has resulted in Master being convinced that my intelligence is reduced while I'm a cat.  Or at least, he acts as if I'm less intelligent.  Maybe I am, maybe I'm not … my mind isn't reduced as much as I lead him to believe.  Life is just a little bit safer that way.

                Besides, if he really wants to talk he'll …

                And sure enough, he puts a bowl of milk in front of me, pouring in the antidote for my … condition.  "Drink up," he instructs, and goes back to brewing whatever-it-is that Black Mages brew at three o'clock in the morning.

                I lap it up; it makes the milk taste a little salty and as if it's started to curdle, but I've tasted worse things.  What else can I do?  And as the transformation begins, I go to Master Lang's room and totter onto the bed.

                The transformation isn't exactly painful, but it feels odd, as if my whole body is going numb.  The shape changes become almost peripheral to the perspective changes; the world becomes smaller and the ground falls away, and after a few moments it's over, and I'm laying on the bed, naked and furless.

                Ah, how good that is …

                It's only a half-cure, though, and it results in a mostly human body with certain animalistic attachments.  I still have cat-ears, elongated pupils, and a tail … and fangs.  They're too small to do any significant damage, but they're sharp.  I had hoped I'd keep my claws, but this time, my nails are normal.  This happens off and on, since the transformation isn't quite consistent.  There was one time I even lost the fangs and slit pupils altogether, but nowadays I think that was a fluke.

                I drag one of my somewhat tired tunics over my head and belt it; it'll do for clothing.  In a few hours the antidote's initial effect will wear off and I'll revert to cat-form; in the meantime, I probably won't even be leaving the flat.

                Leaving this haven in this form isn't any fun.

                It always feels a little odd to walk on two feet again, and I take a few moments – as long as I dare – to wander around Master's room, getting used to it again.

                I force my fingers to uncurl, releasing my death grip on my tunic.  It can't protect me.

                The brew Master was working on has been put aside, and as I come into the room, he presses the broom into my hands.  "Sweep up the ashes, please, Namir," he says.  "I'll be in the study."  And he leaves.

                I watch him go, hands clenching and unclenching on the broom handle.  I know what's expected of me.

                The fireplace is small, and it doesn't take long to sweep the ashes back into the wood bed; when I'm done, I put the broom back in its corner, and I go to the study, standing just inside the door.  The study is off-limits unless Master Lang gives me permission.

                He's shed his cloak and is sitting in his favorite chair, reading a book; when I come inside, he looks up.

                His smile is so benevolent.  I catch my breath on my teeth.

                Master marks his place in his book with a ribbon and puts it aside before again looking up at me.  "Come here," he says, "and shut the door behind you."

                I obey.

***

to be continued