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Sir Lancelot implored the queen to return with him to his old estates and live as befitted her station with his family. I think she would have done it, too, but by now Lancelot was not only violently allergic to me but, thanks to the witch, had also developed a totally unfair bias against all cats.
And my lady would not, of course, be parted from me. Though I've never been able to give her the details, of course, I believe she may have been leaning out the window, looking to escape herself, as Morgan La Chat changed back into her true form as a human witch. Of course, we never talk about it. Mostly we pray and sing, work in the garden, she with her little spade and I with my paws, we sleep and we read scripture and lead a quiet life, minding our own business, modest and faithful to one another as once we were to the king and our subjects.
So naturally, I can't be sure exactly how much she has guessed, but I do know of all of the fabled participants in the fall of Camelot, only my lady and I, and now you too, gentle readers, know who really kept that sad historical incident from turning into a true and quite literal catastrophe.
The Keep-Shape Spell by Mary H. Schaub
Although spring's first growth eruption had brought a rush of tender greenery, the drenching rain that had been falling for hours numbed the landscape with a near-winter chill. Weary and reeling with pain from his injured paw, the cat dragged himself toward the one spark of light in the pouring darkness. Dim kitten-memories associated the light ahead with a warm bed near a fireside. There had been a soft human hand that fed him and stroked him… but that had been long ago. A gust of wind snapped a leafy branch across his face, and he cried out at the impact. Had he ever been dry? Pain gnawed up his foreleg from the paw crushed between rocks earlier that night when a soft stream bank he was crossing had dissolved in a treacherous mudslide. Unable now to bear any weight on the paw, he was forced to limp along on three legs. So cold… so wet.
Blinking the rain from his eyes, the cat gazed up at a large, chunky shape looming before him. Flaring lightning illuminated a thatch-roofed cottage with corners jutting out in all directions. The yellow lamplight that had drawn him spilled from one small window. The cat lurched nearer, his strength almost spent. So cold… wet… hurt.
Within, an old man sat muffled in layered robes, reading at a cluttered desk. At first, he assumed that the thin, keening wail from outside was simply the storm wind blowing through loose thatch. During an obvious lull in the wind, however, the moaning persisted. With a sigh, the old man set aside his parchment and rose from his chair.
"I suspected that it was too much to ask for a quiet evening without interruptions," he grumbled to the large white owl perched on a nearby crowded bookshelf. The owl, a rare albino specimen, briefly opened one pink eye, then shut it.
The old man rummaged in an alcove, emerging with a cloak of shiny waxed fabric. "Little use taking a lamp out in this rain," he muttered. "What I need is that small lantern. I know I had it out in the stable last week, but then I brought it back here and put it… aha, under the shelf with that crystal globe that old Botford sent me. I shan't be long," he assured the dozing owl. "It's probably only wind in the thatch, but on the other hand, one never can tell about noises in the nighttime."
The owl remained motionless. Only an occasional rustling of feathers betrayed that it wasn't merely another of the many mounted specimens tucked away on shelves or tabletops.
After a few moments, the old man returned, his cloak streaming with rain. He set down his lantern and cradled a sodden, dark lump in both dripping hands. "You see?" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "It's a cat!"
Startled, the owl emitted a complaining hoot and hopped to a higher shelf.
"It's been injured," the old man continued. "That's why it was crying. I must clear a space on my desk. Where did I put that knitted scarf from the shepherd's wife? It would be just the proper thing to set you upon, cat. My, you are wet. Are you a black cat? No, I do believe you're gray. There, let me shed this cloak of mine so I can see to drying us both."
The cat shivered as the old man stroked him gently with a soft rag, gradually fluffing out the water-soaked fur.
"I don't think I've ever seen fur quite like this before," mused the old man. "Dark gray, but silver-tipped, a bit like a badger's… and your eyes are as blue as the sky after a rain. Ha! There's a good thought for a name. I shall call you 'Raindrop.' You were certainly wet enough to qualify. I trust you feel much drier now. Let me see that paw. Hmm-mud, grit, and some sluggish bleeding still. Let me dip it in a cup of water with a little wine to clean it. Bones broken, I'm afraid. The foot must have been crushed. You fell, perhaps? Or did you squeeze it between rocks?"
The cat mewed pitifully.
"Remiss of me-that paw must be distinctly painful. I should be able, to relieve it somewhat." The old man pronounced a series of curious sounds, and lightly touched the paw.
To the cat's amazement, a cool numbness spread through the paw and part of the way up his leg.
The old man smiled. "Better, eh? That is one advantage of being a wizard, you know. Provided," he added, with disarming honesty, "you can remember the proper spell at the proper time. It is most a
Relieved of his major pain, the cat relaxed into the warm nest of knitted wool. Dry, he thought, then slept.
In the morning, the cat woke to a miscellany of sounds-rattles, clunks, whisks, and bangs. The wizard was busily engaged in what he fondly considered his daily tidying. Since the jumble in his cottage remained equally multitudinous and obstructive after his rearrangings, it was hard to distinguish any real progress.
While the wizard puttered about, the cat surveyed the room. The large white owl he'd noticed briefly the previous night was still apparently asleep on a high bookshelf. Begi
Famished by his ordeal, the cat sca