Catfantastic II

Working briskly, the wizard soon constructed a damp, but quickly stiffening bandage immobilizing Drop's swollen hand. As he tied the last knot and dabbed it down with a glob of plaster, he observed, "There-that should serve. Once those bones mend, your hand ought to be perfectly usable. A bit awkward, I expect, but then having hands will seem awkward to you for a time until you get used to them. Now that you're presentably dressed and bandaged, what should we do next?"

"Food?" suggested Drop, in a hopeful tone.

"Food!" The wizard's eyes widened. "My word-haven't we had any? Of course there's food. The cowherd left me some milk and cheese, and I have bread in the larder… and some dried herring. You should quite fancy that."

They had almost finished their breakfast when they were interrupted by a shy tapping at the door. By the time the wizard opened it, no one was in sight, but a basket of brown eggs had been left on the doorstep.

"It's because of the pig, you know," said the wizard, shaking his head. "I can't imagine why they still feel obliged."

"Pig?" prompted Drop. '

"I worked a magical cure for it, you see," explained the wizard. "The poor creature had a palsy… or was that the farmer's aunt? Perhaps it was colic. In any case, they're grateful for my help, the nearby folk, but most of them are mistrustful of magic." He sighed. "I've always had a talent for magic, ever since I was a child. It quite upset my parents. They expected me to become a wool merchant. I can't think of any other excuse for the name they gave me."

Puzzled, Drop said, "Flax?"

"Er, no." The wizard hesitated. "Woostrom," he confided, making a sour face. "What sort of name is that for a wizard? Still," he conceded, "they didn't know that I was to become a wizard. Fortunately, everyone soon began calling me 'Flax,' for the obvious reason."

"Reason?" Drop could perceive no reason to relate the wizard to a vegetable fiber which the speech spell informed him could be spun into linen.

"My hair, of course," retorted the wizard, then added with a rueful smile, "when I had some, that is. It was just the color of flax."

"Ah," said Drop, enlightened.

"Before I forget," the wizard continued, "do let me introduce you to the others who share my cottage. You will have noticed Ghost, our resident owl." Flax pointed toward the pale puff of feathers on the high shelf. At the sound of its name, Ghost briefly opened both pink eyes. "After I mended his broken wing, he chose to stay on. Very keen hearing, owls," the wizard observed, then added in a low tone, "I try not to disturb Ghost by speaking loudly, and most especially avoid shouting his name. For some reason, that agitates him unduly, and he tends to fly to one's head and… er, um… pull one's hair." Flax patted his own bald head reminiscently. "In my present condition, I do not welcome such aggressive attention. And there is, of course, Cyril, who had a most dreadful injury to his tail. I feared for some time that he could not recover, but he has assumed his place under the table, and nowadays I seldom even see a mouse.

Most satisfactory."

Drop stared under the table, seeing nothing but bare wooden legs and the wizard's own buskined feet.

"No, not this table," said Flax, following his glance.

"The side table."

What Drop had previously dismissed as ornamental rings of carved wood now slowly uncoiled into a sizable snake, albeit a snake with a much truncated tail.

Flax bent down to rub Cyril's head. "So few people recognize the real virtues of snakes. I'll wager there's not another snake in the kingdom who can rival Cyril for learning. Not scholarly learning, you understand," he hastened to add. "No, I can't claim that, but Cyril responds famously to patterns of taps on his head. I rather suspect that snakes may well be deaf; certainly Cyril doesn't appear to hear at all. You can imagine how long I bellowed at him with absolutely no result-except to agitate Ghost. Then I thought he might possibly feel vibrations, so I tried the tapping. Cyril now knows that two taps mean 'come,' three mean 'food,' and four mean 'danger.' Most accomplished of him."

Drop warily watched Cyril's blunt head approach his slippered foot, but apart from flicking out a forked tongue, Cyril politely refrained from touching Drop. In his cat form, Drop had usually avoided snakes. He had definitely never seen a snake as large in girth as Cyril, whose broadest dimension rivaled Drop's own wrist.

"Large," Drop observed, looking from his own forearm to the snake.

"Oh, yes, Cyril's size," the wizard replied. "I was given Cyril by a traveler who had acquired him in a distant, warmer land. Cyril dozes a good deal in cold weather, and, for that matter, he also frequently basks in the garden in the summer. While indoors, he generally curls around that table base. He doesn't care to be trodden upon, you know-much better to stay out of the way of people's feet. Now, let us carry these dishes to the kitchen, and I shall show you how to wash them."

"Why?" asked Drop, carefully balancing his plate between his uninjured fingers.

"Because we shall want to use them again," the wizard explained. "When you were a cat, you washed yourself, to stay tidy. We humans have to use soap and water instead of our tongues, but the object is the same. Come along."

Over the next few days, Drop gradually became accustomed to the shape and uses of his new body. Learning how to grasp objects took some practice, but soon he could brace things against the hard bandage protecting his broken hand, and was able to fetch most of what the wizard needed. As his natural feline grace of movement emerged, he stopped blundering into things, to Ghost's considerable relief. The owl much preferred a quiet, steady household, without the crash of shattering dishes or items cascading from jostled shelves.

Drop discovered anew that humans were creatures of habit, insisting upon three meals a day, and sleeping most of the night. Fortunately for Drop's cat nature, the wizard tended to indulge in frequent naps during the day, and often worked far into the night. The wizard patiently answered Drop's questions, and encouraged the lad in his efforts to decipher the curious marks called "writing."

"Until your hand heals," the wizard said, "I don't think I shall trouble you with a stylus or quill, but you can learn the shapes of the letters and how words are made from them."

They were somewhat impeded in their activities by the wizard's explosive fits of sneezing.

"I must have become overly chilled the night I brought you inside," Flax remarked, dabbing at his reddened nose. "Bother-most frustrating when one is trying to weigh something small like this mustard seed… a-choo!"

It was late that afternoon when they were startled by a volley of thuds on the front door.

"My hat," complained Flax as he hurried to open the door. "There's no need to batter your way in. Well, what can I do for you?"

A stocky figure enveloped in a black cloak was just raising his cudgel for another thump. "At last!" he exclaimed in a rasping voice. "Am I in the presence of the illustrious Woostrom?"

The wizard sneezed convulsively. "Yes, I am Woostrom, although I prefer being called 'Flax.' Come in, come in, before the draft sets me to… a-choo!"

The unexpected visitor strode past Flax, pausing in the main room to pivot on a burnished boot heel. "A splendid house-for, if I may say so, a splendid wizard. Your fame, Master Woostrom, has spread over considerable distances."

The wizard blinked in surprise. "I can't imagine why," he said. "I exchange a few spells now and then with some colleagues, but chiefly I am occupied here, in this rather isolated cottage."

"You are entirely too modest," declared the visitor. "I have traveled far, and always when potent magic was being discussed, the name of Woostrom arose. But allow me to introduce myself." With a flourish of his cloak, he bowed imperiously. "I am Skarn, a humble apprentice at the noble craft of wizardry."