by Andre Norton
Some claim there was a last battle, but I have it on good authority that the battle at the pyre was the last one of any consequence, despite Mordred’s best effort to stir up more trouble. Oh, there were a few skirmishes, to be sure, but since Lancelot refused to fight the king, any other conflict was purely anticlimactic. The king was broken-hearted not only because he was deprived of my lady and his kingdom, but also because his own noble ideals of law and justice had been turned against him by Mordred’s attempt to destroy those he loved. He left Camelot and after a long illness retired to the magical island of Avalon, to have a good long think about what might have been if only he had done this or that otherwise.
Mordred meanwhile sat on the throne in the castle and played at being king, but everyone else went home and didn’t pay any attention to his edicts and, being thoroughly ashamed of themselves, tried from then on to conduct themselves as they thought King Arthur would have liked. Since they now believed him dead, his ideas were thought to be far better than they had been when he was still believed to be alive.
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 annoying to want a spell for a night light, say, and all that comes to mind is the one for changing the color of a sheep. Now then, what we need is something to protect that paw while the bones knit back. If you were a human, I could use splints or plaster, but your paw is so small and delicate… aha, I think this lump of beeswax might serve. If I warm it by the lamp and mold it into a sort of mitten, it should hold your paw steady. How’s that? You can’t walk on it, but you shouldn’t walk for a time as it is. Why don’t you lie down on this scarf and rest? I shall be close by, here in my chair.” The wizard yawned, and leaned his bald head against the high padded chairback. “I had no idea it was so late. I’ll just rest a moment myself before I finish reading that interesting spell…” His head drooped to one side, and he began to snore.
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. Beginning with that distinctive owl scent, an entire intriguing array of smells jostled for the cat’s attention. He had never before been in a place with so many nose-tingling sensations. Closest to him came the wizard’s human scent, tinged with hints of dust, ink, and some puzzling accents for which the cat had no name. Also from nearby wafted a strong metallic tang of copper and brass from a se
t of scales and weights on an upper shelf of the desk. Mingling with these, he could detect whiffs of musk, amber, and oil of cloves. A faint odor of snake was temporarily disquieting until the cat saw a dried snakeskin rolled up and stored in a cubbyhole. The concentrated sweetness of dried fruits hanging in nets from the ceiling beams roused the cat’s hunger.
Famished by his ordeal, the cat scanned the desktop for anything edible. Various nooks above his head were jammed with bundles of dried herbs, packets with powders sifting from their corners, and countless twists of leather and parchment. Close by his shoulder was a squat, tawny glass bottle sealed with dark wax over a cork stopper. Judging from its dusty surface, the cat concluded it must have been undisturbed for a long time. During the previous night’s activity, however, the bottle had tumbled over on one side. Over time, the sealing wax had cracked, and the cork stopper had split, so that some of the bottle’s contents had spilled out on the desk. The cat idly noted the amber-red pellets, then his nose twitched. Were those pellets the source of that tantalizing minty scent? He stretched out his forepaw and batted a pellet closer. It smelled delicious, and he was hungry. He lapped it into his mouth, where it melted at once, like a cool, flavored snowflake. But, but… cold-hot-COLD going down! The cat tried to arch his body and spit, but something was suddenly awfully wrong with his body. He was growing, much too large to fit on the desk. With a terrified yelp, he fell off the desk onto the floor.
The noise attracted the immediate attention of both the owl and the wizard. “Oh, my,” said the wizard. “What have we here? I left a cat on my desk, and now I see no cat, but instead a boy. No, wait-there is a strong feeling of magic here.” The wizard peered at his desk, noticing the opened bottle. He then carefully surveyed the boy, who stared back, speechless, from the floor.
“Most interesting,” observed the wizard. “I see before me a boy of ten or so years, with unusual dark gray hair edged with silver, and-yes, azure eyes in a rather triangular face. Can you speak, lad?”
The cat-now boy-tried to yowl his dismay, but produced only a wretched croaking sound.
“I thought so!” exclaimed the wizard. “You are the cat! That is to say, you were the cat; you are now a boy. Oh, I do feel most keenly responsible for this, you understand. I could have sworn I’d given those shape-changing lozenges to Otwill ages ago… or was it Otwill who gave them to me? There was supposed to be a parchment attached to the bottle…” He sorted unsuccessfully amid the clutter for a moment, then sighed. “I shall seek it later, but I do fear… well, no need, to borrow trouble. Quite likely I am recalling the wrong strictures entirely. What should we do first? Arrange for you to speak, I should think; most frustrating otherwise for us both. I have a spell for speech tucked away here somewhere-aha! Here, in fact. Now, pay attention.” He intoned more sounds unintelligible to the cat/boy, but suddenly the sounds were intelligible.
The wizard watched expectantly. “Can you say my name, boy? My name is ‘Flax.’ “
His mind whirling from all the unimaginable changes that had befallen him, the cat/boy opened his mouth, producing a grating sound. “Fflleeckss?”
“Not at all bad for a first try,” said the wizard, nodding encouragingly. “Take a moment to settle yourself. You might be more comfortable sitting in a chair… or then again, perhaps not.”
The cat/boy swallowed, and tried to move his paws. But they weren’t paws any more… and he was so LARGE. His whole viewing perspective seemed horridly wrong, shifted dizzyingly far up in the air above where it should be. And… and he had no fur-except for that on his head-and no whiskers, and-he gazed frantically down at himself-no tail! However could he walk, or jump? With a low moan, he tried to extend his claws… but he had no proper claws, either. Instead of his formerly elegant paws, he now had great long finger-things, with blunt, flat nails that wouldn’t extend or retract. Apprehensively, he tried to stand on his four legs… but he now had only two-great LONG legs, with peculiar bent feet. He fell over with a resounding thump.
The wizard hurried to assist him. “I know,” he said kindly. “Your balance must feel quite askew, but then your body proportions have altered significantly. Before you harm yourself falling, try sitting in this chair. Yes, the rump goes there, and you must bend your legs-what were your back legs-at the knees. Those joints are knees, you know, although they must seem oddly placed. The feet stay flat on the floor, by the way. That position will be different to you as well, I fear, for cats’ feet are more like our human fingertips and toetips. At the moment, you are quite frankly clumsy, but you’ll soon adapt. We must call you something. I had named you ‘Raindrop’ last night while you were a cat, but that seems a trifle poetical for a lad’s name.”
The wizard paused, regarding his shivering guest. “And there you sit, naked. I must find you some clothes before you suffer a chill. Weren’t there some lad-sized clothes in this chest? Ha, try on this sleeved jerkin. It fits on over the head. No, no-arms through those holes, and head out the top hole. Never mind, I’ll pick it up. Try again, a bit less vigorously. Much better. Not ‘Raindrop,’-no. ‘Drop.’ That should do admirably for the present. I shall call you ‘Drop.’ Can you say it? Very good. Anything else you care to say-no? In my experience, cats usually aren’t loquacious creatures. So much more restful to have about the house than parrots. I once treated a parrot with an eye ailment. I finally had to settle a dumbness spell on the wretched bird. He wouldn’t give a person peace to think in-always prattling on and on. Ah, here are some breeches of a reasonable size, and some soft slippers that should fit your feet. “When you have dressed, you might try moving about a bit. Yes, the breeches fit over the legs. While you’re finishing, I shall search for Otwill’s parchment. I know I saw it quite recently. The cord around the bottle had frayed, you see, so I slipped the parchment into one of these cubbyholes for safekeeping.”
Drop wrestled with the hideously uncooperative clothing, then subsided into the chair, breathing hard. His exquisite sense of cat-balance was asserting itself, adjusting to his new body shape. He flexed his curiously divided fingers, pondering the other changes that intruded into his awareness. Scents, for one thing, were now much less keen and distinct. That was discouraging, but perhaps compensated for to some degree by the enormous expansion of his color vision. Before, as a cat, he could tell a difference between blue-to-green colors and orange-to-red ones, but only in bright light. Now the world was a riot of colors, for which the wizard’s speech spell obligingly provided him names. He wondered briefly about his night sight-so important to a hunting cat; his loss or gain there would be revealed later. The humans he remembered seemed to take shelter at night. Perhaps, he reasoned, they couldn’t see as well in dim light as in full sun.
Drop looked curiously at the preoccupied wizard. Although the old man had initially appeared bulky because he was swathed in so many layers of cloth, it was now clear that he wasn’t actually much larger than the cat-boy’s own body size. His head was completely bald and beardless; frost-white eyebrows shaded a pair of bright blue eyes flanking a beak of a nose.
“Aha!” The wizard triumphantly waved a dusty scrap of parchment, then brought it near the lamp to read the faded writing. “I thought so-it was Otwill’s, for here’s his rune. I don’t know what possessed him to create this spell.” The wizard frowned at the scrap as he read aloud, ” ‘Reveals the true character of the user: what his spirit might otherwise have been but for the accident of birth.’ Meddlesome-I always said Otwill was a meddler, although generally well-intentioned. I remember now… he sent me these lozenges shortly after they had turned his servant into a toad. Most unfortunate. Still, the fellow really was rather toadlike, and Otwill did take good care of him afterward. Put him in a walled garden, I believe. Hmm.”
The wizard read on, then paused and sighed. “I must be honest with you, Drop. This Keep-Shape Spell of Otwill’s is not, I fear, reversible… at least, that is, he neglected to specify how to reverse it.” For an instant, his face brightened, then f
ell back into an apologetic expression. “I was about to say that I could transmit a query to Otwill concerning this spell, but I just recalled that he has been missing for some time-went on a quest for phoenix feathers or some such rare thing. Bother. I shall simply have to puzzle it out by myself.” He stopped and gazed thoughtfully at Drop. “Until I can return you to your proper cathood, you are most welcome to stay here and lend a hand.” He waved vaguely at their muddled surroundings. “Would you care to learn a bit of magic? First, of course, you’d have to learn to read. I’ve never before taught a cat to read, but I feel sure you should be quite capable of learning. Oh, do speak up! I hate talking to myself all the time.”
“P… paw?” asked Drop, extending his injured hand, which had swollen and was darkening with bruises.
“Forgive me,” exclaimed the wizard. “That little beeswax mitten I made for you last night couldn’t possibly contain the mass of a human hand.” He bustled around the room, collecting materials. “My numbing spell should still be in full effect. Now I can attend properly to those broken bones. I shall need some dry plaster, water, strips of cloth, and perhaps some light wooden splints.”
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.”
