by Steve Vernon
“Ah, Mister Clifford!” Virruni’s voice was filled with the enthusiasm of someone who enjoyed mornings. “Come in. Come in! Isn't it wonderful to be awake at this hour?”
“It is...invigorating,” Clifford said, refraining from mentioning that he’d normally be asleep for two more hours. He climbed into the craft after Jarn.
Jarn fiddled with a small device he held in one of his left hands, and the hovercraft headed off to whatever their destination was.
Virruni had taken Clifford on a few excursions to the city already, and every time Clifford was amazed at how many new words he learned each time in spite of the thousands and thousands of hours he and all the other xenolinguists, both human and Ziztti, had spent.
“Today we will show you kizza!” Virruni said. “Many kizza!”
Great. More cats.
They drove in silence for a while. “Jarn,” Clifford said. “I like your hat.”
Jarn nodded slightly.
“Your wife gave that to Jarn as a gift,” Virruni said. “It was very generous of her. Doesn't Jarn look dapper?”
Wife? Clifford took a deep breath. Last night he’d sent Sheila a message apologizing for, well, being himself, but she hadn’t responded. His chest felt empty and hollow.
“I think you mean Sheila,” Clifford said. “She's not my wife. She's my...”
What was she, anyway? She was sort of his girlfriend, but he'd been resistant to that term. She certainly seemed intent on becoming his wife, or at least she had until she’d stormed out the day before. Was this related to the new guy in her lab? Pete, she’d said. Her friend Pete. A friend she'd gone to college with. A friend she'd been confiding in about their relationship. A male friend.
“Do you not like the cap?” Virruni’s left ear wiggled in concern.
“Oh, I do,” Clifford said. “I like it very much. But it is a hat, not a cap.”
“That is excellent!” Virruni said. “I am glad you like it. I think it is very beckoning on Jarn.”
Virruni smiled at Jarn who, to Clifford’s surprise, grinned back at Virruni for a moment before his features returned to their normal implacable expression.
“Becoming, not beckoning,” Clifford mumbled. For the first time he wondered if perhaps Jarn wasn't just Virruni's assistant. What if Virruni was the wife and Jarn the husband? Or whatever equated to that for Ziztti. That could actually be plausible. Virruni certainly called the shots. Virruni told Jarn what to do and when to do it.
Clifford could picture his relationship with Sheila turning into something similar. Frankly, it wasn't far off right now. She'd made him redecorate his bedroom, claiming that having everything colored in different shades of brown was too boring. She didn't like hot peppers, so he'd had to change his diet and only ate spicy food when he dined alone.
What if she’d had dinner with this Pete guy last night? She’d seemed really angry when she left. Had she broken up with Clifford?
Had she and Clifford ever really been together?
He clenched his hands into fists, confused, but sure of one thing: he didn’t like Pete.
“Here we are!” Virruni waved one of his hands at the window to Clifford’s left. Two of Virruni’s other hands clapped, as if applauding their arrival.
Clifford blinked and looked out the window. The hovercraft had stopped outside what appeared to be a Ziztti café – or at least the word ‘café’ was written in large letters on a sign in the window, as was the word ‘kizza.’ Clifford wondered what the café had to do with cats.
He found out when they went in.
There were cats everywhere. Big cats. Small cats. Cats with long hair. Cats with stripes. Cats with spots. Cats with stripes and spots. Calico cats. Big cats. Small cats.
Cats.
“See?” Virruni’s nose wriggled with happiness.
Clifford looked around the room. Several Ziztti sat in the large, round chairs that were scattered about. They were all petting at least one kizza. Ledges and tubes were built into the wall and ran across the ceiling so that the kizza could run through them. Contraptions of wood and thick fabric were scattered around the café for the kizza to play on and sit on. At the back of a room was a long stone bar. A Ziztti stood behind it, mixing some sort of powder into a liquid. Two kizza sat on the bar, intently watching the Ziztti.
“Wow,” Clifford said.
They petted a few kizza, had a cup of a licorice-flavored beverage Virruni insisted Clifford try, then got back in the hovercraft.
Over the next few hours they visited six more cat cafés, all in areas of the city that Clifford had never been to on any of his previous trips. He’d never even seen a Ziztti café before, much less a cat café. Much less seven cat cafés.
There was obviously no way all of these cats had been snuck on a ship and brought there from Earth. Even if some cats had been smuggled in, there was no way that many of them could have been bred on the planet in the time since first contact.
And on top of that, it was clear that the Ziztti really, really loved cats.
Clifford left a message for Sheila and asked her to come by that evening so that he could tell her about the kizza. He was worried she would ignore his request, but she showed up late and knocked instead of just walking in like normal. When Clifford opened the door she brushed in past him in a whiff of vanilla, not meeting his eyes. Her hair was still in its ponytail. She set her bag down on the table, then crossed her arms and turned to face Clifford. Marrlo walked over to her and began to rub his head against her right shin.
“Why did you knock?” Clifford asked. “You know the door code.” He felt off balance already, and Sheila hadn't even said a word. He pulled the front door shut.
Sheila shrugged. “After yesterday I don't feel comfortable just walking in to your apartment.” She pulled her hair free from the tie and scrunched it with her fingers. “What's this 'news' you claim to have for me? I have things to do.”
Things? Things with Pete, no doubt.
Lynar jumped on the table and sniffed Sheila's purse. It was probably bad to allow the kizza on the table, but they'd made it pretty clear they were going to do whatever they wanted.
“Could we please sit down?” Clifford asked.
Sheila wrinkled her nose, then walked over to one of the big purple chairs and plopped down. Marrlo leapt up into her lap and curled up.
“Virruni and Jarn took me into the city to visit cat cafés,” Clifford said. He sat in the chair next to Sheila.
“What? Cat cafés? What are you talking about?”
“They call them kizzatts,” he said. “They’re cafés where the Ziztti go to eat and drink and pet cats. I mean kizza. We went to seven cafés total. We saw Ziztti outside walking their kizza. They took me to a museum of kizza art. There's no way that all of these cats could have been brought from Earth. I don't understand it, but there's just no explanation that makes any sense.”
Lynar jumped on his lap and pushed at his hand until he scratched her head. “And I'm really sorry, Sheila,” Clifford said. “It’s not that I didn’t believe your test could tell everything you said it could. It’s just that this is so... So weird. I don’t know how to make heads or tails of it.”
Sheila stared at him for a moment, then grinned. “Thanks. I guess it was kind of a shock having an alien give you a pair of cats.”
“I've never had a pet before,” Clifford said. “I'm kind of worried I won't be responsible enough.”
Lynar stepped off his lap and climbed to the top of his chair, glancing back at him as if she shared the same concern. She blinked once, then leapt over to Sheila's chair and snuggled up with Marrlo in Sheila's lap.
“You'll be fine.” Sheila ran her fingers down Lynar’s back. “These guys must like the Ziztti much more than us, since we only have two hands to pet them with.”
Clifford's lap felt lonely. It was odd how he was getting so used to the kizza after being around them for only a day. He got up and kneeled on the floor next Sheila's chair so h
e could pet one of the cats. “They are really nice to have around,” he said. “They're soothing, somehow.”
They stroked the cats in silence. It felt cozy. Comfortable. Like their relationship had been before Sheila had brought up marriage.
And really, what was his opposition to marriage? He loved her and had assumed they'd stay together for forever, he just hadn't thought about putting a name on it.
“Maybe we should get married,” Clifford said. He bit his lip. Had he really just said that? “And, um, I love you.”
Sheila's eyes widened. “Clifford?” she said in a whisper. “What did you say?”
Clifford grimaced. “I said that out of order, didn't I? I should have mentioned love first, and then marriage. Although...” Clifford concentrated on petting Marrlo. The tabby stretched out so Clifford could rub his belly. “Maybe you want to see how things go with Pete.”
Sheila laughed. Clifford looked up and met her gaze.
“Pete and his husband Tim are quite happy together,” she said. “Besides. I love you. Even though you sometimes say things out of order. And I'm glad you love me even though I know the whole idea of marriage frightens you to death.”
She patted the spot next to her on the big purple chair. Clifford squeezed in and put his arm around her. The kizza meowed, annoyed, then settled down, both cats managing to lie on both humans at the same time.
“Having kids scares me more than marriage,” he said.
“Me too! Oh...” Sheila bit her lip. “Now I understand. When I said that the other day I didn't mean I wanted children now. I just meant that someday I would like to have children – and I want to have them with you. But someday. Not today! There are a lot of things I want to do first.”
Well, that was a relief. Especially since Clifford was pretty sure he'd just committed himself to both marriage and fatherhood.
“I wonder...” Sheila said. “How can there be this many cats on both worlds at once?”
“You’re the biologist. Can’t it be parallel evolution?”
“There's no way. I mean, theoretically it's possible, but the chances must be something crazy, like finding a needle in a galaxy. If that.” She shook her head. “It's far more plausible that someone put them here. Or on Earth. Or, maybe, that they put themselves in both places. Like maybe they're from a third place entirely, and they are using humans and Ziztti because they want to be cared for, to be petted, fed, played with. Maybe we and the Ziztti are their pets instead of the other way around.”
The kizza stopped purring and looked up at Sheila. They stared at her, unblinking, then they looked at Clifford.
His heart thumped. He felt scrutinized. Judged. Measured.
Both cats blinked at exactly the same time and then lay back down. The tip of Marrlo's tail twitched.
Sheila stroked Lynar’s gray, spotted fur. “That was really weird. It was almost as if they knew we were talking about them.”
Marrlo rubbed his head against Clifford’s fingers. Clifford obediently scratched behind the cat’s ears.
Clifford was sure the kizza had understood what Sheila had said. But it didn't matter. The kizza, like the cats back on Earth, knew what they were doing.
Whatever it was.
Sheila snuggled up against him, her body warm and cozy pressed up against his side. He kissed the top of her head, making sure to keep petting Marrlo.
Both kizza began to purr.
About the Author
Jamie Ferguson focuses on getting into the minds and hearts of her characters, whether she’s writing about a saloon girl in the old west, a man who discovers the barista he's in love with is a naiad, or a witch who accidentally cast a love spell on the wrong man.
Jamie lives in Boulder, Colorado, and spends her free time attempting to wear out her two border collies.
You can find Jamie online at http://jamieferguson.com.
A HEARTH WITCH AT CHISOLM KEEP
* * *
by Thea Hutcheson
A Hearth Witch at Chisolm Keep
The egg materialized three feet above the table, hovered for a moment and then dropped, landing hard, the yolk spreading across the velvet cover. Misha shot a hand out to stop it from falling over the edge and spattering on the floor, but realized just as the goopy mess hit her hand that wasn’t the brightest maneuver. She grabbed the wand from her other hand, deploying it in a desperate attempt to work some kind of spell—any kind of spell—to salvage the moment.
The wand got tangled in the velvet and, as she scrambled to free it, the egg, obeying her command to move, flipped off the table and moved toward the watching instructors in first row of the amphitheater. Worse, it was headed right toward Salome.
Misha flung herself ahead of the floating egg, turned, and raised her cloaked arms in an effort to capture the mess before it could sully the Dame’s silk and satin robe.
She was lucky there. The egg spattered dead center in her face to drip down upon her roommate’s second best dress.
She turned, pleased that she’d been able to avert at least one disaster in the wretched series, although her roommate would be horrified if she saw Misha now.
“Magic speaks truth, Misha Millik,” Dame Salome said with a wry smirk. “You have egg on your face.” She turned to the other instructors.
Misha took a moment’s satisfaction at the headshaking and frowns at the Dame’s joke. But Misha’s heart fell even further with the woman’s next words.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” she said. “You’ll have our decision soon, novitiate Millik. In the meantime, I suggest you clean up and return to your dormitory.”
“Yes, Dame Salome,” Misha said, her face flaming, her stomach a hard knot.
Wizard Winterton gave her a sad smile, a shrug, and winked.
He’d winked. Misha blushed harder, ashamed that she’d let her patron down. They were all going to vote to expel her. They all hated her except for Winterton, who’d brought her here. They were going to kick her out because she was a terrible magician. Where would she go? She couldn’t return home. Her granny was dead nearly a year now and Teller Village had found a new hearth witch.
And that’s what she was, a hearth witch, not a magician; her magic was not so complicated, written in books, or carted around in rolling tables. So then why did Winterton want her here?
When he’d danced with her at Teller Village’s May dance, his flashing brown eyes seemed to weigh her, staring right down to the center of her soul, and she felt honored.
Now, she wished he’d never looked her, never found all her weak spots, never glossed over them and smiled at her anyway, in spite of them.
She burned with irritation at the way he crooked his slender finger with its long manicured nail, feeling like a dog brought to heel. And a poorly trained dog at that, who must be pulled along wherever he wished her to go with an invisible string she couldn’t untie, a thread tied to the center of her chest.
“You’ll do fine,” he’d said over the fiddle and flute music at the May Dance.
Fine. What would have been fine would have meant married with a couple of babies by now, and never missed Granny’s last years.
She turned to the stage again. At least the egg had flown cleanly off the velvet cloth, leaving nothing behind. Pulling out the small mirror she kept in the drawer of her conjuring table, Misha laid the wand down and waggled her fingers at the mess on her face and down her roommate’s suit, murmuring, “Off, all ye specks, all ye flecks, off with ye.”
The mess whirled up smoothly and Misha idly swished it about in the air, turning it into a frothy ball, using a whipping spell her granny had taught her many years ago, as she decided what to do with it.
It would be satisfying to hide the mess in Salome’s bed or her table, but any momentary gratification would pale beside the consequences when the woman discovered it.
The new Dame could make her life even more miserable than it was. Anybody could.
“You’re just such a bumpkin, Mis
ha Millik,” she told herself as she found a glass beaker on the bottom shelf of her table and commanded the egg to fall in. “Everyone can smell that from a mile away.”
She’d have to dump it out and then wash the container before her next class. Although it was unlikely she’d be continuing to study at Chisolm’s Keep. Maybe she could sell her equipment and pay back some of what Winterton had invested in her.
“That was nicely done.”
Startled, she spun around to see the man himself watching her. How long had he been here?
“I have my moments.”
“Indeed you do. Some are better than others.”
She sighed. “As long as the roots are in hearth magic, those moments are just fine. Look, Master Winterton, I’m sorry to have disappointed you. I’m sorry that I haven’t learned wand gestures and symbol sketching, and the book of a thousand spells.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “You haven’t disappointed me. You’ve done remarkably well.”
“You’re the only one who thinks so.”
He shrugged. “It’s my school. I’m the only the one who matters.”
“It sure doesn’t seem like it from where I sit.”
He frowned. “You’re sitting exactly where I want you to sit. I know it’s uncomfortable, but you may rest assured you’re exactly where you should be, doing exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
He forestalled Misha’s words by turning to leave. “You just keep your head up.”
Better down than up, she thought as he walked up the aisle and pushed the big door open.
He turned back to her and said, “Don’t dawdle now,” before stepping through. It slammed behind him, echoing throughout the big room.
What did that mean, she was where he wanted her? Did he mean for her to feel so wretched? Did he believe that she could succeed? What did he know that she didn’t? Why did he want her, a young woman and a hearth witch to boot, at this prestigious school for young mages? Why was he satisfied to keep her here, knowing that she failed at this type of magic?
