Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  “Please, daddy?!” she cried.

  Patrick turned with eyes as big as saucers and stared at the father.

  “…Sure, honey.” The father patted Patrick lightly. Patrick purred at the touch and felt as happy as he had felt when he met his first owner. The father picked up Patrick gently and took him inside. “He may be lost though. We’ll take him to the vet’s and then put up posters just in case.”

  “But if no-one says he’s theirs…”

  The father smiled reluctantly. “If no-one claims him then yes, you can keep him, honey.”

  “THANK YOU, Daddy.” The girl squealed with delight as she stroked Patrick. Then she leaned in close to the cat and whispered softly, “You know what, kitty? I think I’m gonna call you Snowball.”

  Sally lives in Liverpool, with three hectic roommates, and is currently studying Creative Writing and Film Studies. She loves to write psychological-thrillers and modern fantasy at four am- when she should be asleep!

  Find out more at instagram.com/sally_clement

  43

  The Witch, The Hellcat, and the Wormhole

  by Ginger Rinkenberger and Kate Pickford

  A cat on the moon. A witch lost in time. The fate of the world hanging in the balance. Will Grimalkin find Hecate in time to avert a cataclysmic disaster?

  PRESENT DAY, MOON

  Remember that song about putting a man on the moon? You know the one. They keep asking if you believe it had happened or not.

  I wrote that song. They changed some of the lyrics. Originally it was about putting a cat on the moon, but whatev. That’s not my problem. My problem is I am trying to reach someone who’s on another planet and if they keep futzing with my coded messages I’m never going to find her.

  Her name’s Hecate.

  Yeah, yeah. Well, we didn’t know it had baggage when we were deciding to incarnate back when the universe was a swirling mass of everything/nothing. It just seemed like a cool name.

  She was going to be Hecate and I was going to be Grimalkin. Also, not our fault. Who could possibly have predicted the Inquisition? Not me, I can tell you.

  Hecate and I hung around the ether, planning all the fabulous things we could do once we reached Earth.

  First order of business was, obviously, to get the infant/mother mortality numbers down. The statistics were appalling back then, even though women were dropping sprogs in fields, the way they were supposed to, not on their backs with their feet in stirrups so someone else could look at their hoo-ha-kitty-place while they passed a bowling ball through their loins.

  Next, we planned to rid the planet of fleas and ticks and other long-lived freeloaders. That was already looking like it was going to be a bad deal for all concerned. “Ride a cat to Death’s Door” seemed to be the Emperor of the Fleas’ mantra. No sireebob. Not having that.

  And finally, we wanted to do something about the shoe situation. I know! Me too! How did that become a thing? But pointy shoes are not something to be sneezed at. And the fact that the nobility have had a monopoly on their production for CENTURIES, and the hoi-poloi are forbidden to wear them is my idea of an abomination.

  Looking back, I can see how these goals were too lofty, but we were young and ambitious and full of hope.

  Oh, to be young again. And with Hecate. And doing the work we set out to do.

  But, that’s all by the by. I’m here now. On the moon. Standing at a portal (wormhole to those of you who prefer the physics to the metaphysical), hoping that this time we’ll meet under better circumstances.

  Hecate’s down there. Trapped. Calling to me.

  All I have to do is aim myself at Oxford, England, survive the wormhole, keep my memories intact, and reunite us.

  Then we can do what needs to be done to save the planet.

  Easy-peasy wormhole-squeazy.

  YEAR OF OUR LORD 1354, EARTH

  “Grimalkin, with me.” Hecate calls me to action as she marches over the moat and toward the portcullis. I’m not one-hundred percent sure we’re doing the right thing here. There are ramparts, turrets, squinty little arrow-windows, and chain-mail wearing guards. This is the kind of place you’d expect to find a head on a pike.

  Spoke too soon. There it is. Imma look away now. The eyes are still there, bulging and gory, willing me to consider my sins.

  Which is an interesting conundrum for a cat. We are sinless, see. But more about that later.

  “We’re here to assist Lady Branwen.” Hecate flashes silver into the guard’s outstretched hand and holds her palm up so he can see she has the mark of the healer, the rune Uruz inside an invisible circle: death, decay, descent into the unknown, germination, regeneration, and birth.

  The guard, cowed by ancient signs and symbols, crosses himself and backs away, allowing us entrance to the castle. I tell you, the Crusaders have a lot to answer for. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.

  “To the kitchens, Grimalkin. Do thy best,” she whispers.

  Rats are to cats as truffles are to pigs. The fact that they’re infested with disease vectors which swarm about their fur, burying their heads neck-deep into the warm blood of their host, is as nothing to me. Fleas add a crunch to an already delectable treat.

  No sooner have I hit the kitchen than I see my mark.

  Citizen Rattius Maximus, I assume. Prepare to meet thy maker.

  He dashes under the feet of a large, flour-covered woman who barely swats at him with her filthy dishclout. She has a rabbit stew over the fire, laced about with fragrant herbs and root vegetables. She bends and stirs, clucking to herself about how well she’s done and how “the mistress needs must bolster her strength” with meats and the such. For the sake of the bairn to come, you understand. She cannot see the bullseye bruise on the back of her leg. So, not fleas then. Ticks. Still, that needs to be dealt with.

  I slink around the outskirts of the kitchen, careful to use only those tricks that are afforded me by my skeleton and musculature. A cat may enter the eye of the needle, so slick and slight are we. But I am required to do nothing so complex. The rat is fat and lazy, glutted on the peelings and droppings that litter the kitchen floor.

  I make fast work of it. He has done nothing to me and while his blood satisfies a catly hunger, I do not wish him to suffer.

  He’s the first of forty disease carriers I swat and snap and slurp upon. By the time the moon has set I have built a mountain of rats fit for a king. Which might be considered overkill seeing as we’re only here at the behest of a duke.

  A cry rings out into the cool, still night.

  The mother.

  That sound is one you know, once it is in your bones. And I know it. I have been patrolling the birthing chambers of Earth women for a goodly number of years since Hecate and I first began our quest.

  I leap from stone to stone, willing myself to Hecate’s side. I pad through the window and under the tapestry that keeps off the cold.

  There’s blood upon the floor, sheets twisted and bunched next to the chamber pot, and a babe swaddled in her winding sheet before her time.

  I leap to Hecate’s shoulder. “Ticks. In abundance. The castle is riddled with them.” I need not say more.

  The Duke is at the door, face falling into folds of rage and despair as he espies his Lady and their child-who-is-not. “You brought this,” he says, finger pointed at Hecate. “Your kind always does.”

  His lieutenant whispers in his ear.

  “Seize them,” says the grief-mad Duke. “There is witchcraft afoot. The cat has prepared a hellpile from which all foul things spring.”

  I want to tell him I’ve done the opposite: created a pile from which no disease can further fester, but we’re being bustled stage left before I can work out how to speak to the fool without further enforcing the notion that we’re bewitchers of that kind.

  We are taken from that place thence toward the pyre.

  I shan’t bore you with the details.

  You’ve seen how this goes.

  P
easants. Pitchforks. Pusillanimous priests and suddenly/not suddenly we’re on the top of a pile of twigs and leaves that are set to burn.

  “Give me your essence,” I tell her, “and I shall return it to you at the first moon.”

  She turns to me—dear sweet Hecate, she who would do all manner of good and set all wrongs aright—and breathes her essence toward me before the flames rise and part us, one from the other.

  PRESENT DAY, MOON

  Something’s amiss.

  Each time I return to Earth to find Hecate and set us back on our path, either she doesn’t recognize me or she refuses point blank to recognize herself. She’s off. I can’t tell you how exactly, just that she’s “not right.” Not as in “not right in the head” but “not right in her essence,” you know?

  You don’t?

  Well, you should. Beings have an essential Self. A core. A “them” that is them no matter when they choose to incarnate. And her “them-ness”, her “her-ness” is feeling wee-wah.

  I don’t know how else to explain it.

  In any case, I have to get it right this time. No matter what Hecate’s problem is I, Grimalkin, must be on point.

  As I am sure you’ve heard, the rabbits are threatening to bust out of the moon. They’ve been scratching for over a year now. The vibrations are going to be visible from Earth soon enough. The effects are already manifest in the humans below. Their madness has grown so thick and fast we scarce know the sane from those parted from their wits.

  They rage.

  They curse.

  They spit.

  But they know not what they do.

  I fold my wings tight against my back, concentrate my mind on the incarnation of Hecate in my present time, and plunge myself into the heart of darkness: The wormhole which connects me with my one true love.

  YEAR OF OUR LORD 1713, EARTH

  Damn. This is not where I wanted to be. Nor when.

  “Kaninchen,” she purrs. “Chaton. Sweet, dear kitty.”

  I find myself in the arms of a parody of Hecate. She’s been made up to look like a courtesan. White paste covers her face, thick and cracked. There’s rouge high on cheekbones that need no accentuation. And kohl about the eyes, making them darker than even she would wish.

  “Hecate?” I whisper. “It’s me. I’ve come. As I promised. The wormhole is still operational. If you step over here, we can be gone in a trice.”

  “Meow to you, too.” She rubs my nose with hers. “Meow, meow, meow.”

  May Bastet, She Who Is Revered of All, smite me now.

  Hecate can’t hear me. I got here too late. That all-important window where languages are available to all, be the bird or beast or bucking bronco, has closed.

  She’s a shell. A blank. A void. A normal human with no more wit about her than a plank of wood.

  Actually, that might be unkind to planks.

  I must breathe her essence back inside her, awaken her, and be gone from this place immediately.

  We have work to do. The moon rabbits threaten mayhem. I don’t need to tell you what happens when they get loose. Australia? Back then? Just a light preview. It’s not only myxomatosis we’re looking at. Full-on madness. All in.

  The woman-who-is-not-Hecate lifts me from my velvet cushion and tucks me into the three-foot wig that perches on her head.

  I see. I am a small creature now. Small enough that my eyes have only just opened, but they see more than this one ever will.

  “Be good, Kittykitkitten. We’re on a mission.”

  She glides across the room with the elegance and ease of a Roomba. An appliance that has not yet been invented but which would be a boon in a place this filthy. Dirt is caked onto the floor. Mold creeps up the walls. There are spider cathedrals drifting from the ceilings.

  We pass under flying buttresses that would make an architect weep with joy, past frescos that would shame Michelangelo, and corridors of crystal which rival Versailles.

  And yet.

  There is a drum sounding out a note of warning. Telling me what I do not wish to hear. A looming, shadowy undercurrent that beats hard in my lady’s breast.

  She throws open the heavy, studded doors to a chamber crawling with rabbits.

  One of us is mad, that’s for certain.

  Hecate-not-Hecate bends low and runs her hands along the backs of the poor creatures. “So soft. So luxurious. My wedding gown will be the envy of the courts of Europe.” She reaches into her wig and untangles me from her tresses. “Are you ready, Kitten?”

  I am ready. More than ready. I’m popping like spit on a griddle to be done with this.

  I reach forward, her life-breath in my mouth, anxious to breathe it into her as I have always done when we meet upon the Earth plane for another adventure.

  She throws me high into the air, her head back and her mouth open and the laughter coming out of her in manic peals.

  I land on the floor as a cat will land, her breath knocked back into that small pouch where I have kept it all these years.

  “Kill, pussycat. Kill them for me,” she screeches.

  This is not my Hecate. She would not kill for sport. She has been messed with. Enchanted. Bewitched. Something.

  I scramble to her, claws unsheathed, and rip my way up her dress.

  She screams and bats at me but I am undeterred. I climb towards my target.

  “Understand me, cat. You can be the weft to the rabbits’ weave. That can be arranged. Don’t think you pretty puss will save you…”

  I sink my claws into her face. It doesn’t matter if I injure her. She’s not her. The vessel means nothing. And, anyway, we’re not staying.

  She has her hands around my middle and pulls and twists and shakes her head. Her wig falls among the rabbits, but they do not scatter.

  “Take it,” I say. “Breathe in. Deep.” I exhale.

  Hecate’s hands fall slack at her sides. Her knees give way. We are on the floor together, she and I.

  “Can you see me?” I ask. We are eye to eye. Surely she must know me now.

  “Don’t leave me here. Not in this terrible place,” she says. “Dispatch me that I might live again.”

  It is her. My Hecate. But so broken and forlorn I barely recognize her.

  “I mean it, Grimalkin. Dispatch me. You’ll find me again.” The kohl streaks her face in rivulets as the tears pour out of her. “Relinquish me that you might find me again.”

  That she knows me gives me pause. I have not seen her for so long. I want to talk and hear her talk and be as we were, but she squints at me and curls her lips into a smile that speaks of cruelty and whatever sliver of Hecate that peeped out from behind these cold, blue eyes is extinguished.

  I put my lips to hers and fill my lungs tip-full to the top with Hecate removing not only that which I saved from the pyre when we were burned for witches, but also that sliver of her she managed to bury deep in this madwoman’s breast.

  I close her lifeless lids with soft paws and leave the shell where it lies.

  The doors to my west let out into a meadow.

  The rabbits are glad of the release.

  I am no less so.

  But I know this place. It has a smell about it that I cannot forget.

  The wormhole reaches down before my curiosity does for me and hauls me back to the moon for safekeeping.

  PRESENT DAY, MOON

  I pace, flexing my wings, twitching my whiskers, flicking my tail. Anything that will get me thinking outside the box.

  Oh…a box. What wouldn’t I give for a box?

  Oh, well. Maybe once we have this sorted I can find me a place to park myself and purr.

  Not now, though. Now I have to figure this out.

  What am I doing wrong? Why can’t I find Hecate in my present timeline? I’ve been to more eras than I care to mention.

  Atlantis was fun. Until the flood. We worked in a lab. Shady stuff. Not worth the catnip you’d pay me to tell the tale.

  Egypt was one of my favorite land
ings, as you might imagine. If you haven’t been worshipped you wouldn’t understand. But once you’ve had an entire people bow down before you, build statues in your likeness, and take you with them into the underworld you can’t go back. It’s why we’re the way we are rather than the way dogs are. We know our birthright. They’re beggars by comparison.

  Ancient Greece was interesting. Not as many philosophers as you might think. They had a good press agent. That’s all I’m saying. Hecate kept a low profile. Did a bit of soothsaying but wasn’t at the top of her game.

  But, Rome! Rome was a hoot and a half. Got a bit messy towards the end. Cats and bacchanals don’t mix and Hecate wasn’t much of a party animal. Come to think of it, she wasn’t much of much that time around. She was a lady of high rank but cut off from the world. Who can be doing with that?

  The Silk Road was everything you could imagine and then some. Travel. Camping. Barbecues. Nights under the stars. Marco Polo making his mark-o. (He liked when I told him that, by the way.) He was one smart, smart cookie. Spoke a bazillion languages, cat included. Never underestimate a human who has something to prove. Daddy issues. Trust me. He had them. But it means you get things done.

  The Middle Ages you know about.

  What next? The Elizabethans. They were a rum lot. Conniving and backstabbing and plotting all over the damned place. Shakespeare only caught the half of it. And, yes. That was us. Of course. We practically dictated all those lines.

  Double, double toil and trouble;

  Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

  Fillet of a fenny snake,

  In the caldron boil and bake;

  Eye of newt, and toe of frog,

  Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,

  Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,

  Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,—

  For a charm of powerful trouble,

  Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

  Double, double toil and trouble;