The Curious Tale of Perkins, the Cat Who Came Back

I remember the smoke.

I remember the fire.

I remember the shouting of men, the weeping of women, and the thunderous tread of boots upon the earth whenever some woman was accused of having dealings with the Devil.

And, most unjustly of all, I remember being blamed for it.

I was a cat, aye. A handsome cat, if I may say so myself, with a coat finer than many a nobleman’s cloak. But a cat nonetheless.

I had never served the Devil.

I had never uttered a spell, nor brewed a potion, nor called spirits from the grave. I had never flown upon a broomstick, nor taken the shape of a man, nor danced naked beneath the moon as the priests were forever claiming witches did.

I had stolen chickens.

This is true.

But there is a great difference between the theft of a chicken and the practice of witchcraft, though few men of my time seemed capable of understanding so simple a matter.

A chicken is a chicken.

A witch is a witch.

And a cat is a cat.

Or so I believed.

I died beside a witch.

I shall not trouble you with the manner of my death, for it was neither glorious nor befitting a creature of my considerable dignity. Let it suffice that there was fire, there was smoke, and there were men shouting prayers whilst I wished only to be somewhere else.

Then came darkness.

Yet what followed thereafter was most strange.

I awoke upon a bed softer than any feather mattress I had ever known. Beneath me lay a white cloth so clean that I suspected witchcraft at once.

I opened one eye.

Then the other.

The chamber was bright, though no candle burned.

I lifted my head.

There stood a young woman.

She was pale as flour, with hair black as a moonless night, parted neatly down the middle as though she had been prepared for burial but had somehow forgotten to lie down. Her eyes were dark and steady, and she regarded me with an expression I could not quite understand.

She held a black box in her hand.

I watched it carefully.

The box spoke.

Not merely made a sound, mind you.

It spoke.

Within it were tiny people.

They moved.

They hissed at me.

I recoiled and puffed my tail.

The woman smiled.

"Here's my new kitty."

My new kitty?

I looked from her to the black box.

There were people imprisoned within it.

Imprisoned!

They were dressed in the strangest garments, and some appeared to be shouting at one another. I could see their faces plainly, though they were no larger than mice.

There could be no doubt.

The woman was a witch.

And the black box was some manner of enchanted prison.

I had been brought back from the grave only to fall into the hands of another sorceress.

Such was my fortune.

A strange noise came from beyond the chamber.

I turned my head.

Another woman entered.

She carried a steaming cup filled with a dark liquid.

Black as pitch.

She took a sip.

I watched in horror.

The potion smelled of pumpkins.

She looked down at me.

"You're a very long cat."

I looked at my paws.

Then at my legs.

Then, with some difficulty, I attempted to move.

Something was terribly wrong.

My body was longer than I remembered.

My legs were strangely tall.

My paws seemed too large.

And my tail.

My tail had become a ridiculous thing, long enough to shame the tail of any cat I had ever known.

I had not merely returned from the dead.

I had returned enormous.

I raised myself as high as I could and surveyed the room.

I was, without question, a most imposing creature.

The second woman took another drink from her black potion.

At once, her eyes seemed to sharpen. Her movements became quicker. She appeared more awake with every swallow.

A potion that awakens the body!

I had heard of such things.

Witches indeed.

There was no other explanation.

I glanced toward the doorway.

Then toward the woman with the black box.

Then toward the woman drinking her pumpkin potion.

Two witches.

And somewhere beyond them, surely, there must be a coven.

The realization chilled me.

These were the very sort of women I had once seen men hunt in my own time.

Only now I was surrounded by them.

And my mother, seemed utterly oblivious to the danger.

She stroked my head.

I endured it.

For now.

I considered my circumstances carefully.

I knew not where I was.

I knew not how I had come there.

I knew not what manner of sorcery had returned me to the living.

And, most troubling of all, I knew not why I had been made into such a long and ridiculous beast.

Yet I knew one thing.

Until I could walk properly, I must pretend to be a simple-minded creature.

A harmless cat.

A foolish cat.

A cat who understood nothing.

I would blink slowly.

I would purr when required.

I would pretend not to understand their strange speech, their enchanted boxes, or their curious potions.

Let them believe me witless.