This evening, my mistress settled herself upon the great cushioned throne and commanded the box to show her a tale of witches.
I climbed upon her lap.
A proper familiar must remain close when witchcraft is afoot.
The room darkened.
The box began to glow.
“Ah,” said I beneath my whiskers. “The scrying mirror.”
My mistress laughed, though I had made no jest. She stroked my head and said something I could not understand.
I narrowed mine eyes.
Upon the glowing box appeared a strange village from long ago. There was a house, a stormy sky, and three women of exceedingly suspicious appearance.
“Three witches,” I declared.
My mistress glanced down at me.
“Meow,” she replied, as though this were an answer.
I took it for agreement.
The three women entered a chamber wherein candles burned, and mysterious things bubbled in pots.
“A coven!” I cried.
My mistress merely scratched behind mine ear.
This is how witches behave when they think their familiars are ignorant.
The tale proceeded.
The three witches had powers of their own, and they sought to perform some dark enchantment involving a child and a peculiar book.
I sat upright.
“Aha! A spellbook.”
The book itself appeared to possess a countenance.
I have seen many wicked tomes in my time, but never one so impudent.
The witches began chanting.
I turned toward my mistress and gave a long, urgent meow.
She paused the picture box and looked at me.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
I was not hungry. I was attempting to prevent a catastrophe.
I meowed again, louder.
She filled a bowl with food.
Thus was my warning ignored and my dignity insulted.
Then the story leapt forward many years.
The witches returned to the world after having been gone for centuries, and I confess I felt a certain kinship with them.
“At last,” I said, “others who understand the inconvenience of being returned from the grave.”
My mistress laughed again, though she could not possibly have understood me.
Perhaps she thought I was reacting to the picture box. Perhaps she believed I wanted more food. Humans are forever guessing at the thoughts of cats and almost always guessing wrongly.
The three witches wandered through the modern world, and their confusion was considerable.
I sympathized greatly.
One of them entered a place filled with strange lights and devices.
Another encountered a machine that produced sound.
They saw modern clothing.
They saw bright signs.
They saw objects which, to my eyes, were entirely ordinary witchcraft.
The witches soon discovered another marvel: a strange machine that delivered a most peculiar sound.
I watched carefully.
“That is not music,” I announced. “That is an imprisoned spirit begging for release.”
My mistress did not answer. She could not, for she had no notion what I had said.
Then came the scene that troubled me most.
The witches encountered a room filled with candles and strange glowing objects.
“Finally,” I said. “A sensible household.”
But the modern humans around them continued behaving as though none of this were remarkable.
This perplexed me.
The moving tale continued.
The witches sang.
I stared.
The witches danced.
I stared harder.
One of them attempted to frighten the townspeople.
I yawned.
I have been frightening townspeople since the 1500s. These modern witches have much to learn.
Then the spell became more perilous.
There were chases.
There were enchantments.
There was a great deal of shouting.
There was also a cat.
At this, I sat very straight.
“Observe, Mistress,” I proclaimed.
My mistress looked at me, then at the screen, then back at me.
“That,” I said, pointing with my gaze, “is a fellow familiar.”
She scratched my chin, apparently believing I wished for affection.
“Do not be distracted by my cuteness,” I warned her.
She continued scratching.
The story drew toward its conclusion.
The witches faced their enemies beneath the moonlit sky, and magic filled the air.
I watched without blinking.
For though I had seen much sorcery in my former life, there was something strangely familiar about these witches.
They were foolish.
They were proud.
They were troublesome.
They were occasionally frightened.
And, despite themselves, they cared for one another.
Perhaps that is the way of witches.
Perhaps that is the way of all creatures.
Even cats.
The glowing box finally went dark.
My mistress sighed contentedly and reached for me.
I permitted her to lift me.
After all, she is my witch, though she knows me only as a kitten who makes noises and sheds upon her clothing.
She carried me to the soft bed, where I curled upon her chest and listened to the mysterious humming of the house.
The lights dimmed by themselves.
The cold box continued humming in the kitchen.
A little machine somewhere chirped.
Outside, a carriage passed without horse.
I opened one green eye.
“Witchcraft,” I murmured.
My mistress tapped my head.
She did not understand my words, but she seemed pleased by the sound of them.