The Feline Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  How to get in? The house would surely have a mouse or two, she thought, and if a rodent could find a way in, so could its hunter. She cast about in the snow until she struck one such scent, and not that of a mouse but a rat! She quivered with the excitement of the chase, and with the eagerness to repay Anthony's kindness, at least in a small way.

  The scent led Balkis to a gap between the bottom of two boards. It would be a tight fit, but she knew she could manage it—especially if she could gain warmth and company thereby. She crouched down, squirming forward on her belly, until she could thrust her nose into the gap, then pushed a little more, and her head popped through.

  Now, if she had guessed wrongly, she would be in a pretty dilemma, with her head caught and unable to push forward— but she wriggled, ignoring the chill on her tummy, and her shoulders followed her head, scraping painfully against the weathered old wood but popping through. Then it was only a matter of wiggling and wriggling until her hindquarters followed. She never could have managed this in human form, she reflected, for her hips would have been too wide. But then, in human form the hole would barely have been large enough for her hand.

  She stood after slipping in and whipping her tail after her, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness …

  There! The rat, half her size, clear in the light that leaked between ill-fitting inner boards, was shrinking back at the sight of a cat, lips writhing wide to bare its scum-yellowed teeth. Balkis' adrenaline flowed, and she was suddenly unaware of chill and exhaustion both. She crouched, tail-tip snapping, waiting her chance.

  In despair, the rat sprang at her. Balkis leaped high, letting it pass beneath, then twisted in midair and landed on its back, teeth seizing its neck, hind claws raking. The rat squealed and thrashed, trying to turn on her, but she shook it and struck it against the wood of the wall again and again, until it went limp in her mouth.

  The singing and laughter went on, drowning out the sounds of the struggle.

  Balkis dropped the limp bundle and sprang back, crouching, tail whipping, watching for any sign of movement. When the rat lay still, she backed away—it might be shamming, after all—then turned and ran light-footed between inner wall and outer. Ordinarily she would have waited for movement and, when she saw any, struck again, then waited and struck and waited some more, until she was sure the rat was really dead and not apt to bite her as she ate it. She wasn't hungry, though—Anthony's last plate of scraps had seen to that—and was eager to catch sight of him in the bosom of his family.

  She followed the rat's scent until she found its hole, and peered through. There they were, towering over her, the father in his big chair closest to the hearth, as befit his rank. He was swag-bellied—his silver-streaked ruddy beard nearly touched his belly—and sat with his hands on his knees, nodding in time to the singing. He wore only rough tunic and hose, like his sons, and none too clean, but neither were theirs. His sons sat in a half-circle around the fire, the eldest, Baradur, opposite his father and nearest the flames, which showed his rank. The next eldest brothers, Kemal and Philip, sat next to him on each side, and then still another son, whom Balkis had not seen before and whose name she didn't know. Finally came Anthony, who sat farthest from the fire—the youngest and lowest in rank.

  Balkis frowned, displeased at her friend's treatment.

  Then their singing broke into chanting, the eldest son calling out while the others fell silent, and she realized that they had only been singing a chorus before. Now Baradur intoned, “Then Rustam raised his steely sword…”

  Kemal replied, “And swung it down with might and rage…”

  Anthony's face lit up; he cried, “Against the sorc'rer—”

  “No, Anthony!” Baradur snapped.

  “Will you never learn?” Kemal said in exasperation.

  “Butfhadarhyme!”

  “You must wait your turn, and well you know it,” the father said sternly. “Moti precedes you. Then use your rhyme to add the last line to the verse.”

  Anthony sighed, and nodded in capitulation.

  “Where were we?” the father asked. “Kemal, repeat your line.”

  Kemal recited, “And swung it down with might and rage…”

  Philip, the middle brother, frowned, obviously stumped. “See, Anthony! You have made me lose my rhyme!”

  “Vary, and quickly,” the father instructed.

  Philip said, “Swung the great sword Harn with rage…”

  Moti, clearly the next-to-youngest brother, chimed in: “Swung it at the sorc'rer-lord…”

  Anthony forced enthusiasm as he added, “And slew the hoary-headed mage!”

  “If that is your best rhyme, it was certainly not worth breaking the order,” Baradur said in disgust.

  Balkis had thought it a rather good rhyme.

  “Indeed, Anthony!” Moti snapped. “His white hair had nothing to do with his being a magus, after all!”

  “But Moti—”

  “And ‘mage’ is not a proper word,” Philip added.

  The father nodded. “The proper word is 'magus.'”

  “I have a better rhyme to begin the next stanza,” Anthony said hopefully.

  The chorus of no's was so loud and angry that Balkis shrank back in shock. Anthony did not, and she reflected once more that he must have heard such a chorus often.

  “Really, Anthony, will you never leave off trying to go out of turn?” Baradur said in exasperation.

  The father nodded. “You are the youngest, so you must speak the last line.”

  Balkis wondered what would happen if the stanza had six lines, then realized that each had only five because there were five sons. Anthony had been doomed at birth to always come last.

  “You shall have your chance to begin a verse when you make up the last stanza, as always,” the father said severely.

  Anthony sighed. “But there is nothing new to be said by the last verse,” he said, and raised a hand to forestall objections. “I know, I know—there is nothing new in the old songs anyway.”

  Balkis watched his face, and saw the flicker of rebellion, the desire to begin a really new song—which he quickly suppressed.

  “Begin the next stanza, mine eldest,” the father said with pontifical weight.

  Baradur sang, “But from his corpse, the spirit rose…”

  And they were off again, another round, from Baradur to Kemal, from Kemal to Philip, from Philip to Moti, and from Moti to Anthony. Balkis crouched quivering with anger as she realized that this game must happen every night of the winter months, the family sitting around the fire improvising new versions of the old tales in verse, and that her friend was never to move from his position as last, as no doubt he was last in everything else, too, including orders. Each of the others had a younger to command, but Anthony had no one— except, perhaps, herself. But Anthony hadn't tried to order her about—he seemed to know the difference between a servant and a friend.

  She wished his father and brothers did.

  They settled into the song, and Balkis found herself caught up in the story. Whenever Anthony's turn came, he was always ready, always had a line that rang with music and internal rhyme or alliteration, and she began to understand why he was so eager to begin a verse or to cast a line in its middle—the poetry came naturally to him, springing to mind unbidden, and he was near to exploding with it. She felt a sharp stab of envy, for although she could memorize the verses of her spells easily, she had a grueling time when it came to making up a new one.

  Anthony showed his skill on the last verse, in which he could select the rhyme scheme, link internal rhymes, coordinate alliterations, and actually bring in metaphor, something unheard-of in the earlier stanzas. He gave the epic a pyrotechnic ending, making the final verse a dazzling display of acoustics. Nonetheless, his brothers scoffed.

  “Oh, very pretty, Anthony!”

  “Can you not manage plain, simple verse?”

  “Surely Rustam would have scorned such frills!!”

&
nbsp; “Well, what else would you expect of the clean-up boy?” Moti asked, and the others howled with laughter.

  Anthony turned red with embarrassment and anger, clamping his lips shut to hold in hot words. Then his shoulders slumped, the flush faded, and he sighed. Once again, anger kindled within Balkis at seeing him so mistreated.

  She could not help herself; she had to go to him, try to cheer him. She glanced out the rathole to make sure it was in shadow, unlikely to be seen—and it was indeed; the rat had chosen well. She squeezed her head through, and the rest of her flowed after, heart pounding. Then she skirted the wall, keeping tables and chairs between herself and the older brothers until she had to dare the last two feet of open space between a table and Anthony's stool. She covered the distance in two steps, not so fast as to attract attention, not so slow as to leave her exposed too long. There, she turned once to make sure all of her was under the stool and hidden from enemy eyes, and stretched forward to butt her head against Anthony's calf and twine herself about his ankles as well as she could without being seen.

  She felt him stiffen, and hoped it was not with alarm. Her heart hammered—what if he leaped to his feet and kicked the stool over, thinking he had felt a rat?

  But Anthony knew animals too well for that. His hand dropped down to swing beside the stool, apparently in weariness and negligence, but Balkis recognized a signal when she saw one, and stepped over to push her head against his palm. Anthony fondled her head, and she quivered with pleasure. fighting down feelings of alarm—a lost kitten was a lost kitten, after all, no matter the species, and Anthony was a friend who needed such reassurance as she could give.

  Perhaps not—if he needed reassurance, his fear for her was greater than that need, for when his brother commented on Rustam's bravery in facing an overwhelming enemy, Anthony said, “It may be, Moti, but it also may be that he had more courage than sense. If he had been prudent, he would have known to go back home where it was safer

  “Just the kind of thing I might expect a sissy-boy to say,” Moti sneered, but Baradur caught the slight emphasis on the last words and frowned. “An odd way to say it, clean-up boy. Have you some hidden meaning?” His glance followed Anthony's hand; too late, Anthony drew it back to his lap. His brother hooted. “What are you hiding there beneath your stool?” He jumped up and came toward Anthony, sidestepping to see around his leg.

  Anthony turned with him, looking wounded. “How could you suspect me of concealing anything, brother?”

  “Because he does!” Moti made a grab and yanked Balkis out from beneath the stool, banging her head on the seat as she came. The room swam about her as he held her up with a cry of victory.

  She clawed and yowled in spite of the nausea. The lad, though, must have tormented cats before, because he kept his hands and wrists beyond her range as he held her up with both hands, crowing, “Look, brothers! Anthony has brought a friend home, a little friend!”

  The brothers shouted with delight and crowded in to begin a new and rather sinister game.

  “Were you feeding her under the table?” the father demanded, his face darkening.

  “And look!” cried Moti.” Tis a female! Anthony has found a girlfriend!”

  “Aye, Anthony!” chorused Philip and Kemal, and Baradur demanded, “Shall you sleep with her, then?”

  “Anthony the cat lover!” Kemal crowed, putting such a leer into the words that he gave them a double meaning.

  “She will keep the rats from this house if you let her!” Anthony cried. “Let her go!” He leaped to catch Balkis from Moti's grip, but the lad pivoted, keeping Balkis from Anthony's reach, crowing, “Do you want her, then? Catch as cat can!” He tossed her to Baradur.

  Balkis yowled as she flew and tried to turn in midair, but Baradur caught her by the tail. All her weight plunged against his hold, and the pain shot up her backbone. She caterwauled, spitting, front paws spread wide, claws out to catch. Baradur cried, “Ah, the clean-up boy has chosen a spitfire! Beware her claws, my lad!” Then he swung Balkis around his head. “Catch, Moti!”

  Anthony barreled into him, knocking Baradur against the wall, and Balkis flew from his grip. She sprinted for the rathole, then dodged and twisted as feet slammed down in her way, hard hands grabbed for her, and hoarse voices shouted. But she made it through the rathole without worse scathe. A hand shot through to catch her tail, but she turned and bit, sinking her teeth into the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger. The hand disappeared like lightning and its owner shouted with pain. “The little bitch! See how she has bitten!”

  He had mistaken both Balkis' nature and her species, but she didn't feel obligated to enlighten him, especially since none of the others seemed to think his hurt worth noticing. They were too busy with something else; she heard a great deal of shouting and the sound of blows. She dared a quick peek and saw a pile of fists driving down toward the center. As she watched, one of the brothers went sprawling away, to show her Anthony, face swollen with fury. He spun to lash three quick punches at Philip, who staggered back and fell, then lashed out at Kemal. But Baradur caught Anthony's arms from behind and, shouting triumph, bent him backward and off balance as Kemal began to pelt Anthony with short, vicious jabs.

  The two younger brothers lay on the floor, clutching their heads, their moaning testimony to how well Anthony could fight when he was angry and feared for someone other than himself. Balkis looked about, unbelieving, wondering why the father did not stop the beating but only stood by and nodded with grim satisfaction. “You shall remember your place, Anthony,” he said, “and never lift a hand against any of your brothers again!” Then he turned to the two on the floor. “On your feet lads—you can't let mere pain keep you idle. Take your turns and your revenge, and teach your younger brother his place.”

  Teach him again, Balkis thought wildly, and again and again and again. She wondered how often Anthony had endured this lesson, and marveled that he still had spirit.

  The middle brothers staggered to their feet, faces angry and cruel, and stumbled forward for their revenge as Kemal ceased pummeling Anthony and backed away. But hard though they struck, as Baradur continued to hold them in aim, Anthony only grunted, not crying out with pain or pleas for mercy. That only seemed to anger the brothers further, for they struck and struck again in fury.

  Balkis retired from the rathole shaking with fright and anger. No one would hear her speak—they were far too intent on their beating. She had better sense than to turn into a nubile young woman in the company of such brutes, but surely her magic could save her friend!

  “Let their blows upon them turn,

  Each receiving what he earns

  By striking at his younger sib.

  Let him…”

  She ran dry. The rhyme wouldn't come. She searched frantically—she knew what she wanted to say, but she couldn't find the right combination of words, the imperative, the meter and the rhyme! And, of course, the harder she strove, the more her mind blocked. In despair, she searched among the verses she knew…

  Too late. The beating was done, and the father held the door open while the brothers rushed Anthony through it and pitched him headlong into the snow. Then the father stepped full into the doorway, standing silhouetted against the light, and thundered, “Get you gone and sleep with wild beasts, where so rude a child belongs! Any boy who forgets his place so far as you have done does not deserve to sleep with his family!” He stepped back to slam the door.

  Balkis couldn't believe her ears. Had the man no fear for his son, no care? Anthony was beaten and hurting, and could die for all he knew. Did he not love his son?

  The answer came unbidden: of course he loved Anthony— but he loved his authority, too.

  She dashed between the walls, frantic with fear for her friend. She squeezed between the boards to run cat-foot around the house to where Anthony lay groaning in the snow. Fear shot through her, for she saw the snow stained with blood by his mouth. How could his older siblings have been so villainous?<
br />
  But as she crouched beside him, she felt helpless, at a loss. What could a cat do for a grown man?

  She would have to become human again, of course. There was little enough to fear from his brothers—they were inside, crowing about their victory and laughing at one another's insults to Anthony—and toasting their success with ale, no doubt. Anger spurred Balkis, and the barnyard swam about her, everything becoming smaller as she grew into a woman. Then she was kneeling over an Anthony dramatically smaller than he had seemed. He was curled around the pain in his belly, groaning, and Balkis felt panic. Luckily the kidnapper had wrapped her in her own cloak when he stole her from the palace, and she whipped it off to drape around Anthony now. She shivered as the wind bit into her, but her gown was made of wool and would keep her long enough to reach the barn. “There, now,” she said, “that should keep you warm a little while. Come, rise, for I cannot carry you, and we must get you into the shelter of the barn as quickly as we can!”

  Anthony looked up at the sound of a strange human voice— then, pain or not, he stiffened and caught his breath, staring at her.

  In her mind, Balkis cursed impatiently. Was a woman so strange a sight as that?

  Yes. To a boy raised with only a father and four brothers, she was a very strange sight indeed.

  Well, he would have to get used to it. Balkis bent low, tucking the cape beneath him and lugging at him. “Come, on your feet! Surely they have not crippled you!”

  But Anthony only stared at her, wide-eyed and awed, and asked, “Who… who are you?”

  “My name is Balkis, and I am come to keep you from freezing to death! Will you not rise?”