Mrs. Twiggs and Abigail finished their tea. Abigail left, carrying her guitar. I meandered around Mrs. Twiggs’ legs rubbing my fur against her to thank her for watching over me and caring for me. It was my only way to communicate to her how I felt about her friendship. By the smiles and the rubbing of my fur, I knew she understood and appreciated that friendship also. Now I had to go. I had to follow this Abigail girl to see who or what she was. I kept a safe pace behind her as she walked, her guitar case in hand, back to her car. She grabbed something from the glove compartment and then left. I hopped on the hood and peeked in the window, trying to get a better understanding of who she was. Like many of the street dwellers, both cats and people I’ve met in Asheville, she carried her home with her. I hopped to the back window and looked inside and only saw her clothes, some fast food wrappers. I followed the Abigail girl’s scent down the sidewalks through the warehouse district, the seedier area of town, and saw her enter the pawnshop. As a customer opened the door, I snuck in to listen and see what she was doing.
“Excuse me, I have this watch I want to pawn,” The Abigail girl said to the man behind the glass. She hesitated as she handed it to him. From what I could tell, it appeared to be an elaborately engraved silver pocket watch. It obviously held some meaning for her other than monetary.
Taking a loupe to his eye, the man gave it a quick once-over. “Fifty dollars,” he said.
“It’s worth much more than that. It’s an antique,” she argued, her face falling at the low amount.
“Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it's an antique,” he said, trying to wind it. “It’s broken. It doesn’t even wind. Fifty dollars is a fair price, more than fair.”
“I want to pawn it. I don’t want you to sell it. I’ll be back for it.” The girl gave one last look at the watch as if reconsidering.
“If you’re pawning it, I’ll give you thirty dollars. You have 90 days to pick it up.”
I tried to hold my concentration but the gnawing sound from the corner kept pulling me away. I saw a fat field mouse that had found its way into the store. After centuries of being a cat, I had resolved myself to the fact that my meals would have to follow a cat’s preferences. If you had told me the things I would find enjoyable as a cat when I was a girl, I would have said you were insane. But this mouse sounded and smelled delicious to me. This girl, this Abigail, would have to wait until I filled my belly. As I turned my attention to the mouse, I heard a voice say, “What are you doing here?”
When I turned, the Abigail girl was inches from my face staring into my eyes. I said in my cat voice, “Who are you to ask me that?”
I shivered when she answered, “My name’s Abigail.”
The voices in my head
The Abigail girl picked me up by the scruff of the neck and pulled me out of the pawnshop. She carried me to a quiet corner of the adjacent parking lot. I dangled in front of her like a rag doll. If I had any of my old powers, I would have spent them on her in my fury. Instead I hissed and scratched her. “Calm yourself, cat. Why can I understand you? What are you?” She asked, shaking me.
“What am I? What are you? Why can you understand me?” I answered, continuing to struggle out of her grasp, clawing her arm with my sharpened claws. “For all these years, I’ve tried to speak with humans. But my speech has fallen on deaf ears.”
She put me down. I surrendered to my cat instinct and started cleaning my fur, removing her scent. Then she spoke to herself out loud, “I’m having one of my episodes. I’m imagining this. I’ve been off my meds for too long.” She counted the crumpled bills in her hand and walked across the street to the apothecary shop; that’s not correct; in today’s language it is called a drug store.
I followed her. She went up and down the aisles, gazing at different bottles. I had learned to read in several languages and could understand the purpose of these potions. Most were derivatives of roots and herbs that I had gathered myself back in Salem. The Abigail girl picked up some cold medicine, antihistamines and pain relievers. Then she walked down the naturopathic aisle and gathered St. John’s wort and Echinacea. The list went on. I watched carefully, realizing which potion she was creating. When I was an apprentice in Salem, I had watched Elizabeth give the humans who could not find sleep, potions with similar herbs, to calm the mind and take dreams away. The Abigail girl paid for her items and left never seeing me as I walked in the shadows. I had watched cats for hundreds of years walk like ghosts among the humans. They had many of the same characteristics as witches. I was too young at the time of my turning to have a familiar but if I had, it certainly would have been a cat.
Elizabeth never finished my training. She also had not the time to teach me to turn myself back into a girl. On one hand, she saved my life but on the other she imprisoned me in this body. I had spent lifetimes searching for a way to return to my former self. The Abigail girl left the store and hid behind the dumpster in the alley. She crushed up the herbs and pills spilling them into a water bottle she had bought. She shook the mixture and downed it in one gulp. She was trying to stop the voices in her head. That’s when I said, “That’s not going to work.”
She jumped out of her skin, spilling much of the water bottle down her shirt. She turned to look at me. “You’re not real. I’m not hearing you. The voices will stop in a while and you will go back to being a cat.”
“Abigail, I’m not a real cat.”
Abigail poured the rest of her water over me. I hissed and ran off. I’ve learned to hate water. I shook my body, spraying the ground around me.
The Cabin
After drying myself off in the mid-afternoon sun, I took a quick catnap. I had forgotten all about the fat field mouse until I woke up and felt how hungry I was. I ran back to Mrs. Twiggs’ teashop, which overflowed with the lunchtime crowd. I wasn’t allowed in when the humans were eating. I jumped up on the alley dumpster to peek in the kitchen window and scratched. Mrs. Twiggs looked up from where she was washing teacups in the kitchen sink. She opened the window. “Dear, what are you doing? You know it’s not time for you yet.”
I used my best pouting cat face. She reached up on her tiptoes and scratched behind my ears. I purred loudly and furiously, rubbing my head against her hand.
“Oh, OK, just this once.” She grabbed me and pulled me in. “I’ve got some leftover tuna you can have.” She fixed me a bowl, and I settled in. When I was done, I wrapped around her legs. As she turned to wash the lunchtime dishes, I jumped up on the table to study myself in a copper teakettle. I had been relatively attractive as a young witch. That feature I thought transferred to my cat body. My gray tiger-striped back and leopard spot belly aren’t so unusual for an alley tabby, but my eyes, green as emeralds, are clear and piercing. My facial features are soft and feminine. My whiskers dance when I purr and tumble. If I had to be a cat, this is the cat I wanted to be. Mrs. Twiggs caught me studying myself and chuckled. “You are such a little princess for a rough and tumble outdoor cat.”
I looked up, blinking my eyes at her. She fixed herself a cup of tea and sat down. “You know, dear, I never gave you a name because I don't feel it is my place. A name is a very personal thing. I think a name says a lot about a person.” She paused. “Or a cat.” She sipped her tea. “You’re always welcome here. In fact I wish you would stay with me all the time but you don't seem that kind of cat. You're too smart for that nonsense. No, you are a free spirit.”