"You and your cat may find refuge there. I must return to my men and lead them. There will be a great battle, you know-perhaps a war, I cannot imagine how we all fell into such a muddle but it can-can-c-c-c-fare-choo!-well."
"Farewell, Sir Lancelot," she cried.
All of those tedious historians have decried the sorry end of the lovely kingdom that was our home. And it was a tragedy to be sure that all the friendship and love and good intentions were laid to waste and came to such a sad end. But the end was far better than it might have been without my vigilance and intervention.
Some claim there was a last battle, but I have it on good authority that the battle at the pyre was the last one of any consequence, despite Mordred's best effort to stir up more trouble. Oh, there were a few skirmishes, to be sure, but since Lancelot refused to fight the king, any other conflict was purely anticlimactic. The king was broken-hearted not only because he was deprived of my lady and his kingdom, but also because his own noble ideals of law and justice had been turned against him by Mordred's attempt to destroy those he loved. He left Camelot and after a long illness retired to the magical island of Avalon, to have a good long think about what might have been if only he had done this or that otherwise.
Mordred meanwhile sat on the throne in the castle and played at being king, but everyone else went home and didn't pay any attention to his edicts and, being thoroughly ashamed of themselves, tried from then on to conduct themselves as they thought King Arthur would have liked. Since they now believed him dead, his ideas were thought to be far better than they had been when he was still believed to be alive.
Sir Lancelot implored the queen to return with him to his old estates and live as befitted her station with his family. I think she would have done it, too, but by now Lancelot was not only violently allergic to me but, thanks to the witch, had also developed a totally unfair bias against all cats.
And my lady would not, of course, be parted from me. Though I've never been able to give her the details, of course, I believe she may have been leaning out the window, looking to escape herself, as Morgan La Chat changed back into her true form as a human witch. Of course, we never talk about it. Mostly we pray and sing, work in the garden, she with her little spade and I with my paws, we sleep and we read scripture and lead a quiet life, minding our own business, modest and faithful to one another as once we were to the king and our subjects.
So naturally, I can't be sure exactly how much she has guessed, but I do know of all of the fabled participants in the fall of Camelot, only my lady and I, and now you too, gentle readers, know who really kept that sad historical incident from turning into a true and quite literal catastrophe.
The Keep-Shape Spell by Mary H. Schaub
Although spring's first growth eruption had brought a rush of tender greenery, the drenching rain that had been falling for hours numbed the landscape with a near-winter chill. Weary and reeling with pain from his injured paw, the cat dragged himself toward the one spark of light in the pouring darkness. Dim kitten-memories associated the light ahead with a warm bed near a fireside. There had been a soft human hand that fed him and stroked him… but that had been long ago. A gust of wind snapped a leafy branch across his face, and he cried out at the impact. Had he ever been dry? Pain gnawed up his foreleg from the paw crushed between rocks earlier that night when a soft stream bank he was crossing had dissolved in a treacherous mudslide. Unable now to bear any weight on the paw, he was forced to limp along on three legs. So cold… so wet.
Blinking the rain from his eyes, the cat gazed up at a large, chunky shape looming before him. Flaring lightning illuminated a thatch-roofed cottage with corners jutting out in all directions. The yellow lamplight that had drawn him spilled from one small window. The cat lurched nearer, his strength almost spent. So cold… wet… hurt.
Within, an old man sat muffled in layered robes, reading at a cluttered desk. At first, he assumed that the thin, keening wail from outside was simply the storm wind blowing through loose thatch. During an obvious lull in the wind, however, the moaning persisted. With a sigh, the old man set aside his parchment and rose from his chair.
"I suspected that it was too much to ask for a quiet evening without interruptions," he grumbled to the large white owl perched on a nearby crowded bookshelf. The owl, a rare albino specimen, briefly opened one pink eye, then shut it.
The old man rummaged in an alcove, emerging with a cloak of shiny waxed fabric. "Little use taking a lamp out in this rain," he muttered. "What I need is that small lantern. I know I had it out in the stable last week, but then I brought it back here and put it… aha, under the shelf with that crystal globe that old Botford sent me. I shan't be long," he assured the dozing owl. "It's probably only wind in the thatch, but on the other hand, one never can tell about noises in the nighttime."
The owl remained motionless. Only an occasional rustling of feathers betrayed that it wasn't merely another of the many mounted specimens tucked away on shelves or tabletops.
After a few moments, the old man returned, his cloak streaming with rain. He set down his lantern and cradled a sodden, dark lump in both dripping hands. "You see?" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "It's a cat!"
Startled, the owl emitted a complaining hoot and hopped to a higher shelf.
"It's been injured," the old man continued. "That's why it was crying. I must clear a space on my desk. Where did I put that knitted scarf from the shepherd's wife? It would be just the proper thing to set you upon, cat. My, you are wet. Are you a black cat? No, I do believe you're gray. There, let me shed this cloak of mine so I can see to drying us both."
The cat shivered as the old man stroked him gently with a soft rag, gradually fluffing out the water-soaked fur.
"I don't think I've ever seen fur quite like this before," mused the old man. "Dark gray, but silver-tipped, a bit like a badger's… and your eyes are as blue as the sky after a rain. Ha! There's a good thought for a name. I shall call you 'Raindrop.' You were certainly wet enough to qualify. I trust you feel much drier now. Let me see that paw. Hmm-mud, grit, and some sluggish bleeding still. Let me dip it in a cup of water with a little wine to clean it. Bones broken, I'm afraid. The foot must have been crushed. You fell, perhaps? Or did you squeeze it between rocks?"
The cat mewed pitifully.
"Remiss of me-that paw must be distinctly painful. I should be able, to relieve it somewhat." The old man pronounced a series of curious sounds, and lightly touched the paw.
To the cat's amazement, a cool numbness spread through the paw and part of the way up his leg.
The old man smiled. "Better, eh? That is one advantage of being a wizard, you know. Provided," he added, with disarming honesty, "you can remember the proper spell at the proper time. It is most annoying to want a spell for a night light, say, and all that comes to mind is the one for changing the color of a sheep. Now then, what we need is something to protect that paw while the bones knit back. If you were a human, I could use splints or plaster, but your paw is so small and delicate… aha, I think this lump of beeswax might serve. If I warm it by the lamp and mold it into a sort of mitten, it should hold your paw steady. How's that? You can't walk on it, but you shouldn't walk for a time as it is. Why don't you lie down on this scarf and rest? I shall be close by, here in my chair." The wizard yawned, and leaned his bald head against the high padded chairback. "I had no idea it was so late. I'll just rest a moment myself before I finish reading that interesting spell…" His head drooped to one side, and he began to snore.