The Familiar

by Dana Corby

Illustrated by Jack Ruttan

Late October. It had rained all day but stopped sometime after dark. To the black-clad figure soaring improbably above the City on her birch broom, it never looked lovelier or more haunting than now, with the occasional street lamp and a few lights from the empty office buildings reflecting on the wet streets and sidewalks, and all else just great dark bulks against the night sky. Though to be honest, what one saw through midnight office windows was rarely exciting. Little changed from decade to decade, except that the rows of typewriters had vanished, to gradually be replaced by glowing computer screens on every desk.

A patch of brighter light attracted her attention. Some shop window, she thought. It might be interesting to have a closer look. She began to descend.

And then she felt that tug. There was something magical around.

She swooped down and came to a stop, right in the patch of light. It was a reckless thing to do, because from the tip of her pointed black hat to her ancient button-up shoes, a chance passer-by would know her for what she was. A Witch. Just like in The Wizard of Oz, except that her wrinkled face was a soft pink, not green, and her faded blue eyes were bright and kind. But she couldn’t help herself; the tug of something magical was so strong!

She had stopped in front of a pet shop, one of the ones with the big display window full of little animals for sale. Though the rest of the shop was dark, the window glowed with soft lights illuminating a litter of sleeping kittens. Gray tabbies, all of them. Except one. A black one.

“Hello, little one,” the Witch whispered. “Is it you who calls me?”

The kitten stirred, opened its eyes, and came to the window. It stood up on its hind legs, with its front paws on the glass, and gazed up at the Witch with an expression of wide-eyed wonder.

“It is you,” the Witch whispered lovingly. “You have come back to help me once more, as you have done so many times. My dear familiar.”

* * * *

The next morning, the Witch, dressed now in what she calls her “civvies,” is at the shop door as soon as it opens. There’s a young woman behind the counter, who looks up and smiles at her. Nice girl, she thinks.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” the clerk says. “How can I help you?”

The Witch crosses to the counter. This close, she can see the shopgirl’s name tag. “Good morning! Linda, is it? You have a kitten in the window that I think I want.”

The girl’s smile broadens. “Oh, lovely! Which one?”

With an internal chuckle, the Witch replies, “The black one.”

The clerk’s smile vanishes. “Are you sure?” she asks. “We were thinking of returning him to the breeder because he hisses and spits at everyone.”

“Oh, surely not!” says the Witch in alarm. “Can I see it, please? Him, I mean?”

Dubiously, the clerk answers, “Well, if you insist…” She crosses to the window and opens the enclosure, brushing aside several friendly tabbies, and reaches for the black one. He backs into a corner, stiff and wide-pupiled, but makes no sound. Scooping him up, she turns to the Witch, noting that she’s awfully old and fragile looking, and asks worriedly, “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you to get scratched, or worse, bitten.”

“He won’t hurt me,” insists the Witch. “Will you, baby?” Extending a long-fingered hand, she deftly removes the kitten from the clerk’s grasp and brings him into a hug. Immediately, the kitten goes limp, closes his eyes and starts purring far too loudly for his tiny body. The Witch smiles, toothlessly but sweetly, eyes sparkling.

“Well! If that isn’t just the oddest thing! He seems to like you.”

“Cats know who they belong with,” the Witch says firmly. “What do I owe you, please?”

The young woman looks at the Witch again, taking in her outfit, a rose bouclé suit that was stylish in about 1960. Not just old, she thinks, but poor. “Tell you what,” she says. “Like I said, we were going to send him back to the breeder anyway. And you’re the first person he’s ever taken to. So, he’s yours.”

The Witch is genuinely touched. “That’s certainly kind of you,” she says, “but not necessary. I can pay.”

The clerk shakes her head. “I insist you take him. We don’t want him.” She breaks into a grin. “You two were made for each other.”

The Witch can’t help grinning back. “Well, in that case…” She gives the kitten a little squeeze. “Thank you. And -” shifting her grip on the kitten, she takes the clerk’s hand for a moment, sending a small jolt of something that could be called magic: “Blessed be.”

Witch and kitten leave the store, trailing purrs, and are never seen again in the City. But the shop prospers after that. Its animals are never sick and always go to loving homes, its employees are smart and caring, staying on for years and years—possibly because the shop makes so much money everyone gets regular raises. People say there’s something almost magical about it.