CATT
By N.R. Simpson, DVM

5 December 1667. The loud crowing of a cock awoke me to both the new day and a pounding headache--a price I often paid for keeping late hours, writing reports to King Charles II of England.

I ought to know better, and I'm surprised my good host's neighbors haven't said something. They've surely noticed the midnight light from my candle, and I've seen more than one soul accused, tried, and executed on less evidence than that.

Scots are a suspicious lot and have no good reason to trust Englishmen, particularly inquisitive ones such as I, but on the other hand, I suppose they've learned not to look out into the night. They know it's dangerous to see things that don't concern them and a good way to end up accused or dead.

I yawned and looked out the open window into the cold darkness beyond, the dawn still only in the damnable cock's imagination. I spent a happy minute thinking of imaginative ways to kill that miserable bird, who continued his raucous cawking and karking, as if daring me to try to fall back asleep.

My name is Robert MacDonnell, hardly a name to raise Scottish eyebrows, and that's why the King selected me for this particular task. Properly attired, I can pass for a Highlander, in rough manner and burred speech learned at my father's knee. The perfect spy.

I threw the filthy bedclothes off and rose shivering from the straw mattress, my bare feet cold on the dirt floor of the house. I pulled on my breeches and boots and headed for the hearth. The fire there had burned down considerably during the night and gave but little warmth to the rude stone habitation.

I rubbed my icy hands together and held them out toward the weakly glowing embers, grateful for even the minimal heat, as I tried to ease the stiffness from my fingers.

From the far corner of the room, my host--a distant and none-too-hospitable elderly relative--arose and threw a shabby knitted wool shawl over his shoulders, then came hawking and scratching himself up to the hearth, mimicking my own actions. He stood there, hands to the fire, and squinted owlishly at me, as if trying to remember whom I was and by what right I stole his heat.

He finally grunted, grabbed a poker and bent to stir the embers, then took a single chunk of wood from the small pile beside the hearth and tossed it onto the fire. Apparently satisfied with this miserly display, he scowled and said, "I'll na take kindly to ye writin' inta the wee hours again. Were ye na kin, I wouldna ha' ye here. Do ye na ken the danger? Laird or bairn, makes na difference, 'tis na safe. The Godfearing folk hereabout dinna take to candles at Satan's hour. 'Tis divil's work."

Devil's work, indeed. I ignored the parsimonious old fool. Witches, warlocks, sorcerers? To listen to the Protestant Church of Scotland--the Kirk--the woods were full of them. If these minions of the devil were such a threat, their enchantments so powerful, why had none of them managed to save themselves?

But those considerations aside, I had my orders.

Despite the distractions of a major outbreak of Plague and then last year's Great Fire in London, stories of shape-shifting by a recently executed Scottish witch--one Issobel Gowdie--had reached the court. The royal curiosity had been piqued, and King Charles himself had charged me to discover the truth, if possible, about the events of five years earlier.

I think he was only acting at the behest of the Archbishop and certain elders of the Kirk of Scotland. I suspect they wanted to be certain the witch was dead, and that England and Scotland would see neither repetition of Gowdie's heinous crimes nor the spread of her putative ability to shapeshift into the form of a catt.

That was why I was here in County Nairne--just south of the town of Auldearne, to be exact--a lone Englishman in hostile Scots country. I'd spent a great deal of time and effort to find the Reverend Harrie Forbes, the minister who had presided over Issobel Gowdie's confession and trial. More than a few golden guineas had changed hands, but I'd so far been unable to learn his whereabouts. He'd disappeared as if the King had put a price on his head.

However, I'd planned an interview today with John Weir, a venerated townsman and purported witness to the Gowdie trial and execution, who I hoped could give me a lead towards finding the elusive Rev. Forbes.

I made a cold breakfast of peas porridge, thanked my well-compensated but reluctant host, buttoned up my traveling coat and left. The icy waters of the Firth of Moray to the north shimmered ahead of me in the winter sunlight as I made my way into the village of Auldearne, a pleasant walk of some few miles.

The road was frozen and firm, the going easy. Curls of smoke rose from the quiet houses, and patches of half-melted snow covered the sleeping fields and fences of the smallholdings I passed along the way. Only a few foraging cows and sheep noted my presence by lifting their heads to watch curiously as I walked by.

I stopped as I entered the village proper, to ask directions of a warmly-dressed horseman traveling from the direction of Nairn, not far to the northwest. The red-bearded fellow, perhaps a clansman, pulled up at my hail and eyed me up and down, a hand on the dirk at his waist. He relaxed as I told him with my best Highland burr my name was MacDonnell, and I'd just made my way down to the coast to look for a certain reliable churchman. I gave him the name.

He hesitated, looked about, then pointed at a small stone structure at the far end of the town. He said gruffly, "Have a care with whom ye converse in these parts, laddie. 'Tis best to trust no one."

I smiled. "I keep my own counsel."

He nodded and touched a hand to his bonnet, then rode off without looking back.

I headed directly for the church, and paid no mind to the many silent hostile stares I received from the villagers as I made my way by them. I reached at last the rough stone kirk, which was little more than an unpretentious stone building with a thatched roof.

I lifted the door latch and entered, to find the inside surprisingly well appointed for such a small town. A thick red velvet cloth covered both altar and pulpit, and upon the altar itself sat what appeared to be a cross of solid silver, accompanied by an ornate sterling bowl and plate.

Even more surprising, in the wall above the altar, the building's main window gleamed with a pane of stained glass. This was a serious extravagance. Auldearne did not appear wealthy, but someone hereabouts had parted with a fair amount of brass to obtain that window. Willingly? I wondered.

A low growl somewhere off to my right drew my attention away from the glass, and almost in the same moment a door leading to a tiny room behind and to the right of the altar--the minister's quarters--opened.

"Harrie!" The scolding voice rang with annoyance, and was quickly followed by its owner, a frowning man neither young nor old, dressed all in black, who emerged from the open door and immediately bent over to make a grab for a rather large, hissing catt. The catt, completely black but for a curious crescent of white on his forehead, apparently consented to being picked up, but continued to look in my direction and growl.

"Damn ye, stop tha'!" said the man and rapped the catt smartly on the head. The catt gave a final hiss and glared silently at me.

"Auld Harrie's a bad 'un, for a moggie." The man looked up at me for the first time and smiled as he stroked the animal. "Named for the divil, he is, and acts like he wants to take on the legions of Hell all by himself."

"Then Scotland will remain God's country for certain."

He laughed and nodded. "Aye, tha' it will. John Weir, keeper o' the kirk, at your service." He lifted a single heavy eyebrow. "And whom might ye be?"

"Robert MacDonnell."

His blue eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but the smile remained. "MacDonnell, is it? Down from the mountains?"

"Up from London," I said, dropping my accent.

His smile immediately faded. "You've come from the Archbishop?" He lowered the catt to the floor.

"And the King."

He straightened, frowned and crossed his arms. "Wi' a name like MacDonnell?"

"I was born in the Highlands--my father led the MacDonnell clan."

His eyes narrowed again. "How'd ye end up in London?"

"My mother was English, a cousin of the King. She sent me there to be educated, long ago."

"I see. And where do your sympathies lie?"

"With those who speak the truth."

He smiled evenly. "There are many truths." After a long moment, he uncrossed his arms and held out his hands. "So. How may I be o' service to the Crown?"

"I wish to speak with the Reverend Harrie Forbes. I thought perhaps you might know where I can find him."

"Reverend Forbes is na here, as you can plainly see." He gestured into the empty room behind the open door. "Nor like to be again. An evil man. He's gone."

"Gone where?"

"Tha', I couldna say." He shrugged and turned away, as if he'd lost all interest in the conversation.

"Then I'll have to speak with you."

Weir turned back to me, a frown on his face. "On wha' subject? I told ye, Forbes is gone."

"I need to know about a trial that was held here about five years ago. Forbes presided, but you were there."

"Trial?" He shrugged indifferently. "There's been na trial here."

He dropped his eyes and started to turn away once more. I reached out and grasped his shoulder to stop him.

"A witch. She was condemned and burned. Issobel Gowdie?"

An odd uneasy look came and disappeared quickly from his face, almost before I was certain I'd seen it. Fear? No. Something else.

He sighed. "Oh, aye. Issobel. The trial wasna here in Auldearne, 'twas o'er to Nairn, a few miles up the road."

"My mistake. But you were there?"

He nodded again. "Aye, I was there. A travesty. The girl was mairdirt."

"Murdered? She was tried, confessed and executed in accordance with the laws of Scotland and the Kirk. I've seen the record and her confession."

"Oh, aye, she was tried and confessed, but the lass was mairdirt, na executed. Strangled in her cell, she was, during the night."

"By whom?" I'd been sent to Auldearne to investigate a witch, not a murder. This complication was not welcome news.

He looked at me as if I were an ignorant child and had just asked a very stupid question. "Forbes, o'course. He vanished right after the trial." He stared at me for a long moment, as if evaluating me. "And she was innocent o' the charges."

"You knew her?"

"Aye, for years. A bonnie lass, but simple. No harm in her."

"Simple?" I'd not heard that.

"I'll wager the Archbishop dinna tell ye tha' in London, did he?" A wry smile appeared on Weir's face.

I shook my head, but wasn't all that surprised. The slow-witted were often targeted as witches. "It must have been an oversight."

"Aye, an oversight." Weir sighed in obvious disgust, shook his head, then heavily took a seat in one of the wooden pews. The black catt jumped up beside him and began a loud purr, despite its earlier hostility. He stroked the catt absently.

"Aye, Issobel was simple. Forbes strangled her to keep her quiet, then had her burned as a witch. A complete fiction, no doubt to cover up the girl's mairdir."

"If it was untrue, then why did you go along with it?"

"Why?" Weir looked up at me. "Forbes threatened us all with the same fate, and who among us could stand against the Kirk and an accusation of witchcraft? What choice did we have? We were in fear for our lives."

I unbuttoned my coat and sat down opposite the man, in the adjacent pew. "But if you're innocent, you have nothing to fear from such an accusation." I had to say this, even though I knew it to be untrue.

He looked up at me glumly and gave a short sarcastic laugh. "Ye canna really believe tha'?"

I dodged the question. "What did he want to keep her quiet about?"

"The usual." He kept stroking the purring catt. "Issobel was with child."

Under the circumstances, this was hardly a motive for murder, and I said as much. "Well, what of it? She was married, wasn't she?"

"Aye, but Gowdie had been badly hurt some years earlier defendin' his farm. A skirmish wi' a band o' brigands. He killed one o' their number, but in reprisal, the others beat the poor man savagely. He near to died. Issobel, then just a young lass from a neighboring smallholding, was one o' those who nursed the man back to health. But the brigands ha' kicked him repeatedly in the stones. Left him a gelding. He couldna ha' sired a bairn."

I shook my head at the brutality, but I'd seen worse in tearing confessions from suspected witches. And by men of the Church, not brigands.

Weir gave a small grin. "He lived to see them caught and hanged, so he had some small measure of vengeance. But the damage was done, and there wouldna be children. 'Twas common knowledge."

My eyes narrowed at this revelation. "Except Issobel suddenly found herself with child."

"Aye."

"Forbes's child."

He nodded. "Aye."

"What makes you so sure it was his?"

Weir remained silent, gently stroking the now-sleeping catt. I was about to repeat my question, when he sighed and looked straight at me.

"MacDonnell, have ye ever lived in a wee town such as Auldearne?"

I'd visited many villages and towns--mainly Scottish--in the course of my life, but never for more than a few days. Usually just long enough to watch some old woman's trial and execution, the King's witness. I shook my head negatively.

"Well, townfolk are na unlike a clan. Secrets may be held from outsiders, but na amongst themselves."

I didn't understand the logic. "If everyone knew, then why bother killing the girl? Wasn't the horse out of the byre already?"

"As to tha', Robert MacDonnell," he said, sitting back and frowning, "you'd have to ask Forbes."

"Yes, of course. And you've no idea where he is?"

Sunlight from the stained glass window reached the napping catt's eyes, which opened. He yawned and gave a hiss in my general direction, then jumped down from the pew and padded silently off across the kirk's stone floor.

"Sorry, laddie, nay." Weir brushed the catt's black fur from his hands and looked at me, a neutral expression on his face. "There's those tha' say Issobel's ghost returned and stole him away, tha' ye can hear his mournful wail at night sometimes, when the wind's right."

I raised an eyebrow, interested. "Do they indeed?" I spent a brief moment wondering how the Protestant Kirk, which had largely disowned the Roman Catholic concepts of exorcism and Saints, would deal with a witch's ghost.

"Aye. Some."

"And you? What do you think happened to him?"

Weir shrugged again. "I couldna say. Perhaps he's gone off to the colonies in America. He wouldna be the first mairdirer to flee there."

"True. I'll have to check into that." This was a possibility I hadn't considered, but somehow, I didn't think it likely. Why flee from a crime that almost no one was aware of, and those few who were, frightened into silence?

"Well, I'll tell the King you've been of help." I rose to take my leave. "I'll be returning to London in a few days. My thanks, and that of your King."

I offered him my hand as he stood for our parting. He took it in his own, his grip firm.

"Ye willna be leaving today? Perhaps it might be wiser o' ye to do so. Auldearne isna especially taken wi' visitors." Weir's voice seemed a tad less friendly than when we'd started, though there was no change in his manner.

"So I've noticed." I remembered the hostility in the faces of the townspeople.

I stopped to casually brush some dust from my traveling coat, and spoke with feigned nonchalance as I busied myself with my cleaning. "But I've a thing or two yet to do, and others to talk to."

This was a lie--the others present for Issobel's trial were either dead, or like Issobel's husband, had outright refused to meet with me--but I took a chance Weir didn't know this, and I spoke thus simply to see his reaction. I was instantly rewarded by a hint of panic in his voice.

"Others? Wha' others? Have I na just told ye all ye needed?"

I stopped my brushing finally and looked up at him again. I tried to hide my satisfaction. "Why, yes, you were a great help. But I need to speak to the others who were present at the trial.

"I believe a David Smith of Auldearne was also listed, besides yourself and Forbes, as a witness. And Issobel's husband is still alive, and lives near here, does he not? He may know something of Forbes's whereabouts."

Weir began to sputter. "Nay, he knows nothing about...tha' is, ye dinna need to disturb the poor man."

I had Weir badly unsettled, and I knew it, although not the reason for his disquiet. He was lying to me about something, I was sure of it. I hurried on without a break in stride--it would be a mistake to give the man time to think. "Incidentally, is there any truth to the rumor that Issobel Gowdie could change her form?"

"I...She...Wha'? Change her form? Tha's ridiculous!"

"Is it? She confessed to doing so, at her trial."

"She also confessed to seeing silkies in the loch and faeries under the hill. Should we believe tha', too?"

He had a point, but I wasn't to be put off by sarcasm. Something was wrong here. Highly respected members of the Church, such as Reverend Forbes, do not simply vanish into thin air, leaving no trace of themselves. Had Weir 'mairdirt' him, and quietly disposed of the body? I wasn't sure, but I was beginning to wonder.

"Surely you've heard her charm?"

"Wha' charm?"

I quoted from memory the charm I'd seen in her confession:

"I sall goe intill ane Catt
With sorrow, and sych, and a blak shott,
And I sall goe in the divillis name,
Ay will I come home againe."

I saw alarm rise into his eyes, which had grown wide. Weir interrupted me before I could continue, almost screaming, "Be still, ye damned fool! Are ye daft? You dinna ken wha' it is ye do, or what forces ye call upon!"

His voice seemed to echo off the bare stone walls of the kirk as he cast a nervous glance around the small building, but other than ourselves and the catt, the place was empty. He lowered his voice as he loosened the collar about his neck. "I mean, my God, man, ye'll have us both accused!"

I was relentless. "Why so worried, John Weir? It's only a harmless poem, isn't it?" I lifted my hands to show them to him. "See? No fur, no paws. I'm still a man. The charm doesn't seem to work very well. So if someone should overhear us, what of it?"

He stared at me and looked ill at ease, but said not a word.

"Where did Issobel get the charm? Someone must have given it to her, it's beyond anything a simple girl might compose."

Weir shrugged.

"Perhaps you know this one, then." I started again, this time the second verse of the charm:

"Catt, Catt, God send me blak shott,

I am in a Cattis liknes ere now,

Bot I sall be in woman's liknes jus now.

Catt, Catt, God send me blak shott."

He fell back into the pew he'd been sitting in earlier, his mouth gaping like a fish freshly caught.

"Please! Ye do na ken wha' it is ye're doin'." He sat there slowly shaking his head, obviously terrified we'd be overheard.

I was pitiless, and in a single motion pulled a dirk from my belt and held it to his throat. "I can execute you on the King's authority, right this very minute. So talk! And the truth this time! Where's Forbes?"

"I canna tell ye."

I pushed the knife in deeper. "Canna, or willna?"

"I..."

"I'm losing patience, John Weir."

He whimpered as I pushed the point of the blade into the skin. A lone drop of blood oozed slowly down the blade.

"Can you feel the blood running down your neck? Last chance. Where's Harrie Forbes?"

Weir stared in abject terror at me as I dabbed the drop of blood onto a finger and held it up for him to see. That evidently was enough to push him over the edge--he closed his eyes, moaned, and wilted. He lifted a shaking hand and pointed to the catt, now engaged in stalking a mouse it had spied running across the stone floor of the kirk.

"He's there. The moggie. Tha's Harrie."

I scowled and pressed the dirk's point deeper into the flesh of Weir's neck. Another drop of blood ran down the blade. "Stop speaking nonsense, man, and give me an answer, or I swear by the Goddess, I'll open your throat!"

Weir's eyes bulged. He panted, "Aye, the Reverend Harrie Forbes himself! Please, sir, I swear 'tis the truth I speak!"

I slightly relaxed the pressure of the dirk against the frightened man's throat. "What are you talking about? The catt is Forbes?"

"I swear it! 'Tis Harrie himself!"

I looked in disbelief over again at the catt, who sat staring back proudly at us, the mouse hunt a success, the struggling prize gripped tightly in his jaws.

I shifted my glance back to Weir and again pressed the knife into his throat. "Do you take me for a fool, John Weir?"

Weir shook with fright, afraid to move from my cold steel. He gasped out, "You yourself spoke the charm o' shiftin', na two minutes ago."

I took the blade away, shoved him deeper into the pew and stood back. I glanced at the catt again, who had begun to bat the squeaking mouse about, repeatedly tossing it into the air and pouncing on it.

I shook my head. "It doesn't work, you saw that for yourself. Issobel Gowdie was no witch, the charm is useless. You said yourself she was simple."

Weir looked unhappy. "Aye, and so she was."

"Then how could Forbes have used her charm to change himself into a catt?"

"I've said too much already."

"You've said nothing, and my patience is at an end." I raised the dirk toward him once more.

He held up a hand. "All right. He didna."

"What?" I reached down and grabbed Weir by the waistcoat. "You just said Forbes changed himself into that catt, to try to escape justice, don't deny it."

He pushed my hands away with surprising strength. "I never said anything o' the sort." Weir was angry at last, and anger often begets truth as men forget their fear. "I said, Forbes dinna use Issobel's charm."

He glared at me as he straightened his coat, chin thrust forward defiantly. Too defiantly.

"You?" In a rush of understanding, I sat down slowly and stared at him. This wasn't what I had expected. "It wasn't Issobel's charm at all, was it? It was yours!"

"Aye, 'twas mine." The heat in his voice rapidly diminished, as Weir apparently realized he'd just signed his death warrant. He went on more slowly, his voice filled with remorse. "Issobel was accused, but I was the true witch in Auldearne. She wasna but a sweet lass, and it's ma fault she's dead, Goddess forgive me." He buried his face in his hands, obviously ridden with guilt. But guilt for what? Even if he'd confessed the truth at her trial, it wouldn't have saved her. He simply would have burned along with her, and he had to know that.

"Your fault? How is it your fault? Or did you commit the murder?"

He lifted his face up from his hands to look at me. He appeared dazed. "Me? Nay, I told ye, 'twas Forbes. She came to him and the Kirk for comfort because o' her husband's misfortune. Forbes was an evil man, and he took advantage of her. Simple or na, Issobel was a handsome lass.

"Often whilst she waited to speak with Reverend Forbes, I let her wait in ma room, away from prying eyes. We'd talk about this and tha', and I found myself teaching her a little o' the old ways, which excited her. I told her how the ancients used the charm o' shiftin' to change into animal form, to travel more swiftly from place to place, or to spy undiscovered on their enemies. Once, I even brought out ma Book o' Shadows from its hiding place and read the charm to her. I knew the girl was simple and unlettered, and so couldna write down my words, and I knew she wouldna expose me."

"But she listened too well, didn't she?"

Weir nodded. "She must ha' done so, and with some labor. She also must ha' later recited it, hoping to impress Forbes, who thought to use the charm for his own malignant purposes, the better to spy on the rest of us."

I thought I understood now. "So, he killed her to prevent anyone else from knowing he had the charm, not because she was pregnant?"

Weir shook his head. "The pregnancy ha' little enough to do with it. But the charm was listed in her confession, for any and all to see. Why kill her for tha'?"

I saw his point. I'd seen and read it myself. "But the charm doesn't work. So why would he--"

Weir wagged a long finger at me. "That isna the full charm, or ye'd be standing here a catt right now." He looked furtively around the church again, I assume just to be sure we were still alone.

"I know ye think me a fool, Robert MacDonnell, and perhaps I am, doing wha' I did. But I wasna so big a fool as to give the girl the entire charm. The last line o' each verse is written only here"--he tapped on his temple--"to keep such things from falling into the wrong hands."

He reached out and put a hand on my arm. "Robert, ye must believe me, despite what ye hear from the Kirk, a true witch uses potions, charms, and spells only to help, na to harm others. And such things must be guarded carefully to prevent their misuse by evil men like Forbes."

"I know that. I'm not totally ignorant of the ways of witches. But then why did Forbes betray Issobel to the Kirk?"

Weir shook his head. "I canna say for certain, but I ha' an idea. Forbes must ha' been furious when he found the charm didna work, and unlike the girl, realized something was missing. He must ha' betrayed her to the Kirk, hoping to force the girl to tell him where she'd heard it, so he could get the entire charm."

"And did she?"

"Aye, privately, in her cell wi' him, the last night of her trial. That's when he strangled her, to keep her from telling anyone else where she'd heard the charm. He didna want me accused and killed, because another churchman might be appointed ma confessor, na himself. And then, even if he found ma book, without the missing words, the charms wouldna be o' any use."

I narrowed my eyes at the catt, who, tired of his play, was busy now making a meal of the mouse. I thought about what Weir had just told me. It made sense. The events leading up to Issobel's murder were now clear, but I still didn't know what had happened to the Rev. Harrie Forbes, at least not for certain.

"So he came after you," I said.

Weir nodded. "Aye. Straightaway after the trial. I told him I wouldna give him either the book or the full charm o' shifting, no matter wha' he did to me. I was prepared to die, and he must ha' seen tha'. He became enraged, and instead o' arresting me, he threatened to have every man, woman, and bairn in the town o' Auldearne accused o' witchcraft."

"My God." I understood full well the import of Forbes's terrible threat. In the course of my duties as liaison between King and Kirk, I'd personally witnessed hundreds of witch trials, invariably followed by the burning, hanging, or drowning of the accused. There was no defense against such a charge. "Everyone in Auldearne would be put to death."

"Don't ye see, man?" Weir slumped in the pew, almost reduced to tears. "I couldna let tha' happen. So I relented and gave him the missing line. Right where ye be standin' now, Harrie gleefully recited the words o' the charm, changed shape in front o' me, became a catt..."

I looked over at the former Reverend Harrie Forbes, who sat washing his whiskers after his meal. A paw held to his furry face, and tongue partway out, he stopped long enough to coldly return my stare for a moment, then returned to his chore.

"Tha' was the way of it, I swear." Weir took a long breath and let it out, then sat up straight, as if facing judge and jury. He relaxed enough to cross his arms as he looked at me.

"Well now, Robert MacDonnell. What's it ta be? Will ye be a Highlander and do me a kindness by killing me yourself, or will ye be English, the King's man, and turn me o'er to the Kirk, to be cruelly confessed and burned?"

I stood and began to button my coat. "Neither, John Weir. You're free to go."

"Free?" He frowned and looked at me. "I do na understand."

"I'll keep your secret."

"But why? I've confessed ma guilt in the matter to ye, confessed I'm a witch."

He looked completely flummoxed. I could tell by his expression he was going over our conversation for a clue to my behavior. I heard a quick intake of his breath, and his face lit as he finally lifted his eyes and stared into my own.

"Ye be one of Her children!" He grabbed the sleeve of my coat. "Admit it, Robert MacDonnell! Ye called on Her, dirk in hand. I heard ye, but it dinna register at the time, bein' mildly concerned wi' the blade at ma throat..."

I laughed. He let go of my sleeve and slowly shook his head, apparently both in wonder and disbelief at his good fortune.

I put a hand on his shoulder. "John Weir, I learned long ago never to admit anything. Let's just say I've seen enough murder at the hands of the Kirk. I'll not have your death on my conscience, when you've done nothing but catch a murderer and served justice."

"But wha' will ye tell the King?"

"The truth. That Issobel Gowdie is dead, her charm is false, and that he needn't worry about legions of Scottish shapeshifters invading England."

He nodded thoughtfully, then stood, took my hand and gave it a hard squeeze. "You're a good man, Robert. I'm indebted to ye, and ye'll always find a friend and a warm hearth waitin' in this town."

I smiled once more at him and inclined my head. "Thank you."

I finished buttoning my coat, then walked to the door of the kirk, hat in hand, prepared to leave. I turned to face him for the final time. "John Weir, it's a lucky thing for you that he didn't ask for the last line of the restoring charm first."

He stood there and gave a short laugh. "Oh, aye, but he did! A canny one, was Harrie. But tha' one I gave him willingly."

"You did?" I frowned, somewhat taken aback. I glanced over at the catt again. "But weren't you afraid he'd use the second verse to restore himself, come back to human form and kill you?"

John Weir's eyes twinkled, and his face lit once more, this time with a wide grin. "How? He canna speak the words. He's a catt."

THE END

Story copyright N. R. Simpson, DVM 2002, published by the Fortean Bureau
http://www.forteanbureau.com