Plain Kate

Plain Kate thought she was dying and that when she died she would remain as a statue, held in place by the stiffness of the air. Linay reached out a hand for her. She was sure she would die when he touched her but she could only watch his hand coming.

And he touched her.

The air was air again. Kate staggered and crashed to the dock. The world spun and sparks shot through her vision. Linay loomed over her, dim and white as a pillar.

“Well,” said the witch. “That’s that.”

“What—” Kate gasped. She coughed, blinked. Taggle shook his head hard.

“I have left your goods at the third big stone around the bend of the road.”

“But—” Kate couldn’t stop him, couldn’t even see him. He was a sort of white shadow above her. She lay panting on the wet wood, her hair hanging over the dock edge, down toward the river.

He looked down at her, his face fuzzy—she thought he looked genuinely sad. “The loss of a shadow is a slow thing,” he said. “You will have a little time before someone notices. Find a place to belong before that happens.” Then he sang:

Go fast, Plain Kate, and travel light

Learn to walk the shadowy night

Without a shadow, flee from light

Become a shadow, truly

He crouched down beside her.“Will you come with me to the stone city?”

“No.” She could hardly get the word out.

“No,” he echoed. “But I will see you again, I think.” He looked over at Taggle. “The pair of you.” And he rose and went, leaving her lying helplessly in the dark, beside the water.

It was a long time before she could sit up, before Taggle could gather himself enough to resume sniffing around the meat pie. Plain Kate leaned forward and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyelids until she saw spots. Something had been taken from her, and though it was supposed to be her shadow, she felt as if it might have been her soul.“What did I do?” she muttered.

Over by the meat pie, Taggle gave a hiss and a hair-ball cough. Plain Kate opened her eyes.“Mussssssicians,” the cat spat. “Do you know what fiddle strings are made of? Bah! I’m glad he’s gone. Let’s eat.”

FOUR THE ROAMERS

Plain Kate scooched back and stared.“Taggle!”

Taggle was absorbed in the meat pie.“It’s covered inbread,” he huffed. “What fool has coveredmeat withbread?” He batted at the crust, then sprang back as it broke, and began licking gravy off his paw. “Ooooo,” he purred. “Ooooo, good.”

“Taggle,” gulped Kate, again.

The cat looked up from his licking.“Oh. Well. I could share.” He arched his whiskers forward and, like a lord, demonstrated his beneficence by giving away what he didn’t want. “There is bread you might like.”

“You’re—” Kate closed her jaw with deliberation. “You can talk.”

“It was…hrrmmmm…your wish.” His yellow eyes seemed to look inside himself. “So that you would not have to go alone.”

“Oh.”I will grant the secret wish of your heart, Linay had said.

Taggle cocked his head at her.“There’s meat too. Besides the bread. You may have some of that as well.”

The night was cool and rustly with rain. Everything she had in the world was in a haversack crushed against her hip. She was wearing an old quilt belted with a bit of twine, and the damp night was wrapped around that. And now her cat could talk. Plain Kate felt ridiculous and relieved and terrified and—despite the cat—very alone indeed.

“It is beneath my dignity to coax you.” Taggle butted at her hand. “Eat.”

So she did.

***

Full of meat pie and trailed by a talking cat, Plain Kate turned her back on her town and walked into the mouth of the road. Her legs wobbled and her mind whirled. Her cat could talk. She had made a deal with a witch. She was leaving her only home. She was heading for the bend, the third big stone. What she would do if Linay had not left her gear there, she didn’t know, and couldn’t think about. She had only a little food in the haversack of tools and half-done carvings. If there was nothing behind the third big stone, she would simply and slowly die.

Taggle sauntered along, arching his whiskers and tasting the night. He was wordless, and Plain Kate could almost believe she had been dreaming.So you wouldn’t be alone, he’d said. Whatever was going to happen next, she wouldn’t be alone. She spotted the stone. Leaning against it was a basket.

It was the kind of basket farmers wore on their backs, to haul harvest to market: shaped like half a barrel, with leather straps to go over the shoulders. It was new and finely made: Plain Kate fingered the smooth paleness of the woven ash splints. Taggle reared up and put his front paws on the basket rim. He worked his head under the hinged lid.“Do you suppose he packed more meat pie?” His voice was muffled, but not a dream.

“Well,” she said, feeling dazed, “let’s look.”

There were packets of hurry bread that made Taggle sniff in disgust. There was a bedroll of oilskin and fur. A hatchet. A sheepskin coat, too big for her. A hat and mittens of rabbit fur. A jumble of small things: a fire flint, a leather folder of fishhooks and another of needles, tall wool socks, a linen shift.