The Kidnapping of Horatio
This story was inspired by the artwork of Milena Mitkova. Check out her Etsy shop and Instagram to see more of her gorgeous art!
“It will not work. You are both wasting your time.”
The cat, Methuselah, fixed her yellow eyes upon the crow. It was perched precariously in a birdcage cobbled together with sticks and twine. The cage door was wide open, taunting freedom, but it could not leave. A leather cord about its ankle tethered it to the perch. A cruel joke of the cat’s mistress. The boulder on which the cage rested had once been used as an altar by god-fearing folk in an age long forgotten – tonight, it served as little more than a conveniently placed pedestal.
“Shut your beak, Squawker,” said the cat. Methuselah had had enough of its endless talking. Most birds were unable to speak and she sorely wished the crow was one of them. The cat went back to licking its black paws.
“My name is Horatio, little moggy,” replied the crow.
Her patience abruptly vanished. “I know your stupid name!” she yowled. Her heckles went up, and out came her claws, each one devilishly sharp. How she hated birds. If her witch hadn't needed him for her plans, she would have plucked his feathers by now.
Horatio fluffed up his feathers and lifted his head in an obnoxious manner that only served to further infuriate the cat. “Then use it.”
His eyes brightened in amusement when the cat below him hissed and spat. He had no fear of her claws. She wouldn’t dare touch him – not when her mistress needed him for her painfully obvious trap. Honestly, if his own witch fell for it, he would be ashamed to call himself her familiar.
“Pipe down, the both of you!” snapped the witch, Ethel, as she stomped into the clearing from where she had been hiding in the thicket. “How am I supposed to know she’s coming with you two making such a ruckus? I can’t hear myself think!” She rattled the cage for good measure. Horatio was unruffled, and she only succeeded in loosening some of the twine holding the structure together.
“If you keep coming out here, she’s going to see you,” he noted, dryly.
Ethel threw him a venomous look and then trudged back into the dense shadows of the forest. No sooner had she disappeared from view did a great gust of wind bluster through the clearing, and the next moment, a second witch stood lounging against the boulder. Tight, dark curls framed her face. Her eyes were as dark as raven’s wings, streaked with iridescent purples and greens.
“Oh, my dearest, darling Horatio,” she said, her voice utterly deadpan and lacking all emotion. “I had thought thee lost for good! Who dares trap you in this way?”
“That would be me.” Ethel appeared on the edge of the wood, magic in hand.
Edith, who had pressed the back of her hand to her brow in mock faint, now dropped her arm and rolled her eyes at Horatio. “Well. That was underwhelming. I had hoped you might have been snatched by some great warlock.” Turning to Ethel, she said, “Sister, you do realise that I recognise Methuselah here?”
Her sister looked uncertain for a moment, then her gaze hardened. “Shut up. I’m the one who’s going to do the talking. You’re going to give me what I want, or I’ll feed your bird to Methuselah.”
The cat licked her lips as if on cue.
Edith looked taken aback. “My bird? But you don’t have my bird.”
Horatio, who had slipped his binds the moment he felt his mistress near, now hopped from the cage and flew up to sit on her shoulder.
“Oh, Edith,” he said in a monotone, “thank you for saving me. I was so very scared.”
She grinned at him. “I didn’t do it for you – I just didn’t want you to give Methuselah here indigestion.”
“It was a risk,” Horatio agreed. He gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek.
Familiar returned, Edith looked back at the seething Ethel. “I believe you wanted something. How may I be of assistance?”
“Mother’s notebook,” said Ethel through gritted teeth. “I want it.”
Her sister rolled her eyes. She snapped her fingers, and a moment later a book appeared in her outstretched hand. Its black leather cover was cracked with age, the pages yellowed and crisp. She tossed it at her sister’s feet.
“You know,” she said, preparing to leave, “we do share a room. You could just try asking next time.”
Book in hand, Ethel’s rage vanished, and she flashed her sister a grin. “I know, but where would be the fun in that?”