In a land surrounded by magical forests and mystical creatures was the village of Rootspire. The humble people of this village were schooled in their family trade and thus contributed to the Rootspire way of life. But it wasn’t until the Mongrelfolk moved into the enchanted Willow Forest that men started missing from their village.
Mongrelfolk were a cross between ogres and orcs. They had the gift to assume any form that they wished; this was achieved by making a tea blend with the fur of cats, their mortal enemies. Their gift allowed them to appear as normal humans. They also slowly feasted on the flesh of men. The true form of a Mongrelfolk was round and potatoe-like with scant long hairs on their body. Other characteristics were puny legs, long claws and dreadful pointed teeth that were blackened. All manner of creatures avoided angering them for they had a very nasty disposition.
One day two sweet, elderly sisters visited Rootspire to inquire about the bountiful harvest. They stopped to observe Hamel, a strong, handsome farmer who was busy with his daily chores. He was bent over as he put his corn in a sack, causing his breeches to strain tightly over his backside.
“There is plenty of meat on this one, sister,” murmured Velda.
“Ah, yes, he is a fine specimen,” replied Klarot, “almost too handsome to eat.”
An indignant copper-haired neighbor observed the two old women. “Ye old ladies are so brazen! Why don’t ye ogle over a man yer own age?”
“Because there are no men our age!” retorted Klarot. This was indeed a truthful confession, but it was lost on the neighbor. “Mind yer own business, wench.” The young woman tossed her nose in the air and retreated into her own house.
Upon hearing the women draw near, he said, “May I help you ladies?”
“Indeed you may,” said Velda. “We are wondering when we might purchase some of yer harvest.”
“I plan on going to Odenville with a cart of my best produce. I’ll be setting up a table at the Farmer’s Market two days hence.”
“Good. We will see you then,” said Klarot.
The morning arrived when Hamel started down the road with his horse drawn cart of produce. Little Tristin and his gray tabby, Pogo, bolted out of the little house. After catching up with his father, Tristin begged to accompany him.
“Oh, papa, you promised that one day I could journey with you to Odenville. You said that when I did that, I’d finally be a man.”
“Yes, I did, little one, but that time has not arrived yet. Turn around and go home to your mother. I’ll see you when I return.”
“But, papa!”
“Listen to me, boy.”
Tristin obeyed but very grudgingly. He found that he enjoyed playing with Pogo more than with the other boys in the village. He taught his cat a few tricks such as retrieving things that he would throw. They were always together side by side. When they weren’t playing, they ate together and even slept together. His mother, Myra, looked in on them to see them cuddling in bed. Pogo was like a little brother with fur and whiskers.
Days passed and Hamel never came home from the Farmer’s Market. Soon news reached Rootspire that there had been an invasion of Mongrelfolk.
After Tristin’s mother had fed him a dinner of stew, she tucked him in the bed with a good night kiss. He listened for her door to close. Satisfied that she had retired for the night, Tristin jumped out of bed and climbed out of the window. Pogo was right beside him. The boy and his cat bounded down the dirt road that was lit by the full moon. The road disappeared into the dark enchanted Willow Forest. Deep in the heart of the forest was a meager cottage; its light pierced the darkness of the woods like a menacing beacon. An appalling smell drifted through the windows, like rancid leaves and rotting flesh. Tristin stacked some stones under the front window to peep in. He observed his father sitting scrunched up in a large cage. There was a large pot with a man’s hand sticking out of the top. He also observed an ugly Mongrelfolk with a knife cutting part of the tail off of a caged cat. The fur was placed in a tea bag. Tristin acted quickly. He banged on the door. When the door opened, he gestured with a funny face while the two ugly sisters went chasing him into the woods. In the meantime, Pogo trotted up the stairs into the cottage. Hamel perked up upon seeing Pogo.
“Fetch the keys, Pogo.” The cat obediently took the keys in his mouth and handed them to his owner. “Good Boy!”
While Hamel tried each key in the lock, Klarot returned to the cottage.
“What have we here? More fur to make tea I think.” Pogo puffed his fur, screeched fiercely, and jumped onto Klarot’s face. Klarot whirled around in circles, trying to rid herself of the cat, though unsuccessful. Hamel unlocked his cage and that of the maimed cat. The unknown feline also pounced on Klarot’s back; he dug his claws in deep. Soon Klarot was overcome. She crumbled to the floor dead.
Velda appeared in the doorway just in time to see Klarot succumb to the cats. She let out a dreadful scream as she charged at Hamel with her knife raised. The two cats bit and scratched at her legs. They drove her away from the Hamel and closer to the fireplace. Then with all of their might, the two cats pounced on her, driving her onto the burning logs of the fireplace. Velda’s twitching body fell forward in a burning heap. The fire spread and consumed the little cottage in minutes. Hamel, Tristin and Pogo returned to Rootspire with their new feline friend whom Tristin named Stubby.
This was for February Furs contest in the Writers 750 group at Goodreads. I have been adding stories to this theme and one day hope to make a book out of it.
