Not knowing what to do with herself, and thoroughly frustrated with the cat, the unknown horseman, and the forest that had decided to ‘pick her’, Rachel focused on the positives. Namely, that she was very hungry, and Sir Fishbits was fast at work preparing a meal for the pair of them.

She couldn’t help but wonder a thousand more questions as he set about his task. Perched on the window sill, he had a knobby stick firmly grasped in his little mouth as a dog might, and was wildly tossing his head about as if he despised the thing.

“Are you okay?” Rachel asked, horrified at the thought that perhaps he was having a seizure. Then she’d be left all alone.

“I’n fahne!” He shouted back, continuing to toss his little head like a mad—cat?

Almost immediately after he said this, Rachel felt an odd tingling sensation on her skin. Not quite like static electricity collecting from a wool blanket, but something quite close. Maybe a little warmer. That was when she saw something even stranger.

The building itself wasn’t shaking, but all of the tools and implements along the walls were quivering where they hung. The herbs and roots strung from the ceiling waved about, though there was no errant breeze to move them. Then, the door by the window slammed open, and with a start she realized it wasn’t a door to the outside at all, though the light from the stained glass window seemed to debate the fact. Beyond the door was a dark room with a set of stairs leading down to some place she couldn’t make out.

BOOM!

A loud sound echoed from down the stairs, followed by the sounds of rattling, clanking, crashing, clinking, stomping — and probably more. The noises quickly meshed together in a cacophony of not-quite-music. Then, little shadows formed across the floor leading away from the room, silhouettes of things climbing, hopping, and rolling up the stairs into the cottage.

“Sir Fishbits!” Rachel whispered in alarm, clutching her rough wool blanket to her chest. She was both fascinated and just a little bit scared. She could throw that on the pile of other emotions she was coping with today and sort it out later.

The first thing to appear was a lumpy burlap sack filled with potatoes, thumping the bottom of it’s woven bag like large cotton feet. It passed by Sir Fishbits and made it’s way to the side of Rachel’s bed before stopping abruptly. Rachel stared back at it, unsure if the–bag of potatoes could see her or not.

Almost as if in response, it bowed deeply, the potatoes at the top of the bag scrambling about in their opening to avoid falling to the ground.

“Um, uh, hello?” Rachel said, looking at the cat for some sort of guidance. It did her no good, he was still focused on wildly casting his head about with the stick in his mouth. Maybe it was a wand.

The bag of potatoes straightened itself and walked towards the table by the window and stopped again. Several of its denizens leapt from the sack and onto the table, hurriedly shaking off their skins as if they were merely clothes. There were at least a dozen of them altogether, far too many for one cat and one young woman.

She hadn’t even noticed the boxes clomping up the stairs to join them, some packed with carrots, some packed with various other root vegetables. Produce danced and lids rose, the carrots hopping along the floorboards towards a stubby chair pulled out from the table. A string of garlic flew over Rachel’s head, bulbs unleashing themselves from the rafters, followed by a few fat onions. Eventually there was a mountain of vegetables on the table, hopping and rolling around together, skins peeling along the way. A few knives drifted from the walls to join in the fray. At this point, Rachel really was terrified.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

CLUNK! BANG!

Her eyes darted back towards the open door, where a large and clunky cauldron was attempting to force its way through the frame, with no small amount of effort. It was just a hair’s breadth two wide, so it began to wiggle and jump on its three tiny pegs. With each extra smack against the door frame, the cauldron caused dust to drift from the rafters of the cottage. It looked like it was going to bring the whole place down!

“Sir Fishbits!” Rachel shouted, panicked, “stop!”

“Ahnosht done!” The cat shouted back, sounding all too excited to show off his insanely chaotic magic.

With one last shove, and one long whine of protesting wood, the cauldron finally made it through. It paused, tipping its rim forward as if pausing for breath.

“You did a good job,” Rachel assured it, only then realizing how silly she must sound. Then again, if the sack of potatoes could bow? Who knew if they heard her or not?

The cauldron straightened itself, wobbling and sashaying towards the huge fireplace. It paused again, dipping as low as it’s tiny pegs would allow into yet another formal bow, and leapt onto the logs and embers. Immediately after, a fountain of water poured down from the chimney, filling the cauldron a little over half full.

Now, this caught her attention. When the water stopped, it seemed to be some sort of cue for the vegetables on the table. They formed together into groups by type, one large piece of a chopped rutabaga seeming to take the lead and hop amidst the lines to straighten them out. Then, seemingly satisfied, the slice of rutabaga headed to the very edge of the table and took flight. The knives remained at the table, while the many varieties of chopped produce followed their leader. They flew in a great mass to the cauldron and dove in, splashing to and fro to give each other room until they finally settled inside.

“Well, that was—“ Rachel began, cutting herself off when she saw a large iron lid to match the cauldron sail into the room to slam itself down onto the pot.

Rachel waited, staring intently at the door for a solid minute or two. It seemed like it was all over now. Whatever it was.

“Phthuh!” Sir Fishbits coughed, spitting out the stick and smacking his lips. He pushed his front paws on the window still ledge, stretching his body and tail back in a languid motion. “I’ll feel that in the morning,” he remarked, straightening back up.

“I thought you couldn’t do magic?” Rachel asked, lowering her blanket. She was still a little shaken, but now that the whole show seemed to have wrapped up, and the knives were safely settled on the table, the worst of her anxieties were settled.

“I never said that!” Sir Fishbits said, sniffing haughtily and turning his head to face the cauldron. “I’m a familiar. I have as much magic as either you or I may need. After all, I do have a lot of work to do teaching you the basics. Such as manners, for one. You have yet to tell me your name.”

“Really?” She asked, surprised, “I thought I did. It’s Rachel.”

“Rachel, The Witch of Dreadforest,” Sir Fishbits said aloud, nodding slowly, “I think we should be able to work with. It could use a little more…” he trailed off, raising a paw and waving it a little in the air as if he could somehow find the right words by doing so.

“Oomph?” Rachel suggested.

“Character,” Sir Fishbits replied. “It’s a bit simple.”

“I didn’t get to pick it, and I like my name. It worked when I used to work in a call center, and it’ll work when I’m a witch.” She paused, “not that I’ve even agreed to it yet.”

Sir Fishbits leapt down from the windowsill, striding towards the open door of what must be a cellar, “we’ll see how you feel in a few days,” he replied. “Now, if I leave the room and you see something funny happen, be sure to call for me. I won’t be a moment.”

“Something funny?” Rachel asked, but he was already gone down the cellar steps, “something funny?!” She called out louder, a little more concerned. The cat didn’t linger to respond.

Rachel glared at the open cellar door and looked back at the cauldron. “Stupid cat didn’t even use salt,” she grumbled, drawing her knees to her chest.