Drumming meant soldiers and war bands; drumming meant dances and festivals; drumming meant the rock bands and buskers I’d passed by so often along the sidewalked Earth. Drumming was human, and beyond that it could’ve meant darn near anything, good or bad.

Yet I couldn’t help but like the sound of it.

This was a gentle drumming, and it spoke to some elementary sense of peace within me…as if the instrument was asking every creature around it to calm down. It gave a new meaning to the low coos, the purring of the forest, around me.

Maybe it was magic. Admittedly, it might’ve been manipulation, like hypnosis. That theory wasn’t even on my mind as I crept closer to the source of the beat.

As I approached, new sounds entered, and smells. I sensed an overwhelming presence of sheep. They bleated and shuffled past each other, wool rubbing. Fibers from their wool even drifted through the air—long before any came into view.

I came to a clearing and a close-packed scatter of watering holes. Standing at a shrub-lined ridge, I could see them all. Sheep ambled about and drank sleepily from the banks under a darkening sky. Their very wool seemed to reaffirm and reverberate with the drumbeat, the way veins in a body carry heart’s blood. And their numbers, while piddly compared to a big fenced farm on Earth, were nonetheless dizzying. A hundred.

As the sky darkened by another notch or two, I discovered something else about the drum-pulse: it glowed. Faint yellow currents thrummed from the wooly sheep on every beat.

The scene was beautiful, in a weird dreamlike way—so much so that I wondered if I’d believe it was a dream as soon as the night was over.

Then I thought about the incredible EXP, together with the mouth-watering mountain of meat, that this flock could give me if I went for it. I mean, they were just…waiting! All of them together! And no guard dog or any—

Oh, wait a minute. I got it now. No doubt they had a drumming human guarding them.

But I couldn’t help but try and find that human. Fine-tuning my ear position, happily sensing that Stealth was active, I crept along the clearing’s raised shrubby edge.

The human came into view—just in time.

Seen in profile. Reclining against a gnarled and bent dogwood, dressed in a heap of frilled white and yellow, the shepherd could’ve been a doll in a display. Shepherdess? I dunno. Maybe humans could tell from a distance, I thought, but I was just a cat, and not even one who knew about Vencian culture. The shepherd’s near-white hair curled in wide ringlets underneath a bonnet, and their eyes, I noticed, were sheer white with the slightest hint of lavender. On their lap was the telltale drum, and in their hands were drumsticks.

As I caught sight of them, their drumming began to trail off, the pounding becoming both gentler and faster. It quickened and quieted until the sound was softly dead. Then they laid the drum and sticks beside them, reached around to the other side that I couldn’t currently see, and pulled out…what was that?

I shifted my position for a better look, slowly and delicately so as not to get the attention of even a single sheep. The flock seemed to be winding down for sleep, but a few were still bleating and looking around—best not to risk anything.

Ah, okay. First the shepherd had pulled out some glasses, the fancy shiny kind that pinch your nose just to stay on. Why did humans do this to themselves? Just get glasses that don’t pinch your nose. Anyway, behind the glass, their irises changed color, filling with lemon yellow.

Then they took out some kind of round clothy thing—a pillow?—and a needle and thread. All this came from a basket on their other side, I could see now.

Then, calmly and methodically, the shepherd simply began to sew.

The world felt motionless and empty. The whine of locusts spread above me like a far, untouchable canopy. I studied the shepherd as they worked, and only minutes later did I become aware that I was studying them—in fascination.

The restive, meditative scene almost made me want to—

No! Don’t go to sleep here! You have no idea what that person is here for or capable of!

I shook myself awake.

Think of something else, I said to myself. Think while you find a better place to rest.

Naturally my thoughts drifted to the most anxiety-provoking thing possible.

Man, that quilt was a family heirloom. Reed’s poor quilt. Had somebody sewn it by hand? Was every single solitary square imbued with the kind of soft, slow memory and care that this shepherd was clearly lavishing on their own pillow?

What kind of a crime had I committed?!

If I’d been in nekomata form, I might’ve broken out in hives. I couldn’t go back to Reed after all. Even if she was my friend, she was going to have such a hard time forgiving me tha…

So that was the word for what she meant to me? “Friend”?

What had I even been calling her until now?

Might as well peel off that bandage. Whatever vaguer words I’d used before, I knew now, were just ways for me to keep my comfortable distance—a distance befitting an independent outdoor cat.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Like it or not, she and her cabin did have a place in my life…

Okay, yes. There was no “or not” about it. I did like it. I liked that I knew her and I especially liked that everything indicated she liked me back.

I was staring at the shepherd’s handiwork again. The pillow was tilted so that I couldn’t get a clear, steady look, but I was curious and restless, so I began to creep forward. Maybe I could curve all the way around this ridge, get behind the shepherd.

Creep, creep, creeeeep…

Shff.

“Me-e-e-eh!”

No! Look away, sheep, it’s just a gray rock!

A sheep at the edge of the flock looked directly at me—their eyes only two meters away, and boring into mine. Then more sheep turned their heads. And the shepherd turned their head.

I stood stone-still, but my pupils dared to look at the shepherd. They were standing at attention, the drum hanging from their neck.

The shepherd played a drum tattoo, sending calming waves through the flock. Now that I was this close, though, I thought I was sensing currents of strength passing through the wool and flesh in front of me. Made sense…maybe this human had the power to bestow Guards and other buffs on their charge.

Soon the human and flock went back to sewing and ever-dwindling bleating, respectively. I decided not to creep much further. If that pillow wasn’t destined for my eyes, I wasn’t gonna force it.

…But Reed did deserve to get that quilt.

Not only that, but I deserved to give it. I mean, I was pretty cool. I hadn’t rolled down a mountain on purpose.

Plus, I was a responsible citizen, as far as that went for a cat that owed allegiance only to an intangible series of boxes and, vaguely, to a goddess with an answering machine. I did what was asked of me. I begrudgingly entered the homes of humans, then followed them like some dippy dog. And I…

I didn’t care about anything but myself.

And that hurt. For the first time, that thought hurt.

If I had cared, I would’ve cleaned Reed’s quilt by now.

That thing had been ruined by the journey down “her” mountain. I knew beyond a doubt that it was important to her, yet when I’d seen the myriad watering holes of the Drippy Flats, I hadn’t even considered doing her a good turn—or at least a decent one, an attempt—by dunking that quilt in the cleanest basins I’d seen, across two worlds, to date.

A human friend would’ve lavished love on that quilt. Would’ve been thinking. Would not have been afraid to care or put in a bare minimum of effort.

It was then that I thought about sewing again. The dark of the night was deep, but those nose-pinching glasses the shepherd had on were starting to glow, lighting up their work. Glimmers played off the swinging needle.

Clearly they had needles to spare, and thread, in that basket.

I could steal some.

—Borrow. Borrow some. I didn’t wanna get on the bad side of every human I met, particularly not the ones with magic drums.

Sure, the borrowing would look like stealing for a bit, but I was honest. I’d give them back at…some point…

Wait, why was I acting like stealing was my only option?! Cats didn’t have to steal everything, they could beg! And I didn’t even have to do this as a cat! I had another form for a reason!

So once I’d backed into the brush a few more steps, I—

Poof!

I was really doing this, huh?

…I un-Inventory’d Reed’s quilt and wrapped it around myself. Now I was a nekomata, and as presentable as I could ever hope to be.

SP 18% (36/203)

With my SP timer ticking down, I hurried off to the sewing shepherd.

Trotting through the foliage definitely got the attention of a few sheep, but I didn’t pay it any mind this time. I just headed straight for my goal, and soon I had made it.

The shepherd stirred—but didn’t rise like I’d expected. They were staring up at me, but with curiosity, not fear or anger.

In a world of tricky spirits, was human form alone a sign of trustworthiness?

With a shiver, I drew the quilt closer around my shoulders, clamping it closed with one hand. My other hand stuck out and began to gesture.

Hmm. I might’ve grabbed a statue earlier, but these finer motor movements, with the fingers and stuff, were proving difficult. I wanted to pantomime using a needle and thread, but my pointer finger and thumb didn’t wanna get close to each other—they clamped together one moment and slipped far away the next.

Meanwhile, my unpracticed human face made its best attempt at a sorry, sulky, please-pity-me look. My soul cringed just imagining how off-putting it must’ve looked.

But…I was trying my best here.

The shepherd seemed to pick up on that.

Clear sympathy dawned on them. Reaching forward, they tugged on the hem of my quilt.

Uh, I couldn’t tell if we were getting somewhere or not. I didn’t want to give the quilt away, just repair it. So I pointed at the basket of supplies.

The shepherd paused to think.

Then they pulled out a second, much larger basket—from nowhere, of course—and started rifling through it. A whole host of fabrics was lumped and bunched inside, and more than a few silk handkerchiefs went fluttering in the night breeze as the shepherd searched.

Finally, they pulled out clothing. Way too much clothing!

N-no! I didn’t wanna replace the quilt either!

But the shepherd cleared things up with another gesture. They pointed at Reed’s quilt with one hand, at the clothes with the other—then swished them around in a circle together. A swap.

I frowned and clutched the quilt closer. The shepherd held up their hands in surrender, apparently anxious to show me that I could have it my way.

Wait, maybe they were saying that…that they would repair the quilt?

It looked like it. Their hands were churning in another gesture, their own hands faux-stitching along the quilt’s hem.

Yes. They intended to do my work for me.

Why?

Was it just…a good deed?

My gaze drifted to the clothes again. There was so much variety in them that I almost couldn’t choose. Plus, naturally, I’d rarely ever been asked to choose. It all made my head spin.

I knew my SP was dying away, too. I couldn’t stay a nekomata much longer. What was the point of taking, or borrowing, this kind-seeming stranger’s clothes?

For politeness’ sake, I gathered up a dress, stepped into it, and shrugged off the quilt. I did it for the shepherd’s human modesty, and I did it fast so that I could still have some time to un-Morph in private without them bugging their eyes out and murmuring, “What are you?”

And I definitely raced off a bit too hastily, but what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t reliably say a coherent “thank you” in the five seconds my remaining SP would’ve allowed.

SP 0% (0/203)

I practically crashed into the bushes again, and with a “meow” of stress and fatigue that I stifled as much as nekomata-ly possible, I hit the dirt.

Now I was too ashamed to be able to sleep. Yet I was locked into this mess, so I couldn’t up and leave.

I had no choice but to stay up and watch that shepherd sew Reed’s quilt, no matter how long it might take. No choice but to watch the swinging, singing needle go at its rhythmic work, swooping in, easing out, working with care and diligence, at the edge of a sea of sheep, soft, round, fluffy, fibers, drifting…

I went to sleep.