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Firecoat’s Irreparable Witch

by Aaron Canton

There had been a time when the world had reshaped itself at Firecoat’s command. A snap of his paw was all it had taken to drive a horde of mice out of their hidden warrens and send them scurrying away, a flick of his tail had forced potion ingredients to drop from their shelves into the hands of the magician who needed them, and even the tiniest twitch of his thinnest whisker had flipped the pages of grimoires until they opened to exactly the right spot. But now, when Firecoat slipped into the worn study and then hopped onto the little wooden table where his witch was scratching out a new spell on some parchment, nothing happened. Not even the woman at the table reacted to his presence.

Firecoat’s sleek fur, normally a brilliant orange which promised warmth and light to those he loved and blazing destruction to his foes, appeared faded in the study’s dusty air. It would have been trivial to make a window fall open with the mere inclination of his head and thus let in some fresh air to cut through the dust. But the last time Firecoat had tried that, his witch’s only reaction had been a bitter tirade about the sudden draft, so instead he just walked up and nestled against her arm. She flinched, and Firecoat’s green eyes widened as he felt a surge of aggravation building in her heart, but then her gaze focused on him and she caught herself. 

“Oh, Firecoat,” whispered Maighread Moss, the legendary witch who had banished the Pittsburgh goblins, routed the necromancer Xantu and his skeleton corps in the crypts below Paris, and crushed the Hecate’s Daughters cult just before they would have ended the world. Her tanned skin had a few darkened blotches and a section of her raven hair had gone prematurely gray, but anyone who knew anything about witches would still have been able to identify her in a heartbeat. “You know I haven’t gotten much sleep lately. You shouldn’t scare me like that.”

Firecoat tried not to compare those bitter and exhausted words to the confident righteousness that had once been omnipresent in her voice. Instead he just snuggled his large frame up against her with a gentle purr.

Moss looked at Firecoat for a moment longer before sighing and scratching him behind his ears, just the way he liked it. “But you’re here now,” she said in a kinder tone. “That’s fine. Just keep me company while I work on this.”

The witch continued to scratch Firecoat with one hand even as she wrote down spell ingredients with her other. When she had filled the parchment, she reached for a second sheet, and then she winced and yelped in pain as her arm extended just a tiny bit further than was comfortable. Firecoat focused and the page she had reached for shifted forwards on its own as if it had been caught by an imperceptible draft. Moss blinked in confusion before just shrugging and resuming her work on the new parchment, but when she scratched Firecoat again, her gesture was ever so slightly more relaxed and he could feel the tiniest bit of tension dissolving from around her heart.

“Aggie and Nomes wrote,” Moss murmured as she continued. She glanced up at the many wooden shelves crowding the study’s walls, then raised her hand from Firecoat and pointed at a stack of letters on top of the smallest shelf. “They asked me to visit the coven again. Apparently the kids want to hear my war stories, and they’ve also got some alchemist prodigy who needs a mentor. Bah.” She scowled. “Do you think I should write back and tell them to stop bothering me, or just not answer at all?”

Firecoat could feel darkness bubbling up in Moss again, and so he loosed another purr, sending as much positive energy and power as he could through his voice and into his witch. It was a strong purr, the kind that could make a bystander feel calm and pleasant even at twenty paces. And the darkness in Moss abated.

But not nearly enough.

“I know,” Moss went on. “They mean well, and I do like helping the kids. And they say they’re sorry and that they’d help me if they could, but that’s just not enough. “

If Moss had simply been cursed by a monster or a warlock, fixing her would have been trivial. Moss could surely have done it herself; depending on the curse, Firecoat might even have been able to break it without Moss ever noticing. But Moss had taken dozens of curses in the course of her career, and while she’d defeated most of them, a few had been strong enough that the tiniest portion of their power had withstood her counterspells. The pitiful remnants of those curses were individually too weak to trouble even a fly but had reinforced each other and together caused the pain which tormented Moss on a daily basis. And because this ‘amalgamated curse’ was unique, nobody had any idea how to cure it.

Least of all Firecoat.

But that didn’t mean he could stop trying. And so, as she worked, he purred lightness and love into her until his voice was sore and he was exhausted. And when he was trembling and knew he could cast no more, he slipped away and dragged himself over to the shelf with the stack of letters she’d pointed at, then ‘accidentally’ nudged the message from Aggie so it fluttered down. 

“Hmm?” Moss frowned as the letter landed on her hand, then paused as if in thought. “I suppose maybe I could go after all. It’s not like I would hurt any more over there than I do here.”

Firecoat waited, not even realizing he was holding his breath. His eyes bored into her with a pleading look and the tip of his tail flicked wildly with anticipation. If she just accepted and resumed helping the coven, he thought, then maybe she could start recovering her spirits (and perhaps even her health) at last.

But then she shuddered and turned away. “No, that’s ridiculous. I couldn’t. And even if I could, I’m tired of them.” She shook her head. After all those spells I created to solve their problems, usually problems they caused for themselves, they can’t do anything for me…”

She bent down to resume writing, and so she didn’t see Firecoat turning away in despair.

#

“…Percy the Claw will be assigned to the Magnolia Street Coven, and Jenny Green-Eyes will take over supporting Ophelia Charington while Furry Elise has her kittens.” 

A huge Siberian cat whose white fur gleamed with an unearthly luster spoke before a crowd of dozens of felines, ranging from little housecats to a lion cub whose keepers would be dismayed if they knew how easily and often she slipped out of the zoo to attend these meetings. Night had fallen hours ago and only a tiny sliver of the moon was visible in the sky, but none of the cats seemed to have trouble seeing the Siberian, and nor did he have problems finding others in the crowd. “Ophelia specializes in rune magic, so Jenny, work with another familiar whose witch has a similar specialty so you can learn what to expect. Is there any other business?”

Firecoat sat near the back of the gathered cats. They were inside a wooded park in the center of the humans’ city, and thick rows of trees screened them from the distant roads and buildings just as much as the darkness did. Usually he liked the solitude that came with this assembly spot, but now he almost hoped for some random human to come by so the meeting would have to end early.

But that didn’t happen. Instead a white-furred housecat named Eleanor Ruffles raised a paw. “If there are so few of us that a single cat such as Percy has to look after an entire coven, we need to make doubly sure none of us are being wasted on a witch who doesn’t need help.” The housecat glanced at Firecoat. “Or who is too far gone to use it.”

A hiss slipped from Firecoat’s mouth and he glared at the housecat. “If you’re referring to me, my witch is not ‘too far gone.’ She’s a hero.”

The Siberian opened his mouth, but Firecoat kept going. “She’s defeated countless monsters and warlocks. She’s saved innocent people and cats alike. And if she’s having trouble now, then it’s all the more important one of us support her.” Firecoat’s eyes blazed as he stalked towards Ruffles, who arched her back and hissed in return. “And not abandon her like some hairball we coughed up!”

“Firecoat,” called the Siberian. His voice was calm, but Firecoat still halted upon hearing it; none of the assembled cats were so foolish as to think their leader weak just because he rarely yelled. “Nobody is casting aspersions on Maighread Moss. We are well aware of her accomplishments. But the fact remains that she fell apart months ago and she isn’t improving. If we can help the humans more by transferring you to some other witch, one whom you can really help, we need to consider it.”

“I can fix her!” Firecoat insisted.

Ruffles opened her mouth, but a glare from the Siberian silenced her. “Why don’t we take a break?” he proposed. “Let’s pause here for now. When that cloud above the oak there moves past the moon, we’ll resume.”

The cats immediately broke into small groups, and Firecoat did his best to slip into the woods and spend the break alone, but the Siberian caught him just before he reached the trees. “Firecoat.”

Firecoat met the other cat’s eyes. “Magister Fernaillo.”

Both felines stared at each other. Then the magister sighed. “You had to know this was coming.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

“Our duty is to witches as a whole, not any specific one.” Fernaillo’s voice grew stern. “Moss’s curse is like an iron scratching post: no matter how much you try, you can’t chip away at it even the littlest bit. And every day you spend trying is a day when you aren’t working with a witch who could actually benefit from you. Someone who would let you help her cast powerful magic to protect the world.” 

“Just because I haven’t gotten through to her yet doesn’t mean she’ll be in this slump forever,” Firecoat insisted. “I can help her, Fernaillo. I helped all my previous witches, and they weren’t half as heroic or capable as Moss is.”

Fernaillo stepped closer to Firecoat. “Moss has been like this for six months now. How much progress have you made?”

Firecoat said nothing for a long moment. When he did speak, it was just to repeat, “I’m telling you, I can fix her. I did whatever I had to do to fix all my other witches, no matter how hard it was. I’m not a quitter.”

“I appreciate your concern for her.” Fernaillo’s dropped his voice as if to stress the sincerity in his words. “Really, I do. I wish some of the younger cats had that kind of devotion towards their own wards. But again, we must focus on the welfare of all witches and not just one you happen to like.” The magister met Firecoat’s gaze. “At the meeting next week you are to present any evidence you have that she’s capable of recovering and that you can help her do so. If you can’t make your case, I’m reassigning you.”

“You can’t!”

“And if you refuse to be reassigned, I will have you stripped of your magic so it can be transferred to another cat who will use it to actually help our cause,” the magister went on. “I’m sorry, Firecoat. I don’t like to do that, but if you care more about being with one irreparable witch than about helping witches as a whole, then I don’t have much choice.”

The magister turned, leaving Firecoat glaring daggers at his back. “I’m not going to abandon my witch before my job is done and she’s fixed! She needs me!”

Fernaillo glanced back at Firecoat. And then he shook his head and trotted off, leaving Firecoat trembling in fury and fear.

#

Six days later, Firecoat looked up at the sound of a ringing doorbell and tried not to let his nervousness show.

It had taken three days of furtive effort to search through Moss’s ancient journals and diaries until he came up with a single individual that his witch might actually want to see: Phyllis Sandoria Gray, her old alchemy teacher. Gray’s familiar Nyssell, a thin and sullen sphynx cat, hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, so Firecoat had spent two more days calling on all his friends and cats who owed him favors to pressure Nyssell. Gray’s cat had ultimately realized it would be less annoying to just give in than to send away each of Firecoat’s countless allies in turn, so she did so, and now his plan was about to bear fruit at last.

“I can do this,” Firecoat told himself as Moss got the door. “Every time I have a damaged witch, I fix her, and I never fail. Ever.” He took a breath. “I won’t now either.”

Moss looked out through the front window, then gasped and swung the door open. “Phyllis!” she said as an older woman with gray hair, a wrinkled face, and ruddy, windswept cheeks stepped into the hall. “It’s been ages! What brings you here?” 

Gray set down her purse and beamed. “It’s a funny story. I was walking in my garden earlier when I heard a crash from my library, and when I investigated I found that my cute little Nyssell had knocked over that old journal you and I made. It had opened to that picture of us brewing that hair growth potion, you know, the one you wanted so the boys would think you were prettier.”

Moss returned the other witch’s smile. “I remember that one! It made my hair longer, but it also turned it that awful puce color, didn’t it?”

“You did put in a little too much beryllium.” Gray laughed. “But it was a valuable learning experience. Anyways, when I saw that picture I figured: why not swing by and say hello to my old student? How have you been?” 

 “I’m surviving.” Moss led Gray towards the study. “Please, let me get you something to drink. Do you still like apple cider?”

“Of course! I even designed a spell to help with the fermentation…”

Firecoat let out a soft sigh of relief as he watched the two witches. Moss’s eyes were alight with energy, she moved with vigor, and in general she seemed better than she’d been in months. She happily went to get the drinks while Gray seated herself in the study and Firecoat hopped onto the table so the older witch could pet him; then, when Moss returned, Firecoat simply rolled over so they could both reach him and stroke his fur as they talked. This would work, Firecoat thought. A good friend and a loving cat would lift anyone’s spirits.

“Cheers!” Gray sipped her drink. “Oh, this is good! Did you do something special to it?”

Moss grinned as she said, “I added a few enchantments for flavor.” And Firecoat, who had spent half the night purring into the amber liquid to infuse it with vibrant warmth and power, and who had also laid a spell on the glass tumblers to make whoever drank from them feel more pleasantly disposed towards all mankind, let out a happy meow.

The conversation was light and airy. Moss and Gray spoke of their old studies, of their quests to find perfect potion ingredients, of monsters they’d defeated. Firecoat felt another flicker of pleasure when Gray complimented Moss for some of her more notable battles, and he wondered if Nyssell had somehow brought those closer to Gray’s thoughts. If she had, Firecoat thought, then he owed her even more.

Then Gray said, “I’ve been thinking about getting back into the field. I might be older, but I can still hold my own. Why don’t you join me? It’d do you good to get out more.”

“Partnering up again could be fun.” Moss’s tone was almost wistful, but then she paused. “’Get out more?’”

Firecoat flinched as he heard the suspicious tone in Moss’s voice, but Gray apparently missed it. “Yes,” she said. “When I was on my way over I stopped by another friend and heard about those old curses sidelining you. And of course I understand you wouldn’t want to go out when you aren’t one hundred percent. But I’d be happy to watch your back, just like old times.”

“I don’t need someone to watch my back.” Now Moss’s voice was strained. Firecoat meowed to get her attention, but she ignored him as she continued. “I’m not weak, Phyllis. I just hurt. And why should I go out again when there’s plenty of witches who haven’t done what I’ve done, who haven’t taken the hits I took, who could go instead?”

“Well, you’re stronger than many of them.” Gray’s voice was prim. “They can’t do what you can do. And like I said, if you’re worried your curse will make things harder, I can support you.”

Moss’s face flushed, and then Gray gasped and Firecoat backed up a step as the wounded witch shoved herself up from the table. “I am not weak!” she insisted. “I could go out again if I felt like it, but with the way they all abandoned me, I don’t want to! And I would have hoped you’d understand!”

“Nobody abandoned you.” Now Gray’s voice was cross and she too rose, then looked down at Moss as a teacher might do to an unruly pupil. “Maighread, I’m sorry, but this sort of sulking is beneath you.”

“Sulking?” Moss’s eyes flashed. “I am not sulking!”

Firecoat sensed the anger in Moss readying to explode. With no other ideas, he charged at her and jumped into her arms. Moss dropped her tumbler, which smashed to the ground and shattered, as she clutched the cat in shock.

The two witches stared at each other for an endless minute and then Moss hung her head. The moment was over, her fire was gone, but rather than apologize she just said, “Please leave, Phyllis. I can’t talk right now.”

Gray left.

And Firecoat, with no further ideas, felt his heart twisting like it would break into two.

#

“Your new witch is amazing.” Fernaillo led Firecoat down a little road in one of the city’s residential neighborhoods. It was night, but the streetlights were on, and Firecoat made sure not to do anything visibly magical in case a human happened to glance out from one of the homes lining the street. “You’ll love her.” 

“How can I love her when I know I might wind up abandoning her like Moss?” Firecoat’s voice was a bitter grumble, but even though he recognized that, he couldn’t make himself change his tone. “Well?”

Fernaillo sighed. “Just give her a chance. And don’t let Moss get to you. Nobody has a perfect record, and yours is still a lot better than most.”

Firecoat said nothing. He had possessed a perfect record, right up until he’d failed to fix the best witch he’d ever met. Now he had nothing.

The two reached a stately home on the corner of a busy intersection. The cats scampered up a tree and over a fence to put them in the backyard; from there a trellis enabled Firecoat to climb up towards an open second-story window. “Goodnight, Mom!” called someone from inside. “See you tomorrow!”

It was a kid, Firecoat thought. He didn’t mind working with children, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Fernaillo was giving him this witch on the basis that kids were often easier to help than adults. Maybe the magister had lost faith in him.

When Firecoat reached the window, he saw a human girl who looked like she was about eight sitting at a desk. She had very bushy red hair, freckles, and some kind of metalwork in her mouth which gleamed when she took bites from what seemed to be a hidden stash of chocolate in a drawer. The desk in front of her held a few textbooks that looked like they might come from a human school, but as Firecoat watched, the girl snuck a book with alchemical symbols on its cover out of another desk drawer. “Let’s see,” she murmured as she bent over the book.

Firecoat examined the girl more closely and paused as he sensed some kind of darkness or worry in her heart. Then the girl glanced at a framed photograph on one side of the desk and the worry deepened. The photo showed the girl with a much older woman; the two looked similar enough that they were likely relatives, and the older woman was lying in a hospital bed. Firecoat’s eyes narrowed as he inspected the picture. Then he put a paw forwards.

The windowsill creaked and the girl swiveled to see Firecoat. “Oh! Kitty!” she said, her worry vanishing under a surge of bright glee. “Hi!”

Firecoat meowed a greeting. Then he glanced down and saw Fernaillo urging him forwards, so he made himself go inside. A few steps brought him to the girl, who hugged and petted him as she settled back down with her books. She offered him a piece of chocolate and laughed when he playfully batted it away, then said, “I’m Rachel Prescott. Are you a stray, Mr. Kitty?”

After meowing again in response, Firecoat let his head drift towards the picture in a way that he knew humans found to look quizzical. When Rachel followed his gaze, her face fell. “That’s my grandma, Mr. Kitty. She’s sick. Mom says she won’t get better, so we’re trying to visit her a lot before she dies.” She looked down at the book. “And I’m trying other things too. You see, one day at school someone scared me and I yelped and all the lights exploded. Then this old woman found me at recess and took me aside, and she said I can do magic. She even gave me this book!”

Rachel pointed at the open page of the book. “I’m okay with the first few spells, but the one I need is hard and I get a headache when I cast it—wait!” A look of wonder crossed her face. “Cats are always helping witches in cartoons and stuff. Can you help me with this?”

Firecoat turned around to look at the grimoire. The spell it was open to looked like a basic painkiller spell. It was the sort of thing Moss had tried to deal with her pain, only to find that kind of magic didn’t work well on curse wounds. But for a mundane sickness, it would probably at least make the grandmother feel better as she died.

Of course, it wouldn’t stop her from dying, and Firecoat wondered if the girl really understood that. Whatever she might say aloud, it’d be too easy for her to believe that her grandmother’s lack of pain meant the old woman was recovering. He gave a soft meow as he tried to think of what to do.

“I think it’s working okay so far.” Rachel wrapped Firecoat in a warm hug. “I’ve been casting it every day for the past month, even though it gives me headaches, and grandma says she has a lot less pain now.” The girl was quiet for a moment. “I know I can’t fix her, but I hope I can keep stopping her from hurting too much. She’s a really good grandmother, Mr. Kitty. She helped me learn to ride my bike and when I got sick while Mom and Dad were stuck at the airport she came over and stayed with me all day and night…” 

Rachel trailed off, then shifted so she could see the book better. “Anyways. I’ll read the spell, Mr. Kitty. You help out however you can, please.”

Firecoat snuggled deeper against Rachel and began purring, pushing back at the sadness surrounding the girl’s heart and simultaneously flooding her with as much magical energy as he could muster. This was a good child, he decided. She was helping her grandmother as best she could, and she wasn’t giving in to despair or frustration at the futility of it all. She—

And then his eyes widened as he understood.

#

“You can’t even fix one witch, so why in the world do you think you can help two?” Fernaillo shook his head as the other cats all stared at Firecoat. “The witch you’ve already got is a full-time job, as you well know.”

“Rachel Prescott is a little kid. She’s not doing magic all day long; she spends most of her time in mundane activities.” Firecoat let his gaze drift around the assembled cats before he turned back to Fernaillo. “And I know Moss well. I can help her without having to be at her side all day long.”

“But you can’t help her!” The exasperated whine came from Eleanor Ruffles. “Just because you’re her… her lap dog,” the word came out as a low hiss, “ doesn’t mean you can somehow fix her!”

Fernaillo glared at Ruffles, and only after she fell silent and looked away did he shift his gaze back to Firecoat. “We’ve been over this. Do you have any new evidence that you can cure Moss?”

“Cure her? No.” Firecoat took a breath. “I don’t know how to break the amalgamated curse on her body. I can’t stop it from hurting her. And as long as it hurts her, I can’t stop her from lashing out sometimes.”

Fernaillo tilted his head, his great bulk shuddering with the motion. “Then what good can you do her?”

“I can still make each of her days a little better.” Firecoat met Fernaillo’s gaze. “Better than they would be without me.”

Ruffles snorted. “But she’ll still be cursed. Your help will never fully heal her.”

“So?” Firecoat glanced at Ruffles. “My new witch, Rachel, is spending her time helping her dying grandmother feel less pain. She can’t save the woman’s life, but she can make that life better than it otherwise would be. That’s still good, and it’s still worth doing!”

Fernaillo opened his mouth but Firecoat kept going. “I got too focused on ‘fixing’ Moss. I worried that, if I couldn’t give her a perfect recovery, I was a failure and wasting my time. But just because I can’t completely heal her doesn’t mean I can’t do anything useful at all.” He took a breath. “I can’t get her back to how she was, just like Rachel can’t cure her grandmother. But I can get her closer. I can make each of her days a little more pleasant and a little less angry. I can help her treat her friends a little better and forgive the people she’s mad at a little more. And it’s worth doing that, even if I can’t get another ‘perfect’ fix for my record and even if I won’t ever be ‘done.’”

Firecoat shrugged. “If Moss never fully recovers, if she needs my help for the rest of my life, then I’m happy to help her for as long as I live. Because she’s my witch and giving her whatever help I can is what you called,” he met Fernaillo’s gaze, “my sacred duty.”

Nobody spoke for a very long time. 

And then, at last, Fernaillo gave Firecoat a slow nod. “A reasonable point. So be it. Go to your witch.”

Without another word, Firecoat took off. He ran through the trees and to the streets beyond, then down the long road which led back to Moss’s cottage. When he finally reached it he scampered through the cat door and made a beeline for his witch.

Moss was sitting up in the study, staring at a potion recipe that she was working out. “Firecoat!” she gasped as the cat sprang into the room. She wrapped him in a big hug. “There you are!”

Firecoat cuddled against her, purred into her, and relaxed as he felt the darkness within her ease.

“Thank you,” Moss whispered as she clutched Firecoat. “For stopping me from going after Phyllis before. I wasn’t thinking straight, I…” She trailed off, took a breath, and then held Firecoat up to look the cat in the eye. “Thank you.”

A soft purr slipped out of Firecoat’s mouth as he luxuriated in Moss’s grasp.

“And I was thinking,” Moss went on. “I need to write Phyllis an apology, but my pain was distracting me. Could you help me, Firecoat? I always ache a little less when you’re around.”

Firecoat thought to himself that there was nothing he wanted more. And then he nestled against his witch, and as she began her letter, he did all he could to soothe her pain and heal her spirit.

She was his witch. He was her cat. And nothing else mattered whatsoever.

 

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Host Commentary

And we’re back!

 That was Firecoat’s Irreparable Witch by Aaron Canton.

Aaron’s fantasy novel “The Witch of Knightcharm” is available through Campfire, a digital publisher which allows authors to also publish bonus content that unlocks as a reader progresses through the story. The novel is available at: https://www.campfirewriting.com/explore/TheWitchOfKnightcharm

Aaron had this to say: “Earlier this year I experienced my first medical issue which was drastic enough to require hospitalization and surgery. That experience got me thinking more about severe injuries, both those which could be recovered from and those which couldn’t. As I thought more about that, I came up with the idea and outline for this story.”

 I’ll say first of all: Aaron, I’m glad you’ve made it to the other side of your surgery. “Firecoat’s Irreparable Witch” is a gentle reminder that the ‘other side’ is not always guaranteed. Here we see an honest depiction of caring for a loved one with chronic pain, depression, or many other long-lasting–or even lifelong–ailments. Even in a magical world, there aren’t always easy solutions. Sometimes, all we can do is love, persevere, and soak in the purrs the best we can.

Come chat with us! If you’re a Patreon patron, you can join the Escape Artists Discord server automatically through Patreon. Or you can find us on Bluesky as @catscast.org.

We’ll be back next month, but in the meantime, you can find more narrative goodness on our weekly sister podcasts: Escape Pod for science fiction, PodCastle for fantasy, PseudoPod for horror, and Cast of Wonders for YA.

Today’s episode is brought to you by audio producers Wilson Fowlie and Dave Robison, assistant editor Tarver Nova (that’s me!), and editor Laura Pearlman.

Our opening and closing music is Easy Lemon by Kevin MacLeod.

CatsCast is a production of the Escape Artists Foundation, a US 501(c)(3) non-profit. This episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial No Derivatives 4.0 International license, which means you can’t change it or sell it, but you can share it as much as you like.

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Thanks for listening, and until next time, we wish you all the purrs.