The Night They Came for My Witch

The night they came for her, the moon was a thin, scared thing hiding behind clouds that smelled of smoke and judgment. It felt like the air was shaking, as if even the wind wanted to run away from the coming violence. I was sitting on the windowsill with my tail curled around my paws and my eyes on the narrow path that went through the birch trees below. It had rained earlier, and the ground was still steaming. A thin, ghostly haze hung in the air, like lost souls.

I was sure they were on their way, and I heard them before I saw them. The sound of wet leaves crunching under boots. The sound of whispered prayers. The iron charms they wore around their necks made a metallic clink that scared them.

They thought I didn't get it. I do. I always have.

My witch, my person, moved inside like she always did, with grace and purpose. She ground herbs in her mortar and pestle, which turned slowly and hypnotically. The candlelight caught her silver hair. The beams cast shadows that made the cottage look as if it were breathing. Outside, the night got closer, hungry for the warmth she brought.

She was humming a song that I vaguely remembered. It was something old, older than me. Maybe older than words. I had heard it before, a long time ago, sung by a different witch in a different time. You see, I've had a lot of witches. Cats like me aren't normal. We loved harder, listened more deeply, and lived longer

We love harder, listen more deeply, and live longer. But Evelyn was not like that.

I was a wet, black scrap of fur, cornered between barrels behind the tavern, half-starved and half-wild when she found me. She didn't tell me to go away like the others did. She knelt in the mud, held out her hand, and whispered, "You aren't bad luck, are you? Just not understood.” Then she smiled, a slow, crooked smile that made her look like she was glowing from the inside out. I knew she was mine.

She stopped humming when the footsteps got closer. The air inside the cottage changed. It became thicker and heavier, like it does just before a storm.

Then the pounding started—first fists, then voices.

“Evelyn Ashcroft! Come out in the name of all that is holy!“

Her hand stopped in the middle of the circle. The pestle stopped. She didn't say anything for a long, brittle second. Then she looked at me, and in that look, I saw everything: fear, sadness, and something stronger than both — love.

“Shadow,” she said softly. "Be quiet. Don't fight.”

But I am not made to follow orders. I jumped from the windowsill to her shoulder, and my claws dug into her shawl. She winced but didn't try to get away from me. I could feel her pulse, which was steady and calm, under her skin. She took a deep breath, and I could feel her strength building like a tide coming in.

The door broke into pieces.

They came in waves, their torches blazing and smoke rising up the walls. Men with dark hearts and light eyes. Some of them I knew: farmers she had healed, wives she had comforted, and children she had saved from dying. But they were still there, holding ropes and fire.

One man, the son of the preacher, pointed at me. He yelled, “There's the familiar! The devil's creature!”

Evelyn moved forward. She said, “He's a cat,” in a low, even voice. “He keeps my feet warm and catches the mice that eat your grain.“

Someone hissed, “Liar!” Another called out, “You speak to him in tongues.”

She smiled then, sad and aware. “I talk to everything, even the wind, rain, roots, and stars. They answer in a whisper. If you ever listened, you could hear them too.”

They couldn't handle that much truth. For men like that, the truth hurts more than witchfire.

I dropped to the floor, fur standing straight, tail held high, and fangs exposed.

They grabbed her by the arms. One of them kicked me to the side, and I hit the wall and saw sparks dance behind my eyes. She gasped but didn't scream. They tied her hands with rope and pulled her toward the door.

Outside, half the village had gathered. Shapes hunched under lanterns, and faces were painted in orange and shadow. They said prayers and talked about other people at the same time. The pyre was already built, and it stood tall and proud in the middle of the square.

Evelyn walked without any problems. Every step should be dignified. I followed at a distance, keeping my paws quiet and myself low to the ground. Nobody saw me.

The son of the preacher held up his torch. He yelled, “For the sake of our souls! For the safety of our families!”

Children she had brought into the world. Souls she had blessed.

She looked at the crowd, her eyes shining in the firelight. “You call me a witch because I heal what you fear.” She sighed. “Magic isn't bad. Fear is. Fear and not knowing. You can burn me, but you can't burn the truth.”

Her voice was like the wind blowing through branches. The villagers turned away, either out of shame or fear of being seen by her.

They tied her to the stake. I could feel her heart beating steadily and surely through the air, even as the torch came down. She whispered my name before the flames got to her.

She said, “Don't forget me.” Then, in a softer voice that only I could hear, “Keep the flame alive.“

The fire roared and ate up the night. Sparks flew up like scared birds. The smell was too much to handle. It was more than just smoke and flesh; it was the smell of loss. But even in the fire, her eyes stayed open and fixed on the sky, as if she were watching something I couldn't see.

After it was over, the crowd broke up, mumbling prayers that sounded more like sorrys. I slowly moved through the ash. The ground felt warm under my paws. I pressed one pawprint into the soot, which left a mark that looked like a question or a promise.

I didn't sleep that night. I walked around the woods until dawn, and the smell of smoke still stuck to my fur. I could feel it when the first light touched the trees. It was like a heartbeat far away, a faint pulse in the air. Her magic was still there. It had only changed.

The village acted like nothing had happened in the days that followed. They cleaned up the square and put flowers where the pyre had been. Their dreams let them down. I could see it in their eyes as I walked by: the fear that kept them up at night and the guilt they couldn't name. Some people said they heard her voice in the wind, saying she forgave them. Some people said their candles lit themselves at night.

I stayed. Not because I forgave them, but because she told me to.

I slept on the windowsill of the empty cottage, watching over her mortar and herbs and her books with sacred ink in them. I opened the pages with my paws, but I couldn't read the words. Rosemary, smoke, and rain made her smell linger between them.

On some nights when there is no moon, the shadows move and I feel her next to me, stroking the air near my head. The fire inside me is steady and warm. I am more than I used to be. She made sure of that.

Years went by. Then decades. The village was different. The kids of the men who set her on fire grew up and left. The woods crept closer to the town, covering up the old paths. The cottage sank into moss and memories.

But I stayed. I am her ember and her shadow. Even though I don't sleep like a cat anymore, I still walk on roofs, and the light from every fire I find catches my eyes. When they see me, they whisper, “Witch's cat, cursed thing.” They cross themselves or make signs of protection, but their actions are empty. They can't get to me.

I go to the graveyard sometimes, even though there is no stone for her. I sit on the wall and watch the candles in the chapel windows flicker. The preacher's son has been dead for a long time. His grandchildren pray to a kinder God. They might have learned.

And when the east wind blows, the same wind that once carried her last words, I hear her voice again. It wasn’t loud, but it was clear, cutting through the rustling of leaves and the low hum of the earth.

"Shadow," she says quietly. "Are you still keeping my fire?"

And I answer, as I always do, with the rumble that starts deep in my chest and rolls out into the dark:

You are my witch. You are the one for me. And I still have your fire.

That's what we familiars do: we remember what everyone else forgets. We carry the small, stubborn light through time until it finds its way back home.

And on another night, in another cottage, a new witch will hum to herself by candlelight, and a black cat will slip through her door and sit at her feet. She'll look down, confused but smiling, and say, “Well, aren't you a strange one?“

And I blinked once, slowly and with purpose, because I had found her again—my person. My witch is back.

The fire never goes out. It just takes on a new form.