I’d brought my laptop down to the kitchen and fired it up while I waited for the cookies to bake. I typed Robin Goodfellow into a search engine and scrolled through the mishmash of hits. The first result that caught my eye was the play he had mentioned the night before, Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I read a quick plot description. It seemed the Puck character had caused nothing but trouble for a pair of mortal lovers and the faery court as well.
I returned to the results and read a few pages until the timer went off. I extracted the cookies from the oven and left the sheet on the stovetop to cool. The sun was just coming up over the mountain and my muscles felt stiff and achy. I slipped into my boots and parka and headed out for a breath of air to clear my head.
My feet carried me across the street to the small hiking trail that led to the top of the hill. The snow from the day before had mostly melted and I dug in, needing to move and burn off some of my uncertainty.
Shakespeare hadn’t created the Puck character on a whim. In fact, according to the internet, a puck referred to a race of magical domestic creatures that appeared in rural areas. They were also known as hobs or hobgoblins. Different cultures had reported various divergences in appearance and a few online scholars had argued that a puck was another form of demon. It was said a puck could mislead people who wandered in the dark and evoke night terrors in old women.
It wasn’t all bad though. In fact, many accounts claimed a puck was neither good nor evil, but instead a spirit of chaos. He would do favors for people who offered him small gifts and he was believed to be an inherently lonely creature often searching for companionship.
But all the sources agreed on a few key points. He could change forms as he had claimed. He was an offshoot of the fae. And wherever he appeared, mischief ensued.
Somehow, I had caught the attention of an agent of chaos. A magical being that offered me a way to fix my past and the things that went wrong.
The trail grew steeper and I was out of breath by the time I crested the hill. Huffing in a great lungful of air, I stared out at the red-gold hues of the rising sun as it sparkled on the snow and thought about his final words before he vanished. Twice I have offered. Only thrice will I offer. When I next approach you, Joey Whitmore, it will be for the last time.
Something rustled in the bushes to my left. I jolted and whirled. It was too early in the season for bears and whatever was there was much too small anyway. Maybe a raccoon. Or a coyote?
I was about to run when a tabby cat with a crooked ear made her way out of the underbrush.
“Hey there,” I said and crouched down offering my hand. “Here kitty kitty kitty.”
The cat butted her head up against first my knuckles and then my yoga pants before twining herself through my legs. She was skinny, half starved and I didn’t see any sign of a collar. A stray maybe? Judging from the bent ear, she wasn’t fairing too well by herself.
I knew better than to try and pick her up. With my luck, she would scratch the hell out of me. So I petted her for a few minutes, crooning nonsense. She purred, demonstrating her appreciation.
Grammy B had had a cat up until a few months ago. Maybe she still had some food. I could bring it up here later and leave it for my new friend. And make some inquiries to see if anyone in town was missing a cat.
“I better get on with my day, kitty. I’ll try and bring you something to eat, later.” I stood up, stretched my back, and headed down the hill.
“Meow.”
I turned back and saw that the cat was following me.
“Okay then. I guess I can box up the cookies and head over to Grammy’s to see about the food.”
“Meow.”
Weird. It almost sounded like the cat was answering me. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”
“Meow.”
“You are a girl cat, right?” Robin had said he could change shape. But gender?
Then again, George had. And he had done so with science, not magic.