By M.W. Irving

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Comfortable conversation and a crackling fireplace greeted Penelope as she entered the Dancing Badger. The Survivors of Transformation support group sat in a circle around a coarse rug—the shabby inn’s only bit of decor beyond a couple torches mounted to bare stone walls. Penelope eyed the three chairs that remained free, unsure where to sit. Eight fire-lit faces turned to her as she stepped inside.

“Welcome, young lady,” said a short, twitchy man. “We’re about to start.” 

As Penelope settled into the seat next to him, the group’s staring drove a cold spike of doubt into her. 

“It’s always nice to have newcomers,” the twitchy man said. “I’m the innkeeper here at the Dancing Badger, and these are my fellow Survivors of Transformation. Please, introduce yourself.”

“Okay, I’m Penelope and. . .I’m sorry, this is new to me.”

“I know, it’s difficult. Shall we go around the circle first? I’ll start. My name is Horace, and I spent a year as a hare after Hagrim the Hideous stayed here. I wouldn’t serve her sauteed fingers, so poof! Hare. I don’t know where she expected me to get human fingers. Such a monstrous request. Since her spell wore off, I’ve struggled to readjust. It’s the jumping; the feeling of kicking against the ground with my entire being, the weightless thrill of it. I dream about leaping every night. But we must focus on everything we’ve regained, right?”

Murmurs of agreement encircled Penelope. Next was a thick, squat man named Tobias. As he spoke, his fingers danced.

“Maude the Malignant turned me into a fly to impress a handsome knight at a jousting tourney. It worked, too. The knight laughed at me when I made a meal of his horse’s droppings, and they left arm in arm, giggling.” He looked at Penelope sorrowfully. “Living with how much dung I’ve eaten has been. . .difficult.”

“Flies eat dung,” Horace interrupted. “There’s no shame in obeying instinct. We’ve all done it.”

Heads bobbed in agreement. “What do we say?”

“It’s what we were, not who we are,” came the group’s droning reply.

They went around the circle, sharing stories. A woman named Maeve had been turned into a falcon by Griselda the Grotesque. Her description of piercing rodent skulls with her talons made a hulking man across from Penelope squirm. His name was Frederick, and he spent a summer as a mouse thanks to Teresa the Twisted.

Finally, it came to the man on Penelope’s right who was perched on all fours upon his chair. He wore an immaculately groomed mustache and projected an air of nobility.

“I’m Ambrosius Pistledown. I was Carmen the Cruel’s cat for seventeen years. I brought her rats, bats, spiders, whatever her potions required. In return, she spoiled me. I adored hunting for Carmen. I still crave the tingle of my whiskers, the balance of my tail, being a predator. I miss purring; words cannot express pleasure as purring can. Mostly, I miss Carmen. Her petting and the warmth of her lap were the greatest comforts I’ve ever known. We spent countless hours that way, my witch and I, before she was burnt.” He collected himself before going on. “But now she’s gone and I must carry on with this.” He gestured to himself as though presenting a sideshow horror. 

Horace chimed in again.

“Remember, Ambrosius, Carmen the Cruel was evil. She lured dozens of children away to be turned into goblins before three villages banded together to stop her.” 

“Of course,” Ambrosius said. “But evil is of very little consequence to cats.”

Then came Penelope’s turn, the beginning and the end of the circle. There came the tugging, tickling, gnawing of its power. They would understand, they could help. She drew in a long breath. 

“I’ve decided the Dark Magic that transformed me will not dictate my life.” 

“Yes,” the circle replied.

“It’s like you said, it’s what I was, not who I am.”

There was applause.

“My name is Penelope, and I was transformed into a witch.”

The room went silent. Ambrosius, the former cat, was the first to move. He kicked his chair over as he leaped for the door, fleeing into the twilight outside. The remaining seven stared at Penelope.

“You’re a witch? Like a witch, witch?” Tobias the former fly asked.

“No, not anymore.”

The circle’s power called, prickling her fingertips, begging to be used. Dark Magic had touched each among them—changed them. It lingered in their bones.

“How can you ‘used to be’ a witch?” Horace the former rabbit asked.

“I don’t use magic anymore.”

“But you could!” said Horace, incredulously.

“I won’t. I will not be ruled by it.” As Penelope spoke, she knew it to be a lie. “You don’t know how addictive it is.”

“Wait, Penelope? As in Penelope the Pitiless?” said Frederick the ex-mouse.

“That’s what I was, not who I am.”

“You turned my cousin into a carp last week!” 

“He grabbed my rear,” Penelope retorted. 

Fredrick grabbed a fire poker in his immense fist, and Falcon Maeve reached for a torch. Penelope recognized the signs of a turning crowd.

“You can’t just turn people into fish!”

“He has to live in a bathtub!”

Together, the Survivors of Transformation began to advance. Penelope could resist no longer. She made a small gesture, a flash of Hellfire tore through the inn, and the remaining Survivors of Transformation were transformed again. Seven new fleas leaped furiously as Penelope made her exit.

The meeting hadn’t gone as planned, but she felt better. Her new mantra dispelled the guilt that often plagues young witches.

“It is what I am, not who I am.” 

As she strode through the forest, she repeated it. Every step felt lighter. A rustle behind her stopped Penelope mid-step. Whirling, she found Ambrosius standing beneath a gnarled oak.

“Madam, might I have a word?” the ex-cat said timidly. Penelope narrowed her eyes. 

“Would you have a position available for a cat?”

As it turned out, she did.