The Cat, the Witch, and the Silverspoon: A Tallyho Grimoire Series, #1

By Siggi Storms

Leggs the cat loves his pampered life. Four meals a day. Add television and naps, and a good scratch from Lark, his human... Could it get much better? But things were about to change... And not for the better. Leggs blamed it all on the old witch. He knew by looking at her that she was trouble, and a tornado later, he was right. They find themselves transported to the world of Tallyho, where an old battle still wages between a Wizard and a Witch. In a land where stories get jumbled over time and space, lies the unlikeliness of heroes, Lark, and her talking cat. Tallyho. A warped fantasy world where fairytales get construed and take a life all their own. Where modern amenities like toilets and running water don't exist, to the horror of a civilization loving feline. Can a lazy, portly cat protect his human from the forces of evil, or will he die of laughter first? Find out in this first edition of the Tallyho Grimoire Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Siggi Storms
• Release date: Aug 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201098971

Siggi Storms

Being a novelist was a lifelong dream. So was being an ordained minister, and that didn't turn out so well. One out of two Isn't bad. Siggi Storm's first published book, Wraithtree a Zombie Apocalyptic came about with his interest in Greek mythology, Dionysus to be specific. He has moved away from cult fiction and adopted a more humorous style of writing. The Mosquitobait Chronicles, his second book, is a funny adventure about a moose and a bear having a misadventure, Northwoods style. His next up and coming book is titled: The Cat, the Witch, and the Silverspoon. Book One of the Tallyho Grimoire Series. It is to be a trilogy designed for a YA audience, but the humor and satire in it will appeal to all ages. Humor is the gateway to a better life. If you can't laugh at yourself, at least smile and acknowledge it. Siggi Storms lives in Wausau, Wisconsin with his pet rock and a bunch of plants. The rock doesn't complain but the plants sure do. You can find him at [e-mail]

Book preview

Pointed Hat with solid fill

Incantation 1

Magic. For some worlds , it does not work well enough. For others, not at all. The practice of running through the routine; lighting candles, incense and saying an incantation or two, or rapidly plunging a needle into a trusty voodoo doll seems rather droll when the effects of the magic are not spontaneous. 

To many, this just gets the engine running. Or rather, let the magic user prepare mentally, giving them the details to kick start the process of doing magic. Performing a dance or two, generating a cone of power through visualization, or applying the perfect and precise design on a sigil, and uttering the words in the correct order. Boom...change happens.

Or does it?

For some worlds, this can take months, even years to see the desired effect, if it happens at all. A lot of it depends on faith. But even believing in magic in some worlds can lead to a call to some shrink, where a prescription of pills is handed out to the deluded soul.

Such is the price of faith.

But there are places where magic works, and places where it is feared. Places where not only the powerful, collective mind believes in such things, but witnesses the workings of such magic with their own eyes. For places like this, the magic is real, not imaginary. These are the places where magical forests produce sparkling unicorns that enjoy a bowl of cereal for breakfast despite not being invited to said breakfast. You may have had dragons decide it would be nice and appropriate for them to light your cigarette for you without much of a warning of their conflagration. The burn holes in worn shirts eventually fade. Said cigarette did not have enough faith, it seems, for it ceased to exist in a grand puff of smoke. Smoke that never made it to human lungs, either I might add. The hair and eyebrows grew back in time.

This is what happens in a world where magic is real, and not a shameless act of trickery of the hand, or hypnotism. Real.

Our story starts in this world of non-belief, where magic is said to exist only in our imagination. It is a place where magic only happens in the technicolor antics of cartoon reruns, and the heart and dreams of one regular teenage girl.

Here she is now.

A skein of fog seemed to blot the view.

Oh, sorry!

A huge, crumpled hand towel the size of the sky wipes away, clearing the view.

There! That is better.

The scene came into view

Shanna Meadowlark looked in the mirror. Her thick, dark hair tumbled down her back, framing her pale face. Her roots were already showing through, she noticed. It has been two months since she last dyed it. Her blue eyes darted over to her reflection in the mirror, to her high cheekbones, full lips, and dainty nose. She did not look any older, she mused.

She was fifteen now, and her foster parents were away, working. They never seemed to be ever home; their business schedules kept them away. She stared at the pink cupcake on her desk, left by Chantelle, the maid. In its center was a blue birthday candle, unlit. Although she hated pink, she was grateful that someone remembered her birthday. Too bad it was the help.

Shanna sighed. She did not expect either of her foster parents to remember her birthday. It was a miracle that they remembered her at all. 

She picked up her black eyeliner and used it to darken her eyes. She added a little to her eyebrows to darken them as well. Being a natural blonde made being goth hard. She had to take more time with her appearance to cover up her blonde highlights. She regretted having been born with naturally blonde hair. She laughed. Whoever heard of a blonde witch?

But witch she was, having studied Wicca for the last year and a half.

Not far from her sat her cat. His coat was all black, all except his front legs, which was white as snow. He was a little over a year old, a teenager in cat years. His name was Leggs, and he was her best friend, as well as her familiar.

Leggs was a lazy cat, but a strange one as well. It might have something to do with him being born when the song Legs by ZZ Top was playing. Being her familiar, he could not wait for Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac to start playing. He had to go against the grain and choose a song that was not witchy. He never used the litter box but used the bathroom instead. She fed him four times a day. He was her constant companion and Shanna talked to him like he was just another human.

The crow stood watching, perched on a branch of a gnarled, old oak tree. His eyes took in the girl. Her appearance was that of any girl her age, all except her Halloween-themed hair color that blotted out her natural color and the makeup that darkened around her eyes. 

Another witch sat watching from the crow’s eyes, from the comfort of her bed, a mile away. The aspects of sharing the mind of a bird were filled with those little distractions from the bird’s standpoint; the sudden urge to look for carrion and gorge upon rotten meat, to the urge to voice one’s opinion of the subject at hand. Not given either option, the bird firmly pooped, voicing its opinion in other ways.

The witch grunted with disapproval.

The girl was at the school’s playground, on one of the swings. Her long, dark hair blew in the wind, her blonde roots plainly showing, like a wheat field against a dark sky. The thunder would have been her eyes, as she gazed upon a young man teasing her from his straddled position on the monkey bars. 

She ignored his taunts and the cheering of her peers through clenched teeth. The noise pollution was like a rock concert. She left the scene and wandered around the school, and sat on a bench, enjoying the solitude away from the crowd.

The crow followed, chasing a chipmunk along the way, before being pulled back to the task at hand. The witch had been watching the girl for weeks, calm, collective, peering into her character, searching her demeanor. 

She was the one.

Below, the girl sucked in the air of solitude with open defiance, cursing the day her mother had given her up for adoption, leaving her alone and parentless in a world where having parents was important. A lone tear dropped from her eye and splashed to the sidewalk as she went back to class.

The crow flew down and flicked its tongue over the tear stain. 

Soon, the witch thought. I will have my revenge.

She released the crow to its own devices and sat up.

And smiled.

BEYOND THE STARS IN our night sky, past thousands of adjacent galaxies, almost at the other end of the known universe, skirting around an infamous black hole, and hopping over a nebula-sized asteroid belt, in the pouring rays of that sun along the outskirts of Time, we come to the magical land of Tallyho.

There are many ways to get here if one is careful to avoid the terminals of speed traps patrolled by space police or to slingshot through the Wall that ancient aliens and UFOs built to keep undesirables and immigrants out. Or, if you happen to be one of the few who intermingle with an occasional wizard or witch who knows teleportation.

This can be handy. It is also one of the ways to avoid having a green card.

Such are the dynamics of space travel.

What? You have never heard of Tallyho? Do not feel bad. Few have. It is a backward little place with not much significance unless you just happen to live there. But even though insignificant to the eyes of many, there is an attraction here not to be missed.

Magic.

Yes, magic. Real magic.

And of the few places in the universe where two ley lines of great power just happen to intersect. 

And this makes it special.

Geographically speaking, Tallyho resembles Earth with air to breathe and plenty of ocean-side views. Well, technically it was all Ocean at one time. No land, you see.

Well, Land happened about a billion years ago, when the giant space albatross of the universe flew over this special place. And promptly pooped. Over the centuries this fecal matter eventually became the continents. Evolution, you know.

Like monkeys.

Thousands of monkeys later, we have the current crop of the gene pool. It would be unfair to blame a population for its genetics, especially coming from an ancient toilet function. After all, when nature calls and you must go...well, you get the drift. Now, this current crop has seen better days. And unfortunately, magic had been the downfall to their present situation.

Greed will do that, I hear.

THE WIZARD HAPHAZARDLY lurched from his bed, stumbling over heaps of clothes piled on the floor. A damp, musty smell permeated the air. It smelled like a cross between moldy socks and rotten mushrooms. Over time you get used to the smell.

Being dead had that effect.

Shedding his moldy pajamas, the wizard strode from his bedchamber.

Stiles! The wizard’s voice called.

Footsteps were heard coming across the tiled floor, slap, slap, slap. A figure approached from the shadowy confines of the eastern wing of the palace. The servant neared his master.

Yes, Abracadaver, sir? The squeak was mouse-like and weird all the same. For it came from a towering figure of an ogre, who was nine feet tall, all muscle. 

I thought I told you to clean the clothing on the floor? Abracadaver asked, searching the ceiling for eyes that stared downward.

Was that yesterday? Stiles asked. It feels like I already forgot.

Yes, Stiles. It was yesterday. And unless you want to become a groveling cockroach for me to step on, you had better remember this time, Abracadaver grumbled.

Way up near the rafters, the ogre frowned.

Yes, Wizard, sir! I will try harder next time.

See that you do, the wizard told him. Now get on and start making coffee. I have a full day today and need my strength.

The wizard muttered about the inconsistencies of ogre economics as he marched to his library. Perhaps, reading the Sunday Times might pick up his day. The misfortunes of others made his