"Every five years we must take down every scroll, stack by stack, and clean the rugs beneath them, replacing those which are too worn to use. We must also unroll the scroll and make note of its condition," the old monk rasped. "The latter will not be your responsibility, young one, but we are happy to provide you with a cot in the dormitory, and you will be welcome at the refectory during your stay here. Can you eat our food?"
The monk smiled faintly at the honorific and gave a subtle nod in return. "We do not interact much with the cat folk. Too stationary for your kind, perhaps. The khiidiin nomyn san does not move, after all. We will do what we can to provide for you in exchange for your labor within the limits of our strictures. On completion of the task, we will be able to pay you for your time here, though you must understand that the monastery is not wealthy."
*Within the limits of our strictures* proved to be plenty within Belek's. While they could not eat the monks' tsampa during lunch, they would take butter in their tea, and then they would fill up with steamed balls of the filling the monks had within their momo at dinner.
They kept to themself, bowed to anyone in a robe, and worked quietly. In the morning, they would let the younger monks lade a frame pack with scrolls and books and move them to the hall where the older monks toiled, checking for silverfish and signs of rot. In the afternoon, they would roll up the rugs and take them to a patio where they would be inspected, cleaned, and repaired if possible, or set out for the beggars if they were too worn.
And at night, they would run through the list of items they had carried throughout the day and consider which would be a more appropriate payment than simple coin.
Their family moved often enough with the others of their tribe when they were young, so they were used to finding work where they could and drifting from town to town, job to job, never staying anywhere long enough to raise suspicions. The Empire was not fond of cat folk.
They had walked the streets of the city with a family as a porter and made a pittance for their labor --- and a far larger sum by pickpocketing the crowds around them, as well as the father.
They had worked during shearing season with a small family for a spot on the floor and food for two weeks, and had come away with a small payment of a few coins --- and a larger, unofficial payment of an entire sheep, slain in the quiet of the night and expertly skinned, the dried meat and hide folded away into a pack they had hidden in the rocks, collected on the way to the next job.
They had worked as a midwife, helping to brew the groaning beer and ferry hot water before purring gentle reassurances into the lady's ear as she screamed and cried. They had curtsied to the men and averted their eyes, brushed the lady's hair, and come away with a handsome sum in coins and a glowing recommendation --- and two small jade statues.
They were always Belek, or mister or miss Oorzhak, the polite young cat with no family or friends, the one who was slight and feminine enough to be a midwife, and boyish enough, deceptively strong beneath that gray fur, to be of help with the men. They were hard working, and quiet on the job, but friendly to their employers during downtime, often opening up and telling stories of their adventures; never wholly true, but never, ever false.
Somehow, one of two things would happen before they left: either something terrible would happen --- a poor father pickpocketed while in the market, the porter hunched under his load; a sheep missing, howls in the night and blood on the grass --- or the employer would find themselves entranced by this worldly feline --- here, take these figures with our blessings, may they bring you good fortune, my dear Oorzhak.
"Grandfather, I thank you for your kindness," Belek said. They had introduced themself as male for the monastery job by necessity, but found that some aspect of feminine grace and vocal mannerisms went quite a ways with the old monk. "May I eat with you?"
They did so, settling down cross-legged with their bowl of steamed dumpling-filling and buttered tea. They smoothed out their deel, removed their cap, and let their tail lay behind them. They popped a meatball into their mouth, chewing thoughtfully and waiting for the monk to begin talking as he always did.
They swallowed their mouthful before giving a noncommittal shrug. "Perhaps I will head North. I once worked for an Empire wheelwright for a month. They are very skilled, and usually one must apprentice for years before working as one, but this man's apprentice was a-- well," the cat leaned in conspiratorially. "He is no longer human. He is probably no longer among the living."
The monk hesitated, old hand trembling, then nodded solemnly. "I know of these shifters-of-shape only through tales. It is a curse, I have read in our books. A curse, or a demon bound to small statues or fetishes. Was he as dreadful as they say, young Oorzhak?"
Belek's tail tick-tocked behind them in amusement before they remembered to add the more human smile. "Very few of them are terrible, grandfather, but sometimes they do not shift well and wind up mad with rage or stuck in agony. This young apprentice wound up in the latter, so he begged a sword from a friend and fell upon it."
Nodding sadly, the cat finished another few meatballs before continuing. "This wheelwright, he was crushed, both emotionally and with his labor. While I could do nothing to help him of his loss of a friend, I was at least able to run the treadle of his lathe and carry wood for him. The Empire does not particularly like my kind, and many find us untrustworthy --- I think because we do not have the same faces and expressions as them --- but some in the North have kind souls, as you do here at the monastery."
"He could not pay me much, but he gifted me a fine awl. It was well worn, of course, and he had taken delivery of a much finer replacement during my stay, but he was a generous man. Perhaps I shall find such generosity up there again." There. The seed was planted, the beginnings of an idea for the monk to ponder. Perhaps a gift for this kind young cat...
Before he could respond, however, Belek pulled the conversation suddenly in another direction, saying, "You said 'his soul will wander,' grandfather. What did you mean?"
The monk chewed thoughtfully, then washed the tsampa down with water. "Some walk in dream even while awake. When they die, we say their soul will walk still in dreams. Some, however, walk in unceasing nightmare. Perhaps, when they die, that is when they truly wake up." He bowed his head, looking down at his still-trembling hands. "But should they take their own lives, their soul cannot awake, and will continue to wander forever, living in a nightmare. They become demons or wicked spirits. Perhaps even those same demons of which our books speak."
After a week of work, the direction of scrolls, books, and manuscripts began to reverse. The cataloging had been completed and Belek began hauling loads of materials back into the library, helping the younger monks to place them back on their shelves according to some system the old monk --- they supposed he must be the librarian --- held within his head. There was a small celebration when the last of the shelves was emptied, and the monks pulled out thin beer, sparing a small lump of sugar for Belek to add to their tea in lieu. From then on, it was a task of re-loading the library and finishing the last mending of mats.
"Grandfather, I thank you again for the kindness you have showed, and for the chance to work here," Belek said while fingering the spines of a few books. "I have never been surrounded by such knowledge in my life"
The old monk nodded absently as he worked on filling in some final notes on a scrap of parchment. "Thank you, young Oorzhak. You have shortened our labor by days."
Still running their fingerpad along the spines of books, Belek paused, feeling a sudden chill against their coarse skin. They hesitated, traced their way back across the books, then carefully drew the leather-bound volume from the shelf. It was not just cool, but cold. Actively cold, as though it strived to be so. They could read the language of the Empire --- slowly, to be sure --- but the writing on the cover of the book was of some other tongue.
They felt their tail bristle, their hackles raise. That chill, those letters, both felt intent in some way they could not place. Intent and striving. It needed something, and within their breast, a need of their own sparked to life.
They jolted and whirled around. The voice had seemed to come from the book itself, an echo or a whisper or perhaps only the suggestion of a voice, but there was the old monk staring at them, a strange gleam in his eye.
The cat blinked. There were other books they had their eye on. Gilt, illuminated, fancy ones. Small enough to smuggle, pretty enough to sell. Still, now that they held this one in their hands and they were growing used to the cold weight of it, there was suddenly nothing more precious. "Surely this book is too much," they stammered.
"You have provided us with a service," the monk said. His voice was eager now. Excited. His brown skin stretched perhaps a little too tight across his brow in some hidden exertion. "Please, I would be honored if you would accept this small tome of knowledge in exchange."
How did they know what to say? The words were stilted, unnatural. They felt oily in their mouth, leaving behind a thin sheen of premonition. They hung in the air, vibrating with anticipation. Where had they come from? How did they bear such weight?
The old monk gripped the edge of a lectern by which he had been standing. His expression was beyond tense. His skin was taut, his eyes overwide, his gaze wandering beyond sanity.
The monk's equally stilted words clashed with Belek's in the air. They rang together like bells, tolled some untold hour, twined around each other, then around Belek, and suddenly, the book began to warm in the cat's paws. There was a scent of ritual, a tang of omen, an acrid whiff of power of choice and bargain and deals accepted. Deals beyond just a gift to go with one's wages.
"I must...I must rest, young one. I thank you once more for your labor. Your wages...your wages will be in the refectory... Ah, preserve my soul." If the monk had looked crazed before, now he looked truly on the verge of madness. His eyes no longer tracked Belek, but seemed to be reading something written on the ceiling, juddering boustrophedon. His muscles were rigid. Sweat stood on his brow and spittle clung to his chin.
The monk only moaned in response. That tension in his face finally broke free and he let out a strangled cry of pain, his form shifting beneath coarse robes, skin rippling into some thicker hide, horns cresting from his brow. Then, after a moment's agonized silence, he toppled to the floor, falling as would a tree, stiff and straight, rather than crumpling.
Belek yelped, then skittered from the library and down the long hall towards the scriptorium where the other monks were packing up their pens and scrolls.
The other monks dropped their materials and leapt to their feet, hollering. One of them dashed up to them and opened his mouth to speak before noticing the book clutched in their paws. His look of worry turned into one of dawning horror. "I see you two reached a deal."
Dumbstruck, Belek looked down at the book, then back up to the scribe, holding out the book. "He offered me this in exchange for my efforts. If he was mistaken--"
The monk quickly shook his head and pressed the book forcefully back into their paws. "The deal has been made. Your wages are in the refectory, please take them and your belongings and leave."
"Leave. The monastery thanks you for your work but you must leave at once. You must be away by nightfall. Perhaps then the librarian shall recover, but..." And with that, the monk rushed off.
Belek stumbled numbly to the refectory and picked up the small bag of coins left atop their cap and cloak. The whole monastery seemed to be rushing to the library, and suddenly the advice to leave seemed extraordinarily prudent. They continued on to the dormitory where the rest of their belongings lay, shouldered their pack, and were on the road north before the sun began its long, slow descent toward evening.
They did not rightly know why they decided to remove the book from their pack and open the cover. Perhaps it was another whispered *Belek*, and perhaps it was something more akin to a compulsion.
More, they did not know *how* they were able to read the book. The language, when they focused their eyes, was not one that they knew, but were they to let their eyes drift just out of focus, the meaning came to them. It came in waves, in gusts, in inexorable torrents. It washed over Belek and left their stomach rolling and their eyes watering.
"Belek," came the voice once again, now more than simply echo. "Do you hear that, Belek? Horns to announce the death of a monk. He has shifted for the last time, and now...well, what better way to forget than through death?"
"Belek, you read my words. You remember. I am with you now. You are mine now. So long as you remember me, I will live within you." The whisper of words slipped into a silky purr. "And you will never forget me."
They could manage no more than a groan. The truth wrapped itself around them, tightened, squeezed. The meaning of the text was clear. They could not force themself to unbelieve the book's words. They would never forget. They would remember every time they shifted --- for now, more than ever, they were a shifter-of-shapes.
