Thin clouds lay lingering as a veil in front of the sun. It made for a particular light, that made the world look extraordinary on this special day. More often than not, it was either blazing of drizzling in the countryside. Barton didn’t mind either way, but this view was inspiring. It reminded him of the process of aging. Dimmed emotions, dimmed social interactions, dimmed light. He petted one of the sheep. Barton didn’t know which one. Almost all of them looked the same to him. Yeah, sure there was one with a black dot on her face, one with a chipped ear, two with specks on their hooves, but in general, they were just sheep. Staring at them each day didn’t make them any more special.

Barton had just sheared the sheep a month ago and sold the wool for a fair price. Which meant he had had his one outing of the year in which people would be extra friendly. His wool was good, everybody wanted it. He’d gotten his drinks on the house and everything. Something to look forward to for next year…

So silly. Young Barton had always thought he would grow up a well-liked person. He’d studied to become a druid and had gotten very good at various plant infusions. Unfortunately, no-one ever wanted them anymore. A witch had settled in the village a couple of years ago and had spells for everyone and everything, making his potions slightly redundant. So yeah, sheep herding…

There was something to be said for being a druid sheep herder. For one, you didn’t need to be afraid of wolves. Barton had made sure the plants around his property repelled wolves and their ilk, and masked the scent of the sheep. The plants on his plot were especially chosen for the attraction they had on sheep and for their effects on the wool. He would explain this now and again in the inn in town, and folks would listen politely, but he could tell they didn’t really care.

Fifty years old and he had never really amounted to anything… He didn’t have a wife, no kids, no friends. Just the sheep and his plants. Barton realised that if he died, probably only the sheep would care. Or maybe they wouldn’t. It didn’t really matter anyway, since he wouldn’t be there to notice he was being missed. Oh well, no need to be sad about that today: today he was going to give himself a proper birthday.

There are so many people who don’t even reach that respectable milestone of turning 50, Barton felt that he owed it to them to celebrate his, so this morning he had gotten up early and went into the forest to forage. He was planning something big for himself and he couldn’t help being a little excited at the prospect.

He was going to attempt a transformation today. It would be his first time. He got it from a book that he’d kept for ages, but had never had the guts to use, for fear of screwing it up and hurting himself in the process. Not today. Barton felt he had nothing much to lose anyway.

The spell that he prepared was going to change him into an animal for about an hour, give or take 20 minutes. He had spent days making a choice on the type of animal he would be, and had decided on a lion. King of the animal world! That had a certain allure: he would prowl around his house sporting a large distinguished mane... perfect for a man turning 50. Unfortunately, chilton root, one of the key ingredients for the lion-spell turned out to be nowhere to be found, so he plucked a couple of others that he knew were mentioned for other animals, and decided to surprise himself when he got home.

Being a man of 50 years old and having gotten up so early to scavenge the woods for 3 hours straight, he took a nap first.

Barton meticulously labeled his ingredients first, then opened the book to see what his birthday gift would be. The first one he found was a chicken and he was already halfway through the assorted animal spells. This made him slightly nervous. What grandeur was there in spending your 50th birthday as a chicken?

Carefully scanning the different recipes, he had almost given up hope until the final page told him he had all the ingredients to pull it off. Well… not really, he couldn’t soak the wastroot in thinned mistflower juice for 48 hours anymore, but he did have both of the ingredients. And it probably wouldn’t matter if he just didn’t water down the mistflower essence.

In the back of his mind Barton knew that it might matter, but still… what other options did he have? He’d either have to postpone his birthday or do the chicken. Neither were acceptable options. Well, not if you have the chance to spend your 50th birthday evening as a tiger, they weren’t.

He smiled at his own plan and started preparing. When everything was ready he made himself a nice beetroot stew for a birthday dinner (with all those sheep around, you don’t want to turn into a hungry tiger). He even put a candle in the side of mashed potatoes, sang himself a birthday song and, blowing out the candle, made a wish.

“I wish that all the years I’ve still got left will be more exciting than the 50 so far.”

He smiled after he made his wish. Yeah, exciting, that was what he wanted them to be. Not just plants and sheep until his death. If it would be just that, accompanied with him slowly getting old age ailments, creaky joints, dementia… No, he needed some excitement in his life, and after he’d finished the dishes he’d start by turning into a tiger.

Oh, to hell with the dishes.

The ritual itself took an hour to complete. It ended with him downing the potion and chanting in Elvish until he blacked out. That was part of the plan, so seeing his vision slowly disappear and feeling lightheaded only made him smile. It worked.

***

When Barton woke up he had a strange taste in his mouth. It wasn’t the potion, it was something tangy that he’d never tasted before. He thought a bit about it then realised, fuck it, I’m a tiger!

And he was. He looked at his giant paws and tried to extract and retract his nails. He could. Oh boy! He got up on his four perfectly strong striped legs and walked around. Everything looked different. There was colour, but less, so much less then he used to see. But now he could see EVERYTHING. Every blade of grass, the movement of crickets in the patches of brush. It was breathtaking.

Having a tail was a new feeling too, as was the complete absence of joint pain. A newfound agility illuminated his body. Wow, what a wonderful spell this was. Barton had heard tigers could jump extremely high, so he decided to give it a try. He ran up to his house and jumped on the roof. He landed the jump easily. Giddy as a schoolgirl he crashed through the roof and landed right on his dinner table, which also crashed under his weight.

“Holy shit!” he cursed in shock.

“HOLY SHIT!” he cursed again, this time shocked by the fact that he had actually cursed in this shape.

“OH MY GOD I CAN TALK!”

It didn’t sound like his regular voice, it was deeper and there was a growl to it, but it was definitely him talking out loud while being a tiger. How awesome. It made Barton almost forget he just killed his roof and his dinner table.

He wondered what he was going to do for the next hour. One part of Barton thought it would be funny to sneak up on people and then just say ‘hello’. The rest of him agreed with that part, and decided to go to the pub in the village to have some fun with drunk villagers, it was a Friday night after all.

Wait…

If it was a Friday night, why wasn’t it dark yet?

Barton got out of his house without doing any further damage since the door was unlocked and looked around. It was broad daylight.

This wasn’t correct. It had been twilight when he’d done the ritual, so why was it broad daylight now?

And if it was day, then where were the sheep?

A very uncomfortable feeling crept up Barton’s spine. The tangy taste in his mouth came back to him… could it be? NO WAY! He was a vegan, for fuck’s sake!

Upon finding his flock, Barton felt a sudden pang of doubt about his proclaimed veganism. He imagined his sheep might feel the same way if they hadn’t been shredded to sheepy slivers.

Vague memories stirred in the back of his mind. The thrill of slowly stalking your prey, the pounce, the smell of terror. Holy shit, he’d killed them all…

“Barton!” a voice called out over the meadow. It was a woman, sounded like either Sheila from the baker’s or Janet from the pig farm. Maybe Daisy?

“Barton!” the voice called again. Barton decided to take a look. He walked up to his house and spotted the familiar figure of Janet at his door. She smelled delicious. That was odd, he never noticed that before, normally she smelled like pigs.

Oh wait…

Yeah, still pigs…

Delicious pigs…

“GET A GRIP, YOU’RE VEGAN!” Barton yelled at himself.

“Hey Barton, there you are!” Janet said, turning around.

Then she screamed.

Then she ran.

Then she combined the two in a very efficient running-away-screaming manner. Barton had to supress the urge to chase her.

This wasn’t good. Not good at all. He was out of a table, out of a roof and out of sheep. And besides that, he had been a tiger for at least 15 hours now, considering the light. When was this going to wear off?

Barton went back inside and tried to check his books to get a better idea of what the hell had gone wrong and how long it would take for him to turn back. The claws seemed to be a real problem though. No matter how careful he tried to turn the pages, most of them tore and stuck to his claws. Retracting them wasn’t much use either since his paws were too thick to handle the thin papyrus. It was frustrating. So frustrating that at one point he just ripped through the book and then chewed on it to make a point.

The point was made, but to whom? Barton suddenly felt an urgent need to lick himself in embarrassment. With an absence of alternative ideas, he went for it and immediately felt his frustration dissipate.

“Huh, wow vhetf iwvweffing…”

He washed himself a bit more, sucking the dried blood out of his fur. It tasted way too good. NOT VEGAN. But hey, the sheep were dead already, so what would be the use of leaving the blood on his fur out of principle? Barton was above all a practical man.

After washing himself he went out for a run. His body was fantastic. No creaky joints, a stamina he hadn’t even possessed as a young boy and the strength, just wow. It felt good to be a tiger for once, instead of an old man. He frolicked around his field, experimenting with various kinds of jumps (in the air, he wasn’t going to damage his property any more than he’d already done) and forced himself to have fun for a little bit. He could worry later, when he was a man again.

When the sun had reached its apex in the sky, Barton lay down in the middle of his field and let the sun caress his body. It had been fun, being a tiger. He had made a total mess of it, but that was for later worry. Now he’d just nap for a bit in the sun and probably wake up human again in an hour or so.

“Barton!”

Multiple voices were yelling his name. It woke him up. Barton checked quickly, but he was definitely still a tiger. Oh well... At least he could explain himself.

He got up lazily and walked over to where the voices were coming from. They were quite far away – it turns out his hearing had improved as well. Prowling towards the noise he listened in on the conversation.

“He’s not here.”

“What kind of animal could have done this?”

“I think it came in through the roof and ate poor Barton.”

“It must’ve been a dragon!”

“Nah, dragons are extinct and besides, nothing is on fire…”

“Angry birds?”

“That would explain the torn-up books, but would birds really be able do THAT to an entire herd of sheep?”

“Wolves then?”

“Since when do wolves get in a house through the roof?”

“Well it was a straw roof… Maybe they huffed and puffed?”

“Allen!”

“Yeah, sorry. It can’t really have been a tiger right? You know, ‘cause Janet said…”

“Janet is half-blind and crazy. Tigers don’t live in this part of the country. Maybe one got lost.”

“…and ate Barton and killed his sheep?”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

“Poor man.”

“Hey, he just got all the gold in from the wool trade. He doesn’t have any family, so maybe we should just split that up between us, what do you say?”

“Yeah, it’s not as if he can use the money when he’s dead…”

Hey! Thought Barton, don’t steal my money! He broke into a run and found a crowd of about 12 villagers with makeshift weaponry standing in front of his house.

“Don’t take my money!” he yelled out to them.

All of them turned and faced the tiger. John, the baker’s son, dropped his knife and ran for it. The rest stuck out their weapons in front of them.

“Don’t come closer!” the quivering voice of the farmer Maise yelled out.

“It’s a misunderstanding. Please don’t take my money.” Barton said calmly, trying not to alarm anyone. It came out more menacing than he’d meant it to be. Damn you, tiger vocal cords!

“It talks!”

“It must be a demon!”

“Yeah, kill it!”

“You go first.”

“No, YOU go first.”

“HEY!” Barton yelled out. “No one is killing anyone, go away.”

“Your father’s the preacher – you go first, God will protect you.”

“No he won’t! The tiger will eat me!”

“I’M NOT EATING ANYONE!” it came out like a growl. The eleven men recoiled, then three of them started running towards him, pitchfork, sword and something that resembled a leg of a barstool at the ready.

“FOR BARTON!!!” The rest followed suit.

“I AM Barton!” Barton yelled back, but that didn’t stop them one bit. Barton pondered his fight or flight reaction for a fraction of a second, then decided on the latter. He’d come back and explain things when he had reverted back to his normal shape.

And so he ran.