Nimble Cat

Nimble Cat had once been clumsy.

When she was young, she thought MORE stones meant MORE strength, so she piled them up — heavy clumps, stones crammed on stones, every group a dense wasteful lump. And she always ran out of stones to play elsewhere, her whole hand spent on three overbuilt groups, while her opponent, using stones lightly and efficiently, was everywhere at once. She'd lose, out of stones, and slump, sure she just needed even MORE stones packed even tighter.

An old cat, sleek and unwasteful, stretched beside her one evening. "You pile stones like more is better," she said. "But watch a clumsy pile — half those stones do nothing the others weren't already doing. You're spending two stones for one stone's worth of work." She placed a few stones in a light, elegant shape, each covering fresh ground. "A cat doesn't take five steps to a ledge two steps away. Every movement does exactly its job, and no more. Play stones the same way — good shape, where each stone covers what the others don't. Do more with less, and you'll have stones left over to be everywhere your clumsy self never reached."

Nimble Cat learned to play light and efficient — good shape, no overlap, no waste — and suddenly her stones went twice as far, and she was everywhere at once while her opponents overbuilt heavy clumps. The clumsy, always-out-of-stones feeling turned into a graceful, nothing-wasted ease. She'd never needed MORE stones. She'd only been wasting the ones she had.

She came to Stonesong when she was older, because a place built around a board of quiet stones ought to understand the player who wastes nothing.

The mentor who kept the great hall met her at the door and asked only one thing. "Show me how you play."

Nimble Cat didn't answer with words. She took a heavy clumsy clump of stones on a demonstration board and rebuilt its work in a light, elegant shape using half as many — every stone covering fresh ground, none overlapping. Then she spent the stones she'd saved claiming two other parts of the board.

"You did the same work with half the stones," the mentor said.

"A cat wastes no movement," Nimble Cat said. "Good shape does the most with the fewest. The stones I saved from a clumsy clump, I spent being two other places at once. Efficient, not heavy."

The mentor looked at her light shapes doing heavy work, and nodded. "Nothing wasted," he said. "You do the most with the least. Come in."

Her corner of the hall filled with players who overbuilt — and one afternoon a young badger fretted over his heavy board.

"I keep running out of stones," the badger said. "I make my groups really strong — big and packed tight — but then I have nothing left to play everywhere else, and I lose."

Nimble Cat knew that always-out feeling. She'd overbuilt for years.

"Show me a group," she said. He'd made a dense clump — eight stones where four in good shape would do. "See how these overlap? Half of them are doing work the others already did. That's four stones WASTED — four stones you needed elsewhere." She rebuilt his group light and elegant, four stones each covering fresh ground. "Same strength. Half the stones. Now you've got four stones back to play two other important places." The badger stared. "It's not weaker?" "It's springier AND you're richer," Nimble Cat said.

The badger rebuilt his clumps into light good shapes, and suddenly had stones to spare, and was everywhere at once. "Oh," he said, feeling his hand full again. "I wasn't too weak. I was just... wasteful."

"That's the whole craft," Nimble Cat said. "Strength isn't piling stones high. It's good SHAPE — each stone doing real work the others don't, nothing overlapping, nothing wasted. Do the most with the least, and you'll be strong AND everywhere. Grace, not weight."