The Catswold Portal (28 page)

I
t was the evening the calico scratched Morian that Melissa saw the spirit of the cat hidden within Braden's paintings.

Morian had come down for a drink. Melissa watched her from the couch. The dark woman was beautiful in creamy satin and gold jewelry. Coming in, she kissed Braden on the
cheek and Melissa felt a growl deep in her throat and felt her claws stiffen. And when Braden had gone to the kitchen and Morian came to the couch and reached to stroke her, she growled again.

Morian looked surprised and moved away. “All right, my dear. I know when I'm not wanted.” She grinned. “Maybe a little jealous? You needn't be, you know.”

Melissa turned her face away, but in a moment she looked back to watch Morian where she stood at the easel looking at the wet painting.

“You have a class?” Braden said from the kitchen.

“Mmm. I hate night classes—there's always some hobby painter who shouldn't be there and can't keep his mind on his drawing. I like this, Brade.”

“New model. Starting a new series.”

Morian looked at the three new paintings he had hung on the wall, then at the new sketches on the work table, handling them with care. When Braden returned with the drinks, she hugged him casually. “Nice. Very nice. This is going to be an exciting series. These—are these the Craydor house?”

He nodded. “We spent a morning there.”

“Marvelous. Reflections…all reflections. Just right for you, Brade. And your model is perfect for it.”

Melissa got into her basket and curled down, pretending to sleep, listening to the dry sounds of paper as Morian looked again through the sketches.

Morian said, “It's going to be the best series you've done. Even better than the Coloma series, and I didn't think any work could be better than that. Rye will go out of his mind. Has he seen them?”

“He's dropping by this evening on his way out to dinner.”

Morian nodded and sat down on the couch near Melissa's basket, looking at the calico questioningly to see if she would growl again. “Nice basket—she just fits.” She looked up at him, laughing. “For someone who didn't want a cat, you're doing right well by her.” She reached to let the calico sniff her fingers, trying to make friends. But jealousy won, rage impelled the calico. She came up out of her basket striking
fast, slashing across Morian's hand. Morian jerked away, her eyes wide. Blood beaded across her skin. Braden shouted and reached to grab the calico, but Morian caught his arm.

“Don't, Brade. Let her be. This is her house—she just doesn't want me so familiar.” She moved away from the basket, pressing her fingers against the oozing blood, holding her hand away from her silk dress. “It's only a scratch.” She stared into Melissa's eyes, not angry but curious, searching. Melissa hissed and spat.

Braden handed Morian a clean paint rag to stop the blood. “I'll get some iodine.”

The medicine he brought smelled so strong it made Melissa's nose wrinkle. His look at her was cold, enraged.

Morian said, “She's only protecting her rights. She—Brade, look at her eyes.”

“What about them?” He was furious. His voice made Melissa cringe. Why had she done that? Why had she embarrassed herself in front of him like that?

Morian said, “You've given the girl in the painting the cat's eyes. How droll—the same green eyes, black fringed. Lovely.”

Braden looked puzzled. “No, they're Melissa's eyes. Melissa's eyes are green, she has dark lashes.” He looked into the calico's eyes, frowning, staring so hard Melissa shivered. He said, softly, “They are alike.” He was silent a moment, then he rose and took the empty glasses into the kitchen. Behind him Morian said softly, “It's about time.” She reached a tentative hand to the calico to see what she would do. “You needn't be jealous of me, my dear. It's that gorgeous model you need to worry about.”

Melissa relaxed, and pressed her head against Morian's fingers. Morian grinned at her. “That's better.” She rubbed Melissa's ears, knowing just the right places. Braden returned and stood watching them. “That was a quick turnaround. Private conversation?”

“Just girl talk,” Morian said as she glanced up through the windows. “Get a glass for Rye; here he comes. I'm on my way.”

On the terrace Rye Chapman hugged Morian, then she headed for her car. He came into the studio and stood silently looking at the paintings. He spent a long time looking. He didn't say anything. He backed off, studying each painting, so obviously pleased that Melissa kneaded her claws with pleasure and purred extravagantly. It was much later, after Rye had gone, that she saw the shadow images.

Braden had started a new painting from the drawing with the stained glass window. Already the intricate pattern of reflections was rich and exciting, shifting across her figure, absorbing her, making her a part of the tangled colors.

As she sat in the hall behind him pretending to wash her paws, admiring the painting, she let a mewing sigh of pleasure escape her. Braden turned to look, and she froze. Then she rubbed innocently against his ankle.

He began painting again.

It was the next minute, watching the painting, that she grew disturbed. She padded farther down the hall to see it from a greater distance.

She moved again, looking.

She saw the phantom shape clearly: the faint shadow of a cat woven through her figure, a form so subtle she had to stand in just the right place to see it. Hardly more than a smoky stain, it was nearly as large as her figure: a cat lying up across her body within the folds of the orange and pink silk, its cheek forming her cheek, its muzzle barely discernible within her own face, its paws meshing into the folds of her shirt. A phantom cat, faint as a breath.

She sat behind him feeling sick. Why had he done this? Had he known about her all along? When they argued over the movie about cat people, was he making fun of her? Why else would he do this but to goad and tease her? She moved across the room to study the other paintings, and found a cat's shadow in each, woven through her figure.

Why would Braden do this?

Or did he not know he had done it?

Did he not know those faint, elusive spirits were there? Could it be that only his inner self knew? That something
deep within him knew more than his conscious mind did? Upset and afraid, she felt her stomach churn. She was so upset that within a moment she had thrown up her supper in a little pile on the hardwood floor behind Braden.

He turned and stared at her, annoyed to be interrupted. Muttering, he got a rag and wiped up the mess.

But then after he had cleaned the spot on the floor he picked her up and held her, stroking her. “What's wrong with you? Why did you get sick? Is it the cat food?” He felt her nose; his hand smelled of paint. “How do I tell if you have a fever?
Are
you sick? Or did you eat a mole in the garden?” he asked hopefully. “Olive says moles make cats sick.”

She snuggled down in his arms, basking in his gentle caring. How could she be angry that he had painted the shadow images, when he was so kind and loving? She couldn't believe he had done it deliberately. Maybe he didn't know the images were there. Maybe they came from some hidden inner perception.

Had Braden, in making images of her, touched some power centered around her? Centered around the Catswold?

The next morning she was certain that some power of the Catswold had been touched, for she had dreamed of Timorell. She saw her mother, tall and golden haired, wandering the darkened galleries of the Cat Museum. And Timorell wore the Amulet of Bast. In the dream Melissa looked into the emerald's green depths and saw the war in the Netherworld, and she heard someone call her name. She woke riveted with the thought that she must find the Amulet, that the outcome of the Netherworld wars could be changed if she could find the Amulet of Bast.

E
fil watched the compound from a nearby hill where he sat beneath a twisted oak behind an outcropping of granite, drinking a Budweiser.

He had not gone down the Catswold Portal when he left Melissa. He had waited until he felt certain she was gone, then come out again. He had gone into the city, then two days later had taken a Greyhound north. In San Andreas, he bought a used Cadillac and drove out to the compound. There he left the car on a side road and climbed under the fence, ignoring the fear that the spell-cast fence engendered. He had crossed the grassy fields staying near boulders and within the shadows of the oaks. He wanted to see what progress Vrech was making with the false queen, but he did not want to be gone too long from Affandar and the changeling boy.

He had been able to teach the boy a few tactics to protect him against Siddonie. The boy had no magic, of course, but there were ways of the mind that would help him, and Tom had a surprising ability to resist her. He had performed cleverly, letting Siddonie think she controlled him.

Efil had no intention of freeing the boy. He meant, at the right moment, to bring Wylles down to the Netherworld, to show the two together to Siddonie's armies and to the peasants, to prove there was a changeling.

Efil drained the Budweiser can, then popped open another beer and settled back. He watched the compound most of the day, watched the upperworld horse soldiers at drill and sword practice, and watched the false Catswold queen fight
ing beside them in mock battle. The Affandar officers had done well with San Francisco's drunks. They had dried them out, and taught them to ride and to use a sword with modest skill. He watched Helsa with far more interest, soon with lust. She would be randy all right. And if he offered her more power than Siddonie promised, he had no doubt she would throw in with him. Once he convinced her that Siddonie planned to destroy her along with the rest of the Catswold, she would be his.

In mid-afternoon an unsuspecting rattlesnake slid near Efil. He killed it with a spell, then unwrapped the cheese sandwich he had bought in San Andreas, and opened another beer. He watched Helsa gather a dozen of the brawniest cats in the enclosure and change them to human, watched her lead them to the riding ring and drill them on horseback and then, finished, turn them back into cats. He assumed that she had not taught them the spell for changing. When he had seen all he needed, he walked back over the hills to the dirt lane, got in the Cadillac, drove into San Andreas and from there to San Francisco. He meant to be back in Affandar by the next night.

T
he Greyhound bus smelled of cigarettes and stale food. A large woman took up most of the seat, pressing Melissa against the window. The bus was filled with morning commuters, with men in suits and ties, and women in tweed suits flaunting bare, silky legs and high heels.

She had been half afraid to take the bus by herself, but she had awoken excited by her dream. Curled up purring close
to Braden, her mind had been filled with Timorell and the Amulet.

As the bus moved through Sausalito, she watched the fishing boats rocking on the choppy water of the huge bay. Then soon, approaching the Golden Gate Bridge, she thought about Alice dying there and was blinded by sudden, sharp pain.

Once the bus had crossed the bridge she was afraid of missing her stop, worried about getting lost. But the driver let her off all right; nothing was so hard if she just asked questions. She left the morning commuters behind and swung up Telegraph in the sharp, bright wind. Above her the sky tilted in explosions of light; gulls screamed, banking over her, their wheeling flight exciting her. She turned up a familiar street that climbed Russian Hill but, passing the Kitchen house, she was filled with loss. The feeling nearly undid her; she was all opposites this morning, swinging from joy to pain.

 

When she reached the museum it was not yet open; the iron gates were locked. In the shadow of the wall she changed to cat and leaped up and over.

She wandered the gardens pawing into niches and behind sculpture stands. Her paws were more sensitive than hands, picking up every subtlety of the different surfaces and textures. She examined bronze and marble cats for possible openings, and explored along the tops of the garden walls, then climbed a vine to the roof and searched among vents and into an old chimney. When the museum doors opened at ten she slipped inside, into the open ladies room.

In a booth she changed to girl, and came out again to mingle with a busload of arriving tourists. Searching the galleries, looking into windowsills and shelves, she tried to think how Timorell would have marked the hiding place of the Amulet, with what sign to be recognized only by another Catswold.

She searched all morning and half the afternoon but found nothing. She left the museum late in the afternoon, tired and very hungry. Discouraged, she didn't catch the
bus back across the bridge but took the Powell Mason cable car. Asking directions from the gray-haired driver, she got off at Union Square. She had a sandwich in a little cafe, then went shopping like any upperworld woman. She was back in the garden just after dark, feeling smug with her purchases, hiding her packages under Olive Cleaver's back porch.

 

Reflections of tall grasses tangled through Melissa's hair, shattered into angles by the rebounding light. Braden worked quickly, blocking in the canvas, excited by the emerging shadows, only absently aware that the cat was winding around his bare ankles.

She hadn't come in until after dark, then had prowled the studio restlessly. Several times he had noticed her looking up at the walls, and for a long time she sat behind him as if watching him work. She was doing that again now. She had left his ankles and sat down behind him again, looking. Soon her scrutiny began to annoy him. He laid down his brush and turned to face her. “What the hell are you looking at? Why would a cat stare at a painting?”

She looked so startled he laughed—the little cat looked truly shocked. And when he laughed, her eyes widened. She ducked her head and began to wash herself.

Grinning, he picked her up and scratched behind her ears. “You're a strange one. Pretty strange.” But it was later when he stopped to fry a hamburger that he began to worry about her.

She came running into the kitchen at the smell of cooking meat. She hadn't touched her cat food. He realized she hadn't eaten since she threw up the night before.

Maybe this brand of cat food didn't agree with her. He cut up his hamburger to cool for her, and cooked himself another one. When hers was cool and he put it down, she wolfed it, ravenous.

But then in a little while she threw it up again. This was the second throw up, and she looked so miserable that he phoned Morian.

“Just on my way out, Brade. Let me run down.” In a
minute she swished in, dressed to the teeth: sleek, honey-colored cocktail dress and strings of topaz and East Indian brass.

“Bring your date in, Mor.”

“He's impatient—let him pace. He thinks it's stupid to be concerned about a cat.” She knelt beside the couch stroking the calico, gently feeling down her sides, opening her mouth. She smelled the cat's breath with a familiarity that made Braden grin. She felt the calico's stomach, pressing carefully. Outside the glass her tall, dark-skinned date paced, glancing at his watch.

“Are you late for something?”

Morian shook her head. “He thinks we are.” She stroked the little cat. “I can't see anything wrong. They'll throw up sometimes when they're pregnant.”

“When they're what?”

“Pregnant, Brade. You know, it's when they—”

“Oh, Christ!”

“It happens, Brade

“What the hell am I going to do with a batch of kittens?”

“If she doesn't feel better by tomorrow, you'd better take her to the vet.” She stood up and chucked him under the chin. “They'll be sweet, Brade. Sweet kittens.”

He walked out with her and met her date, who stopped pacing long enough to shake hands. This was the boyfriend who worked for the
Chronicle,
in financial news or something; a promotion from the sports page, Morian had said. When they had gone Braden turned off the overhead studio lights and stood in the dark feeling suddenly, unreasonably encumbered. He didn't ask for a cat. He didn't ask for kittens. He didn't want to admit the concern he felt for the little calico. What the hell was he going to do with kittens?

Give a couple to Morian, he supposed, a couple to Olive. Give one to Melissa—maybe it could learn to like her.

 

She slept close to him that night, curled beside the pillow, her head tucked against his cheek. He kept his arm around her protectively, and she remained cat with difficulty. Lying
wakeful, she wanted to change to woman, wanted to snuggle next to him as a woman.

In the morning she was still cat, sleeping beside him. She was proud of her control. He let her out and, on the veranda, arranged the table and chairs, preparing to paint Melissa there. She watched him from up the garden where she had climbed into a low acacia tree. When he seemed to be growing impatient she headed for Olive's back porch, and beneath it she changed to girl. With some difficulty she put on one of the new outfits from City of Paris, wishing she had a proper place to bathe and make herself look nice. She went down the garden dressed in the new gathered turquoise skirt and green blouse, and she felt a sharp excitement in the way he looked at her.

He posed her sitting at the veranda table, and drew her against the leafy reflections in the studio windows. She liked his absorbed excitement as he worked. In one sense he was very much with her, seemed so close to her it was as if he touched her. But in another sense he was totally removed. Strangely, the two feelings were compatible. She sat at the table thinking about her search in the Cat Museum and wondering if the Amulet could be in McCabe's safe deposit box. At mid-morning when he stopped to make tea for her, she asked if Alice might have had any keepsakes of Timorell's.

He seemed puzzled by her stubborn interest in possessions, and that embarrassed her. She rose, pretending to look for the cat, and went to stand at the edge of the veranda.

He said, “When we remodeled, Alice took some cartons and boxes up to Olive's to store in her attic. I think we got them all, but you could look.”

She did look, late that afternoon. While Braden worked she went up the garden to Olive's.

The yellow cat watched her from the railing, then followed her into the house. She and Olive searched the attic but found nothing. Olive insisted on making tea, and when they sat down, Pippin jumped onto his chair and sat intently watching her. His golden eyes searched hers deeply, and
when she let him sniff her fingers, he put his paw on her hand with innocent, almost pleading confidence.

“He likes you,” Olive said. “He's nearly human, that cat. Much more intelligent than my own cats. He has been here constantly since Tom—since Tom turned so strange toward him. I feel sometimes as if Pippin could almost speak to me.” She passed Melissa the thinly sliced pound cake.

“Some cats seem so perceptive. As if they have a second side to them, secret and hidden from us.”

Melissa sat sipping her tea, not daring to look at Olive.

Olive said, “Sometimes I wonder if that secret side could be—liberated.” She reached to the sideboard for her leatherbound notebook.

Alarm spilled through Melissa. She rose hastily, tipping her chair and catching it before it fell. “I—Braden is waiting. I'm afraid I've kept him too long.”

Olive paid no attention. “I copied this from Chaptainne's journal. He lived in the twelfth century, when people believed in magic. Or perhaps,” the old woman said, as if Melissa had not risen to leave at all, “magic really existed then.” And as Melissa backed toward the door, Olive began to read the slow, measured cadences of a spell.