The Catswold Portal (33 page)

The gauze was gone from the kitten. She severed the cord. But still the kitten didn't move.

She pushed at it, rasping along its skin with her rough tongue to wake it and make it breathe.

The kitten didn't wake. It lay mute and still.

There were no more pains.

She lay quiet at last, her one dead kitten cuddled against her throat, her paws curved around its little, still body.

It was much later, as dawn touched the sea, that she licked herself clean and rose wearily to her four paws, looking down at her dead kitten.

She was unwilling to leave it alone.

Yet she knew she must leave it.

She dug a grave for it, first as cat, her claws tearing at the earth, then as Melissa, her hands scrabbling into the torn soil. She buried her kitten deep, and covered its grave with holly thorns and stones.

She backed out of the bushes and stood up. Her hands were caked with dirt, her nails filled with grit, her clothes dirty. Her legs were scratched from the bushes. Mourning deeply, she made her way back through the early dawn to the inn, to Braden. Wanting him to hold her, wanting to be held, to be safe and held.

S
he returned slowly to the inn. The dawn sky was dark gray streaked with silver, pierced by the dark Monterey pines marching down the center of the empty, divided street. Her thoughts, all her being, were centered on her kitten. She could still see its tiny claws, its blind eyes. Too sharply she could see her little kit lying still and lifeless.

She had said spells over him, knowing that was useless but needing to say them, needing their comfort. She was terrified that when she told Efil she had miscarried, she had cursed her unborn Catswold kit. She passed Braden's station wagon parked at the curb, then turned back because she had felt along her bare arm a wave of heat from it. When she touched the hood, it was hot. He had been out; he had been looking for her.

She met him on the stairs. He was wearing cutoffs and a sweat shirt. He followed her back to the room, stood waiting for an explanation.

“I went for a walk.”

“In the middle of the night? I woke at three o'clock and you were gone, Melissa. I've been driving around this damn town looking for you. I came back to see if you were here. I was about to go to the police.”

“I couldn't sleep.”

“Why the hell didn't you wake me? I thought—Christ, I didn't know what to think.” He grabbed her hands, then saw the caked dirt, the grime in her nails. “Where did you walk?”

“On the beach. I—collected some shells and rocks, but then I left them. And I picked some grasses and holly.”

“For a bouquet?”

“The grass wilted, the holly stuck me. I threw it all away.” Must he press her? Couldn't he just gather her in and hold her? She went into the bathroom and shut the door. She washed her hands, and scrubbed her nails. Her face was dirty, her eyes red. She filled the basin with cold water and ducked her face in, letting the coolness pull away the grainy, hot feeling, scrubbing her face hard with the washcloth.

When she came out his anger had abated. “I'm sorry. I was so damned scared. I didn't know where you went, I didn't know what happened to you. I remembered how you came to the studio that evening with the wound on your head as if someone had beaten you. I thought…” He sat down on the bed, just looking at her.

She sat down beside him and leaned into his warmth. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.” She was so tired. She could still see her tiny lifeless kit, could still feel his delicate little body, his tiny paws and tiny, perfectly formed claws. Braden stroked her hair and rubbed the back of her neck. But she couldn't bear to make love. She shook her head weakly; mourning her kit, and already mourning her inevitable parting from Braden. He held her, letting her doze.

It was much later that he held her away from him with a deeply searching, uneasy look. “When we go back, Melissa, will you move in with me? Will you live with me? I have this irrational feeling you're going to disappear.” His dark eyes searched hers, loving her. “I don't mean to press, to smother you. But I don't want to lose you.” She snuggled closer, touching his cheek. He said, “Will you live with me? Will you think about getting married? We could think about that.”

“I…” She looked at him helplessly.

He waited.

“We—we could think about it.” But they could never
marry. She must go back to the Netherworld; she did not belong in this world; she did not belong with him. And soon he would begin to put the strange occurrences together. He would figure out what she was—an impossible creature, half woman, half cat, and he would be sickened.

“Melissa? Will you marry me?”

“We—we need time to—think about it.”

The line at the corner of his mouth deepened. She hugged and kissed him, making herself go soft and relax against him, teasing him until at last he made love to her; his loving should have been healing, but their tender, passionate loving made her mourn him, drove her into deep depression for what she had already lost, so all she wanted to do was weep.

They showered together, and he washed her back. Turned away from him, she let her tears mingle with the hot water.

As he toweled her off, he said, “Shall I send down for some breakfast? You look so tired. Climb into bed. I'll call the kitchen.” He tucked the towel around his middle and went in to straighten the bed for her. She climbed in gratefully, but then she saw his suitcase sitting by the door, his closed paint box, the folded easel, and remembered that this was the day to go back; they had no choice, the opening was tonight. She swallowed tears that threatened to swamp her, and turned her face into the pillow.

 

Braden watched her as he phoned in their breakfast order. She was crying silently, trying to hide her long, quivering shudders into the pillow. What the hell happened last night? It was almost impossible not to ask questions, not to demand answers, yet common sense said to leave her alone. He wondered if someone had followed her here. A husband or lover? He lay down beside her, gathering her close, holding her close in the circle of his arms. And after a while he said softly, “Were you with someone else?”

She turned over, looking at him blankly. Her face was red and sad, and her wet lashes beaded together. “Someone else?” Then her eyes widened. “A man? Oh, no.” She touched his face. “No! It wasn't that!” She seemed truly
shocked. “It wasn't that. Just—sick. I feel better, truly I do.” She held his face, looking deep into his eyes. “There is no one else. I could love no one else but you.”

He got up and tucked the covers around her, wondering why he couldn't believe her. It wasn't even that he didn't believe her; but he couldn't escape the things left unexplained.

When the breakfast cart came she drank and ate dutifully, then curled up again, spent, and was soon asleep. He stood looking down at her, his breakfast untouched. Then he picked up his suitcase and painting box, the folded tarp and easel, and headed for the car.

They would have to leave when she woke, go directly to the gallery, frame these six paintings and hang them. Rye would be pacing, having anxiety attacks waiting for them. They had planned to change clothes at the gallery, have a leisurely dinner. The opening wasn't until nine, and Rye liked his artists to arrive late, liked them to come in when there was already a good crowd.

He loaded five paintings into the station wagon, and Melissa was still asleep when he went back to the room for the last one. He had started to pick it up, making sure it was dry, when something about the painting made him stop. He set the canvas down and backed off to look at it.

The pale sand made a shocking contrast to the dark, cloud-riven sky, and to the reds in Melissa's clothes, and the faded red of the derelict boat, where her face reflected in the broken window. She was looking down, the reflections of her cheek and hair woven through the reflections of five winging gulls. This was a strong painting; why should it bother him? He kept looking, felt he was missing something, an eerie and disruptive sense, like a strange premonition; a feeling as wildly unsettling as Melissa's fall from the rocks, or as seeing her catch the mouse in the middle of the night, or as her nervousness in the restaurant beside the caged finches.

Fairy tales chittered at him like bats in a black windstorm, as if insanity had reached to wriggle probing fingers deep inside his drowning brain. And the message that was trying to get through to his conscious mind could not be tolerated. He
shoved it back deep into the dark places where he couldn't see it—a sick nightmare message, an aberration. He turned to watch her sleeping, and in sleep she was as pure and innocent as a wild creature. He loved the way she slept curled around the pillow, totally limp. He wanted to gather her in and love her and keep on loving her. He rejected the nagging fear that made him see shadows across her face.

He felt certain there was no one else. She wasn't a tramp or a flirt; she hadn't glanced at another man, though nearly every man stared at her. He didn't think any deeper than that, didn't dare to think deeper. He gave it up at last, looked at the painting again, saw nothing strange in it. He picked it up and carried it down to the station wagon.

She was still asleep when he got back, her lashes moving in a dream. Even watching her dream made him edgy. He kept wondering what she was dreaming about. And why the hell did every damned thing set him off into wild, impossible speculations? He went back downstairs, and in Mrs. Trask's office he called Morian.

“We'll be late getting back. We'll go directly to the gallery—see you there. How's the calico?”

“Happy, Brade. Loved and spoiled and luxuriously cared for. What's wrong? There's something.”

“Nothing. We're just loading up to come home.” How did she always know? How did she sense that he had called her for comforting, for reassurance? “Everything's great.”

“You two haven't fought?”

“Of course not. Why would we fight?”

“I see. Well, whatever it is, Brade,” she said softly, “I think you're very lucky to have Melissa. Don't—don't hurt her, Brade.”

 

She didn't wake until nearly noon; the depression didn't hit her until she was fully awake. Quite suddenly she remembered her dead kit, and the hurting hit her.

The room was hot, the sun slanting in; she was sweaty, tangled in the sheet. Braden was gone. She rolled over clutching the pillow, heavy with depression.

She wished they could stay here in this little village and never go back, that she could forget the Netherworld, that they could forget everything but each other and she could forget the feline part of herself.

Deliberately she made herself think about the gallery opening. She was terrified of the evening to come, terrified someone would see the cat images in Braden's paintings.
How very clever of you, Mr. West. Phantom cats. What a droll idea, so subtle. What, exactly, is their significance?

And at the opening she would have to face Morian: a woman who knew everything about her, who had told her clearly that she knew. She wanted to run away now, but he wanted her at the opening. She would hurt him if she went away now. He said the paintings were hers, that without her they would not have happened, that without her there would be no opening and he would still be sunk in gloom.

She knew she must go, and that she must smile and meet strangers and be nice to them. She would disappear afterward. She would go back to the portal alone, and down, and would never see him again.

She rose and dressed and packed her few things. Braden returned and they went downstairs to Mrs. Trask's office to say good-bye. The office was as bright and cheerful as the rest of the inn, white wicker furniture and potted plants, and a collection of prints that covered three walls. Some were Alice's: an etching of winging gulls, a lithograph of swimming seals, and one of horses wheeling at the edge of the sea. Behind the desk hung an etching of a cat sculpture, the cat leaping after a bird. Her pulse quickened. She recognized it from the Cat Museum. And Braden said, “Timorell commissioned the sculpture shortly before she was killed in the earthquake. Alice thought it had some special meaning for her, that was why she did the etching, several years after Timorell's death.”

Now her heart was thundering.

In the museum, she had examined that cat sculpture. She had found no clue that it might contain the Amulet. Now, she burned to go back and look at it again. She moved behind the desk, to study it.

The bronze cat's fur was roughly done. One could see the globs of clay from which the casting had been made. And within the rough clay patterns, across the cat's flank, was an oval shape unlike the other texture. A little teardrop shape so subtly different one could easily overlook it, but a shape a bit too perfect. A teardrop the same shape as the Amulet. Excited, she turned away when Braden took her hand. She said good-bye to Mrs. Trask and hugged her. The old woman felt like a rock, draped in her black mourning, but her smile was full of joy.

T
wenty paintings hung on the white gallery walls, each with space around it, each well lighted from spotlights recessed into the ceiling. Hung all together, the rich, abstracted studies had such power they jolted Melissa.

She stood alone in the center of the gallery turning in a slow circle, drinking in the colors and shadows, the reflections, so overwhelmed she felt tears come. Glowing with Braden's passionate vision, each painting seemed to her beyond what any human could bring forth. She had no experience, from the Netherworld, of the passion or skill that could create such beauty. Braden had brought this power out of himself, out of what he was; she stood alone in the gallery wiping away tears stirred by beauty, by his power; and tears of pain because they would soon be parted.

And she tried not to see the cat images shadowed within the canvases. She prayed no one would see them. Yet each painting whispered with the faint spirit of the cat, lithe and dreamlike, nearly hidden.

She had left Braden and Rye in the gallery office unloading and framing the six paintings from Carmel. The two office desks had been laid with white cloths and stacked with ice containers and liquor bottles, silver trays and boxes of canapes. A long table in the gallery itself held cocktail napkins, stacks of glasses, little plates, a cut glass punch bowl, enough for a huge crowd. And the thought of a crowd terrified her.

 

Through the fog-softened San Francisco night, they walked two blocks to an East Indian restaurant, leaving Rye to mix champagne punch and hang the last of the show. They sat in wicker chairs with deep cushions dining on lamb curry and a lovely rum drink. It was late when they returned to the gallery. Its street was lined with cars. She felt her heart thudding as they pushed in through the crowd. Braden greeted friends and introduced her. She didn't like being pressed among so many people, nor did she like the noise of dozens of conversations all at once. Everyone wanted to meet Braden's model, everyone wanted to compare her face with the work. She wondered why they couldn't just look at the paintings, just
see
the paintings. She wanted only to drift unnoticed, hearing their comments about the work, not about her. She smiled and answered questions, trying to be what Braden expected, and it was not until late in the evening that she began to notice something was wrong.

Braden had drifted away. A dark, intense man was suddenly beside her. When she turned to look at him, ice crawled down her spine.

He wasn't tall. He was well knit, with short, dark hair. His yellow eyes were vivid in his thin, tanned face. His voice was soft and purring; brazenly intimate. “I like the work tremendously. So subtle.”

She wanted to run from him. He did not belong in this room. He did not belong in this world. He said, “You're a marvelous model.”

She looked at him coolly. “The model is unimportant; only the painter is important.”

He smiled. “A painter must have—inspiration.”

She glanced around the room for Braden but couldn't see him. The man moved closer to her. “I'm enchanted by the shadows in West's work.”

“All paintings have shadows,” she said shortly, edging away from him. Distraught, she backed into the woman behind her, almost spilling the woman's drink.

He said, “These are unique shadows.” He took her elbow, easing her away to a little space in the crowd. “Unusual shadows. Shadows that speak to me.”

She didn't want this, she'd been so afraid of this. And suddenly other people were crowding around them: a portly man in a black suit, two women in cocktail dresses. They circled her, blocking her retreat, muttering compliments. They watched her through eyes not ordinary. Her discomfort turned to panic as four sets of feline eyes studied her. Then suddenly Morian was there, moving toward her.

Morian slipped between the two women. She was dressed in a short silver shift, and had silver clips in her hair. She took Melissa's hand. “There's a phone call for you in the office.” She patted the dark-haired man on the shoulder. “You can talk with her later, Terrel. She's a popular lady tonight.” She turned away, guiding Melissa before her.

They went through the office, where two waiters were replenishing trays, into the deserted framing room. Melissa leaned against the work table, weak. She could not look at Morian, she could not look up into Morian's knowing eyes.

Morian cleared a stack of papers from the couch and sat Melissa down as if she were arranging a small child. She brought her a glass of water from the sink at one end of the work bench. “That was Terrel Black. He's harmless, but he's pretty intense. He paints and teaches up at the school. You're awfully pale. Can I get you something to eat, or an aspirin?”

“No, nothing. Not an aspirin, they don't—I can't take them.” Too late she saw the knowing look in Morian's eyes.

“Thank you for getting me away. I just felt sick suddenly. Maybe the crowd, too many people.” She was trying not to prattle, and afraid to stop talking. She didn't want Morian to
say anything. She felt ice cold. She didn't know what Morian would do.

Morian watched her, then rose. She found a man's sweater and dropped it around her shoulders. “Stay here, rest a while. I'll tell Braden where you are.”

“I…”

Morian turned back, her dark eyes questioning.

“Nothing,” Melissa said. “Thank you.”

Morian nodded, her face expressionless, hiding her own thoughts, then turned away and left her.

She sat shivering, sipping the water. There was a door at the far end of the framing room beyond the painting racks. It led to the alley—they had brought the paintings in that way. She could leave now, slip away down the alley, take a taxi to the Cat Museum, retrieve the Amulet…

Before she could decide Braden came in, preoccupied, frowning. “Mettleson is here. Are you too sick just to meet him? He saw the show this afternoon but he wanted to see the Carmel paintings even in this crowd. He wants to meet you. Could you just say hello, then come back and lie down?”

She followed him out. If she stayed with Braden she could avoid Terrel Black.

Braden introduced her to Mettleson. He was a short, balding man with thick gray hair at the sides of his head running down into a beard. They exchanged polite, meaningless talk. He told her she was beautiful. He praised the paintings. But then Braden turned away to speak to someone, and the next minute there was a shift in the crowd, and she had been separated from Mettleson. Terrel Black took her arm. His friends crowded close, locking her in a circle. She did not see Braden, did not see Mettleson. And the pale blond girl looked deeply at her, her blue, feline eyes intent. “Do you think Mr. West would paint me? Do you think Braden West would paint my spirit as he has painted yours?”

Melissa wanted to claw her. Terrel moved casually between them. “It's the finest work Braden's done. I'm awed at his—perception. I didn't know he—I'm amazed at how much he sees.”

She held her temper. “Braden sees only the color and form, and the reflections of light. He sees only the things he knows.”

Terrel smiled. “He has to see in order to paint. Are you telling us that he doesn't know what he sees?”

“Surely you see something he does not?” she said coldly, and tried to shoulder past him out of the tight circle, but they closed more tightly around her. Their voices were low, caressing.

“Beautiful paintings…” the red-haired girl said.

“The lovely shadow of the spirit…” said the pale one.

“You know things we don't,” the portly man said softly.

“Show us,” Terrel said. “Show us, Melissa…Show us how to change…”

She forced between them and ran. She dodged through the crowd knocking people aside, spilling drinks, shouldering and pushing through. She was out the door, running across the dark street between the moving lights of cars. Brakes squealed, a car swerved, lights blazed in her face.

She gained the curb ahead of a squealing car, but nearly fell when she caught her heel. She was panting. She righted herself and ran, trying to lose herself in the blackness between street lights.

But feet pounded behind her and Terrel shouted her name. When she glanced back, four sets of eyes reflected headlights. She ran as she had never run, but she heard them gaining, their feet pounding…

Terrel was too fast; he grabbed her, spinning her around. She scratched at him and kicked.

“We won't hurt you, we only want…” He held her in a steel grip. “Tell us, Melissa. Tell us how to change.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” She faced him shivering. And then in spite of herself, his pleading touched her.

They stood frozen staring at each other. “Please, will you tell us? That is all we want, only to know how to change.”

It was no good to pretend. It was too late to pretend. She said, “You don't know. None of you know.”

“None of us. We…” Light flashed suddenly across Terrel's eyes as Braden's station wagon skidded to the curb. Braden jumped out reaching for her, but Terrel jerked her away. “Tell us, Melissa!” But Braden was on him, knocking him aside, pulling Melissa close. She pressed against him, hid her face against him.

“What do they want?” Braden said.

“I don't know. Please, will you take me home?”

He tilted her chin so she had to look at him. “I think you do know.” The others stood poised. Braden looked from Terrel to the blond girl to Melissa. “I think you know, Melissa. I think you must do what they ask. I think you must help them.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think you must free them, Melissa. As you are free.”

She couldn't take her eyes from his. The two worlds tilted and fell together and she was falling, destroyed.

“Free them, Melissa.”

He held her away, his hands tight on her shoulders. “Do you think I didn't wonder? You caught a mouse in your bare hands. You were shaking it and smiling until you saw me watching you. You fell from the ledge, turned over in mid-air and landed on your feet. Do you think I didn't wonder?”

His lips were a thin line. “Don't you think I saw how the birds in the restaurant upset you—excited you? And the day you got so angry when we talked about people changing into…” He shook his head, his eyes pleading. “Don't you think I wondered why the cat was never there when you were? Not once did I see you both at the same time.”

“But Morian said she was there.”

“Morian lied.”

“But…”

He drew a breath, silencing her. “Tonight for the first time I saw the shadow-cats in my paintings.” His face was like stone. “Images I did not consciously put there.” His hands were hot on her shoulders.

“And just now, Melissa, when you turned and saw my car, your eyes…” He swallowed. She could see the muscles
working in his jaw. “Your eyes reflected the headlights—like mirrors. Like jewels. Like a cat's eyes.”

She tried to pull out of his grasp.

“Tell them what they want to know. Tell them now.”

She looked at him a long time. It didn't matter anymore, nothing mattered, she had lost him. She turned within his grip and faced the waiting Catswold. There were more now, ten—twelve—more coming out of the shadows.

And within the shadows someone said, “There is a world—other than this. There is a passage, my family told of it. Tell us about that land. Tell us where the passage opens.”

“There is war there,” she said. “The passage leads to war, to death for the Catswold. Please…” She didn't believe this was happening. This couldn't be happening. “I—I can only free you. I can only give you the spell. I won't tell you how to go there. There is danger there.” She felt displaced, sick. But she must help them, give them the spell. It no longer mattered what Braden saw and heard, she had already destroyed his love.

She said the spell quickly and turned away, pulling Braden toward the car. She didn't want him to see the changing. As she got in the car she heard the words repeated behind her, and repeated again. She got in. “Go quickly, please.” But he had turned and was watching them. He saw in the darkness the tall shadows vanish into small swift beasts, saw the cats running away into the night.