The Catswold Portal (34 page)

O
utdoor lights brightened the fluted borders of the museum's tile roofs, and the brick paths. Light slanted down through the gnarled limbs of the oak trees to cast their twisting shadows along the garden walls. Braden parked on the empty street and Melissa left him quickly.

She had remained silent as he drove up Telegraph and then up Russian Hill. She didn't know what to say to him and she didn't want to know what he thought; she couldn't bear to know. She didn't want to hear his accusations. She had lost him. She was filled with the pain of that loss and if he spoke to her she would weep.

She moved quickly away from the car through light then shadow, and in the darkness beyond a garden wall where Braden couldn't see her, she changed to cat. She crouched uncertainly, then leaped up the wall and over.

She searched the gardens one by one for the sculpture of the rearing bronze cat which Timorell had commissioned. She was not alone within the gardens; other cats prowled, hunting mice and crickets or eating the cat food the museum put out for them. Some challenged her, but none attacked. They seemed more possessive at night, when the museum was exclusively theirs. She found the sculpture at last in a small circular garden planted with lavender. She changed to girl and stood against the sculpture stand touching the cool bronze. The cat was rearing up, the texture of its coat rough with the clay that had originally formed it, from which the cast had been made. She ran her hands along its rough flank, tracing the texture of the metal until her seeking fingers found one perfect oval.

She pressed it, fingered it, but it did nothing. Maybe this was simply the tear-shaped symbol of the Amulet. She could feel no cracks along the cat's body where the sculpture might open. She tried to tilt the cat but it was bolted down. Discouraged, she whispered an opening spell.

The bronze cat fell apart in two halves.

Within lay the Amulet of Bast, gleaming green in the faint garden lights. When she lifted it, it was heavy and cold to her fingers. She touched the setting that circled it, could feel the two rearing bronze cats. She tried a spell-light, not believing one would come, but her bright light struck across the emerald and deep into it, glowing green.

She saw that the two golden cats circling it were not mirror images. One looked gentle, that was Bast. The other, Sekhmet, was fierce. And deep within the emerald, cut by some magic she didn't know, shone the sun. Here was the trinity of the cat goddess: Bast the gentle; Sekhmet the warrior; and Ra the sun.

How many Catswold women had looked into this emerald and considered their dual natures? How many women, over how many centuries? She slipped the chain over her head and let the Amulet drop against her, heavy, powerful.

Now the commitment was made. Soon she must face Siddonie and try to destroy the dark queen—the Lillith woman. The power of the Amulet held and terrified her. She felt as if generations of Catswold women had come alive within her, as if their spirits had joined, waiting to see what she would do.

And when at last she faced Siddonie she would be facing not only the queen of Affandar, but the eternal evil. As Bast had killed the Serpent, so she again must kill it.

She returned to Braden, needing desperately to be with him for the few moments more they had left. In the car he sat looking at her, and reached for her, drawing her close. “Can you tell me what you did in there? Can you tell me any of this?”

She looked at him in the darkness, then brought a small spell-light so the emerald shone, hanging at her breast. His
eyes widened. She let the light dim and she went into his arms again. He touched her face, stroked her hair, but he didn't speak. She moved close within his arms, desolate.

With the finding of the Amulet, the Netherworld and the upperworld had warped together. But their own two worlds had shattered totally apart.

B
raden turned the station wagon into the lane, his headlights slewing across the flowered hill. Melissa kissed him and slid out of the car and ran. He jammed on the brakes and was out, too, running, grabbing her. “You're not going down alone.” She had told him everything, had described the Netherworld for him, had built a picture of Siddonie's evil, and of the rising war. “I'm going with you.” He held her wrists, so insistent she couldn't break free.

“You can't go, you have no protection, no magic. They—”

“I have other skills. I'm coming with you.”

His eyes burned her, his grip bruised. There was no use to argue with him. She said, “Then you must do as I say. There are things you must have—things I wouldn't need alone.”

“Like what?”

“A lantern or oil lamp—not a flashlight. A knife strong enough for a good weapon. Some food.”

“Why do
you
not need a weapon?”

“I can turn a weapon away. I told you, magic is a weapon there.”

He didn't move, just held her prisoner.

“Please, Braden, there is little time.”

“I'm not leaving you alone.” Gripping her hand, he headed for the studio.

“I'll wait for you, I promise. I must make slow, careful preparations. Please—hurry, get some food for us. And bring a blanket.”

He searched her face, holding her tightly.

“You're wasting time, Braden! I promise I will wait! You must trust me!”

He released her at last and turned away, running for the studio. She saw the studio lights go on as she pushed in through the portal. She said the spell, she was through the wall when Braden burst into the tool room. She shouted the closing spell; the wall swung closed in his face.

“Christ! Melissa!” His voice was muffled.

“Are you hurt?” she screamed.

“No, for Christ sake. Open the damn wall!”

“I love you, Braden. I will love you forever. I will come back to you.”
If I can,
she thought, turning away and choking back her tears. She ran down into the blackness.

 

She was soon cold in the thin dress. And the upperworld sandals were not meant for rocky paths. She kept repeating over and over,
Please, Braden, know that I love you. I must do this. There is no way I can avoid facing Siddonie.

But she had no plan. It was madness to think she could destroy Siddonie alone, even with the Amulet.

Never had a journey seemed so long. She was very cold, and grew despondent. On and on down the rocky path, longing to turn back and be in Braden's arms. Longing to forget Siddonie and the war, and knowing she could not.

Even if she turned back, she would not be safe. Nothing would ever be safe.

When at last after long hours she saw the green light beyond the tunnel mouth she ran. She splashed through the stream into the full green glow of morning—and came face to face with a saddled gray gelding. He shied at her and snorted, backing away within his spell-tether. She stood in the mouth of the tunnel looking for his master.

This was not a horse she had seen in the stables or pastures of Affandar. And his saddle had not come from the palace—it was an elven saddle, square and plain. Seeing no one, she broke the spell, snatched up his reins, mounted, and headed for the palace. She didn't care where he had come from. If Affandar was already at war there wouldn't be a horse left anywhere.

In sight of the pale wall she pulled up the gelding to a walk. The pasture was empty. There was no sound from the palace, and no person visible. No smoke rose from the chimneys. She could see no movement at the windows, no one in the gardens. She tethered the gelding by the wall, not wanting him trapped in the courtyard, and she slipped through the side door into the scullery.

 

She found the scullery deserted, the cookstove cold. No food had been left on the counters. She searched the main floor chambers; the corridors echoed with her footsteps. Every room was empty. She went into the courtyard; and there, from a side door she saw Terlis and Briccha gathering vegetables in the garden. When Terlis looked up and saw her, the pale girl moved behind a row of bean vines and slipped away from Briccha. Soon a side gate flew open into the courtyard and Terlis was hugging Melissa. Melissa was surprised at how glad she was to see the child. She clung to Terlis almost desperately. How thin Terlis was, and how dark the shadows under her eyes.

“It's been so long, Melissa. I knew you would come today, the Harpy said you would. I've watched all day for you.”

“Was it she who left the gray gelding?”

“Yes, he was the last decent horse and he wouldn't have been here, except a deserter came home. The Harpy was here last night. She terrified me—I've never before seen a harpy.”

“Are we at war? Has the whole palace gone to war?”

“Yes. It's strange for the palace to be so empty; most everyone rode out with the army.” Terlis shivered, and Melissa saw in her eyes the same fear of war she had seen in
the faces of the rebel families: a fear of the loss of home and sustenance, loss of a way of life.

“The queen was so cruel and nervous before she rode out, worse than ever, pacing, shouting orders. She was still here when the dying prince recovered. When he ran away she had the whole palace upside down.”

“He recovered? Tell me.”

“He began to eat. I took his food up sometimes; he was actually hungry. His color came back almost overnight. Though he didn't talk much. But then soon he was out of bed riding beside the queen. He was weak of course, clumsy in the saddle, but far from dying. Siddonie took him everywhere; soon all Affandar knew he'd recovered.

“But two weeks ago he disappeared. The queen was in a rage. She called the seneschals into her chambers, questioned everyone in the palace. She sent every seneschal and half the guard to search for him.”

“He just disappeared? What happened?”

Terlis' eyes widened with delight. “A cat, Melissa. I saw a cat hiding in the gardens. The queen would have caged it if she knew. A fine big cat, all golden, and I know it was more than cat, too.” Terlis grinned. “After the prince vanished I didn't see the cat anymore.” She looked at Melissa strangely, and touched her cheek.

“Then soon afterward the Harpy came. She'd been a long time gathering folk to join the rebels. There are none that can fly except her. Except the lizards, but they belong to the queen.”

“The Griffon can fly.”

“The Harpy was afraid to release him; she is afraid of him. She said he might do anything. You can hear him roaring in his cage. All the Hell Beasts are nervous and screaming.”

“The Griffon is not a Hell Beast.”

Terlis only looked at her. “Rumor is that the selkies have all disappeared from the rivers, that an elven man saw dozens of selkies fleeing toward the eastern mountains.”

Melissa gripped Terlis' shoulders. “Tell me exactly where the fighting is. Tell me everything you know.”

“The Harpy left a long message. I helped her strip the beds, and she talked all the while. She made me repeat it to be sure I remembered.”

“She stripped the beds? In the palace? Why would she do that?”

“I don't know. She took all the bed sheets, every sheet in the palace, clean or soiled.

“The queen has told her armies the rebels mean to enslave the Netherworld. She tells them the rebels plan to take all the land. She has made her troops afraid of being enslaved by the rebels so they will fight more fiercely. The Harpy says that at the front lines the rebel troops are caught by the queen's spells, that they sicken with fever and are torn by thirst. Even where the streams run cold, they often cannot touch water. Her magic drives them back as if by a wall.”

Terlis shook her head. “Canteens containing water go dry, and the Harpy says Siddonie has laid rotting-spells to tear the rebels' clothes from them. Naked, they are the more vulnerable to every blade, and they are cold and demoralized.”

“Has Siddonie spell-cast all our forces?”

“She puts her spells only on the ones that draw near the front lines of battle. The Harpy thinks she hasn't enough power to hold spells upon all the attacking troops.”

“Is there anyone left in the villages?”

“Only a few old men and women, and the smallest children. The villages have little to eat—Siddonie has destroyed everything.”

“Where is the fighting?”

“In Ferrathil now, but moving toward Cressteane. Siddonie means to cause the Catswold troops from Zzadarray to fight beside her. The Harpy said to tell you that.”

“How did the Harpy know I would come? Of course, her mirror. But—”

“The Harpy said to tell you this: You are Timorell's daughter. You have found what you needed to find. Now use it.” Terlis looked at her, shivering.

Melissa said, “You must go back to the gardens and keep
Briccha occupied. The horse will still be here when I'm gone. You can put him in the pasture.”

At Terlis' puzzled look she turned and headed for the dungeons.

B
raden tore at the wall with his hands, smashed his shoulder against it, threw all his weight against it. It refused to move. She had opened it; her words had opened it. He had seen the wall swing inward, had seen her go through. The solid stone wall had slammed in his face, had hit him in the face, scraping his jaw and arm, bruising his hands. For an instant he had seen into the tunnel, had smelled the damp, raw earth. In the light that Melissa had made he had seen the walls of the tunnel leading down deeper into the earth. Then the wall had shut her away.

He fought the wall, battering at it and swearing, then he grabbed the ladder and ran at it, rammed the ladder's end against the stone with such force that he broke the heavy side bar and the first two rungs. He flung it down, knowing coldly that only by magic could the wall be moved though he did not believe in magic.

Hadn't believed in it.

He shoved the ladder aside, grabbed the metal wheelbarrow and swung it, hitting the stone with all his weight and force. Chips of stone flew in his face, pale gouges bloomed in the dark stone. The wall didn't move. She was gone, where he could no longer reach her. He found the shovel and dug into the mortar, trying to pry the stones apart. Then he dug into the earth beside the stone. He would dig into the damned tunnel that way.

But then digging, jamming his foot hard on the shovel to ram it into the earth, he felt a draft behind him, and a beam of light hit the dirt in front of him. He swung around.

Morian stood looking, taking in the toppled wheelbarrow, the broken ladder, the shovel in his hand, the broken earth where he had begun to dig.

“She's gone,” she said softly.

“Yes, she's gone! Through the damned wall! You knew!” He stared at her, totally enraged. “She went through the goddamn wall. She went into the goddamn hill—and you knew it.
How did you know?
Christ, you knew what she would do.”

“You saw her go through the wall?” She was so damned calm he wanted to hit her.

“Yes, I saw her. The damned wall
opened.
She slammed the stone wall in my face.”

Morian laid her flashlight on the work table, leaving it burning. It cast a pool of viscous yellow onto the wall and left the rest of the room dark. She took the shovel from his hand. She pulled his hand into hers, holding it tightly. She picked up the flashlight again, its beam flashing across her silver cocktail dress. “Come on, Brade. Maybe I can help.”

He glared at her.

“I've been up in Olive's empty house,” she said. “I left the gallery just after you did. I've been up there at Olive's dining table reading her research.” She squeezed his hand tighter. “Before that, when I left the gallery, I followed you.”

He felt himself shiver.

“I saw Melissa, I saw her on the street. I saw the flash of her eyes in the headlights. I saw a crowd of people around her—around you both.

“And after you got in the car I saw people change into cats and run away into the darkness.”

She led him out of the tool room and up the dark garden. The only sound was their footsteps and the faint brushing of his pant legs against the tangled flowers. She said, “After you and Melissa drove away, and the cats ran away, I came home and let myself into Olive's. I dug into her notebook.” She led him up the steps to Olive's front door. Lights were
on in the living room, the draperies closed. Inside, the room was cold and damp from being unoccupied. Morian sat him down at the dining table as if she were herding a small child, and she opened the notebook.

He didn't want to read it; he pushed the book away. “I don't need this, Mor. I know all this. She told me.”

She sat down at the table across from him.

“She went down there, Mor. Hell, it doesn't help to know where she went. She shut me out. She shut me out of her life. I saw her go through a damn solid stone wall into another world, another life.”

He stared at Morian. “I have known Terrel Black for years. We have taught each other's classes. Got drunk together, won awards in the same shows. Tonight I saw Terrel Black change into a black cat with one white foot.

“And I saw Melissa go through a solid stone wall into a world that can't exist. And you knew about this. All the time, you knew.” He slammed the notebook shut.

“Not all the time, Brade. It took me a while to work it out. It took me a very long while to believe it.”

“She promised to wait for me in the tool room, but she didn't wait. Christ, Mor, she's going down there into the middle of a war. She told me that. She can't—she can't go back there alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“She went into the Cat Museum. She insisted I stay in the car. She came out wearing an emerald pendant. She said it had powers, I could—I could feel the powers.”

“She loves you, Brade.”

He stared past her toward the drapery-shrouded windows, realizing that for some time lights had been flashing and shifting against the pale cloth.

Morian turned to look, then rose and opened the draperies. “Sam's is crowded, the lane is jammed with cars.”

He got up woodenly and went into the kitchen and began opening cupboards looking for a bottle. “Doesn't Olive have a damned thing to drink in here?”

“The tool shed door is open, Brade. I know I closed it behind us. It—Brade…come here.”

He couldn't find a bottle. Where Olive usually kept a fifth of brandy there was only a half pint of seltzer. He went back into the living room and stood beside Morian, who was looking out at the arcing lights swinging across the window as more cars pulled into the lane. He saw that the tool room door stood open. Beyond the door in the lane where cars were parked double, triple, the people getting out were not heading for Sam's; they were heading for the portal. That was what it was called: the Catswold Portal. The damned door that had lured Alice.

There were cats in the lane, too; cats leaping out of open car doors and cats suddenly appearing in the lane as people vanished. Soon there were more cats than people; in the flash of headlights dozens of pairs of eyes flashed. Cats and humans moved together toward the Catswold Portal. Braden saw Terrel Black in human form. He watched Terrel push in through the portal and watched the dark, quick shapes of cats slip in past his ankles, cats only half-seen in the fragmented light.

“How the hell did Terrel know? Melissa didn't tell him. How did he know to come here?”

“Terrel came back to the gallery. He wanted to know where Melissa lived; he wanted to know if she lived here with you. He remembered the door from the times he's been to the studio. He talked about the cats carved on the door.”

More car lights were going dark like huge pairs of eyes winking closed. Soon most of the parked cars were dark. A few last figures hurried after the others up the garden and through the portal, pushing into the tool room which was, like the airlock in a submarine, the anteroom to another world.

Morian said, “Can they open the wall?”

“I don't know. Back there on Farrel Street, she didn't tell them how. Christ, I don't know if they can open it.”

“What did she tell them, Brade? Exactly what?”

“She told them—how to change into cats. It was a rhyme. A spell. Christ, this isn't happening—it can't be happening.”

She moved away from him and picked up her keys from the dining table. She took his hand and led him out and down the steps and across the dim garden toward Anne's darkened house. He watched the lane, the portal, trying to figure out what to do. He felt numb, incapable of thought.

Morian unlocked Anne's front door and pulled him inside and across the dark living room toward Tom's room. The room smelled closed and musty. She leaned over the bed and shook the boy awake. He came up fighting and crying out, and she clapped her hand over his mouth. “Shut up. You don't want to wake Anne.” She pulled him out of the bed, holding his hands so he couldn't fight her. “Get dressed. Hurry up.”

“Go to hell. Why should I get dressed? Leave me alone.”

She twisted his arm behind him. “If you don't get dressed at once I'll wake Anne. I'll tell her the truth—all of it.”

The boy subsided and stooped to rummage on the floor for the pants and shirt he had dropped when he went to bed. He pulled them in angry jerks, glaring at them. When he was dressed and had tied his shoes, Morian propelled him out of the dark bedroom and out through the unlit house, down the steps and down through the garden. They entered the tool room and pushed through the crowd toward the stone wall, through the flickering light of an oil lamp. The boy stared at the crowd of people and cats as if he walked among snakes. Morian faced him toward the wall. “Open it.”

He stared at her white-faced. “What are you talking about?”

She twisted his arm until the boy dropped to his knees. “Open the wall.” When he didn't move or speak she pulled him upright, shoved him against the wall, and slapped him. The crowd of Catswold folk watched her silently, intent and predatory. After seven slaps the boy began to whimper, soon he choked back a cry. Braden was growing alarmed for him when finally he whined, “I'll open it. Stop hitting me and I'll open it.”

Morian smiled. She seemed to have no pity for the child, as if the fact of his youth did nothing to deceive her perception of his true nature. “Hurry up and open the wall. What is your name?”

Braden said, “He is Wylles, prince of Affandar. Melissa told me that.”

Wylles' eyes raked Braden. But he whispered the words, his voice furtive and nearly inaudible. The wall swung away, revealing the black tunnel beneath the hill.

Cats leaped past them. A man pushed through, then two women. The smell of damp earth breathed out cold from the hollow blackness. Terrel hurried through swinging a lantern, glancing shyly at Braden. Someone behind Braden in the tool room said, “There are more lamps,” and soon five lanterns had been lit. Braden found he was gripping Wylles' arm hard. He grabbed the canvas bag he had dropped earlier, when Melissa had slammed the wall in his face, and dragged the boy into the tunnel behind Terrel and the cats. Already the crowd of Catswold had disappeared into the dropping blackness. Digging his fingers into Wylles' shoulder, Braden paused to look back into the tool room, at Morian.

She stood beside the table, her dark eyes reflecting wonder and fear. She looked at him deeply for a long moment, then she turned away.

“Close the wall,” Braden said hoarsely.

Wylles' spell swung the door closed with a hush of compressed air. They were in darkness. The faint light of the lanterns was fast disappearing ahead.