Cat Magic (13 page)

She turned off the engine. It was dark out here and she was at least two miles from Maywell, perhaps half that far from Constance Collier’s house—assuming she could find it. She hit the heels of her hands against the steering wheel. Give a city person a few trees and an unpaved road and watch the fun. She’d grown up here, she knew the condition of these old roads. Why had she allowed herself to get into this jam?

There was nothing to do but walk. She didn’t care to stay with the car all night. A VW Beetle is no place to sleep if you are much more than three feet tall. At five-nine Mandy would be tortured by knobs and bumps and comers.

She felt around the glove box for her flashlight, turned it on, and was delighted to discover that it cast a beam. “At least—” The beam faded and died. Better put new batteries on her shopping list, she thought bitterly. She slammed the hood and set out on foot in the general direction she had been driving.

She would eventually see the house off to the right if she could just keep going in a straight line. With Stone Mountain on her left that wouldn’t be very hard. She hadn’t gone twenty feet before the ground got mushy.

She might walk toward Stone Mountain on the theory that the land would rise in that direction. She took a step and almost pitched forward. That way lay actual open water, lying in a pool across a sheet of mud.

Perhaps the other direction would be more productive. In fact she could see forest hugging the land like a black cloud over there.

It must be the forest of the guardian
fee
, the little stone fairy she had seen when she first came here. Well, what the hell, the forest was a lot safer than this bog. She should have left her car on Albarts and walked in as she had before.

Mandy strode along, her feet sucking busily, her eyes barely able to discern the ground in front of her.

She hoped that the blackness ahead really was that forest.

If it was, she would soon see the lights of the Collier house off to her right.

When she saw lights, though, they were not to the right. They glowed with deep radiance, but so softly that they might not be there at all. She stopped and stared toward them.

Very, very faintly she could hear the rhythmic jangle of a tambourine. There was a tang in the air, too, of wood-smoke. This must be the village where Constance’s followers lived. If so, she was deeper into the estate than she had ever come as a girl. The witch village was a place of dark town legend.

She could see the dim outline of walls of wattle and straw, heavy thatched roofs. Candles flickered here and there behind leaded glass. Mandy found her way between two of the cottages and into the muddy track that separated this row from its opposite.

Candle lanterns hung before doors. Round stones for walking jutted from the track between the two rows of cottages. It was a scene from the Middle Ages, but the peace of it was far, far deeper than had ever been known in that tormented era. Mandy stepped along the stones. Just when she was sure the village was uninhabited, she heard the tambourine again, and this time noticed that it was accompanied by a low chant.

She knew then that this was indeed the witch village. She had come to this place of childhood legend.

At the far end of the path was a round wattled building very different from the cottages. Mandy went up to it and paused before the shut door. The tambourine was quite distinct now, as was the voice of the chanting woman. Mandy couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was pure and firm and full of love.

Then there came a cry.

The voice and the tambourine stopped.

Behind her in the path Mandy heard panting. It was loud and close; when she whirled around, it became deep, chesty growling. It began to advance toward her. She had the impression that she was being menaced by a huge dog and backed around the edge of the building. This was one of the reasons that the townspeople stayed away from the estate.

There was a sense of quick movement and Mandy could feel the heat of its presence where she had just been standing. Then, in the faint light of a candle she caught sight of a long tail with a kink at the end.

“It’s you! You, Tom!”

He growled again, a most uncatlike sound.

“Tom?”

When she tried to approach the building again, he spat at her.

“My God.”

The cat was on guard here. It was very obvious that it wanted her away from the round building. How could that nice old cat possibly act this way?

Unless, in the dark, she had made a mistake. Maybe she wasn’t facing Tom at all.

Maybe this was something else.

When it growled again, she trotted, then ran around the building and onto the heath behind it.

She listened as she moved. Of course it was just the cat. Toms are crochety. If she’d held out her hand, he’d probably have rubbed against it.

Even so she did not stop. She had to climb a sharp rise. This must be one of the hummocks she had seen from fee house. At the top she was forced to pause for breath. Just stood, gasping, the night close about her, longing for just a gleam of saving light, listening for paws padding through the grass. She’d deal with that cat again, but not until daylight.

She tried to take her bearings. The little village was bordered on one side by the bog, on the other by these hummocks. It must be invisible from every direction except Stone Mountain itself.

Ahead, Mandy was soon relieved to see the lights of the Collier mansion. They were soft, but there were so many of them it could only be that great house. Her confidence renewed, she set off across the tumbling little hills, losing right of the house in the valleys, regaining it on the hilltops. With the sliver of moon now free from clouds there was even a small amount of light. She had the luxury of being able to miss stones with her ravaged shoes.

She came suddenly to the edge of the gardens. The smell of the land changed, became at once more complex. Then she realized what was underfoot: she was walking through an extensive herb garden. Too bad she couldn’t see well enough to find a path. She hated to crush the plants. Come morning Constance no doubt would rage at her about the damage.

She was soon crossing tall grass. Up a steep slope she found the swimming pool, its water reflecting the moon. The windows of the house glowed with the loveliest light Mandy thought she had ever seen. She mounted the porch steps. The whole place was lit by candles, in holders, in chandeliers, in the wall sconces in the hall.

There came from the library Constance Collier’s voice, speaking with a gentleness and humor Mandy had not before heard from those lips.

“Miss Collier?”

The voice went right on. Mandy entered the kitchen foyer, then passed through the kitchen proper. There were no candles lit in here and she had to move carefully to avoid bruising herself against the big table.

When she reached the library, she paused at the door. The room was crowded; Constance Collier was obviously giving some sort of a talk.

And the gentleness in that voice! Where was Will T. Turner’s harridan now? Mandy approached the doorway, emboldened by the sweetness of the voice to a greater confidence than she had felt here before. “Mrs. Collier?”

“Yes!”

“You’re welcome here, Amanda. Take a seat and listen if you will.” There was a single candle glowing in the room, lighting Constance Collier’s old face in such a way that the lovely young woman she once had been seemed to flicker in its shadows, ready to emerge again. As astonishing as Constance was her audience.

They were children,’easily two dozen of them, arrayed at her feet, so rapt with attention that they didn’t even react to the interruption. They ranged in age from perhaps four to thirteen or fourteen. All were dressed in simple gray homespun. Constance herself was in a white linen dress embroidered across the bodice with green vines and pink buds. A lovely effect, so simple that it was elegant. On a young woman that dress would have been heart-stopping.

Lounging against a far comer Mandy saw Robin. His sister Ivy sat on a chair beside him. They also wore gray homespun now. When Mandy’s eyes met his, he smiled a very small, very audacious smile. He shocked her, and the shock was delicious—which annoyed her.

“Now listen,” Constance said. “This is the story of Godfather Death.”

“The thing you must understand is that this story is very, very old. It is far older than fairy tales, and fairy tales are ancient things. This story does not come to us from the fairy-folk but down the human line. I suppose it has been told since we were granted the right of speech. And before then—well, it was in our hearts.

“A long, long time ago, when this world was still young and we were younger still, there was a woman whose fields were not great enough to support her growing family. She had been blessed with many daughters, and they had all found men and raised families of their own-, until not even the woman’s best harvest-leaping would bring up sufficient corn to feed everybody.

“Then one Lammas night her first daughter came in with yet another child. The mother took the baby and praised her daughter, but when the daughter had gone she wept, for the child must be exposed. Her heart heavy, the mother stole out in the cold of the night to give the boy to the sky.

“She was going along the road when she met a tall man with great horns on his head and eyes as fierce as a wolf’s. This was not a bonded man at all, but some great hunter come in for the season’s Sabbat. The mother held out the child and said, “Please, stranger, take this child of your own kind, and be his godfather.’

The stranger took the boy and gave the woman a wand of rowan in return. “This is a miraculous twig; with it you can heal the sick. But be careful, for if you see Death standing at the head of the sickbed, touch the patient with the rowan and she will recover. If Death stands at the foot, however, say ‘She will die.’ ”

“So she became a great physician and very wealthy, and her whole family prospered. One day the Queen called her to the bedside of her own child, a great and powerful hunter who had been gored by a stag. Death was standing at the head, and the boy lived. Then a second time the boy was gored, this time by a long-toothed tiger. Again Death stood at the head, and the boy was cured. But the third time, when the boy was sick with love, Death was at the foot of the bed and the youth had to die.

“The woman went then to visit the godfather and tell him all that had transpired. But when she went into the house, she found that things were most strange there. On the first floor a great black cat was fighting a dog and there was a terrible row. ‘Where does the godfather live?’ the woman asked. At once the cat changed into the Queen’s dead son and sang:

“The woman went deeper into the house. On the walls were the shadows of the many animals the godfather had slain, stags and bear and bison And there were shadows of men there, too. On the floor there were many dead babies, the children who had been given to the sky. ‘Where does the godfather live?’ the mother asked these children.

“They sprang up and sang:

“So the mother went deeper, for farther on she could see a room scattered with skulls. When she touched them with the rowan wand, they came alive and spoke:

“Rowan, rowan, curse me not

For godfather has caused my flesh to rot.”

“Deeper yet the mother could smell a dreadful odor. She came then to a rotting forest, all the trees blackening with death, all the animals fallen down, and the grass withered like the curled fingers of dead children. Only the rowan bush remained untouched, and it glowed with life, its little buds opening even as she watched.

“She knew then where to find the godfather. Indeed, he was hidden in the rowan bush. When she saw him, she said, ‘Godfather, what are these strange apparitions in your house? At the entrance I saw your animals become children—’

” ‘And I saw your hair become gray, old mother.’

” ‘Then I saw the shadows of all your kills on the walls.’

” ‘Ah. So you know then why you are here.’

” ‘Then I found a room full of skulls.’

” ‘You found your own people.’

” ‘Then a rotted forest.’

” ‘The world to come.’

” ‘Then the rowan bush.’

“So he leaped out and made as if to grab her, but she was a quick old woman and she got away from him When she looked back and saw his horns and his red eyes, she realized who he was and ran all the faster—

“She was so fleet that she came back into her own land, and when her people saw her they fell to rejoicing, for their old mother had become a young maiden again.”

Constance Collier stopped. She smiled down at the children. “That story came from my grandmother, who had it from hers. I’ve told it now and again to some people who know, and they suppose it to be a survival of the time when we lived as often as not in caves. And that’s what the godfather’s house is, eh, a cave, and painted just the way they painted them at Lascaux thousands and thousands of years ago. So this must be a story about such paintings and the lives of the people who made them.”

Mandy was entranced. That story could well be exactly as ancient as Constance claimed. It bore a close relation to “Godfather Death” in Grimm’s. But this was a feminized version, sounding as if it was from the era when women were just becoming agriculturists, and men were still hunters.

Looking about her at these rough-clad children, at the beautiful wild boy in the corner, at Constance dressed like a princess herself, Mandy was filled with deep wonder and excitement. Something extraordinary was happening here, something that appealed deeply to her. And there was such love among these people that even when they were silent there was a sense of laughter.

“Now take the fire and off you go,” Constance said to the assembled children. There were a couple of pleas for one more short one, and one piped request: “I want my dad to come live with us.”

Silence followed the words. The joy was for the moment suspended in a graver mood. Constance reached her hand out and touched the cheek of a ten-year-old boy. “That is a matter for the circle, Jerry.