The Catswold Portal (26 page)

T
he golden tom stared under the couch at the calico, his eyes glowing with curiosity, his tail twitching in a semaphore of interest. She felt her own tail twitch in response. She was filled with a dangerous feeling of communion with this cat. She wanted to help him; she was certain he was
more than an ordinary cat. And she dared not help him to shape shift. They gazed into each other's eyes unmoving until long after Morian had left and Olive had put her supper in the oven and gone upstairs. Pippin's expression was so filled with questions, she was certain he didn't know what he was. He seemed filled with distrust of her yet drawn to her as if longing to know what
she
was. When she stirred herself at last and came out from under the couch, he backed away from her.

She approached him and sniffed at him, then padded on past him. As she approached the door, she glanced back at him. He hadn't moved. He watched her with wide yellow eyes, but didn't attempt to follow her. She pushed quickly out through the screen, leaped off the lighted porch and underneath it, into deep shadows.

Crouching under the porch she stared out at the garden searching warily for Efil. The moon had risen, casting pale light across the garden. Below, Braden's studio lights beckoned. She could see him still at work, and she longed to be with him. She was filled with a desire so intense she was aware of his scent and could feel him stroking her.

Maybe it would be all right to go there. Efil wouldn't dare force himself into an upperworlder's house, nor would he dare challenge the tall, hard-muscled artist. She left the porch quickly and trotted down the path toward Braden's lights.

Efil was standing among the trees halfway down the garden, looking up at her. The fur along her spine and tail stiffened, she backed into shadow. She had begun the changing spell when he started up toward her. She couldn't see his face and didn't want to; he was a stranger to her now—they might never have lain together. She didn't know how she could have lain with him. The idea repelled her.

The change came quickly. She was girl now. He drew near and reached for her. She stepped aside.

“I came to take you home, Melissa. I came to take you back to the Netherworld, and to make you queen.”

“No, Efil.”

“But you must come back,” he said, surprised. “We must formalize the child. There are ceremonies to be performed, the announcement to be made.”

“I'm sorry, Efil.”

He didn't seem to hear her. “Once the announcement is made I can begin the formal proceedings to dethrone Siddonie and crown you queen.”

She said nothing.

“Melissa? Do you remember the Netherworld? Do you remember that you will be queen, that you are pregnant with my child? Siddonie can't have destroyed all your memory.”

She stirred herself. “I am not pregnant, Efil. There is no child.” She watched him narrowly. “I miscarried. The baby is dead.”

He looked puzzled, then his face twisted in anger. He grabbed her shoulders hard. “You're lying. You're lying to me.”

“It was very painful, there was a lot of blood. I still hurt, I still bleed some. I wept.” She shuddered, turned her face away. “The child miscarried.”

His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “You're lying—why would you lie?” His face had turned cruel. “You will have to come back to the Netherworld to prove that. The soothsayer will know.” He bruised her, twisting her around, forcing her to stumble down the terraces toward the portal.

She fought him, kicking, nearly falling as he jerked her on. “There is no baby, Efil.” She was terrified Braden would hear them from the studio, yet she longed to cry out to him. Efil jerked her arm behind her, shoving her on down the terraces. She quit fighting him and went limp so he had to drag her full weight. “I have nothing you want. I'm no use to you. Can't you understand? The baby was born dead.”

“You're lying.” Stubbornly he dragged her on. “I need you for the ceremonies whether or not the child is dead.”

She willed herself to hang heavy, remained a dead weight until at last he turned her loose, holding her wrist. She stood facing him, so angry she trembled. “There is no child. I can't help you. Go find someone who can give you a child—someone who can carry a baby full term.”

“Even if you were telling the truth,” Efil said, “you are still my subject. You will do as I tell you.” He forced her down the last terrace and against the portal, reaching for the handle. “It doesn't matter if you miscarried. The soothsayer will vouch there is a child—she will do whatever I tell her.”

She stood with her back pressed against the faces of the carved cats, blocking the door. “I will not come with you. I don't want to be queen of Affandar. You must go back alone.”

His touch was suddenly as soft as butter, making her wince. “We can make another child, Melissa. We can still defeat Siddonie. Why would you throw away wealth and power?”

“You're not listening, Efil. You're not hearing anything. I don't want to be queen of Affandar. Even if you dragged me back, forced me to bed—even if you could, I would make spells to lose the child. And,” she said, “if you tried to force me to lead the Catswold, I would turn them against you, as well as against Siddonie.”

“Listen, Melissa. I will tell you something you don't know.” He watched her closely. She didn't like him to look at her so intently. He said, “If you do not return to lead the Catswold, Siddonie will kill them.”

She looked back warily, trusting nothing he said.

“There is a false queen, Melissa. Siddonie is training a false queen to take your place—a Catswold woman from the alleys of the upperworld. Siddonie is teaching her all possible magic.

“If you do not come back,
that
young woman will lead the Catswold. And she will betray them. She will lead them into Siddonie's trap. Without you to show them the truth, she will lead them to defeat, and then kill them.”

“I don't believe you. No Catswold would betray Catswold.”

“This one will. She has no allegiance except to Siddonie.” He smiled coldly. “This is the role Siddonie meant for you: to betray and destroy your own people.” He looked deeply at her. “This is not just a war tactic, Melissa. This plan is Sid
donie's final revenge for the fall of Xendenton. Ever since she was a child she has prepared for this.”

He put his arm around her, drawing her close, his touch too soft. She shivered, drew away. He said, “Only you can stop her.”

She felt cold, sick. She could not believe him, yet she felt the truth in his words.

“And,” he said, “what about the old woman you lived with?”

“What about her?”

“Siddonie has imprisoned her in the palace dungeons.”

“You're lying. That is a lie.”

His look said it was not.

“Where is Mag now?”

“I told you. In the cellars.”

But his eyes had changed. Now he was lying. She could sense his lie clearly, as if her inner vision, like her feline eyesight, had suddenly grown more intense. “Where is she, Efil?”

“They…someone freed her.”

“Who freed her?”

“I don't know. She vanished from the cell.”

“And this story about a false queen…That, too, is a lie?”

“No, that is not a lie.”

She saw that it was not. Her increased perception was startling. She pressed her back against the protruding cats' faces, wondering if they were responsible for her sudden insight. Efil was watching her differently, almost fearfully. She pushed him aside, and swung the door open.

“Go back, Efil. Go back to the Netherworld. I am not part of your war.”

He looked at her silently. He didn't touch her again. She saw his sudden distaste for her, as if, because he could no longer deceive her, she was of no use to him.

When he finally moved past her into the tool room he went quickly, his face impassive, turned away. Stepping in behind him, she listened to his spell and watched the wall swing away with a small suck of air.

He went through. She heard the little huff of air as the wall swung closed again. She stared around the homely tool room then went out, drew the Catswold Portal closed, and turned away.

I
t was dawn. The dark green of night had hardly faded when three battalions of mounted Affandar soldiers rode out through the palace gates led by Siddonie on the tall, black stallion she favored. She had dreamed all night of slaughtering the Lettlehem peasants. She had dreamed for three nights running of the image doll some Lettlehem child had made of her, which had been hung at night in her own palace courtyard, and she lusted for revenge. Three battalions of foot soldiers followed her horse soldiers—the foot soldiers wearing heavy, curved swords and leading supply ponies.

They reached the mountains above Lettlehem near midnight. They struck the five villages one after another, routing out screaming peasants, burning their cottages and crops, driving off the sheep and pigs or slaughtering them. She had gone to war under justifiable duress, and she liked killing under that shield. Her soldiers herded together the best of the village horses for their own use, and destroyed the rest. Once the fields were blackened, they destroyed all tools so the Lettlehem peasants couldn't farm. Though Siddonie expected few of the peasants to survive their attack.

The slaughter lasted until dawn. The smell of blood and the cries of the maimed filled the burned out villages, and left Siddonie hungry for further war, lusting to attack every country in the Netherworld with full force. War was far
more satisfying than winning a country by intrigue; war sharpened her senses and gave life meaning. Certainly Lettlehem had learned quickly this night, that no one made images of the queen of Affandar.

She watched the last of the peasants driven from hiding and herded across the hills and into the last village square. And there, in retribution for the incident of the image doll, she watched twenty-five Lettlehem children hanged from a gallows made of felled cedar trees.

The image doll had appeared in the courtyard of Affandar Palace three nights before, hanging from a pole driven into the earth. It was undeniably a Lettlehem doll, woven in the same style as the Lettlehem rooftops and baskets, made of the coarse flax grown only in Lettlehem. She did not know who had brought the image to Affandar, but she would find out. She did not admit to anyone the power the doll had had to weaken her magic. For a full day after the thing was torn down and burned, she had been unable even to cast a simple spell-light. She could not influence the minds of her staff; she could not manage her horse except with brute force; she could not bring down game. The atrocity had left her sick with certainty that the doll had indeed possessed a portion of her soul.

B
raden was drinking his third cup of coffee and going through some old sketches, waiting for Melissa, when he saw her coming across the garden. He set down his coffee cup, staring. No more long green dress hid her figure and shortened her stride. She looked smashing—long and sleek,
with a lot more showing under the slim orange trousers and pink top of clinging silk. And the red silk scarf tied around her hair set off its multi-colored wildness. As she crossed the veranda and looked in at him, her green eyes nearly drowned him. When he remembered to breathe, he opened the door for her, moving the bowl of cat food out of her way. He had set it on the terrace after the cat marched out refusing to eat; he had thought that maybe later in the day she'd be hungry.

The cat had acted so strangely, glaring at him when he told her she was spoiled because she wouldn't eat her breakfast. “A little lobster and a few cans of chicken,” he'd said, “and you're too good to eat anything else.” And almost as if she understood, she had glowered up at him, then stuck her nose in the air and headed for the door, switching her tail impatiently until he let her out.

He watched Melissa now with more than an artist's appreciation, watched her with increasing desire. “You look great—you have an artist's eye for color. That orange and pink will be terrific. Have you had breakfast?”

“No, I…” She looked secretive, and blushed. “There was a problem about breakfast.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing really. I just—didn't eat.” She had a contrite, embarrassed look, and looked faintly amused, too. She didn't offer an explanation.

Maybe she was living with someone, maybe they'd had a fight and she had left without eating. But why the amusement? Or maybe lovemaking had gotten in the way of breakfast, he thought, annoyed. More than a little irritated, he picked up the canvas bag. “We'll run over to Tiburon for breakfast, then work in that Victorian house I mentioned. Are you ready?” He went on out ahead of her with his sketching things.

 

She picked up the picnic basket he had left and followed him. She didn't know what he was angry about. She didn't speak again until they were in the car headed for Tiburon. She leaned back in the seat watching the gleam of the bay,
searching for something to talk about. What had she done to make him mad? The silence built, making her feel trapped. What was the matter with him? Her feline reaction was to turn away from him. Her human reaction was to try to heal his anger. Was it her amusement about breakfast that had annoyed him? But he couldn't know what had amused her, so why was he angry? She watched him shyly under lowered lashes, and when the silence grew too much she grasped at the first thing she could think of to talk about. “When you were a boy, when you went to live in Carmel, how old were you?”

He rolled down the window and slowed for a turning car. “Twelve,” he said shortly. “It was when my father died.”

“You and your mother must have had a hard time.” She tried to speak softly. When he glanced at her she said, “You were very lucky to have your Gram.”

She saw him slowly relax. She said, “I think she was a very special person.”

His expression softened reluctantly; he looked at her more directly. “We were lucky to have her, and to have the home she gave us. My mother wasn't trained to any skill, but she liked working in the hotel. She was good at that—at managing the kitchen, and then at the bookkeeping. She learned that quickly. It was just the right thing for her, and Carmel is small. She liked being in a small place. She liked getting to know people.” He smiled for the first time. “We both liked staying put, not moving around anymore.”

He was quiet a few minutes, working through the heavy morning traffic. She stretched, letting her muscles ease. He said, “When my father was alive we moved from oil field to oil field, my mother made few lasting friends. He was a roustabout—Long Beach, Sunset Beach, Bakersfield. My strongest memory is a succession of little shacky houses with sandy front yards. Hot. There were always fleas in the sand. I would wait all afternoon after school for my father to come home and play ball with me—it was about all he liked to do.

“Our move to Carmel was the first time I was in the same
school for more than six months. And Gram was my friend. She wore old faded jeans in a time when women didn't dress like that. She had worked in a boardinghouse when she was quite young—she was a wonderful cook.

“I used to sit on the dining terrace drawing the guests and waitresses. Gram was the only one who saw any value in my drawings.”

“Your parents didn't?”

“My dad didn't think much of it. My mother thought I was clever and talented. She bragged and showed my pictures to the neighbors and to casual acquaintances, which enraged me. She meant well, but she didn't understand. Gram understood.”

“Then she was special.”

“We spent a lot of time together. We used to walk along the sea early in the morning after she had made the pies. She had a cook to do the breakfasts, but she always got up at four to make the pies.

“She loved the early morning sea. She loved fog pressing against the breakers, loved the wind. On Sundays we would go down to Point Lobos and walk there, watching the waves crashing on the rocks. She thought it good that I wanted to be a painter; she never thought it was sissy.”

He slowed and turned the corner, and directly ahead of them was a theater marquee. She glanced at it and went cold. The legend on the marquee jolted her so hard she swallowed back a cry. Across the white face of the sign, in bold black letters, were three words that filled her with fear and confusion:

 

THE CAT PEOPLE SIMONE SIMON

 

How could there be a movie about cat people? She didn't understand; she felt betrayed, exposed.

Braden was saying, “Pretty good old B movie. Ever see it?”

“I don't—I don't think so.”

“About a girl turning into a cat. A silly story, but it's well
cast. Simone Simon is good in it. She really looks like a cat—more like a pampered house cat, though, than a panther. The special effects are good—Jacques Tourneur directed it.”

“A—a silly story?”

“Girls turning into cats. I like science fiction, but people turning into animals…” He grinned and shrugged. “Too silly.” He turned into a parking area.

She said nothing. They got out and he held the restaurant door open for her. She felt cold. She shivered as she followed the waitress.

There were yellow flowers on the table. She touched them, sniffing their scent on her fingers. When the waitress had gone, she said, “What would you do if that story about cat people was real? If you were to see someone change into a cat?”

“Faint dead away,” he said, laughing. “Or run like hell.”

“I suppose it would be disgusting.”

“I suppose it would—the arms and legs changing, fur sprouting all over, the shape of the head…Make an interesting series of anatomical drawings.”

She toyed with her napkin, folding it into a small square, then smaller. She felt disappointed in him.

But what else would she have expected? She thought,
I am a cat person. I am that disgusting creature. I am your cat—the little calico who sleeps on your pillow.
She said, “Do you dismiss anything you don't understand?”

“Of course not. Would you like the waffles? They're really very good.”

“Waffles would be fine.”

When the waitress had gone he said, “Would you like to see the movie? It might be fun.”

She didn't answer.

“Come on, Melissa—I'd
like
to see the damned movie!”

“You said you weren't much for that sort of thing, so why bother?”

“I only meant…I like Simone Simon. It would be fun with you, anything would.”

“But you…”

“I only meant that things like that, things that can't really happen, people turning into cats—I just meant…Don't stare at me like that. What the hell's wrong? Oh, Christ. It seems silly to
make
such a movie, not silly to see it. Does that make any sense to you?”

“I—yes, I suppose it does.” But it didn't. She watched the waitress set down his coffee and her tea, and she pushed her cup away.

“Are you all right? Are you not feeling well? Do you want me to take you home?”

“I'm fine.” She looked at him steadily. “Your pictures aren't real. And reflections aren't real. They're not the real world any more than cat people are.”

He started to speak, but she pressed on stubbornly. “For one thing, reflections make things go backward—your right hand is your left. They are illusions. So how can you say a movie about other illusions is silly?”

The waitress brought their waffles, letting her eyes slide down Melissa's bright tunic and pants.

Braden passed her the butter. “That's just the point. Light and reflections
are
real. The physics of light photons, electromagnetic radiation—all that is real.”

The waitress came back with their orange juice, and apologized for having forgotten it. Melissa tasted it with curiosity. Cressteane Palace had orange trees. Five gardeners were kept to do nothing but maintain the spells for growing the delicate fruit, which was served only to the royal family.

Braden spread butter on his waffle and passed her the bacon. He gave her a deep, needing look, as if he wanted very much for her to understand. “Physics, the action of light, is a real science. But a woman turning into a cat is—that is just impossible. Physically, medically, scientifically impossible.”

She ate in silence. There was no way to argue with him.

And why should she? What difference did it make? He was an upperworlder—they were different. Totally, irreconcilably different.

 

He signaled for more coffee, wondering why such a discussion should upset her. And why the hell he was so strung up.

But he knew why. He had thought she understood how he saw the world because she seemed to like his paintings. She had given him that impression, that she had a perception of color and light and meaning that was akin to his feelings. He had thought she understood what he was trying to do, what he wanted to say with his work.

Now he could see that she didn't understand at all. So all right, his stupid ego was hurt.

Why the hell did he want her to understand? He wanted her to model, not for some goddamned philosophical discussion.

 

They worked all morning around an abandoned, crumbling Victorian house set alone in the center of a grassy field. They didn't share half a dozen words. The empty rooms were filled with the sounds of the wind rattling the old doors and leaded windows. From beside a broken window she watched the wind running through the tall yellow grass that heaved like a sea. The chill, empty rooms made her feel forlorn and lost. She was very conscious of Braden's detachment, of his silent, intent concentration. His work overrode his anger. She knew she had hurt him, and she didn't like hurting him. She had said his paintings weren't real. In effect she had said that what he felt, what he wanted to bring alive for others, was not real. She had implied that his work was of no worth.

She hadn't meant that, and she hadn't meant to hurt him. She said, as he stood looking at a finished drawing, “I didn't mean that, about your work not being real.”

He frowned, picking up the drawing. It was of the leaded glass window reflecting shattered images of grass and sky and of herself.

She said, “I meant, not physically real. But—there is something else in your work.”

“You don't need to—”

“There is,” she interrupted, “the spirit of what we see.”
She looked at him deeply. “You bring alive the spirit of the physical world and make it real for others. That is your great strength, Braden West. In that way, what you do is very real.”

He looked embarrassed, and looked at her deeply for a moment then turned away. She wanted to take his hand, wanted to touch him; but she dropped her hand and moved into the pose he wanted, turning casually, relaxed, until he told her to hold. And as he worked she watched him beneath lowered lashes, feeling the tension growing between them, a tension charged now not with anger and misunderstanding but with something intimate, a need drawing them together though he didn't touch her.

When they stopped to share the lunch he had packed, he wasn't angry, his glances still caressed her as they had when he drew her. In the last drawing she was standing before a stained glass door, her face streaked with its red and green light. She said, teasing him, “If physics makes things real, then this is the way I
was
at this minute. I was red and green.”

He stared at her, scowling again, then started to laugh. He dropped the lid of the basket and reached for her, hugging her close, and when he kissed her it was a long, slow kiss. She leaned into him, kissing him back, forgetting what he thought about cat people.