The Catswold Portal (10 page)

N
ow in the Harpy's mirror mist clung against the buildings of the upperworld city and shrouded the upperworld alleys where cats roamed lithe and restless. The sight of cats stirred a strange feeling in Melissa. She watched a yellow tom circle a doorway, watched a gray female shoulder out through the flimsy screen door in the back of a wineshop. She saw a thin tiger cat in the alley behind a grocery picking through trash, stopping often to stare up at the sky where, through fog, glowed the diffused light of the upperworld moon. She saw within a satin apartment a tan and brown cat waking her mistress with harsh cries then streaking past the woman's silk-gowned legs into the night. She watched a fat white female cat lead four starving cats through an open cellar door into a shabby room. There the female vanished; and a white-haired woman opened tins of cat food and fed the strays, then went out again, leaving the door ajar.

Inside apartments cats cried and paced, staring out through dirty back windows or through curtained front windows, or leaping over furniture and across desk-tops seeking a way out into the moonlit night. All over the city cats moved restlessly, caught by the moon's pull. Melissa knew more from the vision than simply what she saw. She knew that this night, not only the moon called to them.

In an alley between the Tracy Theater and a tall Victorian house, a big, heavy-boned tiger cat leaped from the fence to a rooftop. Pausing on the flat tar roof, he looked around, puzzled, restless and irritable, and a strange eagerness gripped him. Tail lashing, he jumped from that roof to the next, a four-foot span, and trotted to the next chasm and leaped again.

Covering the length of the block across the roofs of the store buildings, he dropped into the branches of a stunted tree that shouldered across an alley. There he settled himself in a crotch of branches as if he had done this many times. He listened, looking up at the sky, looking around him.

He was broad shouldered, with big paws and a broad, square head; he had the body of a fighter beneath his wide curving stripes of gray and silver. He lay limp along the branch, though beneath his indolence his spirit seemed coiled like a spring. His thick, striped tail swung idly. But then its tip began to twitch as, looking up through the mist, he watched the exact place where the moon would lift.

Suddenly he tensed. His tail stilled. He listened intently, tracking the faint hush of fur against brick, then the crackle of paper as an approaching cat disturbed a fallen poster.

Then he scented her and relaxed, letting his tail swing again; he knew her.

The old buff female climbed rheumatically into the tom's tree. He watched her, first lazily then intently, his yellow eyes suddenly widening. He saw that she was wild with news, her movements were jerky, he could smell her excitement.

He waited with growing impatience as she settled herself on a branch below him. When at last she spoke, her voice was harsh with agitation. “Three humans have come up.”

He stared at her. “From below? Through a door?”

“Yes.”

“Which door?”

“The warehouse on Telegraph. A man, a little girl, and a woman. The woman is like us.”

The tom's body slid into a crouch. “Like us? Are you certain?”

“Quite certain. Her hair is piebald, her eyes are a cat's eyes.”

“Who is she? Did you listen to them? Why have they come here?”

“I followed them last night. I have watched them all day.” She looked to him for praise. He broadened his whiskers at her and raised his tail.

“There was war in the world below,” she said. “These three have escaped a massacre. He is Prince Ithilel of Xendenton, the child is his sister. Xendenton has fallen, and these two seem all that is left of the royal family.”

“And the Catswold woman? Why is she with them?”

“I don't know. But it was the Catswold who defeated Xendenton, fighting beside peasant rebels. The man and little girl discussed it last night after the Catswold woman slept; I listened from the roof next door through their open window. They think the woman is a traitor to them, that she is loyal only to the Catswold.”

“Then is she their captive?”

“No, she is the wife of the prince.”

The tom froze, his body going hard. He looked back at the female gently; she was old, and dear to him. “You did well, Loua.” He didn't expect her to feel his distress. She had been born on the streets of the upperworld, her mother had no Catswold memories. Loua was as ignorant of her heritage as any common cat. “Why,” he said softly, more to himself than to Loua, “why would a Catswold woman be married to a prince of Xendenton?”

Loua mewled her confusion. “The small princess hates her. She says the Catswold woman betrayed them. How could the woman turn against her husband? Why would they marry if they are enemies?” Loua was always miserable when life did not add up. She hunched down, staring at McCabe.

McCabe said, “Tell me, this Catswold woman…What does she look like?”

“She is beautiful,” Loua said with envy. “Tall, sleek as silk. Her hair is gold striped with platinum and with red. Hair,” Loua said jealously, “bright as hearthfire, and her eyes are like emeralds. She must be gorgeous as a cat. Her name is Timorell.”

“Timorell…” McCabe tasted the name. “And where are they now?” His tail twitched with impatience.

“In an apartment on Russian Hill. From the roof next door you can see into the living room and into the couple's bedroom. It is the street of the Great Dane, third house north of him on the same side.” She preened, expecting McCabe to praise her for bravery at circumventing the Dane. But McCabe was lost in speculation. Loua purred his name, moving closer; but then she turned away. She was too old to appeal to McCabe, too long past her prime. This Timorell would appeal. She hunched miserably, bereft of defense against beauty and youth.

As McCabe quit the tree he turned, his face filling the mirror. Melissa stared into his huge eyes, startled. He dug his claws into the branch, then leaped to the alley. In the shadows, before stepping into the street, he took another form.

 

McCabe stood tall under the fuzzy streetlight, adjusting his tie, then strode across Powell. His shoes made a soft echo in the fog. He was a tall man, powerfully made, broad shouldered, his dark gray hair streaked with pale gray. His hands were broad, capable, stained from work, the nails trimmed short and clean. His yellow eyes were light against his tanned skin. He was a man to whom most women were drawn, though some women avoided him with a strange fear.

He passed the house of the Great Dane without disturbing the beast. In the shadows he changed to cat again, his broad stripes sharply defined by the street light. He leaped, and flowed up the thick vine onto the apartment house roof.

He stared across six feet of space to the next apartment building, to the three dormers with their open windows. In
side, the rooms were dark. He leaped the six-foot span to the center dormer, and clung there on the ledge and pressed against a dusty-smelling screen, looking in.

The couple slept in an iron-footed, rumpled bed. The Catswold girl's pale hair spilled across the prince's shoulder. She was long, supple. The sheet clung to her, thrown back so McCabe could see that she slept raw. He admired the curves of her arm and shoulder and, beneath the sheet, the curve of her breast. He wanted to touch her, wanted to slash the screen and go in. She slept deeply, innocent of him. He wanted to wake her, touch her; he wanted to say the changing spell for her and slip away with her across the rooftops, to be with her in the secret night.

 

Melissa, watching McCabe in the mirror, knew his feelings as if they were her own. Gripped by the desire he felt, her own passions awoke in a way that shocked her.

McCabe watched Timorell a long time. He would have stayed near her all night, but suddenly in the silence he heard the brush of a hand across a window screen. He leaped from the dormer across the chasm onto the neighboring roof, then turned to look back.

The screen of the next window was pushed out. A child looked out. For one chilling moment McCabe saw her eyes. For one moment he stared into deep, complete evil.

The child drew back and closed the screen. McCabe sped across the roof and down the vine. He hit the sidewalk as the little girl came out the front door carrying a heavy lamp. Heart pounding, he pressed into the shadows. He changed to man as young Siddonie reached him, holding the lamp like a club.

He grabbed her arm, and threw the lamp to the street. It shattered. He held her wrists as she kicked and bit him, and he shook her until she became still.

“You were going to injure the cat—kill it.”

“Catswold,” she hissed. “Get away from me! Leave the girl alone!”

“What do you fear?” McCabe looked her over, laughing.
“That I will despoil your brother's wife?” He saw the child blanch. “Why have you come up from the Netherworld?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Tell me.” He twisted her arm, enjoying her pain, caring nothing that she was a child; she was evil, coldly evil. “Tell me what happened in Xendenton. Tell me, or I will kill you.”

“You dare not kill me.”

“The laws say only that I would endanger my immortal soul; that is my choice. Gladly would I do so to see you die, Princess!”

“If you know so much, why do you ask questions?”

He twisted her arm harder. “Who is the Catswold woman?”

“A traitor,” she hissed. “A bitch—a traitor. And she will pay for her deeds—you all will.”

“You are curiously indignant, for one whose kin has murdered thousands of Catswold.” McCabe looked closely at her. “You are like a hard, sinewy little bat, Princess. Brittle and blood-hungry.”

The child stared at McCabe, expressionless as glass, then touched her tongue to her lips with a dark, twisted laugh.

“Go back in the house, little girl. But know this: if you harm the Catswold woman in any way, you will know pain by my claws as you have never imagined pain.” McCabe grasped her hair for a moment, hard. “Have you ever seen the guts torn out of a mouse so the creature, still alive, stares at its own offal, frozen with terror?”

She blanched, did not move. McCabe stared at her until she turned at last and went into the house, her back straight and ungiving.

The scene vanished, the mirror went smoky. Melissa stared, confused, into the blackness around her.

“You are in the cellars of Affandar Palace,” the Harpy said softly.

Melissa brought a spell-light and reached to touch the bars, but she was still adrift between the two worlds. She was surprised to see the rebel prisoners crowded around her, silent, watching her. She was clutching the mirror so hard that when
she dropped it in her pocket its mark was struck deep into her palm. When the Harpy reached through the bars toward the pocket, she backed away. She had started to speak when footsteps scuffed on the stair and she doused her spell-light.

A spell-light blazed above them, moving down the stair. The rebels fled. Halek grabbed Melissa and pulled her to a stack of barrels and down behind them.

T
he spell-light came quickly down the stair striking across barrels and pillars and lighting King Efil's face. His voice struck sharp through the silence. “Melissa? Surely you are here. Melissa, guards are posted everywhere, but I can get you out. Come quickly.”

She moved, wondering if she dare trust Efil. If she found a way out she could come back for the prisoners. But Halek jerked her back. “No! We are not to trust him.” He clapped his hand over her mouth as Efil approached, passing within feet of them, heading straight for the Harpy's cage. His light picked out a shock of white feathers. “Where is the girl? She brought your mirror to you. Where is she?”

“What girl? Do I have my mirror? Do you see my mirror? Do you think if I had it I'd be behind these bars? The queen has my mirror, and if you were any kind of a king you would return it to me.”

“I will search the cellars until I find her, so you might as well tell me, Harpy.”

Melissa touched Halek's hand. “If he searches, he will find you. I can bargain with him. I—have something to bargain with.”

He held her arm hard. “If he finds us, we will kill him. That's safer.”

“But Halek, I can make him take you out of here. I can make him free you.” She watched the king turn away from the Harpy. He approached and passed them again. Only this time he didn't pass them, he turned back and came toward the barrels that hid them. His light shot straight into her face.

She rose, but Halek was faster. He leaped and hit the king and pinned him against a pillar, forcing a shard of glass against Efil's throat.

Efil was very still, appraising Halek. “There's little time; the guards will come. Free me and I'll get you both out of here.”

“You will get all the prisoners out,” Melissa said. She nodded to Halek. “Call the men out.”

Halek stood motionless a long time, pressing the broken glass against the king's throat. Melissa didn't know what she saw in Halek's face—fear, distrust—but at last he gave one soft whistle.

The men came out slowly, watching the king. When Efil saw the dozens of ragged, armed men, he blanched. “I can't take so many.”

Halek pressed the glass harder.

“You dare not harm me,” Efil said. “You would never get away without me, there are guards everywhere.”

Melissa said, “Do you want my child?”

Halek stared at her. The men were watching her. She said, “If you get all the prisoners out, and the Harpy and Toad and the Griffon, if you see that all go free, I will bed with you.”

“I have no way to trust you,” Efil said.

“You have my promise,” she said quietly.

 

They were a silent procession moving through the dark cellars. The prisoners followed Efil, then came the Harpy and the Toad. Efil could not, or would not, free the Griffon. Melissa was heartbroken for the poor Griffon. He was the most free of beasts, winging the Netherworld skies over mountains and valleys unknown by any land-bound creature. It was monstrous to leave him captive.

When they had pushed far back in the black cellars, Efil paused before a pillar and cast a complicated spell that drew the side of the pillar open. His spell-light picked out a thin stair leading down. The rebels crowded in and descended single file into blackness, the Harpy and Toad behind them. Efil waited, coming last with Melissa, forcing her along before him, and closing the pillar behind them.

They went down steeply for a long way, then pushed along a tunnel so low they walked doubled over, so narrow their shoulders scraped the damp walls. Thus they traveled until Melissa thought they must have crossed under all the palace farms and orchards. When at last they came to a flight leading up, the rebels clambered up eagerly. After a long climb they reached a trap door. It opened at Efil's voice, lifting up into a green-lit chamber. Halek's voice came back to her filled with awe. “The Grotto of Circe,” he whispered. The others pressed behind him up into the jeweled chamber, into a mass of gem-wrought images so real they seemed alive.

The arched ceiling was mosaicked with jeweled branches tangling across it like the roof of a forest, and the branches were alive with birds made of emeralds and rubies and topaz, of lapis and garnet. The walls were filled with jeweled dragons and Hell Beasts and all Netherworld animals. A huge, carved bed stood against one jeweled wall. Melissa knew Efil must have kept this grotto hidden from Siddonie, for the dark queen would have destroyed it. She felt the power of the images, the power by which Circe, within a place of such magic, had first turned beasts into men, creating the shape shifters.

The ragged rebels trooped in followed by the Harpy and the Toad. Efil stroked a spell over the trap door so it swung closed and vanished into the mosaic floor. He stood looking the rebels over.

“The door I will open will take you into the woods south of the palace. You must go quickly; it is dusk but guards patrol the woods. You will be safe when you reach the eastern ridges.”

He said, “I do this for Melissa, not for you. I may have differences with Siddonie, but I do not love rebels.” He lifted his hand, made a sign, and opened a spell-door in the grotto wall. Dim green forest shone beyond. The Toad hopped through and away into the darkness between twisted trees. The rebels followed, glancing back at Melissa. She watched them go, torn between her promise to the king and fear of him that made her want to run after them.

The Harpy didn't offer to leave, but began to paw at Melissa, searching for her mirror. Melissa said, “One more vision.”

“One vision,” the womanbird said. “The last vision.”

“I want to see my mother.”

“You have already seen your mother.”

“Queen Siddonie?” Ice touched her.

“No, not Siddonie.”

Melissa stared at the Harpy. Her voice would hardly work. “The Catswold girl?”

“Yes. Timorell was your mother.”

“But she was Catswold.”

“You are Catswold.”

“You are wrong, I am no shape shifter. Besides, the Lamia said my mother was wife of the Lamia's sister's brother, so I can't be…”

“Your mother's husband's half sister is a daughter of Lillith. All daughters of Lillith are sister to the Lamia.”

“That is more confusing. Why can't you say, my father's half sister?”

“I am not speaking of your father. Your mother's husband was not your father.” The Harpy glanced longingly toward the opening in the wall. From the forest, a cool breeze stirred her feathers.

“I want a vision to see my father.”

“You have seen your father.”

Melissa frowned.

The Harpy sighed. “I will show you your own conception. You will know your father, you will see yourself conceived. Then you will give me my mirror and free me.”

Melissa nodded.

“Not many,” said the Harpy, “are privileged to see their own beginnings.” She lifted a wing, casting shadows across the mirror. There, the upperworld city gleamed suddenly with sunlight so bright Melissa squinted.

A man sat at a table in a sidewalk cafe. It was McCabe. She swallowed, watching him.

The cafe was beside long wharfs where huge ships were docked. White birds swooped over the smokestacks. Stevedores were off-loading wooden crates. At his table McCabe was drinking an amber brew, idly watching the street. When Timorell came swinging along he put down his ale, watching her intently, as if he had been waiting for her.

She was looking at everything, drinking in the colors and smells of the wharf. The wind blew her pale-streaked hair like a golden cloak around her shoulders. She was sleek as gold and ermine, her stride long and easy. She did not seem to be looking for anyone but simply walking. Her tongue tipped out, tasting the wind, and there was a little secret smile at the corners of her mouth. At the intersection where the street dead-ended before the cafe, she paused, looking around almost as if someone had spoken. Above her, McCabe had not moved. Timorell looked around her, puzzled, then suddenly she looked directly up at him.

She stood still as a hunting cat, her eyes widening. She was drawn to him, and McCabe rose, his gaze never leaving her.

She came up the four steps and stood looking at him. Then, drawn by his gaze, she slid into the chair he held for her. A power burned between them, filling Melissa with longing. This was their first meeting, this was Timorell's first awareness of another like herself in this foreign world. Then came a montage, she saw them walking the city streets, their hands touching, their looks slowly revealing and discovering. She saw them in shops, in cafes; talking, always talking. She saw Timorell at night slipping away from her apartment.

She saw McCabe and Timorell in a white room with jutting windows looking down on the city. The walls were cov
ered with pictures of cats like benevolent talismans. She watched McCabe make love to Timorell on a pale rug before the open fire. They loved as man and woman, then as cat and cat, Timorell all gold and white to McCabe's dark gray beauty. Embarrassed at breaching their privacy, she was yet held by the prophecy their lovemaking wrought, sharp as Timorell's mewling cry.

And in the instant before the vision faded she saw, against Timorell's bare skin, an oval emerald pendant framed by two rearing cats.

When the vision fled, she felt she had fallen between the two worlds and was unable to cling to either. The strength of their love had taken her breath, and, too, the sight of the emerald left her stricken with a sense of power she could not unravel.

“What was that jewel…?” she said weakly.

The Harpy flicked at her white feathers. “That was the Amulet of Bast. Your mother,” the Harpy said softly, “was heir to the Catswold queens.”

The Harpy fixed her with a beady stare. “You have forgotten all you ever heard about the Catswold. Only slowly is memory returning. Under Mag's spell you forgot there is a Catswold nation. Your mother, if she had lived, would be queen of that nation.”

She showed Melissa a vision of white stone towers and caves, of little niches and high alcoves where cats slept on velvet and silk. “This is Zzadarray.” Cats raced along the tops of the walls then leaped down to vanish, turning into silken-robed men and women. “They,” said the Harpy, “are the Catswold of Zzadarray.”

The vision hadn't faded when Efil shouldered the Harpy aside, facing Melissa scowling. “You don't need this. You don't need to see this.” But then his looked softened and he began to stroke her and caress her. She shivered and tensed. He said, “Yes, my love, you are heir to the Catswold queens. You will be queen not only of Affandar but queen of the Catswold. Never has a Netherworld woman had such power.” He kissed her and teased her, moving her toward the
bed. But the Harpy pushed between them. She shoved Efil away and fixed Melissa with a hard gaze.

“Do you not understand? You are heir to the Catswold queens. This was why Siddonie wanted you. You could lead the Catswold people anywhere; they would follow you unquestioningly. If Siddonie rules
you
with her spells, she would rule the Catswold. She would force them to fight the rebels. Now, King Efil means to do that.”

“No,” Efil said. “I will not do such a thing. The womanbird lies.”

Melissa took the Harpy's thin hand, hardly attending to Efil. Slowly she was beginning to remember past remarks and conversations. The Amulet was a great power—it held the ancient power of Bast. She said, “The Catswold would not follow me if I do not wear the Amulet.”

“Yes, they would follow you,” said the Harpy. “Though your power would be stronger with the Amulet.”

“The old tales say it is lost.”

“Lost,” said the Harpy, preening.

“Cannot the mirror show where it lies?”

The Harpy glanced longingly toward the spell-door then at her little mirror. “Spells were laid to protect the Amulet from visions.”

Melissa looked back at her with all the command she could muster. “You will try,” she said softly. “Afterward I will give you the mirror.”

The Harpy tried. For a long time, muttering soft bird talk, she sought to bring a vision of the Amulet but the mirror remained blank. Suddenly the Harpy lost patience. She lunged at Melissa and snatched the mirror from her. The flurry of her white wings filled the grotto, then she was gone flapping into the night, hugging her little mirror. Melissa watched her disappear through the woods in awkward swoops. The womanbird's voice echoed, “You have the power…if you will use it…” then her voice was only a bird cry, eerie in the darkness, and Melissa saw a last smear of white lift on the wind and vanish.

 

She watched Efil spell-close the wall so that no mark remained in the jewel mosaics and she thought,
I am Catswold.
She felt weak with wonder. And she was filled now with knowledge of the Catswold that had, moments before, not existed for her.

I bear the blood of queens, I bear the blood of Bast. That is why Mag hid the papers. That is why she made the deaf-spells. The stories were there in my mind, but I was deaf to them. This knowledge is part of my memory.

But this returned memory of the Catswold was not all that was lost. There was more. Still she did not remember her childhood.

Efil took her hands, drawing her close, stroking her hair, her throat. She turned her face away; she wanted to run from him, to lose herself in the woods. She wanted time to think. She was only beginning to see who she was. She wanted to understand and know herself; she did not want to be possessed now by another.

“Your promise will be honored now,” he said softly.

He slid his hands down her back, his lips brushed her cheek and her throat. “You are frightened, queen of the Catswold. Do not be frightened, my love.” His tongue touched her throat; his breath was hot against her.

She flinched away, holding herself tight and still. “I want time, I…”