The Catswold Portal (17 page)

I
n the Hell Pit the Harpy basked among flames, easing quickly again into her old habits. Her memories of the upperworld faded. She mingled with the hell-cast souls of the dead and whispered the grim songs of the dead, and nearly forgot the vibrant goodness of the living. Old lusts gripped her. Depression and anger drugged her; soon she was wallowing in all manner of depravity.

Only slowly did her preoccupation with the morose and sullen begin to pale, only slowly did the excesses of the damned begin to lose their charm, and the dead began to seem dull. At last the Harpy grew restless and began to think that warm, living people were more interesting. On a damp night when the Hell fires sulked and smoked, the Harpy looked deep into her mirror.

She saw Melissa climbing the vines at the back of Affandar Palace. She saw her fight the king's embrace, saw the queen storm in. She saw Siddonie change Melissa to cat, and she saw Mag agonizing beside the girl's cage, trying to free her. She saw Mag captured.

The Harpy watched Mag huddle shivering in the Toad's old cell, her round, wrinkled face pulled into despair. And when the Harpy tried to sleep, she could not.

What was it about this old woman that drew her sympathy?

The Harpy was uncertain about leaving the Hell Pit. But she could leave. Siddonie's spell, that had originally freed her, was still strong.

She stood wakeful, pecking irritably at the flames and coals. Why shouldn't she go? Nothing bound her here. She would not admit even to herself how totally boring the Hell Pit seemed to her now.

When at last she rose, flapping, she headed straight for Affandar.

Three hours later in Siddonie's dungeons, a white wing swept against Mag's cage. A white arm reached through, and a thin hand shook Mag awake.

Mag stared muzzily into the white bird face as the Harpy whispered a spell that swung the door free. Waking fully, Mag quickly quit the cage, following the Harpy silently. The womanbird, excited over her increased strength over Siddonie's weakening spell, flapped and preened. She led Mag deep into the cellars, where she mumbled a charm that opened a pillar. Mag followed her down a thin flight of stairs and along a low tunnel. As they traveled, ducking, Mag sniffed the Harpy's smoky, sulphurous scent. “How was the Pit?”

“Warm. Lovely.”

They walked a while in silence, then Mag said, “Why did you come away? Why did you rescue me?”

“The bitch queen took my mirror.”

“That's no answer. You have your mirror.”

“By freeing you, I am paying her back for my suffering.”

“Am I that valuable to the queen?”

“She detests you.”

Mag smiled. “And where is Melissa? What is happening to Melissa?”

The Harpy didn't answer. Walking ahead of Mag she looked down into her little mirror and saw the calico cat limping along beside the highway, thin and dirty. She saw the little cat in the garden staring up at the portal, her green eyes huge.

But the danger wasn't over. The cat remembered nothing; she was innocent and half-helpless.

“Well?” Mag said. “What of Melissa?”

“I can show you nothing.”

“What do you mean, you can show me nothing?”

“If I gave you a vision you'd know where she was. You'd go barreling away to rescue her. She is best left alone.”

“But what is happening to her?”

“She is resourceful,” said the Harpy. “Trust me.” She ran her fingers through her white feathers. “She is utterly content at the moment.”

They had reached the stairs. They climbed and came out into Circe's Grotto. Mag caught her breath at its beauty, and she wanted to tarry and look, but the Harpy, pressing cold fingers into Mag's arm, shoved her on. The womanbird opened the wall and pushed Mag through, and they moved quickly away through the night-dark woods.

S
tiff-legged, the cat stalked the door, her eyes burning with green fire, her tail lashing against the bushes and vines. Warily she watched the cats' heads: they were not alive but there was life in them. She drew close then leaped away, then skidded toward them again, ignoring the clamor of the garden birds. Drawn to the oak cats, she reached a paw toward something invisible that seemed to move beyond the door, then, confused, turned quickly to lick her shoulder. But the vision amused her. She stared up at the door again, giddy, and rolled over, grabbing her tail, spinning and tumbling, her eyes flashing. Madly she played with the power she
sensed. Leaping onto the vine that edged the door, she swarmed up it, drunk with the forces that pulled at her. She didn't see the garden cats on the hill above where they crouched watching her.

The five cats stared down, frozen with interest. They crept closer as the calico reached the top of the vine, watching her, stealthy as snipers. At the top of the vine she did a flip, then worked her way down again, slapping at the leaves. She leaped out of the vine at the base of the door and sat before it, ready for the door to open, willing it to open.

When it didn't open she rubbed against it. When it remained closed she pushed at it with her shoulder, then began to dig at the crack beneath, rolling down and thrusting her paw under.

When digging failed, she reared up on her hind legs and reached for the lowest row of snarling oak faces and raked her claws down them in long, satisfying scratches. When still the door didn't open, she turned away, pretending total boredom, and selected a shelter deep beneath the overgrown geraniums.

In the cool dark she stretched out full length, digging her claws into the earth, then lay washing herself. Drawing her barbed tongue across bright fur, she soon eased into a contented rhythm of purrs and tongue strokes. Soon she slept, exhausted from her long journey. The garden cats came down the hill and circled her. One by one they sniffed at her, then turned away puzzled. The big orange tom stayed a long time staring at her. The sun dropped behind the woods. The sky held a last smear of brilliance, then the garden darkened. The wind came up off the bay blowing branches and vines, but the calico slept on. She didn't hear the tool shed door push open. At first sign of the hunch-shouldered man, the orange cat bristled and fled. In sleep the calico smelled something unpleasant and her ears went flat and she curled up tighter, but she didn't wake.

 

Vrech stood in the low doorway staring around the garden, watching for activity in the six houses. The lights were on
above in Morian's house. At Olive Cleaver's, only the porch light burned, suggesting that the old woman had gone out. In the low white Cape Cod, just the living room was lit. This was Anne Hollingsworth's night to work late. Likely Olive Cleaver was sitting with the boy. Tom would be asleep, suffering from the fever his mother thought was the flu.

Below, the yellow house on the left was dark. It was Wednesday, the Blakes' bridge night. He watched the center house as West left his easel and went down the short hall to the kitchen, likely to fix himself a drink. To the right of West's, the musician's house had lights on in the bedroom and bath. Wednesday was jazz night; soon those lights would go out and John the clarinetist would go up across the garden to Sam's Bar.

Vrech smiled. Olive Cleaver's hearing wasn't sharp, and the wind was making plenty of noise. With wind moving the foliage, he might never be noticed; he might seem just another blowing shadow.

He watched John cross the garden with his clarinet case, but decided to wait a few minutes more. Maybe the artist's model would go across to the tavern, and maybe West as well. They were both jazz freaks. Jazz made him nervous; he didn't call it music.

When neither Morian nor West came out, he grew impatient. Stepping back inside the door, he lifted his burden, bound in the burlap bag, easing its weight across his shoulder.

He left his lantern burning behind him on the tool table, pulled the door to, but not closed, and made his way up the terraces. The drugged prince was a heavy weight, and he was already tired from carrying Wylles up the tunnel.

He had neared the white house when the screams of trumpet and sax cut the night. The band was warming up; that would cover any sound he might make. As he moved in between the bushes beside Tom's window, something crashed past him, yowling. Damn cat.

He hid his bundle in the bushes, watching the house and thinking about the cat he had left on the highway. He saw it
in his mind as the girl—a sexy creature. Suddenly another cat sped past his feet. They were all over the garden tonight—moonlight made them crazy.

He moved to the window and looked into the living room. Yes, skinny old Olive Cleaver was there reading a book. He returned to Tom's darkened window and felt with sensitive fingers for the hinges he had loosened earlier.

 

The blaring of loud, dissonant horns jerked the little calico awake and on her feet, cringing at the noise, staring with terror at the swaying, tossing garden. In the blowing moonlight the carved cats on the door seemed alive, and she reared up, looking at them with widening eyes. At that moment, the wind fingered open the door, exposing a crack of light. She stared at it and crept forward.

She sniffed the cat faces but was drawn, too, by the light space beyond the door; and by falling spaces on beyond the light. She hesitated, then she pushed through the door into the tool room, moving directly past the wheelbarrow and ladder to the stone wall, and stood looking up expectantly. She pressed her shoulder to the wall, then pawed at it. She was clawing hard at the stone when Vrech returned carrying his bundle. The cat tasted his scent and spun to face him. Her back pulled into an arch, her teeth bared in a spitting yowl.

Vrech set down his burden, swearing, wondering how the hell she had found her way back. He shoved the bundle against the wall, making sure Tom was too far gone to cry out, then closed in on the cat. When he lunged, she leaped clear.

He worked her into the corner behind the wheelbarrow. She darted past, upsetting two oil lamps and breaking a chimney.

He was sweating and furious by the time he caught her. She had clawed him in three long wounds; his hands and arms were bleeding. He grabbed a gunnysack and shoved her into it, but before he could close it she sank her teeth into his wrist. He knocked her loose, pushed her deeper in, then tied the bag and threw it against the door.

He barked a guttural opening spell that sent the wall swinging back, lifted Tom inside, laid the boy on the cold stone, and left him there.

Closing the wall, he picked up the sack with the cat inside and moved out into the blowing garden. He had to get rid of the beast; he dare not leave it so close to the portal for fear Siddonie would learn of it.

He'd leave it somewhere where it had a chance for life. That was all that was required. He wasn't carrying it back up the cursed highway.

He decided to buy a Greyhound ticket in the village, watch the bag loaded on as luggage, then disappear. Let the driver worry about what to do with it. One bus went clear to Coos Bay. He'd have a drink first, there was plenty of time. The Greyhound schedules were common knowledge in the village, and the Coos Bay bus didn't leave for two hours. He hoisted the cat to his shoulder, snuffed the lantern, and headed across the road. He didn't like the music at Sam's, but he liked to watch the women who came there.

B
asin Street jazz drowned the wind in the garden. The beat was solid, the music at once weeping and happy—primal music like a deep heartbeat. Braden, drowning in the good jazz, turned off the overhead studio lights and crossed the blowing moonlit garden, heading for Sam's.

He paused beside the tool room door, watching wind shake the door and whip the vine that grew around it. Feeling spooked, he wanted to move on, yet was held a moment watching the blowing shadows that raced across the garden,
shadows running like live things. In the restless light the carved cats' faces seemed to move and change. Then from Sam's a blast of trumpet and trombone rose against the wind. And the wind leaping from tree to tree suddenly stilled.

The shadows stopped running. The garden was silent, deadly still.

Elder wind. It's an elder wind
…

The term shocked him, surprised him. It was a term his Gram had used, a Welsh term from her girlhood. He hadn't thought of it since she died.

He could see her beside him standing on the rocks above the sea, the wind whipping her carroty hair, her arm around him because he was small and the wind was strong, wind that died, then suddenly blew again, throwing salt spray in their faces. “An elder wind,” she said.

“What's that, Gram?”

“An elder wind can speak to you, if you know how to listen.”

“How do you listen? I don't understand.”

She had laughed, enjoying the wild evening. “You listen with something inside, the part of you that knows things.”

“But what would an elder wind say?”

“Something of the future, something that's going to happen.” Then, seeing his expression, she had said, “Something good. Something—beyond everyday things. Something—not everyone can hear.”

He stood in the blowing garden, lost in that time that was forever gone. Lost to those he loved who were gone. Then, scowling at himself, he went on across the lane toward the warmth and the good, pure Dixieland. Above him the redwood forest loomed deep black, rattling and hushing as the wind once more tore at its branches.

Sam's Bar was an old converted house, dark shingled, nestled alone against the redwood forest. It had no neon and needed no advertising. Its patrons parked in the lane or on the skirt of blacktop by the front door, or left their cars at home. Inside, walls had been removed to allow for a sprawling openness with quiet corners, and to make space for the
bandstand. You could get dark stout on draft, and hardboiled eggs pickled in pale, hot pepper juice. You could get bock beer in the spring, and during legal crabbing months you could get a sandwich made of green olives and crab fresh from the San Francisco fleets. Sam, ex-stevedore, jazz buff, was a good listener, and held within his graying head half the secrets of the village.

Braden threaded between the cars parked tightly around Sam's front door, and stood a moment awash in the plaintive, hypnotic rhythm of “Joe Avery's Blues.” The porch was ten feet wide, with four steps leading up to it, and a dark wooden door with a small stained glass panel.

Inside, the room was warm, smoky, booze-smelling, and rocking with the gut-twisting music. He checked the bar, nodded to the band. Sam poured him a whisky, grinning through a short fringe of grizzled beard. The main room was to Braden's right. There was a good blaze in the fireplace. Long windows faced the windy, moonlit forest. Morian and Bob were at the corner table. Carrying his glass, he joined them. He took the chair in the corner, laying a hand companionably over Morian's. She was dressed in something white and low that showed off her beautiful umber skin. She was tall, not fat, but the sort of woman who, nude on the model stand, made fashionably skinny women look incomplete. After Morian, no model seemed worth drawing. No other model had the beautiful bones, the fine, long muscles and gorgeous breasts, the subtle turnings of shadows to study and capture and linger over. Her dark skin picked up reds, ambers: dark velvet skin clothing itself in deep lights and rich shadows, so any other clothing seemed out of place. She studied Braden.

“Work going badly, Brade?”

He looked at her; she always knew. She had been good friends with Alice, had always cared about their work, was a good critic. It was an experience to watch Morian rise from the model stand at break, slip on a wrap, walk around the classroom studying the work. A comment from Morian was always perceptive and valuable. She hugged a lot, compan
ionably, as she admired and questioned. Low and velvet and fine, Morian was like a dark, rich sun rising in soft brilliance whenever she entered a classroom.

She watched him closely. “I suppose Rye's been over.”

Braden nodded. “I told him to cancel the show.”

Morian scowled.

Bob leaned back in his chair, watching them. He was smaller than Morian, a well-knit man. Sandy hair, a look in his hazel eyes that was sometimes too understanding—that was the trouble with shrinks. He was seldom without Leslie in the evenings—trim, tanned Leslie—except when she worked late doing the endless paperwork of the small village library. “That's pretty heavy, Brade. Rye's likely to take you up on it.”

Braden gave him a questioning look.

Morian said, “Rye was over at school today. To see Garcheff's new work.”

Braden put down his drink, instantly defensive. “He thinks I won't get the work together. He's planning to slip Garcheff in.” And he knew that wasn't fair.

Morian said, “But you told him to cancel the show.”

Now for the first time he didn't want to cancel. “Hell, I guess I had it coming.” He reached for his drink, and spilled it.

They helped him mop up the whisky with paper napkins, stuffing them in the ashtray. Morian said, “You have almost two months. You aren't letting Garcheff take your date.” She laid her hand over his, giving him a black velvet look, a soothsayer's look. Bob looked away, half embarassed, then left the table, muttering something about peanuts; Braden felt a quick, fleeting amusement because Bob was so straight. The band swung into “Just a Little While to Stay Here.” The heat of the music drew them closer. Morian started to say something, then stared past him across the room, frowning. When she kept staring, he turned to look.

The gardener was sitting by the door. Vrech. The dark, hunched man was alone at a small table against the wall. Morian watched him intently.

“What the hell are you looking at?”

“That bag under his table,” she said quietly.

“It's just an old gunnysack. What do you think he's got, Olive's jewelry?”

“It moved.”

He hadn't seen it move.

She put her hand on his knee. “Keep looking—he's got something alive in there.” Her eyes flashed. “You don't stuff a live creature into a gunnysack.” She was getting worked up; it didn't take much.

“Listen, Mor—” He took her arm to keep her from getting up. “Wait a minute. At least be sure. What could he have?” He hadn't seen the bag so much as flinch.

Bob returned with pretzels, two beers, and a bourbon. “That's A'Plenty” ended in a high riff, the trumpet player mouthed inaudible words and they launched into “Salty Dog.” Bob looked at Braden and at Morian's stormy face, and shifted his chair so he could glance across at the gardener.

Braden said, “She thinks the bag moved. Listen, Mor, just sit still a minute. What could he have?”

Morian picked up her purse. “There's something alive in there. What does he—he was in the tool room all afternoon with the door closed. Until after dark. He came out carrying a bundle—not that one, a big bundle. And now he has something alive. He's caught some poor animal…”

Bob looked mildly skeptical.

She scowled at him. “There's something in the bag. And he was in the shed for hours; I could see the door from where I was sewing. I saw him come out, but I never did see him go in.”

Braden drained his glass and reached for the drink, amused at Morian. “You must have looked away once or twice.”

“It takes more time than a glance away to go across the garden. I was watching the door.” She looked faintly embarrassed. “The door seems to draw me. I see anything that moves around it. Vrech didn't go in while I was sewing. He
came out well after dark, carrying a big, awkward bundle. The band was here, I could hear them warming up. Vrech came up across the garden carrying the bundle over his shoulder, then the moon went behind a cloud. When it cleared he was gone. I changed, made a phone call, and came on over. And there he was ordering a beer.”

Bob shifted his chair again so he could prop his feet on the one next to him and see the gardener more easily.

Braden said, “Alice felt that way about the door.”

Morian nodded. “I know.”

When Bob left to meet Leslie, the bag had still not moved. Morian wouldn't leave. They sat quietly talking about the show at the de Young, obliquely watching the gardener. They avoided talking about Braden's paintings. Their hands touched as they worked up comfortably to a night at his place; it had been a long time. The band was into “Tailgate Ramble” when the bag moved again; they both saw it twitch then twist, as if something inside had flopped over. When Vrech prodded it with his toe, it lay still. But Morian was up, easing around the table. “I heard a cat cry. He has a cat in there.” She stared at Braden, eyes flashing. “One of our cats?” He watched her, half amused, and followed her, hoping this wasn't going to turn into a brawl.

The gardener watched Morian coldly. When she knelt reaching for the bag, he snatched it from her and stood up swinging it away. The bag began to thrash and yowl. Vrech pushed Morian out of the way and spun past them out the door. Morian lunged after him. Braden could do nothing but go with her. He grabbed Vrech, swinging him around, and Morian jerked the bag from his hands. The rest was a tangle. Vrech punched Braden in the face, the cat screamed and raked Braden's cheek through the bag, then Vrech had the bag again, running. Morian ran after him; Braden, his jaw hurting, caught a glimpse of her face raging mad. He could only stay with her, knowing this was insane. As they crashed through the wood he gained on Vrech and tackled him running. He threw the bag clear, jabbing his knee in the man's belly.

Holding the gardener down, he watched Morian tear at the bag, fighting the knots. Whatever was in there flopped and fought. Every time Vrech tried to jerk free, Braden twisted his arm tighter. He stared down at the man's angry face, surprised that Vrech was so strong. He felt a powerful distaste at touching the man; he wanted suddenly to flatten that leering face.

“It's open. Oh Brade…”

A cat looked out, crouching and terrified. Its ears were laid flat, its eyes immense with fear. Its face was part mottled dark, part white. As the wind hit it, it ducked down. But when it saw Vrech it exploded out of the bag, clawing Morian's hand, leaped away, and ran. Like a streak it disappeared within the dark woods. Morian rose to chase after it, then turned back.

“She was terrified, Brade. If I chase her she'll run forever.”

He looked at her, exasperated. “What the hell am I going to do with the gardener? What the hell are we doing out here?” He was drained suddenly, and perplexed. Something about the gardener sickened him. The man was tense as a spring—he knew if he let up only a little, Vrech would be all over him. He didn't feel like fighting anymore. His jaw was already swelling and his fist felt like it was broken. “Christ, Mor…” But she wasn't paying attention; she was staring off into the woods looking for the damned cat. The way the wind was tearing at the bushes, no one could see a cat running.

“It was hardly more than a kitten, Brade. Little white throat and paws. It was terrified.” She turned on Vrech, her black eyes blazing. “What did you want with it? What were you going to do to it?”

The gardener glared and didn't answer. His dark eyes were chilling, there was a strangeness about him that made Braden force him harder against the earth.

Morian moved closer, touching Braden's shoulder. “Let him up, Brade. The cat's gone—he won't catch her. Let him go.”

He didn't want to let him go, he wanted to pound him.

“Brade, let him go.”

Unwillingly he loosed Vrech, ready to pulverize him if he so much as looked sideways.

Vrech moved away from him quickly, and headed back down through the blowing woods toward Sam's. He looked back at them once. In the darkness Braden couldn't see his face. The lights through the bar's windows illuminated his slouching walk, then he was gone around the building, heading toward the lane.

“Brade, go ask Sam for some hamburger. I'll go up in the woods, maybe she'll come to me. I think she's hurt. I couldn't tell, she fled so fast.” She touched his face. “I can't just let her go, if she's hurt. Go on, Brade—cooked hamburger.”

In the bar he got some hamburger scraps and two double whiskeys, and borrowed a flashlight from Sam.

It wasn't hard to find Morian in her blowing white dress, standing beside the spring. She took the hamburger, spread the wrapper out and weighted it with broken branches. She led him some distance away, into a shelter of wild azalea where the wind didn't reach them so strongly. “Talk softly, maybe the sound of our voices will soothe her. Maybe once she eats, she'll come to us.”

He felt ridiculous sitting in the middle of the woods waiting for a cat. Alice would be very amused. He wondered what the gardener had been going to do with it. “Why do you think it's a female?”

“Most calico's are. And that little face—very female.”

He didn't know how she could be sure—it was just a cat. Frightened, though, and young. Its eyes had been huge. “It won't come to you, Mor. It was too scared. Christ, what are we doing out here?”

“Just a little while, Brade.”

They sat in silence, their hands touching, chilled by the wind, waiting for a stray cat. She said, “It hurts me to see them like that, so afraid, and maybe injured. They're so small; they weren't meant for our cruelty. Tiger—he was so
terribly hurt. I couldn't help him. The vet says they go into shock, that they don't feel the pain. I don't know.” Her hand was holding his too tightly. “I couldn't help him live, all I could do was help him die.”