The Catswold Portal (24 page)

“What's so funny? What's so goddamn funny?”

She stared at him, shocked. She hadn't thought he would see her amusement. She didn't know that a laugh showed on her cat face. She turned away quickly, jumped on the couch, and curled down on the satin.

 

Braden watched her. The damn cat had been laughing at him. And this wasn't the first time he'd had that feeling. And he wondered if he was getting a bit strange. Frowning, he took the piece of lobster to the kitchen and put it on a plate. “Your lobster's served, my lady.”

She came running, and tied into the morsel as if she hadn't eaten in weeks.

When she finished he got her some cat food, then realized
he should have given her that first. Now she wouldn't touch it. She sauntered back to the studio, jumped on the couch, and began to wash, seeming as content as if she'd just gorged herself on the whole lobster. It was then that he remembered the basket.

He put it down on the couch for her.

She looked up at him, pleased. She seemed to like its smell. She got in, tail waving, circled, and curled down with a sensuous wiggle. Tucking her chin under, she smiled upside down at him, her green eyes slitted, her white throat exposed, her white paws drooping languidly over her belly. Her eyes, he thought, were as green as the sea—green as Melissa's eyes.

O
live Cleaver didn't sleep well. She thought in the night that she heard Tom shout,
“Come near me—I'll kill you!”
She knew she had dreamed it, but she lay awake a long time thinking about Tom. She was puzzled by the change in the boy, distressed for him and for Anne.

She had gone over yesterday to ask Tom to help her with the research, thinking that might get him out of the house. But he had been so surly, so rude, that she had left after just a few minutes.

She had never seen Tom like that before. He said he had no use for books and why would he go anywhere with an old woman? She had left feeling very hurt. Now, lying awake, she tried to understand what she might have done to anger him and, worrying, she rose at last and went downstairs.

It was near dawn, beginning to grow light. She opened the
curtains to let in the sunrise, then made herself a pot of cocoa. She sat before the window sipping it, wrapped in her heavy robe and wearing her thick slippers, looking out at the garden.

She saw Braden let out the little calico cat. She was pleased that he had kept her. The cat trotted happily up the garden past her house, heading for the woods.

She was pouring a second cup of cocoa when a young woman passed her porch at the same spot, coming down from the woods, and went directly to Braden's. The same young woman she had seen around the garden the last few days. Maybe Braden had a new interest. Certainly she was a striking creature. Strange, Olive thought, she didn't remember her hair being so arresting. Maybe she had just had it done—she must have spent a fortune on it. Maybe she was an actress, made up for some part. Really, when you got used to her hair, it was stunning. Olive watched her knock, watched Braden let her in, then went to shower and dress, turning her thoughts to the research.

“G
et on the horse! Get on the horse
now!
”

“I won't! I'm afraid!” Tom backed away from the roan mare warily.

He wasn't afraid. He liked horses. But he stared at the queen stubbornly, defying her, determined she would not make him do anything. He hadn't asked to come here. He wanted to be home. The sooner she found she couldn't make him obey, the sooner…

The sooner, what?
Tom thought, reining in his anger.

Did he think she would take him back to the upperworld? Why should she? As he turned away from the horse the pain hit him: a fire shot through his body so hard he was jerked to his knees. He couldn't move—the pain was so violent tears welled up involuntarily.

“Get on the horse.” Siddonie grabbed his arm, jerking him up. “Get on.”

“I won't.”

The pain came, harder. He had never hated anyone, until this woman. He hated her. And was terrified of her.

“Get on now.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Her rage was so great he thought she would kill him. He felt himself go dizzy then retchingly sick. His stomach heaved, and the sharp pain struck through him as if it ground his bones—he had never been so hurting and sick. He held himself straight, staring at her, filled with angry defiance until blackness tilted over him; he reeled, and fainted.

 

It was hours later that Efil, having watched the performance, was able to slip into the boy's room, breaking the locking spells on the chamber door. Siddonie had ridden off with Vrech toward the northern mines or maybe for a frolic in some deserted herder's cabin; he didn't care which. She didn't know he was in the palace, she thought he had ridden to Cressteane. He had doubled back, watching her ludicrous attempt to make the boy ride, an attempt she repeated every day.

The room was dim, the draperies pulled shut. He closed the door quickly and bound it with his own spells, then cast a light across the sleeping boy's face, not expecting him to stir. But when the light hit him, the boy woke.

Efil smiled. “You are strong, Tom Hollingsworth. Siddonie's spells are not as effective as she thinks. She means for you to sleep until she wants you in the stable yard again.”

The boy watched him warily.

“Do you know where you are, Tom? Do you remember where you came from?”

The boy's eyes drooped as he fought the sleepiness stirred by such questions.

“No matter. You will know in time. I am Efil, king of Affandar.”

“What is Affandar?” Tom sat up, punching a pillow behind him. “Where have you taken me? What is this all about? Who is this Queen Siddonie?” His brown eyes were very like Wylles'. Efil was fascinated by the resemblance.

“Where is this place? Why did she bring me here? What does she want with me?”

“Vrech brought you here.”

“The gardener, yes. He's a bastard.” The boy swung off the bed; Efil caught him as he fell. With the spell Siddonie had put on him, he was surprised the boy could get up at all.

“The queen has plans for you, Tom. But perhaps we can change the outcome. If you will trust me.”

The boy was silent, looking him over. At last he said, “I don't know whether I can trust you. But right now, I don't have any other choice.” He leaned back against the pillows pulling for a full breath—that was the henbane. Efil made a quick healing spell, and the boy's breathing came easier and his color quickened. His eyes widened at the change within himself; he watched Efil with new interest.

“The queen's spells and the herbs make you ill. I have countered them, but that is not always possible. Nor will my spell last. I will lay what spells I can to help you, if you will do as I tell you.”

“Can you get me away from here? Can you get me home? Is my mother all right?”

“I'm sure no one has bothered her. I will try to get you home, but it will take time. You must first help me.”

Tom looked around the darkened room. “I don't want to stay here.”

“You must, for the present. You must pretend obedience to the queen's powers. You must ride, as she tells you. Once she has trained you in horsemanship and to behave like the real Wylles of Affandar, she will take you out among the vil
lages. You must do as she tells you—it is the only way I can help you.”

“But what does she want? Why is she doing this?”

“She has brought you here to replace the sick prince. You look like him. Vrech searched a long time to find a boy who looks like him, then he—arranged for you to move to the house in the garden.”

The boy's eyes widened. Efil put a hand on his arm. “There is no time for anger. You can only work at saving yourself. Siddonie will not harm you as long as you impersonate Wylles, as long as you are of value to her.”

“But if I could get away…”

“It would do you no good to escape, Tom. You cannot leave the Netherworld alone. No portal will open for you; they will open only for a Netherworlder.”

“But you can open this portal?”

“In time I can.”

“I don't understand. And I don't understand about the Netherworld. A netherworld would be an imaginary place.”

“This world lies below your world. You came here through the portal in the garden where you live—the door carved with cats.”

“The tool shed door? But there's only a little room inside.”

“That room opens to a tunnel. The wall behind it can be opened by a spell, but only by one of us.”

The boy looked doubtful.

“Where do you think you are, then? What do you think has made you so ill and makes you sleep all the time?”

“Drugs, maybe.”

“Drugs, yes. But magic, too,” the king said. “I will try to get you home. But first you must follow the queen's lead—let her think you are spell-cast and obedient.”

“And what do
you
want in return?”

“I want to get you out of here. Your presence will destroy my own plans.” Efil smiled. “Don't fear, I cannot kill you. It is against the Primal Law. I can only get you home again—at my own time, in my own way.”

He soon left the boy, satisfied with the conversation, certain that the boy would do as he ordered.

Already he had started rumors of the imminent birth of his child by another woman. Soon, he would let his subjects know the queen had brought a changeling into the Netherworld. Later, he would prove that was true. If that caused danger to the changeling boy, what difference?

He took the back stairs down to the stables, thinking about Melissa, hoping she was still alive. He would bring her down, surround her with divining ceremonies by the old soothsayer, let the peasants see her, create all the pomp he could to prove a child was on the way. A Catswold child, who could draw all the nations together—under his rule.

T
he Harpy and Mag and the gathered rebels watched, in the Harpy's little mirror, as Efil talked with Tom. When the king promised to free Tom, the Harpy clacked her beak. “Certainly he will.”

Halek laughed. “Might you show us the dispossessed Prince Wylles? Or does your mirror have the power to reach that far, Harpy?”

The Harpy jabbed her beak at Halek companionably, and brought a sharp reflection of Prince Wylles, alone in a bedroom of the Hollingsworth house.

Wylles had grown fatter, and he had some color now. His face was not pinched by sickness anymore, but only by his sour disposition. He was investigating the bedroom cupboards and closet, tossing the contents onto the floor. He seemed not to be stealing but simply destructive or inquisi
tive, perhaps fascinated with upperworld trinkets. As they watched he pulled out sweaters, a woman's shoes, an electric iron, examined each then tossed it aside. He stopped sometimes and looked around him as if he wondered where he was. “Likely,” the Harpy said, “he has not fully regained his memory.

“But still,” she said, watching him more closely, “there is a wariness about him. There is, don't you think, a look of fear in Wylles' eyes?” She glanced up at Mag, but held the vision steady as a dark-skinned woman entered the house.

This woman was there often overseeing the boy. She and the skinny, older, pale woman were neighbors in the little communal setting of the garden. The Harpy said, “She knows there's something strange about the boy. She half believes as his mother does that he is not Tom.” They watched Morian look about her with disgust at the dirty kitchen. The boy, in the bedroom, hadn't bothered to answer her knock.

 

Morian considered the filthy kitchen table, where cracker crumbs had been smeared into chocolate syrup and peanut butter. Open jars of pickles, jam, and cocktail onions stood amid a clutter of dirty dishes. More dirty dishes were stacked in a tilting pile in the sink. She thought of cleaning up; it was only mid-morning, she had time before class. But she decided not to give the boy the satisfaction. She knew Anne hadn't left the kitchen in this mess.

She had grown to hate this chore of checking on Tom. Up until his illness, he had always been responsible when left alone.

She called to him, then went to look for him. She found him in Anne's bedroom.

He had everything out of the closet and the dresser drawers, dumped in a heap on the floor. Clothes were piled in corners and strewn tangled across the bed. The room looked like the Salvation Army sales room after a scatter bomb. She wanted to snatch the kid up and beat the tar out of him. She said, “I knocked. I guess you didn't hear me.”

He glowered. “What do you want?”

She took a deep breath. “I promised Anne I'd look in. Anything you need?”

Silence. They stared at each other.

She moved nearer the boy. “I suggest you clean up this mess, and the mess in the kitchen, before Anne gets home.”

“Why should I?”

“Because if Anne finally loses patience with you—and that could be very soon—she will do something about you. Tell me, have you ever been inside a mental hospital? Have you ever seen patients tied to the bedposts, or huddled into straitjackets with their arms wrapped around them so they can't even scratch their own noses? So they can't eat by themselves, or go to the bathroom by themselves? Have you ever seen patients with electric caps on their heads, with wires stuck into their brains giving them electric shock treatments?”

She had to suppress a smile. Whatever her description lacked in accuracy was made up for by the expression on the boy's face. And as she watched him, Morian was filled with the cold certainty she had had for days—that this boy wasn't Tom.

“If Anne thinks you are mentally ill,
Tom,
as your behavior suggests, she will certainly put you in a mental hospital. And they not only give the patients shock treatments, they put them on drugs that make vegetables of them.

“The windows have bars on them,
Tom,
and the steel doors are locked at night. And sometimes the medical students from the university come to—ah, study them.”

Fear twisted deeper in the boy's eyes, and his lips were a tight line. But then hatred blazed from his eyes, raw and cold, stirring a dark fear in her.

She had no theory about what this boy was doing here or how he got here, or where Tom was; the idea of the boys being switched was too bizarre. Half her mind could not accept such a notion. But the other half—the deep, instinctual half—knew that Tom was gone.

She went away quietly, leaving the boy tearing up Anne's bedroom. Telling herself that her instinct was wrong, that no
sensible person would believe Tom had been kidnapped and a stranger left in his place.

Going back across the garden she saw Braden and a girl getting into his station wagon. She lifted a hand to him, admiring the girl's astonishing hair, wondering what kind of fortune she spent on that wonderful mane. Maybe she was an actress done up for a part. Braden looked pleased as hell with her. Morian smiled and put Tom out of her thoughts. She went on home feeling good.

 

That morning, Wylles changed his tactics. He began to cooperate. Perhaps his increased wariness was engendered by the cat he had seen watching him, or perhaps by Morian's rage; likely even Wylles himself didn't know what ruled him. He cleaned up Anne's bedroom, then he cleaned the kitchen and did the dishes. Then he found an excuse to visit Olive Cleaver, turning himself into a boy just as bright and amiable as Tom had ever been.