The Catswold Portal (29 page)

“C
all them forth leaping,”
Olive read,
“bring them careening…”

Melissa dared not run away and leave Pippin here alone to be changed. Sick and shivering, she felt her body want to change, and she blocked the spell. For while Olive could not make a spell,
she
was present, and the words
echoed in her mind to bring the changing forces pummeling down.

“…careening joyous from spell-fettered caverns…”

The powers pulled at her. She stopped them, but when she looked at Pippin his tail was lashing, his eyes blazing. The expression on his face was so intense she reached out to him, stroking him, hoping to calm him, and for one instant she saw an aura around him, saw the faint, shadowed form of a man.

The sudden ringing of the doorbell made the yellow cat leap from the chair and streak for the back of the house.

Olive stared after him and rose to open the door, her expression unreadable. “He's heard that bell a million times. What gets into him?” she said innocently. “That will be my grandniece—I'm kitten-sitting for her.”

A little blond girl came in carrying a tiny reddish kitten, and clutching a paper bag and a small quilt under her elbow as if her mother had tucked them there. From the window, Melissa could see a woman waiting in a green car parked in Olive's driveway. Olive took the bag and quilt, but the child didn't want to give over the kitten. The pale-haired little girl held the yawning cat baby against her cheek.

Olive knelt, hugging the child and stroking the kitten. “I'll take good care of her, Terry. A week isn't so very long, you'll see.”

The child finally managed to hand the kitten over, reaching on tiptoe to kiss its nose as the little thing snuggled deep into Olive's hands. Melissa watched, very still. The kitten was so tiny. She wanted to hold it. She wanted to feel its soft fur, its delicate body. She wanted to lick it; she felt her tongue come out and had to bite it back. She could hardly keep from reaching out to gather the baby to her; she could smell its scent, infinitely personal and exciting. When she looked up, Olive was watching her.

As soon as the child had left, Olive brought the kitten to Melissa and settled it in her lap. Melissa cuddled it, hardly aware of Olive. It was so very small, so vulnerable. She lifted it to her cheek, felt its warmth against her, its baby-
scent powerful. She stifled the urge to press her mouth into it, to lick it, to wash that lovely fur, to wash its little face and clean those tiny delicate ears.

She spent a long time stroking the kitten, playing with it, and holding it while it slept. Across the table, Olive seemed busy with her notebooks. The kitten purred so passionately that Melissa longed to feel a responding purr in her own throat. She longed to change to cat and snuggle it properly, let it chase her tail in the age-old hunting games. Meanwhile, Pippin stalked the room, watching her. She was sure his thoughts, as her own, still echoed with Olive's half-spoken spell. And then quite suddenly Olive looked up from her books and began to read the changing spell loudly and deliberately, shocking Melissa so she hardly breathed. In panic she said a silent counter-spell and felt the change in herself subside. But Pippin had leaped up, his yellow eyes agleam.

Olive's eyes were hard on Melissa.
“You who seek the form abandoned, you who seek the house deserted…”

The change came quickly to Pippin. He yowled, was pulled straight, rearing and twisting, crying out, reaching with claws that became fingers as he was jerked tall.

The big golden cat was gone. A man stood before them, golden haired and naked.

He was a fine, muscular man, pale of skin, with short golden hair and the cat's golden eyes. He looked at his arms, at his naked body and long straight legs. He held one leg out and then the other, hopping like a marionette wild with pleasure; he seemed to have forgotten the two women.

But he stopped suddenly, regarding them with an expression of victory. “I am a—
man!
” The joy in his voice made Melissa laugh out loud.

“Why do you laugh at me?”

“A laugh of happiness. Like a purr.” She could feel Olive's excitement. She thought, giddily,
Now the cat's out of the bag,
and felt herself falling into insane laughter. Olive left the room, returning with a blanket which she handed to Pippin.

“I am not—cold.”

“To cover you,” Olive said.

Obediently Pippin draped the blanket around his shoulders, covering nothing of importance. “What were those words? A—a spell. I want to know the spell.”

Olive said it slowly. Pippin repeated it. In an instant he was cat again, his tail lashing.

But the next minute he returned to man, smiling wickedly.

Olive sat down at the table, regarding Melissa with composure. “I have read about this possibility. I have thought about it for a very long time.” Pippin began to roam, looking at everything in the room, touching, sniffing. When Olive began to read the spell again, Melissa said hastily, “There is terrible danger in attempting things you don't understand.”

“I did not attempt it, my dear. I did it. But why didn't you change? You are the same—your hair, your eyes. The way you hunger over the kitten.” The kitten, innocent of the fuss, slept in Melissa's circling arm.

Melissa said, “Even with your research, it seems strange that you would believe.”

“I believed because, when I was a young woman, I saw such a thing happen—or rather, I saw the results.

“I worked in the city, at the main library. I worked late two nights a week, and going home one night I saw a man step into an alley, and a cat come out.

“I thought little of that until it happened again. This time, the same cat went in and the same man came out.

“I grew curious, and began to wait near the alley on my late nights. I thought at first it was a man walking with his cat, though I never saw them together.

“I saw this happen three times more—the same man, the same cat, one emerging, the other disappearing into the alley.

“I began to investigate books on the occult, but they were so warped in their view that they told me nothing. I turned to folklore and then to archaeology. That was when I began to read about the doors with cats' faces.”

She looked at Melissa coolly. “You are a part of whatever
is happening in this garden. The gardener, Vrech, is a part of it. And Tom—I don't know what to think about Tom. I'm not sure that boy
is
Tom Hollingsworth. Something has changed him greatly, something has come into this garden, something secret and pervasive and not—not of the normal world.”

Olive poured cold tea from the pot and sipped it. They heard Pippin rummaging in the refrigerator, and he soon returned eating a fried chicken leg. He had forgotten his blanket.

He said, munching, “When I was cat, I didn't know…” He tried to bring up words from a language he had heard all his life but never used. “I didn't know…”

He gave up at last, finished the chicken leg, and laid the bone on the table. He said, slowly, “Now I am a man.” He gave Melissa a deep golden stare. “Now I want to know where Tom is. I want to know what the gardener has done with Tom. I saw him take Tom away. He put the other boy in Tom's bed. That boy is not Tom. Where is Tom?”

Melissa sighed. Neither lies nor evasiveness would do. “Tom is in another place.”

“Beyond the door?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised. “Beyond the portal. How…?”

“I saw the gardener come from there, smelling of deep, damp caverns. I saw him take Tom there. Tell me—all of it, please. If I am to help Tom I must know all of it.”

Olive watched them intent and eager, absorbing every word, filled with a deep, excited wonder.

“There is a land,” Melissa began, unable to do less than explain. “A land of caverns, deep down…”

“Beyond the door,” Olive whispered.

“Beyond the door,” Melissa said.

It took her a long time to explain sufficiently about the Netherworld, about the weakness of the Netherworld newborn and about the political importance of a changeling. Olive knew about changelings.

“Children stolen from our world, taken into the underworld through the cleft in a hill or through caves, another child put in their place.”

Pippin said, “Will they hurt Tom?”

“I don't think so,” Melissa said. “He's valuable to the queen. She will have put spells on him to make him forget his name, forget who he is, forget his life in the upperworld. She will do all she can to make him believe he is the prince of Affandar.” She touched Pippin's hand. “Tom—a healthy child—is her assurance of her title to the throne. I don't think she'll hurt him.”

“What will she do if he remembers who he is? If the spells do not—hold?”

“Likely they will hold. She has great power.”

“Spells cannot be—broken? Go wrong?”

“They can,” she said quietly.

“The door is the portal,” Pippin said softly. “But is it not more than that? Is there not power within the door?” His eyes shone. “Power—that has increased since you came. I think it was the power of the portal that first made me know I was different. And then you came.” His yellow eyes glowed in his strong human face. “You made me feel strange, uneasy.” He began to pace. “You must teach me all spells. You must teach me everything about the Netherworld. You must do it at once.”

She only looked at him.

“I must go quickly to find Tom.”

“You can't go there. Siddonie would destroy you.”

His feline gaze was searing, daunting. “I will go to find Tom.”

“There are times for patience.”

“I know that. I am cat, I know how to be patient. One is patient before a mouse hole. This,” he said imperiously, “is not so simple. I will go into the Netherworld and I will return with Tom.”

She sighed, stroking the sleeping kitten, filled with misgivings. Pippin was stubborn and hardheaded, truly Catswold. She said, “I will teach you all I can.”

P
ippin sat naked in Olive's dining room reciting Netherworld spells. Already Melissa had taught him to bring a spell-light, to turn aside arrows, to open locks. He delighted her with his quick, thorough Catswold retention. She soon had taught him every spell he might need, and some just for his pleasure. He took her sandal from her foot and made it dance and hoot like an owl. He called forth a fear that made the kitten spit and left Melissa trembling, unable to pull herself free until he released her.

He said, “I am ready now. I am going now to find Tom.”

“You aren't going naked.”

“Why not?”

“You can't go around naked.” She swallowed a laugh at his puzzled look. “You will be cold, Pippin. And you will have no pockets to put things in. You must wait until I buy you some clothes.” She rose. “Just stay here until I come back.” He nodded, perplexed, she was out the door before he could argue.

In the village she bought jeans and a sweatshirt, sandals that seemed the right size, and a backpack, a blanket, a rope, some candy bars and something called trail food, and a good knife. She was back at Olive's within an hour. Pippin dressed himself clumsily, complaining, and they went down through the garden. He had hugged Olive and rubbed his face against her by way of good-bye. The old woman had made him some sandwiches and put a thermos of milk in the pack. Melissa had drawn a map for him. She was nervous with worry, but there was no changing his mind.

In the tool room she brought a spell-light and spread out the map. She showed him how to travel from the tunnel to the palace, and from there to Mag's cottage. She showed him the three rebel camps he would pass, and described and named the rebel leaders she knew. She gave him enchantments to manage a horse. She was describing the inside of the palace, and how to get to Wylles' chambers, where Tom was likely to be, when something scraped against the oak door and it swung open.

Olive slipped in and shut the door quickly. She was dressed in heavy pants and a sweater, and carrying a faded backpack. “I took the kitten to Morian's. I got it settled in the bedroom and left her a note by the front door. I told her I was going to my sister's.”

Pippin said, “You don't think—you don't plan to go with me? You…”

“I am going with you. I told Morian I was taking Pippin with me to my sister's in his carrier, that I thought it would do her good to have an animal around.”

Pippin said, “It is not possible for you to go. I move too fast; you will be lost.” He stood over Olive glowering down at her. “You are an upperworld person, you have no magic. What will you do when I turn to cat?”

Olive looked hard at Pippin. “I am an old woman. No one will miss me. I want more than anything to see that world. I will not hinder you. If I do, you can leave me behind. I want to see that world, and I want to help free Tom.”

“But you don't—you aren't—”

“You can tell me what I need to know as we travel. And perhaps I can tell you a few useful things. I have gleaned many old spells from my research. Now open the wall, Pippin. I am older than you, and more stubborn.”

He opened the wall.

Olive stared into the darkness and strode through beside Pippin. Just before the wall closed she glanced back at Melissa. Her look was filled with wonder, with the excitement of her final amazing discovery.

Melissa watched the wall seal itself and turned away
drained—and she was facing Wylles. He stood in the open doorway, white with rage.

He came in slowly and shut the door behind him. “They are upperworlders. You had no right to let them go through.”

She said nothing.

“I saw you come down here, you and that Catswold—that nasty yellow cat. I saw the old woman come down. What are they up to? Why are they going down?” Wylles started for the wall, but she grabbed him and shoved him back.

“I am prince of Affandar. You dare not touch me, you are my subject.” He swung to slap her, but she caught his arm. He was only twelve years old, and he had been near to death, but he was strong enough now—it was all she could do to hold him.

“Get out of here, Wylles. Go on back to Tom's house. What harm can two upperworlders do in the Netherworld?”

“What magic did you teach that Catswold?”

She only looked at him.

“You will pay for this. My mother knows what to do with meddlers—with a Catswold slut from my father's bed.”

She clenched her fists to keep from hitting him. “I'm surprised at your loyalty to your mother, after she got rid of you.”

“I admire my mother's power. She does what a queen must. My illness was a great hindrance to her.” He moved away and picked up the hoe, watching her. “Siddonie lives for the grand plan. I admire that. I admire her skill for intrigue—both at home and in the upperworld. Anne Hollingsworth is beside herself because Lillith Corporation is disrupting her neat little life. She is like a beast caught in a trap; she has no notion what is happening to her, or why.”

“And you would not help her.”

“Why should I help her? I like seeing her squirm.”

“And what would you do if you didn't have her to feed and shelter you?”

“I would manage.” He smiled. “I won't be here long. When my mother has defeated the rebels, when she rules every kingdom in the Netherworld, I will return to take my rightful place.”

“If you go back to the Netherworld you will sicken again.”

“If I sicken I will return here to become well.” The idea seemed to amuse him. “I will come here, just as upperworlders take winter vacations in Hawaii. I can return as I please. What is to stop me?” He balanced the hoe, testing its weight. She laid a silent spell to deflect it, and realized that his own spells touched her; she felt suddenly weak and fearful. This was the real battle, the silent battle of enchantments. She wanted to run, and she knew that desire was born of Wylles' power warping her senses.

He said, “Siddonie will die in her time. And my father will die. Then I will rule the Netherworld that Siddonie is now winning for me.” His weight shifted slightly as he tensed to swing the hoe.

She made the hoe so heavy he couldn't lift it. He dropped it and grabbed the shovel; their spells crashed between them, too evenly matched.
“Catswold,”
Wylles spat. “There will be no Catswold left when I am king.”

“Why do you hate the Catswold? Why does Siddonie?”

His eyes darkened. “The Catswold stole Xendenton from us. They killed my grandfather and my uncles.”

“It's more than that,” she hissed, wanting to slap him.

“You fear the Catswold powers. You fear the Catswold's stubborn independence because you can't defeat that independence. You fear their freedom. You can't admit the real reason you hate the Catswold—any more than you can admit why you fear images.”

“You should know about images, Catswold girl. You stir them brazenly. You encourage West to do irreparable damage.”

“Braden's paintings harm no one.”

“West's images draw evil forces.”

“Nonsense.”

Wylles' face clouded. “Already evil has come to this place. I saw my father here with you, planning evil. I want to know what you are planning.”

When she laughed at him, he turned white. “You are my subject. When I ask you a question you are obliged to answer.”

“I am no one's subject. I am Catswold; I bow to no ruler.”

He screamed a spell and swung the shovel; she drove heaviness into it so it dropped, and grabbed his hands. He struggled but soon they stood locked together by her grip, and by their powers. She burned to weaken him. He was only a boy, but he filled her with cold fear. Suddenly he jerked free and snatched up the hoe, and his spell, born of rage, overrode hers. They scuffled, she hit him. The hoe struck her in the head a blow that dizzied her, pain warped her vision. She faced him, dizzy, her back to the wall. She felt herself changing and was terrified to be small. Gasping, she shouted a forgetting spell as she felt herself change to cat.

 

She was cat, staring up at him. Wylles stared at her blankly, then looked at the hoe he held, puzzled, and he lowered it. She watched him, her ears back, then wiped her paw at the blood that ran down her cheek. She didn't know whether he had changed her or whether the pain had changed her.

He looked down at her, puzzled, made no effort to harm her though she was small. Silently she brought the changing spell, and brought it again—she became a woman again with effort. When she stood tall before him, he seemed startled. “Where did you come from? I don't…”

“We came in here together, don't you remember? I was just behind you. You were telling me your name. I had asked you where you live.”

“I—Tom,” he said, confused. “Tom Hollingsworth. I live up—up the garden. In the white house. You're hurt—you've hurt your head.”

“I hit my head. I must go and tend to it. Maybe you'd better go home, Tom.”

Wylles nodded obediently and went out. She stood outside the portal watching him meander up the garden. Then she headed for the studio, dizzy and weak.

 

When Braden opened the door and saw the blood he put his arm around her and helped her to the couch. “Better lie
down. I'll get some ice.” She lay down gratefully on the vermilion silk. He left her, and soon she could hear the rattle of the ice tray. He returned to hold an icy towel to her forehead and cheek, his dark eyes intense. “Are you dizzy? Can you see clearly? Are you sick to your stomach? Melissa? My God, what happened to you?”

Gratefully she let him doctor her. Even under the cold pack she could feel her cheek and forehead swelling, and then, terrified, she felt the falling sensation that came with change. Pain made the change, she was sure of it now. She blocked the metamorphosis stubbornly, willing herself to hold human shape, sick with terror that she would become the little cat as he watched.

“Are you dizzy, Melissa? Do you feel nauseated?”

“Not dizzy, not sick. It just hurts. The ice makes it better.”

Kneeling beside the couch he drew her to him, holding her close, his lips against her hurt forehead. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“I fell, up in the woods—I tripped on something, a branch. So stupid.” She was steadying now. The sense of turning to cat was fading. “I fell against a tree and hit my head.”

“But you're trembling.”

“It frightened me. It hurt.”

He tilted her chin up, kissing her. “You're completely white. Is that all that happened? Or was it someone—did someone hurt you?”

“No, there was no one. The pain made me dizzy, the fall frightened me. I—I'm all right now.”

“Rest a while. I'll get a blanket.”

She watched him tuck the blanket around her, already she was drifting.

He said, “Don't go to sleep. If it's a concussion you mustn't sleep. Talk to me.”

She didn't want to sleep; she was terrified of going to sleep and changing. But she was very sleepy. Fighting to stay awake she rose at last, went into the bathroom, and washed her face. When she came out of the bathroom she
stood behind him looking at the new painting, one from the Victorian house.

This painting had a dark quality. She saw herself standing beside the bevelled mirror in a bedroom of the Victorian house, wrapped in reflected shadows. She stared into her own face, startled.

She had, in this painting, a quality the other paintings did not show. Her face reflected power. Her eyes, within the shadows, reflected magic.

He was working away, oblivious to her. She stared at his back, frightened. Braden was seeing too much. First the secret cat shadows through her figure, and now this revealing glint of magic, far too explicit to be comfortable.

But he didn't know anything consciously, she was convinced of it. Whatever Braden perceived was seen not with his conscious mind.

When she had stood behind him for some minutes held by the painting, and upset by it, he turned. He was frowning, annoyed that she was standing there. But she supposed this was natural—no one wanted someone looking over his shoulder. He said, “Do you feel any better?”

She nodded.

“I have some steaks,” he said. “Will you stay for dinner?”

“I—I'd like that,” she said softly.

He glanced toward the darkening garden and began to clean up his paints. At his direction she washed two potatoes and put them to bake, feeling smug that she was cooking in an upperworld kitchen. He went to wash, then put some records on and fixed her a whiskey. He made a salad, and while the steaks broiled he called the little cat. He looked disappointed when she didn't appear. “I guess it's silly to be concerned, but she's gotten sick a couple of times.”

“It isn't silly at all, just very caring. But I don't think she'll come while I'm here. Cats always avoid me.”

 

They ate on the terrace by candlelight, watching the garden for the cat and listening to records. The music was strange to her, exciting. There were trumpets, clarinets; he called it
swing. Then one number struck her memory, making her unbearably nostalgic, and Braden said Alice had liked it.

They washed the dishes together and played another stack of records and talked about nothing and about everything—about McCabe, about Alice and the Kitchens, about the city, its galleries and museums. Isolated memories touched her, of pollarded trees in Golden Gate Park, and then of wind on the ocean. Of a room with a skylight and a fountain. Ugly memories touched her, too—pictures of a dozen different schools where she was always the new child, picked on, hazed. He had the same kind of memories, from moving so often as his father followed the oil fields. She remembered being thought a strange child because she liked cats, but she kept that memory to herself. As they discovered mutual childhood fears and pains she found her need for him rising in a way she had never felt before.