The Catswold Portal (30 page)

She got him to talk about his work, though she had to read between his remarks. Slowly she began to understand the search he embarked on with each new painting. She began to see how he groped, each time, for some entity almost beyond the painter's grasp. He laughed at himself. “Late night talk.” But she liked very much the way he explained his feelings.

He was not self-conscious. His words seemed to be a way of exploring, as if he seldom put his intentions into conscious thought. She understood that his vision of the work came from deep inside; she thought that his deep response to the world was almost like an inner enchantment.

Late in the evening he called the cat again, then brought Melissa a cup of tea. She said, “The moon's full—it makes cats crazy. She's probably playing up in the garden, climbing trees.” She smiled at him. “She'll be home in the morning, don't worry.”

Leaning to set the cup down he touched her hair, then tilted her chin up, looking deeply at her. She swallowed, ducking her head to press her face into his hand. Rubbing her cheek against him, she rose and led him to the bedroom.

In the dim moonlight, touched by the cool salt wind, she
let him undress her. She was already used to his nakedness, and was amused because she couldn't tell him that. She rose to his stroking, to his lips on her, as if she had never before been loved, as if this was the first time.

W
ylles reached the top of the garden filled with rage at Melissa for the spell she had tried to lay on him. There was too much power in the Catswold woman. Though her spell hadn't destroyed his memory, he had felt his face go slack, had felt himself starting to drop into the dull state of forgetfulness, had used all his power to counter her enchantment. He was pleased that he had hurt her, saw the blood as she turned away. Saw with disgust Braden West open the studio door for her and put his arm around her. And then at the top of the garden, when he spied Olive's two kittens sunning on her porch, all his fury focused on them. He thought about cat blood spurting and thin bones broken, thought how the kittens resembled Melissa, if not in color, at least in their soft, furry weakness.

He approached the kittens casually, as if he didn't really see them. Ignoring them, he sat down on the top step.

They looked at him with curiosity and soon the bolder kitten approached him. It was gangly despite its thick, soft fur. The thought of wounding it made him hard; he cupped his hand over his crotch. With a sudden hot, shivering bliss he pictured not the gray-and-white kitten rent in his hands, but Melissa: he saw the calico rent and torn.

The kitten approached innocently and stood looking up into his face. The second kitten skittered close behind it. He
waited until they were both winding around his knees, then he grabbed them suddenly, one in each hand, meaning to bash them together, seeing Melissa crushed.

Pain hit him: hot pain shot through his neck and throat. Then someone knocked him up off the porch, hitting him from behind.

The blow was so sharp his arms jerked and his hands released the kittens. His vision faltered, blackness washed over the garden. He felt himself being shaken, hard. The porch and garden warped and swam before him. He was jerked around, hands biting into his arms.

He was facing the black woman; she held him in a grip like steel.

Morian slapped him. Her eyes blazed. His fear of her was so complete and debilitating he wet himself.

 

Morian tried to control her rage; she didn't want to injure him, just terrify. Whoever this boy was, he needed to experience the terror of quick retribution. She shook him until she was afraid she would do him damage, then she held him away, staring into his white, frightened face.

She knew this could not be Tom. Tom would never harm an animal, he was too strong inwardly. The real Tom had a deep, sure core of lightness that would not allow him to do something so weak.

She tried to see physical differences between this boy and Tom, in the set of the boy's eyes, in the shape of his brows or mouth, his round chin. As she watched him, a shiver of vertigo touched her, a swarming dizziness that puzzled and alarmed her. She held the boy tighter, digging her fingers into his shoulders.

“If I ever see you near any cat, if I see you
touch
a cat again, I will break your bones, boy. I will smash your face.”

“I wasn't going to hurt them. What makes—makes you think I would hurt them, Mor? I was petting them, picking the kittens up to pet them.”

She jerked him up off the steps, bringing him close to her face. “If any cat, in this garden or near it, is harmed in any
way—even if you are not responsible—I will make pudding of that white, pasty little face.”

His stare told her that he would like to crush her, just as he had meant to crush the helpless kittens.

She shook him and twisted his ear until tears spurted from his glaring eyes. “Do you understand me!” she shouted. “I will twist your face like I am twisting that ear. I will twist your body like that, and break it.” She dropped him and held up her hands. “These black hands could kill you, boy. If you touch any cat again, these hands will break you in little pieces.”

He backed away from her. And she saw as he turned away from her something distant and cold crawling out of his eyes.

Then he was gone, into the Hollingsworth house. She stood looking after him, wondering who, or what, this boy was.

T
he Harpy cupped her little mirror in her hands and watched with interest as Morian shook and slapped Wylles. She was perched alone on a ridge of black rock far north of Chillings, catching her breath. She opened her beak wide as, in the flashing light of her mirror, Morian dealt with Wylles. She liked the black woman's style. The prince deserved whatever he got.

She felt that the fates were working now in a fascinating way. The events in the two worlds were linking, meshing together. Even Wylles' role was notable. She had begun to think that, after all, the powers of good would triumph.

She surprised herself that she cared.

She was a Hell Beast. She should be rooting for Siddonie and the dark forces. She had tried, but she could not. She felt drawn to Melissa and to Mag and the rebels. Her fondness embraced, as well, the inhabitants of the upperworld garden—Braden, Olive, certainly Morian. All of them had a passion for life that warmed and excited her.

She realized that she was, for all practical purposes, no longer a true Hell Beast. She had, in becoming drawn toward the most spirited living souls, abandoned the flames of Hell. Win the war, that was the first order. After that—maybe she would move in with Mag and raise pigs.

She shook her tired wings, and let them droop and rest. Every muscle ached. She had been flying for days, moving endlessly beneath the Netherworld's skies and sometimes running through tunnels too narrow for flight. She was the only flying beast willing to help the rebels, willing to gather together the ancient folk. How many miles she had flown she didn't count. She had routed dwarfs from deep cave communities, and had summoned small dark men from clefts so remote they had no green sky of wizard light, only spell-lights. At her call, shy bands of white-skinned elven folk had scaled down sheer cliffs to gather in valleys their races hadn't seen in generations. Goat-hooved urisks small as rabbits had come carrying immense spears, and a tribe of dorricks with twisted backs had joined the rebels.

Under her recruiting, the small, disciplined rebel army was swelling into a formidable band, taking on so many troops it was becoming cumbersome and unruly. She had even routed out the last few dragons, though they were puny beasts. She had brought into the rebel camps folk so long forgotten that no one knew what to call them. But all were warriors, or soon would be, though they might be armed only with picks and axes and sharpened shovels and with fighting spells not used in generations.

And now, not only were the tribes joining together, but the fates of key individuals were joining: the fate of the real Tom Hollingsworth, who had already escaped from Siddonie.
The fate of Melissa. Of Wylles. The fate of Siddonie herself. And the fate of Braden West.

When, rested, the Harpy exploded suddenly into flight again, she took off with such vigor that her wings scraped the granite cliff and she bumped up against the granite sky. When she recovered from the jolt she set off in a long, powerful flight, heading north straight for Mag and the rebel camp, her shadow winging above her thin and fast. She arrived at the camp in mid-afternoon.

At once, Mag set about preparing a pot of cricket soup for her. “What of the false queen, Harpy? What does your mirror show?”

The Harpy smiled. “Just as we hoped, the street cat has embraced the advances of King Efil. Or,” she said, “she seems to have embraced his proposition. Though in my opinion, the king is a fool to trust her.” She reached, took the ladle from Mag impatiently, and began supping up crickets from it.

“The king was always a fool,” Mag said.

The Harpy nodded, her mouth full. “He thinks the false queen idolizes him. Ah,” she said, smacking a cricket,

“lovely soup.”

Mag said, “It's hardly cooked yet. I do not like this business of the false queen.”

“Siddonie has trained her well,” the Harpy said glumly.

“And?” said Mag.

“The Catswold have long been without a queen. They may be eager, indeed, to follow this woman.”

“Then tell them she is an imposter—tell them before she comes down the tunnel and into the Catswold nation.”

“No.”

“Well, why not? If you don't, I will send a messenger to tell them. And I myself will go to fetch Melissa home. The Catswold need their true queen.”

“No,” said the Harpy. “Not yet.”

“I do not understand you. Why are you so stubborn? You will have to tell me where she is. Do you want me to waste time searching for her? She is needed now.”

The Harpy turned away to ladle out more soup, then grew impatient and dipped her bill into the pot, spearing crickets.

“No matter how much you have helped us so far,” Mag said, “if you impede us in this you will destroy us.”

“No, I will not. Do not go after Melissa. Let the fates have their way.”

Mag stared at her. “Then you know what will happen? I thought you couldn't see the future.”

The Harpy raised her dripping beak, a cricket caught in the side, squirming. She gulped it before she spoke. Her words were far too poetic for her nature. “I do not see the future. But I sense the whisper of fate like a rising wind against the granite sky.”

Mag snorted.

“I sense fate powerfully,” the Harpy said, her little black eyes widening. “If I did not, I would go myself to fetch Melissa.”

She resumed eating.

 

It was much later, after she had left Mag and was flying alone beneath the dark sky, that the Harpy saw in her little mirror a scene that made her pause in flight, dropping and shivering.

She saw a blackness stirring deep down within the flames of the Hell Pit: a dark, primal evil that, she thought, not even Siddonie's powers could have roused. She watched it for a long time, shaken. She might sense fate, but she had not sensed this. She did not know how to deal with this cold black essence of the Hell Pit.

T
hrough the open bedroom window the bay was dark under low clouds. Wind rattled the reeds in the marsh, bringing to Melissa as she woke a memory of running among the reeds. She frowned, thinking some noise had awakened her. She heard nothing now but the wind. She woke fully and stretched, watching Braden sleeping beside her, deliriously aware that she need not sneak away now, that she belonged here, that he would wake soon and hold her and love her. She slid closer to him, fitting herself against him, her desire rising. In sleep his arms went around her and his embrace tightened but he didn't wake. Hungrily she touched her lips to his face, breathing his scent, wanting him. The noise came again, the noise that had awakened her. She came fully alert, listening to the sliding, metallic scraping.

It came from the studio, the scraping then a click. Puzzled, she slipped out from Braden's arms, slid off the bed, and pulled on his robe. She went out barefoot, silently padding toward the studio.

The room was unnaturally dark with the draperies closed. The only light was a faint gray pool beneath the skylight, and a dull pallor spilling in through the open front door.

Wind from the open door fingered coldly against her ankles. She looked for whoever had come in. Where she stood in the hall, in Braden's dark robe, perhaps she had not been seen.

She could see little in the dark room. She breathed a silent spell and changed to cat. The shadows thinned, the room was lighter.

She saw a black figure barely visible in front of the closed draperies. She could hear him breathing now, and she knew his scent. Frightened, she slipped into the blackness behind the stacked canvases.

From the dense shadows between canvases she watched Wylles move toward the easel. He made no sign that he had seen her. Suddenly his face was lit, not by a spell-light but by a flashlight. Its yellow circle moved toward the paintings hanging on the wall above her.

The light paused at each painting as Wylles moved slowly down the room, looking. Then he moved to the easel; she saw too late the glint of a knife.

She heard the canvas rip as she leaped. She landed on his back raking her claws into his flesh. He threw himself against the wall to crush her.

She jumped from his shoulders and changed to girl. She hit him and grabbed his arms. The studio lights flared on.

Braden stood half awake, half asleep, wearing a pair of cutoffs, looking at the slashed painting, at her, and at the paint-smeared blade in Wylles' hand. Looking at the painting where her face was slashed, with a hole in it where a flap of canvas hung down. It began to rain, pattering against the glass.

Braden took the paint-smeared knife from Wylles' hand. He examined the paint on Wylles' fingers.

Then, not speaking, he clamped a hand on Wylles' shoulder and propelled him out the door. Melissa watched him guide Wylles up the dim garden, watched them mount the stairs to the white house, watched Braden push Wylles against the wall like a limp doll. She could see that Braden was talking to Wylles. Wylles didn't move. At last Braden opened the door and shoved Wylles inside the house.

He came back down the garden and pushed past her, not speaking. Was he angry with her? She heard the coffeepot start. She stood looking at the ruined canvas. If she had not come in, Wylles would have destroyed all Braden's paintings of her.

Images—he stirs violent powers with his images…

She went into the bedroom and slipped back into bed to wait for Braden to cool down.

At last he brought his coffee and her tea to bed. She touched his face. “Did you wake Tom's mother? Did you tell her?”

“No. My business was with Tom.” His dark eyes burned with anger, but not at her.

“What did you say to him?”

“I explained how I would feel if anything else of mine was touched. I told him I had killed men in the war. I told him killing meant nothing to me.” For the first time, he grinned. “I demonstrated with his butcher knife a diversity of things I could think of to do to him.”

“Would you?”

He smiled.

She buried her face against his bare shoulder. “I loved that painting.”

“I'll do it over.”

“He'll come back, Braden. No matter what you told him. Is—is there somewhere we could take the paintings?”

“He won't come back.”

“Yes.”

He looked at her, frowning. “How could you know that? Is there something you're not telling me?”

“No, but—did you see his face? I just feel that he could come back.”

“Was it Tom who hit you yesterday? The blow on your head…?”

“I fell. Why would Tom hit me?”

“Why would he slash my painting?”

“Could you take the paintings to the gallery now? The show is only three weeks away. We—we could go down to Carmel. You said last night it would be nice to paint in Carmel.”

He looked at her silently, trying to see more than she was telling him. “He's only a child, Melissa. Why would I run away from a little boy?”

She touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw, turning
her own face so the wound on her forehead and the bruise on her cheek caught the light.

He stared at her then drew her close, kissing her, holding her. At last he said, “So why not? We could get some good work in Carmel, the light is wonderful, the sea…But I don't think I want to dump the whole show on Rye so early, fill up his storage space.”

She busied herself with her tea.

He touched under her chin, tipping her face up. “There's more to this than you're telling me.”

“He slashed one painting. He will destroy the rest.” She looked back at him steadily.

He sighed, took her cup from her, and kissed her. “I suppose I could take them to the gallery. But some aren't dry. They're a bother to handle.”

She watched him.

“All right. Rye can order frames. And he can have frames ready for the paintings we do in Carmel.” Then he laughed. “This kind of last minute thing drives him crazy.”

He touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “You don't need to say much to get your own way, do you? With that green-eyed stare, you're as hardheaded as the damn cat.” He gathered her close, burying his face against her, kissing her, making slow, easy love to her.

 

When they lay spent, his mouth resting against her throat, he said, muffled against her, “Just before I woke this morning I was dreaming of a green world. Green cliffs, green sky, green caves.” He raised up, looking at her, his eyes filled with pleasure from the dream. “I could see in the rock formations how water had cut through, and how the earth had twisted and warped. The green light seemed to seep out of every stone.”

She stared at him, her heart pounding, trying to look enchanted by his tale, wondering what power they had made together, to allow him to see her world so clearly.

He fixed breakfast while she showered. The rain had stopped, the sky was clearing and the morning turning hot.
He took their tray to the terrace and stood calling the little cat; he hadn't seen her since the day before. “Tom can't have hurt her? He tried to kill his own cat. I swear I'll kill him if he touches her.”

“She would scratch him, Braden. She would run from him.”

“Go ahead and eat. I'm going to look for her. Maybe while we're gone she would be safer in a kennel.”

Dismay made her choke. “Wouldn't she be terrified? Has she ever been in such a place?” But he had already started up the garden. She saw him glance up at the white house, his hands tightening into fists.

She ate as he searched; she put his plate in the oven. She watched him tramp through the woods then go down toward the highway. She loved him for caring so much. When he returned she said, “I'd look for her, but she won't come to me.”

“You'll need to pack a few things.”

“Yes. I'll go do that.”

“You won't need much: a bathing suit, some shorts, and that smashing green-and-white dress for dinner. I'll call Mathew Rhain about the safe deposit box. If he's back, we'll stop there on our way, after we drop off the paintings.”

She headed across the lane toward the village then doubled back through the wood where Braden wouldn't see her. Within five minutes the calico came running down the garden. He scooped her up, hugging and rubbing her, unashamed of his pleasure. “Where the hell have you been? Dammit, you scared the hell out of me.” He held her away, looking into her eyes. “I hope to hell you're sufficiently afraid of that—of Tom. Where do you go when you disappear?” He carried her to the kitchen. “You don't give a damn that people worry about you.” He put her down and opened a can of chicken. She wolfed down the chicken, then wound around his legs as he assembled the painting rack, put it in the station wagon, and began to load paintings. Before he went up to talk with Morian about taking care of her, he shut her securely in the house.

 

Morian put her arm around him, scowling. She was enraged by the slashed painting, but, Braden thought, she didn't seem surprised. She said, “Of course I'll keep the calico. I'll shut her in my bedroom when I'm gone, and fix the windows so no cat could open them. Olive should be back soon; she'll watch the house when I'm not home.”

“What about the key? Doesn't Anne have a key?”

“Not anymore. I got it back from her.”

He waited for her to explain but she didn't. She said, “The calico will be fine, Brade. Sleep on my bed, eat caviar.”

He hugged her companionably. “She's shut in the studio, I'll bring her up before we leave.”

But when he returned to the house, the calico had disappeared. He had left the door locked. Melissa wasn't back, no one had come in. The windows were closed. He searched the house, puzzled, then worried, then angry. And why was he so damned upset, worrying over a damned cat?

But he kept searching, behind the stacked canvases, under the bed, even in the cupboards. There was no way she could get out. He had given up at last and was taking out the last two paintings when she appeared from the bedroom and shot past him out the front door. He watched her race away up the garden to disappear behind Olive's house, and he leaned the paintings against the station wagon and went after her.

He didn't find her. He went back to the studio and called Morian. Hell, if the cat could evade him like that, she could sure as hell evade Tom.

 

In the village Melissa shopped for a small suitcase, a bathing suit, and tennis shoes. She returned to the garden to find Braden irritated because the cat had disappeared again, and Morian trying to soothe him, promising him she would search for the cat and care for her. Morian said there was nothing for Braden to worry about, she'd call him if there was a problem; and she gave Melissa a look that startled and
alarmed her—as if Morian knew very well where the little calico would be.

But of course she was imagining that; there was no way Morian could know.