Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  I badly wanted a drink. Water would do. I considered leaving my tree and walking to the river’s edge, imagining the cool liquid slipping down my throat, and I attempted to stand but my sight blurred. I held a hand up to my face, its outline indistinct, all detail lost. It seemed like I did not know the back of my hand as well as I thought, as I tried to recall whether the little scar one of my brothers gave me with a sharpened stick, resided on my left or my right. Definitely right. Or was it left?

  Without warning, I retched, spraying black vomit into my lap, my stomach cramping. I heaved again, and a dribble of sick, hot and acrid, drooled from my mouth. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and leant against the tree, trembling. I felt dreadful, nauseous and shaky, my head as woolly as a freshly shorn fleece.

  And thirsty. So very thirsty. Perhaps I should go to the water’s edge. I could crawl. There was no need to stand. The sea was only a few feet away. I shook my head, peering into the distance. Not the sea. I meant the river. The river was only a few feet away. I could smell the fresh water. It couldn’t possibly be the sea, because everyone knew if you drank seawater you died.

  Waves surged and flowed, crashing and sucking on pebbles. I heard them. It must be the sea, then. Or was it inside my head, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears? I thought it might be. Best to check. Why was I so thirsty? I licked my cracked lips with a parchment tongue.

  My feet did not want to obey my command. They refused to let me stand on them, and my hands dropped to my ankles, just to check that my feet were still attached to me. They were, but I was sure they must belong to someone else, because I couldn’t feel them. My hands were no better. I must have gloves on. That would explain it.

  Roots caught at my skirt, holding me back, the branches of low-slung bushes tugging with insistent hands. They knew the water was salt not fresh, and they tried to hold me back. Clever bushes, but I wanted to check for myself. So thirsty.

  ‘Stop it. Leave me be,’ I told them. My voice belonged to someone else, too. It wasn’t mine. I sounded much less croaky. Whose voice was it?

  A twig snagged my hair, a vicious tug, and I yanked my head free, vowing to make the bush pay later. Water first, though.

  A savage cramp wrung my stomach, and I heaved again, my back arching with the force of it. Another black dribble, like blood at night. Blood was dark, almost black, at night. My husband’s had been. Inky black and all over me. I remember how surprised I had been at the amount still left in him when they brought him to me to bury. His corpse had been in three pieces. Why had it not drained out, like a hung pig with its throat slit?

  My stomach roiled, and I groaned at the sharp pain. Had I been stabbed? Joan. I should call for Joan. She would know what to do. She liked embroidery. She would stitch me up.

  Wait. Joan was a hundred and more miles away. No point in calling for her.

  On hands and knees, I craned my head to see my stomach. There were black stains on my gown. Stabbed, then. I needed Joan.

  I should clean myself before I saw her. Lick myself clean. Like a cat. Cat? Ha! I had dreams of being a cat. Real dreams, the type which stayed with you when you woke up.

  Then I remembered – I had not been stabbed, but poisoned.

  The river ran before me, constant and irresolute, and I reached its edge and parted the dead reeds lining the bank. There was a tale from the bible about reeds and a river. It might have been this river. Something about a baby called Moses. My mother told a similar tale, except the baby in her story was called Magben. I tilted my head, expecting to hear an infant’s cry, but the only sound was the babble and burble of the river as it hurried to the sea.

  I crouched and lapped at the water, like a cat, snorting as the little wavelets got up my nose. My throat hurt. It felt swollen, and although the cold water soothed it, I had to gulp and close my eyes to swallow, like a frog. Only I was no frog, I was a cat. A dream cat.

  My mother would like it here. She worshipped the gods of the river, and the trees. I should tell her about it, I thought, as I gently collapsed sideways.

  No need, she was here already. Her hand felt warm on my chilled brow. My mother was always warm, and she smelt of roses. No roses now, but maybe a hint of lavender? And rotting vegetation. Or was that Joan’s hand? It might be. She had nice hands on the outside. All of her was nice on the outside, but the inside was all gnarly and twisted like a windblown tree.

  Lifted. Flying. No longer a cat, a bird – but birds didn’t fly on their backs, did they? I felt tiny, cold, wet touches on my face. I had my eyes wide open and all around me were ghosts, blurred shapes, one at both my shoulders, one at each leg, helping me to fly. A smaller ghost leaned over me, a shapeless form with a warm hand, murmuring. Joan and her incantations. Joan must want me to be a bird, not a cat.

  I never realised flying caused so much jolting. No swooping flight for me, but bumps and jostles and an upside-down world. The earth should be below me not above, if I were a bird. I must be a dead bird then, lying on my back with crumpled wings and torn feathers. I opened my beak to chirp, but no sound came out.

  Stone and wooden beams replaced the sky and my world tilted and heaved. Warm air on my face, in my lungs. The crackle of a hungry fire, the smell of smoke and candles.

  ‘Put her here,’ the little ghost said.

  I didn’t know ghosts spoke. I knew the voice but could put neither name nor face to it. I searched my mind, but all it contained was dandelion seeds.

  Warm, soft. No more bumping. I felt sick.

  ‘Turn her! She is going to vomit.’

  Rough hands spun me over. I lay on my side and retched, my stomach turning inside out. I hoped my insides didn’t look as bad as Joan’s. My belly, now a ball of knotted muscle, hardened, and I heaved again. The ache of it made me whimper.

  ‘Drink,’ one of the ghosts commanded.

  Water, bitter and acrid, trickled into my mouth and I swallowed convulsively, my throat raw and swollen. More water, and yet more, each mouthful gritty and full of nasty bits. It tasted of fire and ashes. I coughed and spluttered.

  A gentle wipe of a cloth on my mouth and chin.

  ‘We need to remove these clothes.’

  The voice, a man’s voice, was familiar and comforting, but when I strained to see its owner, all I could make out were three shapes in the darkness. A large one, a smaller one, and a tiny one. Russian doll ghosts.

  ‘I will do it. Maude can help. You can wait outside.’ This came from the medium one. The one with the beady eyes. They shone from her blurred head, two beams to latch on to. I used them to steady myself, scared I might blow away in the wind, like one of my dandelion seeds.

  Two ghosts now. Had the big one slipped inside the medium one? Russian dolls in reverse? Magic.

  Weakly, I batted hands away. Leave me alone, I said, without moving my lips, only to be pulled and pushed as those hands worked me like a puppet, lifting, turning, loosening, and untying. Stop it, please. Rough cloth scoured my skin.

  ‘You start rubbing her feet. Get the blood to them, while I remove her chemise. She is soaked to the skin. Quickly. There is no time to lose.’

  There was the sound of tearing cloth and the feel of warm air on my bare flesh. I shivered violently and tried to drag my foot away from whoever was sticking needles into it. No, no, it hurts. Stop.

  ‘What is this?’ the medium ghost said.

  Torture, I thought, my feet on fire. That is what the flames wanted – me.

  ‘I knew it! Belladonna. The stupid girl! Keep rubbing. I need more charcoal.’

  I screamed. The devil was dragging me to hell, feet first, the flames of eternal damnation eating me from the toes up. I couldn’t stand it. Not for a heartbeat longer.

  My back arched like a strung bow, hips and breasts thrust into the air. Ye gods, it hurt. Make it stop. Please, make it stop.

  ‘Quick! Give me that! She is convulsing. Hugh! Get back in here!’

  Someone shoved a leather strap in my mouth, and I bit down
hard, my jaws clenched, my spine about to snap, and the agony tore me in two.

  Then the terrible pressure relented, and I collapsed, feet strumming, arms thrashing.

  ‘Hugh, help me hold her down. Maude, stay back, lest you get injured.’

  Two people were on top of me. They had to let me go. They had to. The devil had come for me, and I had to flee before he dragged me down to hell. Please, let me go. Please.

  They ignored me, weighting my body down like a sack of kittens ready to be drowned. Kittens. Cat.

  Satan would not want a cat. He wanted people – human souls. The church said animals did not have souls. If I were a cat, the devil would not take me. What use was a cat to him?

  For the first time, it did not hurt, this transformation of mine. I didn’t feel it. The fires of hell licking at my feet were a hundred times worse than turning into Cat.

  ‘Get away from her! Stand back!’ someone yelled.

  ‘What is happening to her, Granny? Why is she—?’ A child’s high, piercing scream rent the air.

  The fur on my back stood on end and I leapt off the mattress, yowling when my paws touched the floor, the fire in them hot enough to make my eyes water.

  ‘She is a witch. A fucking witch.’ The man’s voice was full of horror.

  ‘Language, Hugh.’

  ‘Granneeeeeeey!’ the child squealed.

  I darted under the bed, jumping from paw to paw like a dancing bear on hot coals, hissing and snarling, biting at my burning feet.

  ‘Don’t touch her, Granny. She will bespell you.’ Hugh. It was Hugh who spoke. I knew him. I knew them all.

  I retched, bringing up a mess of grey, bitty fluid.

  Blod got down on her hands and knees and peered under the bed. ‘I have no intention of touching her. One does not interfere with a frightened cat.’ She stared at the vomit and grunted. ‘She will live.’

  ‘She will not. She is a witch. I am calling the guard,’ Hugh cried.

  ‘No, you are not.’ Blod clambered to her feet, heaving her old body upright. ‘She is no witch.’

  ‘Look at her!’ Hugh yelled.

  ‘I am looking,’ Blod replied calmly, ‘and I assure you, she is no witch. However, she is a cat. For the time being, anyway. Maude, stop snivelling and sit down. She won’t hurt you. Hugh, step away from the door.’

  I had been panting, hard and fast, my sides heaving, but as the pain in my paws began to abate, I breathed a little easier.

  ‘Caitlyn?’ Blod said. ‘I assume you understand me, else what would be the point of you? You may come out. No one will harm you, I promise.’

  I shuffled to the edge of the bed and peered out. All three stood well back. I took a chance and crawled out. Three pairs of eyes watched me emerge.

  Hugh spoke first, in a voice at once filled with incredulity, disgust and disbelief. ‘You!’

  Chapter 25

  ‘Maude, bolt the door. I want to have a little chat with the kitty and I don’t want to be interrupted.’

  The child scrambled to do as she was told, her face white and pinched. The confident, cheeky imp had been replaced by a scared, little girl. I wished she hadn’t witnessed that. Magic and witchcraft had no place in her privileged life.

  ‘Her name is Cat, not Kitty.’ Hugh’s face was equally ashen.

  ‘Her name is Caitlyn, whatever she looks like,’ Blod retorted, ‘and she is no cat.’

  Hugh’s gaze finally left me, and he turned a stunned face to his grandmother. ‘That is a cat. Maude, you see a cat, do you not?’

  Maude nodded so hard her head almost came off her shoulders.

  ‘You misunderstand me.’ Blod’s tone clearly meant she thought Hugh was being stupid. ‘Your betrothed is as human as you and I.’

  I growled, and Hugh huffed. Not the betrothed thing again.

  ‘Shush both of you and let me finish. For all the illusion, Caitlyn is a woman. Someone has set an enchantment on her.’

  ‘She looks like a cat,’ Hugh persisted.

  ‘Oh, for—’ Blod thumped a fist on the table. ‘You are not listening. She is NOT A CAT!’

  Maude jumped and squeaked. Blod lowered her voice. ‘Someone has done this to her, made her into a familiar. The girl is not to blame.’

  ‘Then who is?’ he demanded.

  ‘I don’t know, but I intend to find out.’ The old woman bent down and held out a hand. ‘Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.’

  She said this just to annoy, so I spat at her.

  ‘She certainly acts like a cat. Try her with a saucer of milk,’ Hugh suggested.

  Either this man had a short memory, or Blod was right, and he was stupid. My bet was on stupid. I growled louder than a cornered wolf, and any colour left in his cheeks drained out of them. Now he remembered.

  He cleared his throat and looked up at the ceiling. ‘She likes wine,’ he said.

  ‘I am not giving her wine.’ Blod shot him an exasperated look, and I coughed out a cat equivalent of a laugh. She believed in witches yet refused me wine? Incredible.

  Anyway, I could not face wine. My stomach churned, not as badly as before, admittedly, but I still felt as though I had been kicked by Llewelyn’s devil of a stallion.

  ‘I prefer you as a lady.’ Maude appeared to have recovered from her shock, and was sitting on the chair, her legs swinging, her face full of interest.

  ‘Well?’ Blod asked me. ‘Are you going to remain a cat, or are you going to talk to me?’

  Before now, I had only ever transformed in front of two people who had not been my mistress. One of those people had ended up dead. The other had been my own William, who I had loved like a son. But the look on his face when he saw me, had been full of revulsion.

  Could I do it again? Changing from one form to another was a private thing, a forbidden thing. Nearly two hundred years of secrecy left a mark which was not easy to erase. This time, embarrassment also played a part; I didn’t want others to witness the unpleasantness of transformation.

  Three pairs of eyes pinned me to the spot. I sighed. Did it matter if they saw? They knew the truth. I could not undo what had been done.

  I made a decision.

  My body and limbs elongated, and my tail disappeared, fur morphing into smooth pale skin. After several heartbeats I stood before them, breathing hard, a film of sweat coating my brow.

  Naked.

  Maude’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened. ‘You have hair. There.’ She pointed between my legs.

  Hugh had a similar reaction, but I suspect the hair was not such a surprise to him.

  ‘Hush child. You will have hair on your cunnie too, when you become a woman.’ Blod took my cloak off the back of the chair and threw it at me. ‘All women do.’

  Maude looked horrified.

  ‘Has your mother told you nothing?’ Blod asked. She waved a hand in the air. ‘Never mind, we shall talk of this later. For now, I have to speak with Caitlyn. Hugh, close your mouth. I do not, for one moment, believe she is the first naked woman you have ever seen.’

  With the cloak covering my modesty, I sat on the bed, drained, both emotionally and physically.

  Blod poured a cup of boiled water from the kettle hanging over the fire. It had black bits floating in it. ‘Charcoal. To soak up the poison,’ she said, passing it to me. ‘It will be a few days before the effects of the belladonna wear off. You are lucky to be alive, my lovely.’

  ‘How—? I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘You’ve got Maude to thank. She found your missing shoe, brought it to your chamber, and saw you had gone.’

  ‘How did she know where to look for me?’ I croaked, my throat raw.

  Maude’s hand shot into the air. ‘I was going to the hall and saw you crossing the bailey, and I followed you. You looked strange, so I went to fetch Uncle Hugh and Granny.’ Maude bounced on her chair, like a dog wanting a pat on the head from her mistress.

  I gave her one. ‘Thank you, Maude, you saved
my life.’ I would be more careful not to be seen next time. I should have listened to my instinct and changed into Cat. My mistake, and one I would not make a second time.

  ‘Who is she?’ Blod asked.

  ‘Huh?’ I gulped the rest of the water and grimaced at its grittiness.

  ‘The one who did this to you.’

  ‘You do not know her.’ I barked a hoarse laugh. ‘She is long dead.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘Oh yes. I watched her take her last breath, and I rejoiced when she did. Until another took her place and I realised the witch’s death would not release me.’

  ‘The spell did not die with her?’ Blod asked.

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Drat. Your situation is more complicated than I thought.’ She tapped her gnarled fingers on the table. ‘Hmmm.’

  I was busy thinking too, surprised that the spell had allowed me to say even this much. Still, I reasoned, these three had already witnessed the magic at work, so maybe the spell didn’t see any harm in allowing me to say what I just did. At least Joan wasn’t implicated in any way.

  ‘You spoke to me,’ Hugh said. His eyes were slightly glazed, as if he had drunk too much wine. ‘After I rescued you from the storm. You spoke to me.’ The glaze intensified.

  ‘Keep up, boy.’ Blod nudged him. ‘And pull yourself together.’

  ‘I didn’t do it on purpose, I assure you. I just wanted some wine,’ I said.

  ‘You spoke to me,’ he repeated. I hoped this episode had not befuddled him permanently.

  ‘Can we return to the matter in hand?’ Blod huffed. ‘I have to determine a way to set Caitlyn free, because you cannot possibly marry a cat.’

  ‘I am not going to marry him,’ I said.

  Hugh looked stupefied.

  ‘You will, but first, you must be freed from your enchantment,’ Blod insisted.

  ‘She is a cat,’ Hugh repeated. ‘I cannot marry a cat.’

  I rounded on him. ‘Oh, so are you saying you would marry me if I did not turn into a cat?’

  ‘No, I would not. You are putting words in my mouth,’ he snapped.