The Catswold Portal

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  She rose, but Halek was faster. He leaped and hit the king and pinned him against a pillar, forcing a shard of glass against Efil’s throat.

  Efil was very still, appraising Halek. “There’s little time; the guards will come. Free me and I’ll get you both out of here.”

  “You will get all the prisoners out,” Melissa said. She nodded to Halek. “Call the men out.”

  Halek stood motionless a long time, pressing the broken glass against the king’s throat. Melissa didn’t know what she saw in Halek’s face—fear, distrust—but at last he gave one soft whistle.

  The men came out slowly, watching the king. When Efil saw the dozens of ragged, armed men, he blanched. “I can’t take so many.”

  Halek pressed the glass harder.

  “You dare not harm me,” Efil said. “You would never get away without me, there are guards everywhere.”

  Melissa said, “Do you want my child?”

  Halek stared at her. The men were watching her. She said, “If you get all the prisoners out, and the Harpy and Toad and the Griffon, if you see that all go free, I will bed with you.”

  “I have no way to trust you,” Efil said.

  “You have my promise,” she said quietly.

  They were a silent procession moving through the dark cellars. The prisoners followed Efil, then came the Harpy and the Toad. Efil could not, or would not, free the Griffon. Melissa was heartbroken for the poor Griffon. He was the most free of beasts, winging the Netherworld skies over mountains and valleys unknown by any land-bound creature. It was monstrous to leave him captive.

  When they had pushed far back in the black cellars, Efil paused before a pillar and cast a complicated spell that drew the side of the pillar open. His spell-light picked out a thin stair leading down. The rebels crowded in and descended single file into blackness, the Harpy and Toad behind them. Efil waited, coming last with Melissa, forcing her along before him, and closing the pillar behind them.

  They went down steeply for a long way, then pushed along a tunnel so low they walked doubled over, so narrow their shoulders scraped the damp walls. Thus they traveled until Melissa thought they must have crossed under all the palace farms and orchards. When at last they came to a flight leading up, the rebels clambered up eagerly. After a long climb they reached a trap door. It opened at Efil’s voice, lifting up into a green-lit chamber. Halek’s voice came back to her filled with awe. “The Grotto of Circe,” he whispered. The others pressed behind him up into the jeweled chamber, into a mass of gem-wrought images so real they seemed alive.

  The arched ceiling was mosaicked with jeweled branches tangling across it like the roof of a forest, and the branches were alive with birds made of emeralds and rubies and topaz, of lapis and garnet. The walls were filled with jeweled dragons and Hell Beasts and all Netherworld animals. A huge, carved bed stood against one jeweled wall. Melissa knew Efil must have kept this grotto hidden from Siddonie, for the dark queen would have destroyed it. She felt the power of the images, the power by which Circe, within a place of such magic, had first turned beasts into men, creating the shape shifters.

  The ragged rebels trooped in followed by the Harpy and the Toad. Efil stroked a spell over the trap door so it swung closed and vanished into the mosaic floor. He stood looking the rebels over.

  “The door I will open will take you into the woods south of the palace. You must go quickly; it is dusk but guards patrol the woods. You will be safe when you reach the eastern ridges.”

  He said, “I do this for Melissa, not for you. I may have differences with Siddonie, but I do not love rebels.” He lifted his hand, made a sign, and opened a spell-door in the grotto wall. Dim green forest shone beyond. The Toad hopped through and away into the darkness between twisted trees. The rebels followed, glancing back at Melissa. She watched them go, torn between her promise to the king and fear of him that made her want to run after them.

  The Harpy didn’t offer to leave, but began to paw at Melissa, searching for her mirror. Melissa said, “One more vision.”

  “One vision,” the womanbird said. “The last vision.”

  “I want to see my mother.”

  “You have already seen your mother.”

  “Queen Siddonie?” Ice touched her.

  “No, not Siddonie.”

  Melissa stared at the Harpy. Her voice would hardly work. “The Catswold girl?”

  “Yes. Timorell was your mother.”

  “But she was Catswold.”

  “You are Catswold.”

  “You are wrong, I am no shape shifter. Besides, the Lamia said my mother was wife of the Lamia’s sister’s brother, so I can’t be…”

  “Your mother’s husband’s half sister is a daughter of Lillith. All daughters of Lillith are sister to the Lamia.”

  “That is more confusing. Why can’t you say, my father’s half sister?”

  “I am not speaking of your father. Your mother’s husband was not your father.” The Harpy glanced longingly toward the opening in the wall. From the forest, a cool breeze stirred her feathers.

  “I want a vision to see my father.”

  “You have seen your father.”

  Melissa frowned.

  The Harpy sighed. “I will show you your own conception. You will know your father, you will see yourself conceived. Then you will give me my mirror and free me.”

  Melissa nodded.

  “Not many,” said the Harpy, “are privileged to see their own beginnings.” She lifted a wing, casting shadows across the mirror. There, the upperworld city gleamed suddenly with sunlight so bright Melissa squinted.

  A man sat at a table in a sidewalk cafe. It was McCabe. She swallowed, watching him.

  The cafe was beside long wharfs where huge ships were docked. White birds swooped over the smokestacks. Stevedores were off-loading wooden crates. At his table McCabe was drinking an amber brew, idly watching the street. When Timorell came swinging along he put down his ale, watching her intently, as if he had been waiting for her.

  She was looking at everything, drinking in the colors and smells of the wharf. The wind blew her pale-streaked hair like a golden cloak around her shoulders. She was sleek as gold and ermine, her stride long and easy. She did not seem to be looking for anyone but simply walking. Her tongue tipped out, tasting the wind, and there was a little secret smile at the corners of her mouth. At the intersection where the street dead-ended before the cafe, she paused, looking around almost as if someone had spoken. Above her, McCabe had not moved. Timorell looked around her, puzzled, then suddenly she looked directly up at him.

  She stood still as a hunting cat, her eyes widening. She was drawn to him, and McCabe rose, his gaze never leaving her.

  She came up the four steps and stood looking at him. Then, drawn by his gaze, she slid into the chair he held for her. A power burned between them, filling Melissa with longing. This was their first meeting, this was Timorell’s first awareness of another like herself in this foreign world. Then came a montage, she saw them walking the city streets, their hands touching, their looks slowly revealing and discovering. She saw them in shops, in cafes; talking, always talking. She saw Timorell at night slipping away from her apartment.

  She saw McCabe and Timorell in a white room with jutting windows looking down on the city. The walls were covered with pictures of cats like benevolent talismans. She watched McCabe make love to Timorell on a pale rug before the open fire. They loved as man and woman, then as cat and cat, Timorell all gold and white to McCabe’s dark gray beauty. Embarrassed at breaching their privacy, she was yet held by the prophecy their lovemaking wrought, sharp as Timorell’s mewling cry.

  And in the instant before the vision faded she saw, against Timorell’s bare skin, an oval emerald pendant framed by two rearing cats.

  When the vision fled, she felt she had fallen between the two worlds and was unable to cling to either. The strength of their love had taken her breath, and, too, the sight of the emerald left her stricken wit
h a sense of power she could not unravel.

  “What was that jewel…?” she said weakly.

  The Harpy flicked at her white feathers. “That was the Amulet of Bast. Your mother,” the Harpy said softly, “was heir to the Catswold queens.”

  The Harpy fixed her with a beady stare. “You have forgotten all you ever heard about the Catswold. Only slowly is memory returning. Under Mag’s spell you forgot there is a Catswold nation. Your mother, if she had lived, would be queen of that nation.”

  She showed Melissa a vision of white stone towers and caves, of little niches and high alcoves where cats slept on velvet and silk. “This is Zzadarray.” Cats raced along the tops of the walls then leaped down to vanish, turning into silken-robed men and women. “They,” said the Harpy, “are the Catswold of Zzadarray.”

  The vision hadn’t faded when Efil shouldered the Harpy aside, facing Melissa scowling. “You don’t need this. You don’t need to see this.” But then his looked softened and he began to stroke her and caress her. She shivered and tensed. He said, “Yes, my love, you are heir to the Catswold queens. You will be queen not only of Affandar but queen of the Catswold. Never has a Netherworld woman had such power.” He kissed her and teased her, moving her toward the bed. But the Harpy pushed between them. She shoved Efil away and fixed Melissa with a hard gaze.

  “Do you not understand? You are heir to the Catswold queens. This was why Siddonie wanted you. You could lead the Catswold people anywhere; they would follow you unquestioningly. If Siddonie rules you with her spells, she would rule the Catswold. She would force them to fight the rebels. Now, King Efil means to do that.”

  “No,” Efil said. “I will not do such a thing. The womanbird lies.”

  Melissa took the Harpy’s thin hand, hardly attending to Efil. Slowly she was beginning to remember past remarks and conversations. The Amulet was a great power—it held the ancient power of Bast. She said, “The Catswold would not follow me if I do not wear the Amulet.”

  “Yes, they would follow you,” said the Harpy. “Though your power would be stronger with the Amulet.”

  “The old tales say it is lost.”

  “Lost,” said the Harpy, preening.

  “Cannot the mirror show where it lies?”

  The Harpy glanced longingly toward the spell-door then at her little mirror. “Spells were laid to protect the Amulet from visions.”

  Melissa looked back at her with all the command she could muster. “You will try,” she said softly. “Afterward I will give you the mirror.”

  The Harpy tried. For a long time, muttering soft bird talk, she sought to bring a vision of the Amulet but the mirror remained blank. Suddenly the Harpy lost patience. She lunged at Melissa and snatched the mirror from her. The flurry of her white wings filled the grotto, then she was gone flapping into the night, hugging her little mirror. Melissa watched her disappear through the woods in awkward swoops. The womanbird’s voice echoed, “You have the power…if you will use it…” then her voice was only a bird cry, eerie in the darkness, and Melissa saw a last smear of white lift on the wind and vanish.

  She watched Efil spell-close the wall so that no mark remained in the jewel mosaics and she thought, I am Catswold. She felt weak with wonder. And she was filled now with knowledge of the Catswold that had, moments before, not existed for her.

  I bear the blood of queens, I bear the blood of Bast. That is why Mag hid the papers. That is why she made the deaf-spells. The stories were there in my mind, but I was deaf to them. This knowledge is part of my memory.

  But this returned memory of the Catswold was not all that was lost. There was more. Still she did not remember her childhood.

  Efil took her hands, drawing her close, stroking her hair, her throat. She turned her face away; she wanted to run from him, to lose herself in the woods. She wanted time to think. She was only beginning to see who she was. She wanted to understand and know herself; she did not want to be possessed now by another.

  “Your promise will be honored now,” he said softly.

  He slid his hands down her back, his lips brushed her cheek and her throat. “You are frightened, queen of the Catswold. Do not be frightened, my love.” His tongue touched her throat; his breath was hot against her.

  She flinched away, holding herself tight and still. “I want time, I…”

  But the fever he stirred was too strong, his caresses and his spells dizzied her. She fought the heat as he cupped her breasts, whispering love-spells. Stroking her, he moved her to the satin bed. He unbuttoned her dress, licking her breasts, weaving a spell that brought fire through her body. She clung to him, stroking him, begging him to caress her; all shame, all distaste vanished. All premonition of disaster vanished.

  Chapter 18

  The Harpy flew across the night, ducking through caverns and sweeping over valleys, drunk with her regained freedom. Her little mirror swung on its chain against her feathered breast. When she perched to rest high on a cliff, she gazed into the glass and brought a vision of Melissa bedding with the king. She watched with interest for some time, then grew bored and dropped the mirror so it nestled again among her feathers. She flew on, making straight for the Hell Pit, thinking of its warm blaze. She thought of her friend the Toad, and she supposed he had returned to the Hell Pit. She was surprised that she missed him. The Hell Beasts never cared for one another. Her wings stirred a solitary wind across the dark green night and when, banking around a cliff, she saw ahead firelight reflected across the sky, she paused.

  The smell of roasting meat made her drool. She glided stealthily on, and soon she came in sight of a campfire with men crowded around. She circled.

  The rebels were gathered eating their supper. The Toad was with them, eating ravenously. The roast rabbit smelled mouth-wateringly good. The Harpy dropped among them so abruptly the fire surged and spat.

  Halek did not seem surprised. He looked the Harpy over. She, in turn, eyed the crisping rabbits. The rebel leader speared a rabbit from the fire and handed it to her. “Did you leave the girl with the king?”

  “Can’t say where she went.” Intently the Harpy ate, picking the meat off with her beak.

  “Can’t say? Or won’t say?”

  She looked at Halek in silence, stuffing herself, smacking her beak. “Do you mean to sleep here tonight?”

  Halek shifted his shoulders. “We mean to move on, make what miles we can. I did not like leaving Melissa.”

  “The girl is her own mentor. You cannot choose for her. The girl’s venture, this night—if she were to become queen of Affandar—could win this war.”

  “I would not,” Halek said, “like to depend on a trysting by King Efil to win a war.”

  “It could make more difference than you know.”

  “Speak plainly, Harpy. What more difference would there be, than that she should usurp the throne of the queen?”

  “There is more to it.”

  Halek waited.

  The Harpy studied Halek and studied his companions, then decided to keep her own counsel.

  Annoyed with her, Halek rose. She turned away, sullen and mute. At once, the men stirred themselves, took up their crude weapons, and kicked out the fire.

  The Harpy watched them depart. Soon she was alone, pecking at rabbit bones and dying coals. Sitting beside the dead fire, she looked forlornly into her mirror.

  She watched Melissa and the king, observing their embraces with lusty interest. Then she brought a vision of a younger Melissa snug in Mag’s cottage, carding wool beside the old woman. That homey scene soothed her.

  She watched Mag and the girl over the years, saw Melissa as a child, stubborn minded and clever. She watched her grow up. She saw Melissa find the papers hidden in Mag’s linen chest, and watched Melissa ride for the Hell Pit. She watched the Lamia rise from the flames at Melissa’s bidding.

  She watched Melissa leave home, and she watched Mag set out the next day to look for her. She saw Mag’s useless searches, then watched Mag grie
ving by the cookstove. And suddenly, the Harpy did not want to go back to the Hell Pit.

  She left the dead campfire and flew slowly over ridges and over a broad plain. She crossed above precipices and sheep pastures, her faint shadow cutting steadily along above her across the granite sky.

  As dawn brightened she hovered above Mag’s cottage, watching the old woman slopping nine squealing pigs. She swooped suddenly down onto the sty’s rail.

  Mag jumped, dropping her bucket. “Where did a harpy come from? What do you want? What’s a harpy doing away from the Hell Pit?”

  “She’s in Circe’s Grotto.”

  “Who is? What are you talking about?”

  “The girl—Melissa.”

  Mag started. “You’ve seen her? Well, you know to call her Melissa, all right. But of course you would,” she said, glancing at the dangling mirror. “What is she doing in Circe’s Grotto? How did she find it? No one knows how to find that ancient cave.” The old woman picked up her bucket, stepping around the guzzling pigs. “Why would you bother to bring such news to me?”

  “The king knows where to find the grotto.”

  “So? What has King Efil to do with Melissa? And how did you get out of the Hell Pit?”

  “She forced me out with spells.”

  “Melissa?”

  “Of course not. The queen. Brought me up from the pit against my will. Locked me in her dungeon.”

  “How did you get out?”

  “She freed me.”

  “The queen?”

  “Melissa. Freed the rebels, too. They were half-starved. On their way home even now.”

  “Melissa freed the rebels?” Mag grinned. “All of them?”

  The Harpy nodded.

  “But what,” Mag said, “has the king to do with that?”

  The Harpy waited for Mag to figure it out.

  Mag looked at the Harpy for a long time, her eyes slowly widening. At last, she said, “The king helped her? The king—oh, no.”

  “Oh yes,” said the Harpy.

  Mag stood quietly. Then she took the Harpy’s hand and led her toward the cottage, speaking of hot tea and biscuits.