The Catswold Portal

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  When they had conquered Ferrathil and Cressteane, they would move south. Once the south was won, they would destroy the eastern nations. “I want the Catswold finished,” she said softly.

  Moriethsten pushed back a strand of pale hair. “When we move east, our armies will be dangerously cut off from the beltland.”

  “No,” Siddonie corrected him. “We will not go through the tunnel. We will draw the Catswold out to attack us.”

  The nations of Zzadarray, Ebenth, Cathenn, and Marchell, Catswold dominated, were separated from the eleven belt nations by the Hell Pit and by dense masses of stone passable only through a long, tedious tunnel. It would be suicide to attack those nations on their own ground, the Catswold had turned those peoples totally intractable. Siddonie traveled there seldom. She did not like the slow smiles of the Catswold. She would not tolerate her horses being mysteriously set loose, and her soldiers’ weapons suddenly dulled and broken.

  It had taken her a long time to develop a suitable plan to defeat the Catswold.

  Several years ago she had purchased, with some manipulation, the hundred acres of cattle land in the upperworld, where there was an unused portal which led down through three miles of old gold mines and tunnels into Zzadarray. It was that portal through which, generations ago, many Catswold had emigrated to the upperworld. Now, very soon, Havermeyer would complete purchase of the old Victor mine, then the portal would be on her own land, a direct route into the Catswold nation of Zzadarray.

  The Catswold didn’t use the tunnel much now; their fascination with the upperworld seemed to have palled.

  She regretted that upperworld weapons wouldn’t operate in the Netherworld. If they would, she could wipe out Zzadarray in minutes, win the entire Netherworld in a matter of hours. She had, when she was quite young, sent pack animals down into the Netherworld laden with gunpowder and modern arms. But the old laws had held. Once in the Netherworld nothing would function; the gunpowder was as useless as sand. The Primal Spells, like the wizards who had laid them, were of incredible power.

  The spell of light was needed, of course. But the spell that discouraged killing in the Netherworld except for official war was tedious, unwieldy, and outdated; the spell that would let no upperworld machine or mechanical device function was an abomination.

  The dancing girls and musicians had gone. The fire had been built up and their mugs had been refilled. Siddonie raised a toast to their success, and saw Ridgen’s color deepen. Under the table he stroked her hand as he lifted his glass in toast. But in spite of his touch, she was still thinking of Melissa.

  If the cat accidentally survived, there was always the possibility that she could break the spell and free herself.

  Though if she did, what matter? What damage could one Catswold do without training? Likely Melissa did not even know her powers. And likely she had no knowledge of the Amulet, or its considerable power.

  And surely that gem was lost, inaccessible.

  It was nineteen years ago that Siddonie had climbed the dark tunnel out of Xendenton beside Ithilel and his Catswold wife—Melissa’s mother. She had thought then that Timorell had the Amulet, but later, searching Timorell’s upperworld room and her possessions, she had found nothing.

  After the earthquake she had searched the bodies of Timorell and McCabe, and had gone through the wreckage of McCabe’s apartment. She had even searched the baby’s clothes and its crib.

  She had hated taking care of the baby; she didn’t like babies. And what a difficult baby Melissa had been—mewling and spitting up. When she took her to the welfare people, she had meant to get her back when the child was old enough to be trained properly in magic. Even after Alice Kitchen’s family took her, she had thought she could get the child any time.

  She had tried, during those years, to establish some closeness with Melissa. Every trip she made to the city, she visited the child. She had done all she could to shape her thoughts and create some rapport with her. The child had been difficult even when she was small, so typically Catswold—stubborn, willful, and flighty, bursting into tears of terror for no reason. Then the problem had arisen with the Catswold Portal, and that was a situation that had seemed far more than coincidence.

  That portal had been forgotten for generations. Havermeyer discovered it when he followed Alice Kitchen and the child. It had seemed a fortuitous find, entering down directly into Affandar as it did. She had, at that time, just begun to court eleven-year-old Efil of Affandar. She had been twenty-four.

  Once Havermeyer found the Catswold Portal, they had used it regularly. But then Havermeyer, approaching it one afternoon, had stumbled upon Alice Kitchen making a drawing of it. He had pretended to admire her work, and Alice had told him, in the typically candid way of upperworlders, that she thought the door was ancient and that she meant to trace its history.

  Siddonie sipped her ale, frowning. She had gone up through the tunnel herself the next day, to get Melissa out of there before Alice Kitchen learned too much about the portal, and perhaps began to suspect things about the child. It had been time to bring the girl down anyway. She was twelve years old and should begin training.

  She remembered that day sharply. When she came out of the tunnel into the tool cave, the child was playing just outside the open door, in the garden. Siddonie had spell-bound her easily, had picked her up, and had carried her back through the wall when someone cast a spell over her. She went dizzy and felt the child pulled out of her arms.

  She had remained trapped for hours in a spell as confining as stone, slumped at the end of the tunnel, unconscious, knowing nothing. When she regained her senses, she was certain the child had been taken down to the Netherworld. Then as she followed the tunnel down, she found behind a boulder some bread crusts where someone had eaten—smooth, commercially baked upperworld crusts. And beside these, a dark spot of earth had smelled sweet, as if some child’s drink such as Grape Kool-Aid had been spilled.

  Once in the Netherworld again, she had launched a thorough search for Melissa, but the child could not be found.

  And in the upperworld Alice Kitchen began a search, too. It was later that she—Alice West by then—began to investigate the portal.

  Vrech had taken care of Alice smoothly enough, crossing the Primal Laws only in a small way: a fear-spell that touched the truck driver, causing a swerve. That had been a long shot that had paid off.

  Siddonie started as Ridgen squeezed her hand. She had been a long way off. Ridgen warmed her with a deep look. She winked back at him, and he smiled.

  “The fire is dying. The chambers have been aired and warmed,” he said.

  As they watched Moriethsten, Ridgen’s eyes narrowed, weaving a sleep-spell over the Wexten king—a simple enough charm when handling one person, though near impossible when dealing with a mob. Moriethsten yawned and began to nod.

  Siddonie rose, taking Ridgen’s arm. The two of them moved toward the stair, amused by Moriethsten asleep with his head on the table.

  Chapter 26

  In the Hell Pit the Harpy basked among flames, easing quickly again into her old habits. Her memories of the upperworld faded. She mingled with the hell-cast souls of the dead and whispered the grim songs of the dead, and nearly forgot the vibrant goodness of the living. Old lusts gripped her. Depression and anger drugged her; soon she was wallowing in all manner of depravity.

  Only slowly did her preoccupation with the morose and sullen begin to pale, only slowly did the excesses of the damned begin to lose their charm, and the dead began to seem dull. At last the Harpy grew restless and began to think that warm, living people were more interesting. On a damp night when the Hell fires sulked and smoked, the Harpy looked deep into her mirror.

  She saw Melissa climbing the vines at the back of Affandar Palace. She saw her fight the king’s embrace, saw the queen storm in. She saw Siddonie change Melissa to cat, and she saw Mag agonizing beside the girl’s cage, trying to free her. She saw Mag captured.

  The Harpy watche
d Mag huddle shivering in the Toad’s old cell, her round, wrinkled face pulled into despair. And when the Harpy tried to sleep, she could not.

  What was it about this old woman that drew her sympathy?

  The Harpy was uncertain about leaving the Hell Pit. But she could leave. Siddonie’s spell, that had originally freed her, was still strong.

  She stood wakeful, pecking irritably at the flames and coals. Why shouldn’t she go? Nothing bound her here. She would not admit even to herself how totally boring the Hell Pit seemed to her now.

  When at last she rose, flapping, she headed straight for Affandar.

  Three hours later in Siddonie’s dungeons, a white wing swept against Mag’s cage. A white arm reached through, and a thin hand shook Mag awake.

  Mag stared muzzily into the white bird face as the Harpy whispered a spell that swung the door free. Waking fully, Mag quickly quit the cage, following the Harpy silently. The womanbird, excited over her increased strength over Siddonie’s weakening spell, flapped and preened. She led Mag deep into the cellars, where she mumbled a charm that opened a pillar. Mag followed her down a thin flight of stairs and along a low tunnel. As they traveled, ducking, Mag sniffed the Harpy’s smoky, sulphurous scent. “How was the Pit?”

  “Warm. Lovely.”

  They walked a while in silence, then Mag said, “Why did you come away? Why did you rescue me?”

  “The bitch queen took my mirror.”

  “That’s no answer. You have your mirror.”

  “By freeing you, I am paying her back for my suffering.”

  “Am I that valuable to the queen?”

  “She detests you.”

  Mag smiled. “And where is Melissa? What is happening to Melissa?”

  The Harpy didn’t answer. Walking ahead of Mag she looked down into her little mirror and saw the calico cat limping along beside the highway, thin and dirty. She saw the little cat in the garden staring up at the portal, her green eyes huge.

  But the danger wasn’t over. The cat remembered nothing; she was innocent and half-helpless.

  “Well?” Mag said. “What of Melissa?”

  “I can show you nothing.”

  “What do you mean, you can show me nothing?”

  “If I gave you a vision you’d know where she was. You’d go barreling away to rescue her. She is best left alone.”

  “But what is happening to her?”

  “She is resourceful,” said the Harpy. “Trust me.” She ran her fingers through her white feathers. “She is utterly content at the moment.”

  They had reached the stairs. They climbed and came out into Circe’s Grotto. Mag caught her breath at its beauty, and she wanted to tarry and look, but the Harpy, pressing cold fingers into Mag’s arm, shoved her on. The womanbird opened the wall and pushed Mag through, and they moved quickly away through the night-dark woods.

  Chapter 27

  Stiff-legged, the cat stalked the door, her eyes burning with green fire, her tail lashing against the bushes and vines. Warily she watched the cats’ heads: they were not alive but there was life in them. She drew close then leaped away, then skidded toward them again, ignoring the clamor of the garden birds. Drawn to the oak cats, she reached a paw toward something invisible that seemed to move beyond the door, then, confused, turned quickly to lick her shoulder. But the vision amused her. She stared up at the door again, giddy, and rolled over, grabbing her tail, spinning and tumbling, her eyes flashing. Madly she played with the power she sensed. Leaping onto the vine that edged the door, she swarmed up it, drunk with the forces that pulled at her. She didn’t see the garden cats on the hill above where they crouched watching her.

  The five cats stared down, frozen with interest. They crept closer as the calico reached the top of the vine, watching her, stealthy as snipers. At the top of the vine she did a flip, then worked her way down again, slapping at the leaves. She leaped out of the vine at the base of the door and sat before it, ready for the door to open, willing it to open.

  When it didn’t open she rubbed against it. When it remained closed she pushed at it with her shoulder, then began to dig at the crack beneath, rolling down and thrusting her paw under.

  When digging failed, she reared up on her hind legs and reached for the lowest row of snarling oak faces and raked her claws down them in long, satisfying scratches. When still the door didn’t open, she turned away, pretending total boredom, and selected a shelter deep beneath the overgrown geraniums.

  In the cool dark she stretched out full length, digging her claws into the earth, then lay washing herself. Drawing her barbed tongue across bright fur, she soon eased into a contented rhythm of purrs and tongue strokes. Soon she slept, exhausted from her long journey. The garden cats came down the hill and circled her. One by one they sniffed at her, then turned away puzzled. The big orange tom stayed a long time staring at her. The sun dropped behind the woods. The sky held a last smear of brilliance, then the garden darkened. The wind came up off the bay blowing branches and vines, but the calico slept on. She didn’t hear the tool shed door push open. At first sign of the hunch-shouldered man, the orange cat bristled and fled. In sleep the calico smelled something unpleasant and her ears went flat and she curled up tighter, but she didn’t wake.

  Vrech stood in the low doorway staring around the garden, watching for activity in the six houses. The lights were on above in Morian’s house. At Olive Cleaver’s, only the porch light burned, suggesting that the old woman had gone out. In the low white Cape Cod, just the living room was lit. This was Anne Hollingsworth’s night to work late. Likely Olive Cleaver was sitting with the boy. Tom would be asleep, suffering from the fever his mother thought was the flu.

  Below, the yellow house on the left was dark. It was Wednesday, the Blakes’ bridge night. He watched the center house as West left his easel and went down the short hall to the kitchen, likely to fix himself a drink. To the right of West’s, the musician’s house had lights on in the bedroom and bath. Wednesday was jazz night; soon those lights would go out and John the clarinetist would go up across the garden to Sam’s Bar.

  Vrech smiled. Olive Cleaver’s hearing wasn’t sharp, and the wind was making plenty of noise. With wind moving the foliage, he might never be noticed; he might seem just another blowing shadow.

  He watched John cross the garden with his clarinet case, but decided to wait a few minutes more. Maybe the artist’s model would go across to the tavern, and maybe West as well. They were both jazz freaks. Jazz made him nervous; he didn’t call it music.

  When neither Morian nor West came out, he grew impatient. Stepping back inside the door, he lifted his burden, bound in the burlap bag, easing its weight across his shoulder.

  He left his lantern burning behind him on the tool table, pulled the door to, but not closed, and made his way up the terraces. The drugged prince was a heavy weight, and he was already tired from carrying Wylles up the tunnel.

  He had neared the white house when the screams of trumpet and sax cut the night. The band was warming up; that would cover any sound he might make. As he moved in between the bushes beside Tom’s window, something crashed past him, yowling. Damn cat.

  He hid his bundle in the bushes, watching the house and thinking about the cat he had left on the highway. He saw it in his mind as the girl—a sexy creature. Suddenly another cat sped past his feet. They were all over the garden tonight—moonlight made them crazy.

  He moved to the window and looked into the living room. Yes, skinny old Olive Cleaver was there reading a book. He returned to Tom’s darkened window and felt with sensitive fingers for the hinges he had loosened earlier.

  The blaring of loud, dissonant horns jerked the little calico awake and on her feet, cringing at the noise, staring with terror at the swaying, tossing garden. In the blowing moonlight the carved cats on the door seemed alive, and she reared up, looking at them with widening eyes. At that moment, the wind fingered open the door, exposing a crack of light. She stared at it and crept forw
ard.

  She sniffed the cat faces but was drawn, too, by the light space beyond the door; and by falling spaces on beyond the light. She hesitated, then she pushed through the door into the tool room, moving directly past the wheelbarrow and ladder to the stone wall, and stood looking up expectantly. She pressed her shoulder to the wall, then pawed at it. She was clawing hard at the stone when Vrech returned carrying his bundle. The cat tasted his scent and spun to face him. Her back pulled into an arch, her teeth bared in a spitting yowl.

  Vrech set down his burden, swearing, wondering how the hell she had found her way back. He shoved the bundle against the wall, making sure Tom was too far gone to cry out, then closed in on the cat. When he lunged, she leaped clear.

  He worked her into the corner behind the wheelbarrow. She darted past, upsetting two oil lamps and breaking a chimney.

  He was sweating and furious by the time he caught her. She had clawed him in three long wounds; his hands and arms were bleeding. He grabbed a gunnysack and shoved her into it, but before he could close it she sank her teeth into his wrist. He knocked her loose, pushed her deeper in, then tied the bag and threw it against the door.

  He barked a guttural opening spell that sent the wall swinging back, lifted Tom inside, laid the boy on the cold stone, and left him there.

  Closing the wall, he picked up the sack with the cat inside and moved out into the blowing garden. He had to get rid of the beast; he dare not leave it so close to the portal for fear Siddonie would learn of it.

  He’d leave it somewhere where it had a chance for life. That was all that was required. He wasn’t carrying it back up the cursed highway.

  He decided to buy a Greyhound ticket in the village, watch the bag loaded on as luggage, then disappear. Let the driver worry about what to do with it. One bus went clear to Coos Bay. He’d have a drink first, there was plenty of time. The Greyhound schedules were common knowledge in the village, and the Coos Bay bus didn’t leave for two hours. He hoisted the cat to his shoulder, snuffed the lantern, and headed across the road. He didn’t like the music at Sam’s, but he liked to watch the women who came there.