She realized Braden was watching her, and she took his hand. When first he had turned onto the narrow street she hadn’t looked at the house, had sat looking down the hill at the familiar rooftops, afraid to look up at the windows of their old room. And then when she did look, the house was so familiar and warm that she might just have stepped off the school bus. And suddenly without warning she was crying.
Braden drew her to him and held her. She cried against him, unable to stop, stricken with the loss of those years and the loss of Alice, her memories jolting back with terrible power.
He held her a long time and didn’t say anything. After a while she turned away and blew her nose, ashamed to have made a scene. She didn’t want to get out of the car, she didn’t want to look at the house anymore, it hurt too much. He touched her chin and turned her face back to him, wiped a tear away, and kissed her lightly on the cheeks and eyes. When he started the car he drove slowly on up the hill, in the direction she and Alice used to walk—up the winding street toward the Cat Museum, letting her look at the familiar neighborhood. After several blocks, at the top of the hill, he parked beside a sprawling cluster of white walls and twisted oaks. Memories of the Cat Museum came back to her all at once, so powerfully she might have really returned to the days of childhood.
The museum’s grounds crowned the hill. The red tile roofs of its white stucco buildings were patterned by the trees’ lacy shadows. Some of the buildings were low, some were two-storied. McCabe had tied existing houses and out-buildings together with garden walls and roofed walkways. On beyond the museum cluster rose the Victorian roofs of the neighborhood. She got out slowly, looking.
The iron gates stood open, and she slipped through as eagerly as she had hurried through as a child. She almost thought if she turned, Alice would be behind her, as if the two times had warped together. A cool breeze touched her, and she breathed in the sun-warmed scent of lilac.
Within the gardens, the galleries opened one to another, their white walls set at angles. She wandered, looking in through wide french doors. Sun and shadow swept across the sculptures, each on its individual white stand: a rearing stone cat, a black marble cat tumbling to catch its tail, a bronze cat hunting, a tangle of jade cats playing. Beyond the sculptures, paintings hung against the white walls, well placed, and of every school. She had a sharp memory of Alice walking away through an arch carrying her drawing pad, her long, straight hair swinging bright in the museum lights.
Where a series of sculpture shelves climbed to a niche beside a skylight, a gray cat slept. Other cats wandered the galleries and gardens. She wondered if McCabe had come here as a cat, leaping the wall at night to enjoy the vistas he had created.
When they got to work, Braden posed her in a walled garden where a window reflected two fighting bronze cats. He worked quickly, with charcoal. Then she posed beside a marble cat mirrored in the dark waters of a fish pond. As he worked, cats sauntered past her, rubbing against the sun-warmed sculpture stands. A white cat raced by, wild with play, and fled over the wall. Two striped cats chased along the top of the wall. Set into the garden walls were clay plaques inscribed with quotations. She remembered sounding out the words when first learning to read. Now, during her rest she wandered, reading them. Above a recessed bench were the words from one of the pages Mag had hidden under the dresser:
I am beauty, I am all things sensuous. In Bubastis in the time of Egypt’s greatness within the temple of cats my saffron fur was brushed by slaves until it shone like Mandarin silk. Incense was burned to me and prayers raised, and temples built to please me. As I strolled beside lotus ponds the most beautiful virgins knelt before my silken paws, and served me delicacies in golden bowls, and lay silken cushions before me.
But this version was different, and not complete; the human part was left out. She thought about Bast’s Amulet and wondered if Timorell had had it when she came up through the tunnel into the streets of San Francisco. Surely, if Timorell had been wearing it the day of the earthquake, Siddonie would have taken it.
Or maybe Timorell and McCabe had secured it where Siddonie wouldn’t find it.
She wondered if the Amulet was in McCabe’s safe deposit box. All the powers of Bast locked away, here in the upperworld.
Braden finished four sketches quickly and put his pastels away. “That’s enough—you’re pale. Do you feel all right?” He took her hand. “Let’s go get some lunch.”
She nodded, walking close to him. She was comfortable with him, as if they had always known one another.
Well, at least they had known each other longer than Braden suspected.
As they passed through the gates she was startled to see Braden’s neighbor of the flowered dresses stepping out of her car in a burst of red and orange poppies. On the other side, Wylles was getting out. Melissa drew back, but the boy had seen her.
When Braden introduced them, Wylles looked at her so blankly she couldn’t tell what he might remember. Yet even if his memory had mended, he might not remember her. He had seen her only once, that day in his chamber. And he had been drugged and ill, and her hair had been brown, not calico. But what was he doing here? Why would Wylles come to the Cat Museum?
Braden said, “Are you here doing research, Olive? Or just for an outing?”
“You poke fun at me, Braden.”
“I don’t make fun at all. I think you’ve done some fine work. What did you find out about the radiocarbon tests?”
Olive smiled, her wrinkles deepening. “Tenth century, just as I suspected. The door is genuine, Braden. It is an ancient Celtic piece and quite valuable.”
“Then you will remove it from the garden?”
“Not at all. No one has stolen it so far, and it’s in amazingly good condition.” The old woman shook her head. “No, I like it where it is. I don’t know who installed it in the garden, but for some reason I can’t explain, I feel it would not be right to move it.” She was watching Melissa, taking in her piebald hair and her long dress.
Braden said, “Melissa has been posing for me. We were working in the museum gardens.”
Melissa saw Wylles’ hand move faintly and his eyes narrow, but the next moment his face was dull, closed. She didn’t know whether he had masked his sudden perception, or whether the awareness was fleeting and he had sunk again into the lethargy of drugs and spells.
When they were in the car heading down the hill, Braden said, “You really don’t feel well. You’ve lost all color. Would you rather go straight home?”
“No, just some hot tea, and something to eat. I guess I was chilled. I’ll be fine. Just hungry.”
But she wasn’t fine. She had seen, in Wylles’ look, a quick hatred. Maybe because Braden was painting her, making images. Wylles’ rage upset her, as had Olive’s prying into the history of the portal. The old woman’s interest could stir Siddonie’s spite, or worse, could awaken some other power that would best be left alone.
She watched Braden maneuver between denser traffic, swerving around a cable car. “How would I look into McCabe’s safe deposit box? Where would I find it?”
He braked for a light, glancing over at her. “I can call McCabe’s attorney and find out.” He slowed, looking intently at her. “This is important, isn’t it? I’ll call from the restaurant.”
She ordered while he phoned. The attorney, Mathew Rhain, was out of town. He would not be back for a week. The safe deposit box was in his office. She said, “Is there no way we could see into the box before he gets back?”
“I asked. The secretary said no, Mathew is the executor. He’s sailing—a call would have to be ship-to-shore, and that won’t open the box. It would have to be a very unusual matter to bring him back before next week.”
He looked at her deeply. “I left my phone number. Rhain will call as soon as he gets back.” His dark eyes were so intent; she thought he saw her distress more clearly than she had meant and that alarmed her, though she was warmed and comforted by his caring.
He said,
“Whatever it is, Melissa, I’ll help if I can.” Then their sandwiches came and he said nothing more; they ate companionably and he didn’t pry. Driving back over the bridge, he took her hand, drawing her close, but he didn’t question her. She said, “Your neighbor was doing research in the Cat Museum?”
“I doubt it. Probably just an outing for Tom, to help him get his strength back. He was pretty sick recently. Though he does help her with the research sometimes. He’s very bright. But I don’t think her project has anything to do with cats; it’s about doors. She’s been fooling around with this since before Alice died. They were both fascinated with the garden door.”
“The door of the cats.”
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t find the door of the cats—unpleasant, the way you do?”
He looked at her sharply. “Did I say that?”
“No, you didn’t say it,” she said softly.
He remained silent.
She said, “What does Olive do with her research? What’s it for?”
“She’s published half a dozen pamphlets on local history and artifacts. Small presses, no money in it, but it gives her something to do—makes her feel good. She’s done some speaking to Bay area groups. Alice always encouraged her, but Olive can get carried away.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “She’s not a nut. The research she does is solid—she was a research librarian. I have a librarian friend who’s worked with her, who says Olive is very demanding of herself, very careful. She’s just—so intent about what she does. Well,” he laughed, “I shouldn’t criticize that.”
She grinned at him. No one could be more intent: his whole being, when he was working, seemed concentrated into one powerfully honed strength. As if Braden, in his own way, made strong magic.
They parted at the garden, Braden to rough in a painting, and Melissa heading for the village thinking, like all females since the time of the priestesses of Bast, about garments to adorn and entice.
Chapter 41
The beautifully dressed women on San Francisco’s streets had filled her with envy, made her want to get rid of the heavy, long dress, to make herself new and modern. But when she reached the shop, the thought of buying upperworld clothes began to intimidate her. She hoped a different woman would wait on her; she didn’t need any more shocked looks at her nakedness.
The same woman was there—thin faced, sour. Melissa moved through the racks away from her, choosing what she wanted quickly, a green-and-white leafy dress, and then orange silk pants and pink silk top as vivid as the silks on Braden’s couch. She made a concession to panties, picking out several silk concoctions that looked like they would feel nice, went into the dressing room alone, and bolted the door.
The green-and-white dress felt light on her naked body. Its colors were as rich as the leafy tangles in the garden. In the mirror, she forgot about images and tried to see herself through Braden’s eyes.
She bought the dress, the silk pants and top, and a pair of jeans and bright green sweat top. Wearing the jeans and sweatshirt, she let the saleswoman wrap her long dress with the new clothes. But when she reached across the counter to slip the roll of bills from her dress pocket, the woman gave her an amazed look.
“Do you want a purse for that, my dear? In the pocket of those jeans that roll will make a lump as big as your fist.” The thin woman smiled at her for the first time, as if she liked Melissa better when she saw her money. Melissa hid a laugh, bought the little purse the woman offered, and dropped the money in it. She had picked up her package and turned to leave when she froze, staring out through the glass.
She had seen Efil. Already he was past, heading down the street. His face had been half-hidden by the hood of an upperworld jacket, but she had seen his profile—his rounded jaw, his thin cheek and pale skin. He had walked like Efil, a quick, light movement, faintly round shouldered. Clutching her package she hurried to the glass door to look out. Why would he be here? What was he doing here?
But of course he could be in the village. He came quite casually to the upperworld just as Vrech did, just as Siddonie came.
“May I clip the tags for you?” the saleswoman said, moving close behind her.
She stood still, feeling the woman’s cold hand on her neck, wincing at the little snip of the scissors. Then she hurried out, scanning the street.
The street lights had come on, rushing the evening. The man had vanished; she had the uneasy feeling he was standing in some doorway watching for her. She thought of changing to cat and running into the woods where he wouldn’t see her, but she was afraid to become small. She kept to the main street, hurrying.
She reached the garden without seeing Efil, and stood within a leafy maze looking for him. Dusk filled the garden with indistinct shadows. Above her, the forest was already dark. Down the hill, the studio lights were on; she could see the easel and Braden’s legs below the painting, his occasional movement as he worked. She would be safe in the studio with Braden, protected and safe.
But she would not involve Braden in this.
Above on the hill, the three houses were dark. But there was a light on Olive’s porch, and her car was gone from the drive. She went up the path quickly and around to Olive’s back door where Olive kept the screen propped open for her cats. She had seen it from the woods, seen them going in and out—the white female dragging her tummy over the sill.
She hid her package on Olive’s back porch behind some boxes, and in the shadows she changed to cat. She crouched, leaped to the sill, and from that high vantage she looked up into the forest.
The shadows were no longer solid black; she could see bushes between the trees. Crouching against the dark screen, she studied the forest for a long time.
She did not see Efil. She turned away at last, pushed under the open screen, and dropped onto Olive’s kitchen counter.
The tile was cold under her paws. The tap was dripping, and she lapped water from it then jumped down to the linoleum and headed for the dining room. There she stood kneading her claws into the warm carpet, then reared up to see what was on the dining table. Yes, it was littered with books. She jumped on a chair then onto the table and prowled among the untidy stacks, but it was Olive’s open notebook that drew her.
It was harder to read as cat. Her eyes didn’t see the print so clearly, though everything else in the dim room was sharper. She dare not change to girl—if Olive came in suddenly she must find only a neighbor’s cat innocently exploring. With her claws she managed to turn the notebook pages, but she had to back away to read Olive’s writing.
The old woman had copied quotations, some from history books, some from collections of folklore and myth, all of them frightening. As the calico crouched reading the entries she felt her paws grow damp with sweat, felt her tail lashing as if it had a will of its own.
Some say that from within this hill they hear strange music. Closing the hill is a stone tall as a man, and it is carven with a cat. Myth says that if the right person knocks at this stone it will swing in, and he will enter into a world of ancient powers…
I asked them how they got under the hill, and they said that a door was hidden among the gorse. They said that door would open to an ancient world but they did not like to go there for the world was filled with cats who spoke like men.
These prehistoric burial mounds were built by an ancient Irish race, a folk whose power was broken when the ancestors of the modern Irish arrived in 3000 B.C. They fled underground and remained there among the were-beasts, and they are the Tuatha, the fairy folk.
There is a burial ground and a cave, both strong in magic, both belonging to the Cat-Kings. Both open into the antechambers of the underworld…
It was here in the British countries, where the Celtic witches dwelt, that the cats were taken down beneath the sod into the knowes and sithens and kept by the Tuatha, and they flourished.
Sudden footsteps made her start—someone was on the front porch. She leaped off the table and slid
under the couch on her belly as the front door creaked open.
She heard Olive’s voice, then the velvet voice of the black lady. She could smell her scent, musky and pleasing. Olive was saying, “…much more cheerful, he ate a huge plate of spaghetti at the Iron Pot. He’s always loved spaghetti.”
Morian said, “He’s gaining weight, too. He seems—almost like the old Tom.” As the two women crossed the dining room toward the kitchen, Olive paused by the table and laid her purse down among the books. “I know Anne’s relieved. She’s had a hard time, with things at work so chaotic, and Tom sick, too. Put the kettle on, Mor, while I cut the rum cake.”
Melissa, from the dusty darkness under the couch, could see directly into the kitchen. She watched Morian move to the stove. The black woman was wearing a skimpy white sundress with plenty of honey-dark skin showing. Olive by contrast was so sallow she almost disappeared inside her red and orange flowers.
“The blue cups, or the white?” Morian said. “How’s the research going?”
“The blue cups. It’s going really well. I’m totally drawn in. Today we found reference to an Egyptian grave with a door inside that has a cat’s head carved on it.”
Melissa shivered. Braden had said the door in this garden was likely the only reference to cats Olive had come across.
Olive said, “That door led to a smaller tomb, and there were five mummified cats buried in it. I think that was the part Tom liked, the mummies. He copied the passage for me. I do think the research has helped him. He seems totally engrossed again, as he used to be.”
The Catswold Portal Page 26
