The Catswold Portal

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Melissa heard the tea kettle sing. Morian said, “He seems—Tom seems all right to you?”

  “He seems better. I know this has been hard for Anne, with this Lillith business. What is all this about the Lillith Corporation?”

  “Anne thinks Lillith is trying to buy out her company. You know her firm isn’t terribly big, but it’s an old firm and it’s always been solid. But since Lillith moved into the Bay area, through some kind of manipulation they’ve gained controlling interest of Meyer and Finley.”

  Morian carried a tray into the dining room. “Anne’s boss quit last week, and that was a blow to her. And the sharpest financier they had was fired a month ago. Anne says the men who have taken their places are loud, hard to deal with, and really don’t know what they’re doing. Sloppy, she said. Or maybe worse. Files have disappeared, some records have been changed. Twice, Anne was blamed for important files being lost.”

  Olive began clearing books off the table. She didn’t seem to notice that her notebook was open, though when Melissa came in it had been closed. “What a terrible thing to happen. Anne loves Meyer and Finley. That poor girl. I guess I was so interested in the research, and my sister Clara being sick—and my having to run down the Peninsula to be with her—I haven’t really talked with Anne much.”

  “It’s all happened pretty quickly. Anne’s about ready to quit. She’s so upset she imagines they want her to quit. She’s applied to three other firms, one in Portland. The whole thing started just shortly before Tom got sick.”

  “But this Lillith firm—where has it come from?”

  “Anne says they have holdings in several states, in diversified corporations and in land. The strange thing is, Anne says they put a large percent of their profits into charity.”

  “Here, come sit down, Mor. Why would they be so heavy into charity? Are they religiously backed?”

  “No, Anne looked into that. They have no connection with any church, or with any other charity. They’ve set up soup kitchens and free hotels down on Mission and in several other areas of the city and down the Peninsula: one at Half Moon Bay, one at Stockton, several up around Mendocino. They have a big ranch in Mendocino, supposedly a training center for staff. But they send indigents up there, too. Men who need work. The men get bed and board for a few hours’ work a day.”

  “That’s very—altruistic.”

  “It’s very strange,” Morian said flatly.

  Olive rose, startling Melissa. But she only went to refill the teapot. The rum cake smelled delicious.

  Morian said, “I guess Anne’s needed to talk to someone. I haven’t been much help, except to listen. Lillith holds controlling stock in some Washington state businesses—a Puget Sound salmon fishing and canning operation, and some farming land.”

  Olive said, “Anne has checked them out pretty carefully.”

  “It’s the charity thing that puzzles her. She’s convinced Lillith is bent on destruction of the smaller Bay area firms. But why the charities?”

  Olive poured more tea and passed the lemon. Melissa stretched out flat under the couch, trying not to sneeze from the dusty cloth mesh that covered its underside. Not until Olive rose to open the front screen door did she grow tense. When the yellow cat strolled in, she backed deeper under.

  But the big cat didn’t seem to see her; he headed straight for the table and stood sniffing as if drawn by the scent of rum cake. When he leaped onto a dining chair and stared across the table at Olive, the old woman laughed. “Pippin, the gourmet. He’s been here almost constantly since Tom—since Tom grew so strange toward him.” She put some rum cake on a plate and set it on the chair before the big golden cat. Melissa watched him tear into it, eating at Olive’s dining table as if he were master of the house.

  And Braden thought she was spoiled!

  She had decided Pippin didn’t know she was there when the golden cat, finished with the rum cake, jumped down and headed directly for her. She backed deeper under. He flopped down at the edge of the couch, staring in at her, his yellow eyes merry, his tail flipping. She looked back at him warily. And she realized for the first time that his eyes were not those of an ordinary cat. His gaze was far more aware and searching than a common cat, far more questioning.

  Chapter 42

  The golden tom stared under the couch at the calico, his eyes glowing with curiosity, his tail twitching in a semaphore of interest. She felt her own tail twitch in response. She was filled with a dangerous feeling of communion with this cat. She wanted to help him; she was certain he was more than an ordinary cat. And she dared not help him to shape shift. They gazed into each other’s eyes unmoving until long after Morian had left and Olive had put her supper in the oven and gone upstairs. Pippin’s expression was so filled with questions, she was certain he didn’t know what he was. He seemed filled with distrust of her yet drawn to her as if longing to know what she was. When she stirred herself at last and came out from under the couch, he backed away from her.

  She approached him and sniffed at him, then padded on past him. As she approached the door, she glanced back at him. He hadn’t moved. He watched her with wide yellow eyes, but didn’t attempt to follow her. She pushed quickly out through the screen, leaped off the lighted porch and underneath it, into deep shadows.

  Crouching under the porch she stared out at the garden searching warily for Efil. The moon had risen, casting pale light across the garden. Below, Braden’s studio lights beckoned. She could see him still at work, and she longed to be with him. She was filled with a desire so intense she was aware of his scent and could feel him stroking her.

  Maybe it would be all right to go there. Efil wouldn’t dare force himself into an upperworlder’s house, nor would he dare challenge the tall, hard-muscled artist. She left the porch quickly and trotted down the path toward Braden’s lights.

  Efil was standing among the trees halfway down the garden, looking up at her. The fur along her spine and tail stiffened, she backed into shadow. She had begun the changing spell when he started up toward her. She couldn’t see his face and didn’t want to; he was a stranger to her now—they might never have lain together. She didn’t know how she could have lain with him. The idea repelled her.

  The change came quickly. She was girl now. He drew near and reached for her. She stepped aside.

  “I came to take you home, Melissa. I came to take you back to the Netherworld, and to make you queen.”

  “No, Efil.”

  “But you must come back,” he said, surprised. “We must formalize the child. There are ceremonies to be performed, the announcement to be made.”

  “I’m sorry, Efil.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “Once the announcement is made I can begin the formal proceedings to dethrone Siddonie and crown you queen.”

  She said nothing.

  “Melissa? Do you remember the Netherworld? Do you remember that you will be queen, that you are pregnant with my child? Siddonie can’t have destroyed all your memory.”

  She stirred herself. “I am not pregnant, Efil. There is no child.” She watched him narrowly. “I miscarried. The baby is dead.”

  He looked puzzled, then his face twisted in anger. He grabbed her shoulders hard. “You’re lying. You’re lying to me.”

  “It was very painful, there was a lot of blood. I still hurt, I still bleed some. I wept.” She shuddered, turned her face away. “The child miscarried.”

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “You’re lying—why would you lie?” His face had turned cruel. “You will have to come back to the Netherworld to prove that. The soothsayer will know.” He bruised her, twisting her around, forcing her to stumble down the terraces toward the portal.

  She fought him, kicking, nearly falling as he jerked her on. “There is no baby, Efil.” She was terrified Braden would hear them from the studio, yet she longed to cry out to him. Efil jerked her arm behind her, shoving her on down the terraces. She quit fighting him and went limp so he had to drag her
full weight. “I have nothing you want. I’m no use to you. Can’t you understand? The baby was born dead.”

  “You’re lying.” Stubbornly he dragged her on. “I need you for the ceremonies whether or not the child is dead.”

  She willed herself to hang heavy, remained a dead weight until at last he turned her loose, holding her wrist. She stood facing him, so angry she trembled. “There is no child. I can’t help you. Go find someone who can give you a child—someone who can carry a baby full term.”

  “Even if you were telling the truth,” Efil said, “you are still my subject. You will do as I tell you.” He forced her down the last terrace and against the portal, reaching for the handle. “It doesn’t matter if you miscarried. The soothsayer will vouch there is a child—she will do whatever I tell her.”

  She stood with her back pressed against the faces of the carved cats, blocking the door. “I will not come with you. I don’t want to be queen of Affandar. You must go back alone.”

  His touch was suddenly as soft as butter, making her wince. “We can make another child, Melissa. We can still defeat Siddonie. Why would you throw away wealth and power?”

  “You’re not listening, Efil. You’re not hearing anything. I don’t want to be queen of Affandar. Even if you dragged me back, forced me to bed—even if you could, I would make spells to lose the child. And,” she said, “if you tried to force me to lead the Catswold, I would turn them against you, as well as against Siddonie.”

  “Listen, Melissa. I will tell you something you don’t know.” He watched her closely. She didn’t like him to look at her so intently. He said, “If you do not return to lead the Catswold, Siddonie will kill them.”

  She looked back warily, trusting nothing he said.

  “There is a false queen, Melissa. Siddonie is training a false queen to take your place—a Catswold woman from the alleys of the upperworld. Siddonie is teaching her all possible magic.

  “If you do not come back, that young woman will lead the Catswold. And she will betray them. She will lead them into Siddonie’s trap. Without you to show them the truth, she will lead them to defeat, and then kill them.”

  “I don’t believe you. No Catswold would betray Catswold.”

  “This one will. She has no allegiance except to Siddonie.” He smiled coldly. “This is the role Siddonie meant for you: to betray and destroy your own people.” He looked deeply at her. “This is not just a war tactic, Melissa. This plan is Siddonie’s final revenge for the fall of Xendenton. Ever since she was a child she has prepared for this.”

  He put his arm around her, drawing her close, his touch too soft. She shivered, drew away. He said, “Only you can stop her.”

  She felt cold, sick. She could not believe him, yet she felt the truth in his words.

  “And,” he said, “what about the old woman you lived with?”

  “What about her?”

  “Siddonie has imprisoned her in the palace dungeons.”

  “You’re lying. That is a lie.”

  His look said it was not.

  “Where is Mag now?”

  “I told you. In the cellars.”

  But his eyes had changed. Now he was lying. She could sense his lie clearly, as if her inner vision, like her feline eyesight, had suddenly grown more intense. “Where is she, Efil?”

  “They…someone freed her.”

  “Who freed her?”

  “I don’t know. She vanished from the cell.”

  “And this story about a false queen…That, too, is a lie?”

  “No, that is not a lie.”

  She saw that it was not. Her increased perception was startling. She pressed her back against the protruding cats’ faces, wondering if they were responsible for her sudden insight. Efil was watching her differently, almost fearfully. She pushed him aside, and swung the door open.

  “Go back, Efil. Go back to the Netherworld. I am not part of your war.”

  He looked at her silently. He didn’t touch her again. She saw his sudden distaste for her, as if, because he could no longer deceive her, she was of no use to him.

  When he finally moved past her into the tool room he went quickly, his face impassive, turned away. Stepping in behind him, she listened to his spell and watched the wall swing away with a small suck of air.

  He went through. She heard the little huff of air as the wall swung closed again. She stared around the homely tool room then went out, drew the Catswold Portal closed, and turned away.

  Chapter 43

  It was dawn. The dark green of night had hardly faded when three battalions of mounted Affandar soldiers rode out through the palace gates led by Siddonie on the tall, black stallion she favored. She had dreamed all night of slaughtering the Lettlehem peasants. She had dreamed for three nights running of the image doll some Lettlehem child had made of her, which had been hung at night in her own palace courtyard, and she lusted for revenge. Three battalions of foot soldiers followed her horse soldiers—the foot soldiers wearing heavy, curved swords and leading supply ponies.

  They reached the mountains above Lettlehem near midnight. They struck the five villages one after another, routing out screaming peasants, burning their cottages and crops, driving off the sheep and pigs or slaughtering them. She had gone to war under justifiable duress, and she liked killing under that shield. Her soldiers herded together the best of the village horses for their own use, and destroyed the rest. Once the fields were blackened, they destroyed all tools so the Lettlehem peasants couldn’t farm. Though Siddonie expected few of the peasants to survive their attack.

  The slaughter lasted until dawn. The smell of blood and the cries of the maimed filled the burned out villages, and left Siddonie hungry for further war, lusting to attack every country in the Netherworld with full force. War was far more satisfying than winning a country by intrigue; war sharpened her senses and gave life meaning. Certainly Lettlehem had learned quickly this night, that no one made images of the queen of Affandar.

  She watched the last of the peasants driven from hiding and herded across the hills and into the last village square. And there, in retribution for the incident of the image doll, she watched twenty-five Lettlehem children hanged from a gallows made of felled cedar trees.

  The image doll had appeared in the courtyard of Affandar Palace three nights before, hanging from a pole driven into the earth. It was undeniably a Lettlehem doll, woven in the same style as the Lettlehem rooftops and baskets, made of the coarse flax grown only in Lettlehem. She did not know who had brought the image to Affandar, but she would find out. She did not admit to anyone the power the doll had had to weaken her magic. For a full day after the thing was torn down and burned, she had been unable even to cast a simple spell-light. She could not influence the minds of her staff; she could not manage her horse except with brute force; she could not bring down game. The atrocity had left her sick with certainty that the doll had indeed possessed a portion of her soul.

  Chapter 44

  Braden was drinking his third cup of coffee and going through some old sketches, waiting for Melissa, when he saw her coming across the garden. He set down his coffee cup, staring. No more long green dress hid her figure and shortened her stride. She looked smashing—long and sleek, with a lot more showing under the slim orange trousers and pink top of clinging silk. And the red silk scarf tied around her hair set off its multi-colored wildness. As she crossed the veranda and looked in at him, her green eyes nearly drowned him. When he remembered to breathe, he opened the door for her, moving the bowl of cat food out of her way. He had set it on the terrace after the cat marched out refusing to eat; he had thought that maybe later in the day she’d be hungry.

  The cat had acted so strangely, glaring at him when he told her she was spoiled because she wouldn’t eat her breakfast. “A little lobster and a few cans of chicken,” he’d said, “and you’re too good to eat anything else.” And almost as if she understood, she had glowered up at him, then stuck her nose in the air and
headed for the door, switching her tail impatiently until he let her out.

  He watched Melissa now with more than an artist’s appreciation, watched her with increasing desire. “You look great—you have an artist’s eye for color. That orange and pink will be terrific. Have you had breakfast?”

  “No, I…” She looked secretive, and blushed. “There was a problem about breakfast.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nothing really. I just—didn’t eat.” She had a contrite, embarrassed look, and looked faintly amused, too. She didn’t offer an explanation.

  Maybe she was living with someone, maybe they’d had a fight and she had left without eating. But why the amusement? Or maybe lovemaking had gotten in the way of breakfast, he thought, annoyed. More than a little irritated, he picked up the canvas bag. “We’ll run over to Tiburon for breakfast, then work in that Victorian house I mentioned. Are you ready?” He went on out ahead of her with his sketching things.

  She picked up the picnic basket he had left and followed him. She didn’t know what he was angry about. She didn’t speak again until they were in the car headed for Tiburon. She leaned back in the seat watching the gleam of the bay, searching for something to talk about. What had she done to make him mad? The silence built, making her feel trapped. What was the matter with him? Her feline reaction was to turn away from him. Her human reaction was to try to heal his anger. Was it her amusement about breakfast that had annoyed him? But he couldn’t know what had amused her, so why was he angry? She watched him shyly under lowered lashes, and when the silence grew too much she grasped at the first thing she could think of to talk about. “When you were a boy, when you went to live in Carmel, how old were you?”

  He rolled down the window and slowed for a turning car. “Twelve,” he said shortly. “It was when my father died.”

  “You and your mother must have had a hard time.” She tried to speak softly. When he glanced at her she said, “You were very lucky to have your Gram.”