But soon she could smell the mouse, too, and her muscles tensed, and she felt the dropping feeling that heralded change. She resisted change, but all her senses were honed on the mouse. Its smell was too strong to bear. Its scratching teased and tormented.
Maybe she could change to the calico for just a moment. Braden slept so soundly. As she watched the wall where it was scratching, it suddenly darted out into the room and reared up in the moonlight, scenting out with a twitching nose.
She moved silently, stalking it.
Halfway across the room she stopped, clenched her fists, and turned away. She got back in bed and curled down close to Braden. He half woke and pulled her close, then slept again. She lay awake for the rest of the night, knowing that she must control this. Knowing that being with Braden constantly, never apart to turn into the calico and hunt, was going to cause problems. She had no way to work off her killing instincts. Quite suddenly, her love for him had pulled her into a gentle, passionate prison.
In the morning when she kept yawning, she said the moon had kept her awake. They had breakfast on the inn’s patio, then got to work. He drew her on the beach beside a wrecked boat with shattered glass in the windows, then before a shop with leaded windows that mirrored a red, flowering tree. That evening after dinner he chose his favorite from the day’s four drawings, stretched a canvas, and blocked in a painting. He had brought books for her—she read California history and some poetry, but the poetry made her uncomfortable. It was too much like reading spells.
They had the windows open because the smell of turpentine bothered her. When he came to bed they made love in the cool breeze; their passion echoed the pounding pulse of the sea, as if they partook of the spirit of the earth itself, elemental and primal. That night she more easily ignored the mouse, snuggling close to Braden, though again the nervy little beast came into the room with them as if irresistibly drawn to the contemplation of its own death.
And the next day, giddy with the excitement of wind and waves, as they walked on the rocks above the churning sea, she did something so stupid and foolish that she wallowed afterward in remorse.
Mrs. Trask had packed a lunch for them, and they drove down to Point Lobos, where gigantic stone slabs jutted into the sea. Among the wet, reflecting slabs of water-sculptured stone Braden posed her. The sea light, running and changing across the rocks, excited her, made her giddy. The sea made her wild—she wanted to run beside it, she wanted to chase the waves. She felt fidgety and impatient as they carried their lunch up a rock escarpment. Braden climbed slow and sure-footed, but Melissa, on the rocks above him, could not resist the razor-thin crest. She didn’t mean to run, but suddenly she was running and leaping along the crest, laughing, giddy.
His shout stopped her. “For Christ sake! Get the hell down from there! What the hell are you doing!”
She stared down at him, deflated, ashamed, enraged at herself.
“What the hell were you doing? You could have fallen, killed yourself.” He held her too tight. “You scared the hell out of me.”
She was quiet while they ate. She knew she was being sullen, and she didn’t like sullenness in herself.
But she didn’t like being so constricted. She had been perfectly safe on the rocks; she hadn’t been in danger. She felt contrary, willful. She wanted to run; she was crazy to be free a moment, just to run in the wind. Being cooped up within herself, having no chance to work off her pent-up wildness made her irritable.
It was mid-afternoon when Braden left her to walk around a point looking for the next place to work. She snatched the moment of freedom and ran crazily along the top of the cliff; and suddenly a rock broke under her feet. She fell headlong, clutching.
She righted herself in mid-air and landed lightly at the bottom of the cliff, on the rocks where the waves were crashing. Her tennis shoes slipped on the wet surface and she almost went in. As she turned, starting back up the cliff, she saw Braden on the rocks above her staring down at her, his face twisted with disbelief.
She came on up the cliff, sick and afraid. Why had she done that? So stupid. So tragic and stupid. He said nothing. She couldn’t look at his face. She wanted to run away from him, but she couldn’t.
He shoved the sketch pad into the canvas bag, dropped the charcoal and pastels in without even putting them in the little wooden sketch box. “Let’s go.” She went silently ahead of him to the car, and got in without speaking.
He started the car then turned toward her. He grabbed her suddenly, pulling her across the seat, holding her so tightly she gasped.
“Do you want to tell me what you were doing back there? You could have killed yourself.” He held her away, and looked and looked at her. “Do you want to tell me how you did that? Like…Christ, like an acrobat—twisting like that—landing on your feet…”
“I don’t know how I did it. I—I was afraid. You were right, the rocks are dangerous. I was afraid. I just—tried to right myself. I don’t know how I did it.” She looked at him helplessly.
He held her closer, kissed her fiercely. “Christ, Melissa. I love you, for Christ sake. You can’t—you might have been killed. Why…?”
But he didn’t finish, he only looked at her, holding her. She clung to him, remorseful and lost.
Chapter 57
The Harpy’s mirror was red with flame. In the little glass, the fires of the Hell Pit writhed, and deep among the licking blaze a blackness stirred. Half-hidden by fire the black beast thrust up, shoving aside the manticore like a toy, flicking the lamia away. The creature was so huge its head was an island rising up from the fires. Its eyes were pools of fire that could drown a war horse and rider, its jaws dripped with the flesh of men who suffered eternal damnation in the Hell Pit. As it rose, above it on the edge of the precipice stood Siddonie of Affandar.
Siddonie smiled and called the black dragon to her, summoning its ancient power, summoning the one power that reached beyond all worlds. This beast, part of the primal dark, of the eternal malevolence, was carnal, depraved, absolute in its viciousness, and it was indestructible. If it were destroyed in one place, it would return in another; it was birthed in the black emptiness beyond all worlds.
When the worlds were formed and the common beasts appeared, it had torn apart generations of creatures and eaten them. When men came into the many worlds, it took the weakest to itself and filled those men with evil, and it lived in each of them. In the upperworld it was known as Grendel, as Hecate, as the Mara and Black Annis, and it took the name of modern slavemasters. In the Netherworld it made its nest in the Hell Pit. On every world it nested, yet never did it diminish. It was everywhere, its get were the lamia and the basilisk, the manticore, the daughters of Lillith. Often it ate them then bore them anew. And now, from above, the queen of Affandar spoke.
“I am daughter to Lillith. Lillith’s power is my power, and so I hold power over you.”
The beast smiled, its cavernous mouth filled with viscous flame.
Siddonie said, “I direct you and you must obey. I bid you lead all Netherworld men to me and make them my slaves. I bid you battle beside me and make me victorious in this war.”
The Harpy held her mirror in shaking white hands. When she looked up at Mag, her voice was subdued. “She has called the powers of the black dragon. She has called the embodiment of the primal dark. She is a fool. The beast will destroy her. And it will destroy us all.”
Mag’s hands were still, hovering over the scraps she was cutting up for the pigs. “You didn’t tell me this before.”
“I did not know before. The vision has come only now. Siddonie has called it. She is a fool if she thinks she can control that darkness.” The Harpy’s little yellow bird eyes were hot with anger and grief. “No one can say now what will happen. If the primal dark is loosed unchallenged across the Netherworld, it could destroy everything. Just as,” the Harpy said, “worlds have exploded in the heavens. Just so, this land could know destruction. We could lose all magic, and all wizard l
ight, and be steeped in blackness again for all eternity—a chasm without life.”
Mag scraped the pig food into a bowl. “And will nothing stop the power she has summoned?”
“The power of vigorous life can stop it,” the Harpy said.
“But that power is dying in the Netherworld. It is that vital strength that has, in every world, driven the beast back.”
Chapter 58
The restaurant rambled along the cliff high above the sea. It was a weathered gray building, old and casual. They had a window table facing an explosion of sunset. As they sipped their drinks they watched the colors change, watched the red sweep of sky slowly invaded by storm clouds. But Melissa could hardly keep her eyes on the sunset and away from the caged birds that flitted and chirped beside their table.
The cage was rectangular, some ten feet long with an arrangement of tree branches inside. The two dozen jewel-colored birds were as lovely as real jewels. They were vibrant, swift, enticing. They were every combination of colors: red and purple, orange and green, peach and turquoise, each as rich and spectacular as the jeweled birds of Circe’s Grotto. Their chirping voices were hypnotic, and she was drawn irresistibly by their constant darting flight. The fast hush of feathers made her stomach constrict and her hands clench. She could smell bird, almost taste bird. She tried to study her menu, but could not keep her eyes from them.
For nearly a week she had been docile, had stayed away from the cliff, had not darted her hands into the shallow sea to catch the little crabs that scurried there. And at night when she heard the mouse scratching she had pulled the pillow over her head and clenched her teeth and ignored the little morsel. But the mouse was bold; she found its droppings in front of the dresser and around her suitcase. And with the pressure of restraining herself she had grown irritable, and their lovemaking had suffered. And now Braden had, innocently, seated her next to the birds and she wanted to snatch at them, to rip the wire and grab them.
“What will you have? What looks good?”
Bird! I’ll have bird—raw please, with the feathers on! She pressed her knuckles to her lips.
“Melissa?”
“I—the lobster would be nice.”
“But you’ve been eating lobster all week. Well, I don’t care…”
“The—the crab, maybe?”
“That would be a nice change,” he said caustically, watching her, his eyes faintly narrowed. She lowered her gaze to the white tablecloth and laced her fingers together in her lap, hard, to keep them still, fighting the passions of the little cat.
But soon her gaze wandered to the birds again. The cat was nervy, demanding, like a bonfire inside her threatening to take over, take charge. When she could stand it no longer she excused herself and rushed to the ladies’ room.
She stood looking into the mirror at her haunted face; she could see the cat’s passion and hunger looking out. She tried to calm herself, tried to drive the little cat away and ended up crying, her thoughts out of control. And why did she keep wanting to curl down into dark places? Everywhere they went, she was drawn to the shadows behind chairs, to the dark caves under tables or beneath bushes. On the beach among the rocks she would stare into little crevices, wanting to crawl into them. In the lobby, it was the secluded darknesses behind the tall ceramic planters. The little cat had never been so drawn to darkness. What was happening to her?
She returned to the table feeling wrung out, weak, and still the birds flitted and darted. She got through dinner taut and uncomfortable, and it was that night, nervy and upset, that she began to save scraps for the mouse, tucking a bit of bread into her purse beside the roll of bills.
From then on, at each meal she tucked away a crumb, tiny morsels that she put down late at night after Braden slept. Each night she told herself she wouldn’t do this anymore, and each night she placed her bait closer to the bed.
Each night the guilt, the furtive slipping out of bed then back again to lie listening. She was being very stupid; he was going to find out. And the mouse became bold—it would run out, snatch her offering, then sit up holding the bread in its paws, eating right in front of her. And at last the night came when she could no longer lie still.
She could see the mouse across the room in the faint hint of moonlight. She rose, her fingers curling and straightening with the need to make claws, and she knew she dare not change. Half-naked in her panties, she slipped toward the mouse, light and quick. It was just behind Braden’s shoe. She could see it and smell it, could see its whiskers twitching. She crept close and crouched and snatched it in her cupped hands.
She drew her hands up, ecstatic with the feel of the mouse squirming against her palm. She stood up, gripping it tightly; she shook it and felt it wriggle with terror and she smiled and turned…
Braden was awake, watching her.
She backed away from him. “I—I heard it scratching. It was—it was so loud. Scratching at something. It woke me. I—I don’t know how I did this. What—what shall I do with it? Oh, it’s moving in my hand, it’s horrible.” Its movement excited her unbearably. She wanted to loose it and chase it, wanted to bat at it and play with it. She looked at Braden pleadingly. “What—what shall I do with it?”
He looked back at her, expressionless.
She went into the bathroom and dropped the mouse into the toilet. She pulled the handle. It fought as it was swept away from the sides in the churning water. It thrashed wildly as it was sucked out of sight. She stared after it regretfully. What a waste of a perfectly good mouse. She longed to have kept it, to have played with it then killed it. She washed her hands because Braden would expect it, and returned to the bedroom. “It’s gone. Horrible.”
He was still staring. She stood looking at him, her expression as surprised as she could manage. And she was filled with terror. He knew. He knew what she was. It was over. It was all over between them.
She picked up the heavy bedspread they had kicked to the floor, wrapped it around herself, and curled up in the upholstered chair, her face turned away from him. As soon as it was dawn she would leave. She should have gone before. She should never have come here with him. She closed her eyes, keeping her face hidden.
She heard him rise. She felt the chair give as he sat down on its upholstered arm. He drew her to him, held her against him. “Come to bed, Melissa.”
“You don’t want me there.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You were horrified by—by the mouse. You were looking at me as if…”
“As if what?”
“I don’t know what. As if you thought me disgusting because I happened to catch a mouse in the closet.”
“You have to admit, it isn’t something every girl does, catching mice in the middle of the night with her bare hands. Most girls won’t go into a room with a mouse, let alone catch it with—that way.”
“But I had a mouse when I was a child. I used to catch it like that when—when it got out of its cage. Tonight—it was so loud. And how else would I have caught it? I just—I didn’t think…”
He picked her up and carried her to the bed and put her down, pushing a pillow behind her. “Any other girl would have told me, let me deal with the mouse.”
“You were asleep. Are you disappointed? Did you want to catch it yourself?”
He looked startled, then scowled. He didn’t see anything funny.
“I just didn’t think,” she repeated contritely. “I used to catch my mouse that way, so I just…” She looked at him innocently.
He stared at her then began to laugh, a choke at first, then he doubled over laughing, fell across the bed laughing. “You caught a mouse—a mouse…flushed it down the john…” He shook with laughter until she was laughing too. “You slipped up on a mouse in the middle of the night…” He rolled over, consumed with helpless laughter.
When their laughter had died they lay limp, gasping. A giggle escaped her, then she sighed against him and curled down in his arms.
But the ca
tharsis of laughter didn’t last. The next day they began to argue about nothing, tense and irritable with each other. She would catch him looking at her, puzzled, and she would lash out at him with something rude. The hot sun in her face made her feel sick and dizzy. Once she had to leave him, hurrying back to the hotel, barely reaching the bathroom before she threw up her breakfast.
She returned to Braden weak and cross.
“You’re awfully pale. I’m nearly finished with this drawing. Can you hang on a little while?”
“Yes,” she said. But all he wanted was the paintings, he didn’t care anything about her. And then she wondered what was wrong with her. It didn’t make sense to be so angry. She loved him—they were together, in this lovely village. She should be so happy; she should be warmed and replenished by their love, by Braden’s knowing lovemaking and by his caring. And the paintings were part of his lovemaking, his painting her brought them together in a way few lovers could know.
Yet the little cat was driving him away.
The stupid cat couldn’t be still, and her wildness and hungers were ruining everything. She did not feel at one with the calico at this moment; she felt led by her, used and intimidated by her.
That afternoon when Braden started another painting, he said it would be the last. That when this one was finished they would do nothing but play. He was working on the painting when Morian called. Melissa picked up the phone thinking it was the boy who brought room service because she had ordered some sandwiches.
Morian said a registered package had come from the History Museum, that it looked like drawings. Braden said, “Ask her to open it. And ask her about the cat.”
“Open it, Morian. And he—he wants to know if his little cat is all right,” Melissa said weakly.
Morian said, “She hasn’t come home, Melissa. Not since you left. I didn’t want to tell him but…Maybe I don’t need to tell him?” There was a long silence, then, “Maybe I needn’t worry about—the cat—just now?”
The Catswold Portal Page 34
