The Catswold Portal

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Melissa’s heart had nearly stopped.

  “Melissa? I’m opening the package now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember that Olive left me a note when she brought the kitten here?”

  “Yes.”

  Braden glanced up, wondering what they were talking about.

  Morian said, “It was pretty cryptic. I couldn’t figure it out.” Again a pause. Then, “Now I think I know what Olive was saying. Now I think I don’t have to worry about Braden’s cat. Now,” Morian said, “I see that you can take care of her.”

  Melissa couldn’t speak.

  “Shall we tell Braden that his little cat is here, and safe?”

  “That—that’s right, Morian.” She felt so weak she had to sit down.

  Braden scowled at the silence, put down his brush, came across the room, and took the phone from her. “What’s wrong, Mor? What’s happened?” He sat down on the bed beside Melissa, putting his arm around her. She pressed her face to his, listening to the low voice at the other end of the phone.

  Morian said, “Nothing’s wrong, Brade. Everything’s fine. The calico’s doing just fine.”

  Melissa’s heart thundered. Her hands were shaking, her mouth was dry. Morian said, “She’s safe and happy and cared for, Brade. Loved. Your calico cat is very loved.”

  She felt sick. She couldn’t stop shaking.

  “I have the package open, Brade. It’s two of Alice’s drawings of the garden door. There’s a letter.”

  “Read it,” he said tensely, watching Melissa.

  “Let’s see, they—they found the drawings while going through the archives. It’s from the director Alice saw that day. He says…he thought they had all been returned—tried to phone you, guess your phone is unlisted—sorry for the inconvenience. That’s all, nothing urgent, just returning the drawings.”

  Melissa went into the bathroom, washed her face in cold water, and stayed there until she was calmer. When she came out he was painting again, eating a sandwich with a painty hand. The tray sat beside the bed; she poured herself some tea. He hardly looked up at her. She ate and drank her tea but couldn’t settle down. She went out at last to shop, and paced the village until dusk thinking about Morian, about what she knew, what Olive knew. Knowing that Braden would find out eventually, and when he found out, her life would be over. There would be nothing more for her.

  She lay awake that night long after Braden slept. Near midnight she rose and stood restlessly at the window, then pulled on shorts and a shirt, and went out.

  The village was dark, the moon veiled behind clouds. She walked to the beach but didn’t go out on the sand. She followed beside it through tangled bushes and tall grass, compulsively moving toward the darkest shadows. Soon she knelt, crawled on hands and knees in among the bushes and she changed to cat. She had no choice but to change.

  The calico paced and wound among the bushes feeling sick. Her coat felt matted, and she didn’t want to groom herself. She came out from the bushes once to stare away toward the sea, and when a sharp pain gripped her, she crouched. The pounding sea sounded like a giant heartbeat. When the pain was gone she moved back under the bushes and crept along through the tangle. She was all instinct now, searching for the darkest shelter, searching for the driest, softest bed. Another pain caught her, and she crouched, panting.

  When the pain was gone she moved on again, seeking urgently. She pushed through the tall grass and wild holly, and another pain brought her down.

  When the pain passed she remained hunched on her forelegs, breathing hard. Another pain pressed, and another. She rose, searching. She found no place better than the last. All the ground was damp. Pains forced her into another crouch, her claws dug into the earth; her thoughts sank into mindless pain and the need to lick, to push out; frightened and alone, she felt water break. Her pain and her cry tangled together. She felt the first kitten come. Turning her head she saw it, gauze covered, dropping down in the wetness.

  She tore the damp, spider-web gauze away. She licked the tiny kitten frantically, wanting to clean it before the next one came. She licked its tiny closed eyes, its little face, its minute ears. Why was it so still? She licked harder, pushing at it, waiting for it to move, waiting for the next pain.

  The gauze was gone from the kitten. She severed the cord. But still the kitten didn’t move.

  She pushed at it, rasping along its skin with her rough tongue to wake it and make it breathe.

  The kitten didn’t wake. It lay mute and still.

  There were no more pains.

  She lay quiet at last, her one dead kitten cuddled against her throat, her paws curved around its little, still body.

  It was much later, as dawn touched the sea, that she licked herself clean and rose wearily to her four paws, looking down at her dead kitten.

  She was unwilling to leave it alone.

  Yet she knew she must leave it.

  She dug a grave for it, first as cat, her claws tearing at the earth, then as Melissa, her hands scrabbling into the torn soil. She buried her kitten deep, and covered its grave with holly thorns and stones.

  She backed out of the bushes and stood up. Her hands were caked with dirt, her nails filled with grit, her clothes dirty. Her legs were scratched from the bushes. Mourning deeply, she made her way back through the early dawn to the inn, to Braden. Wanting him to hold her, wanting to be held, to be safe and held.

  Chapter 59

  She returned slowly to the inn. The dawn sky was dark gray streaked with silver, pierced by the dark Monterey pines marching down the center of the empty, divided street. Her thoughts, all her being, were centered on her kitten. She could still see its tiny claws, its blind eyes. Too sharply she could see her little kit lying still and lifeless.

  She had said spells over him, knowing that was useless but needing to say them, needing their comfort. She was terrified that when she told Efil she had miscarried, she had cursed her unborn Catswold kit. She passed Braden’s station wagon parked at the curb, then turned back because she had felt along her bare arm a wave of heat from it. When she touched the hood, it was hot. He had been out; he had been looking for her.

  She met him on the stairs. He was wearing cutoffs and a sweat shirt. He followed her back to the room, stood waiting for an explanation.

  “I went for a walk.”

  “In the middle of the night? I woke at three o’clock and you were gone, Melissa. I’ve been driving around this damn town looking for you. I came back to see if you were here. I was about to go to the police.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you wake me? I thought—Christ, I didn’t know what to think.” He grabbed her hands, then saw the caked dirt, the grime in her nails. “Where did you walk?”

  “On the beach. I—collected some shells and rocks, but then I left them. And I picked some grasses and holly.”

  “For a bouquet?”

  “The grass wilted, the holly stuck me. I threw it all away.” Must he press her? Couldn’t he just gather her in and hold her? She went into the bathroom and shut the door. She washed her hands, and scrubbed her nails. Her face was dirty, her eyes red. She filled the basin with cold water and ducked her face in, letting the coolness pull away the grainy, hot feeling, scrubbing her face hard with the washcloth.

  When she came out his anger had abated. “I’m sorry. I was so damned scared. I didn’t know where you went, I didn’t know what happened to you. I remembered how you came to the studio that evening with the wound on your head as if someone had beaten you. I thought…” He sat down on the bed, just looking at her.

  She sat down beside him and leaned into his warmth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She was so tired. She could still see her tiny lifeless kit, could still feel his delicate little body, his tiny paws and tiny, perfectly formed claws. Braden stroked her hair and rubbed the back of her neck. But she couldn’t bear to make love. She shook her head weakly; mourning her ki
t, and already mourning her inevitable parting from Braden. He held her, letting her doze.

  It was much later that he held her away from him with a deeply searching, uneasy look. “When we go back, Melissa, will you move in with me? Will you live with me? I have this irrational feeling you’re going to disappear.” His dark eyes searched hers, loving her. “I don’t mean to press, to smother you. But I don’t want to lose you.” She snuggled closer, touching his cheek. He said, “Will you live with me? Will you think about getting married? We could think about that.”

  “I…” She looked at him helplessly.

  He waited.

  “We—we could think about it.” But they could never marry. She must go back to the Netherworld; she did not belong in this world; she did not belong with him. And soon he would begin to put the strange occurrences together. He would figure out what she was—an impossible creature, half woman, half cat, and he would be sickened.

  “Melissa? Will you marry me?”

  “We—we need time to—think about it.”

  The line at the corner of his mouth deepened. She hugged and kissed him, making herself go soft and relax against him, teasing him until at last he made love to her; his loving should have been healing, but their tender, passionate loving made her mourn him, drove her into deep depression for what she had already lost, so all she wanted to do was weep.

  They showered together, and he washed her back. Turned away from him, she let her tears mingle with the hot water.

  As he toweled her off, he said, “Shall I send down for some breakfast? You look so tired. Climb into bed. I’ll call the kitchen.” He tucked the towel around his middle and went in to straighten the bed for her. She climbed in gratefully, but then she saw his suitcase sitting by the door, his closed paint box, the folded easel, and remembered that this was the day to go back; they had no choice, the opening was tonight. She swallowed tears that threatened to swamp her, and turned her face into the pillow.

  Braden watched her as he phoned in their breakfast order. She was crying silently, trying to hide her long, quivering shudders into the pillow. What the hell happened last night? It was almost impossible not to ask questions, not to demand answers, yet common sense said to leave her alone. He wondered if someone had followed her here. A husband or lover? He lay down beside her, gathering her close, holding her close in the circle of his arms. And after a while he said softly, “Were you with someone else?”

  She turned over, looking at him blankly. Her face was red and sad, and her wet lashes beaded together. “Someone else?” Then her eyes widened. “A man? Oh, no.” She touched his face. “No! It wasn’t that!” She seemed truly shocked. “It wasn’t that. Just—sick. I feel better, truly I do.” She held his face, looking deep into his eyes. “There is no one else. I could love no one else but you.”

  He got up and tucked the covers around her, wondering why he couldn’t believe her. It wasn’t even that he didn’t believe her; but he couldn’t escape the things left unexplained.

  When the breakfast cart came she drank and ate dutifully, then curled up again, spent, and was soon asleep. He stood looking down at her, his breakfast untouched. Then he picked up his suitcase and painting box, the folded tarp and easel, and headed for the car.

  They would have to leave when she woke, go directly to the gallery, frame these six paintings and hang them. Rye would be pacing, having anxiety attacks waiting for them. They had planned to change clothes at the gallery, have a leisurely dinner. The opening wasn’t until nine, and Rye liked his artists to arrive late, liked them to come in when there was already a good crowd.

  He loaded five paintings into the station wagon, and Melissa was still asleep when he went back to the room for the last one. He had started to pick it up, making sure it was dry, when something about the painting made him stop. He set the canvas down and backed off to look at it.

  The pale sand made a shocking contrast to the dark, cloud-riven sky, and to the reds in Melissa’s clothes, and the faded red of the derelict boat, where her face reflected in the broken window. She was looking down, the reflections of her cheek and hair woven through the reflections of five winging gulls. This was a strong painting; why should it bother him? He kept looking, felt he was missing something, an eerie and disruptive sense, like a strange premonition; a feeling as wildly unsettling as Melissa’s fall from the rocks, or as seeing her catch the mouse in the middle of the night, or as her nervousness in the restaurant beside the caged finches.

  Fairy tales chittered at him like bats in a black windstorm, as if insanity had reached to wriggle probing fingers deep inside his drowning brain. And the message that was trying to get through to his conscious mind could not be tolerated. He shoved it back deep into the dark places where he couldn’t see it—a sick nightmare message, an aberration. He turned to watch her sleeping, and in sleep she was as pure and innocent as a wild creature. He loved the way she slept curled around the pillow, totally limp. He wanted to gather her in and love her and keep on loving her. He rejected the nagging fear that made him see shadows across her face.

  He felt certain there was no one else. She wasn’t a tramp or a flirt; she hadn’t glanced at another man, though nearly every man stared at her. He didn’t think any deeper than that, didn’t dare to think deeper. He gave it up at last, looked at the painting again, saw nothing strange in it. He picked it up and carried it down to the station wagon.

  She was still asleep when he got back, her lashes moving in a dream. Even watching her dream made him edgy. He kept wondering what she was dreaming about. And why the hell did every damned thing set him off into wild, impossible speculations? He went back downstairs, and in Mrs. Trask’s office he called Morian.

  “We’ll be late getting back. We’ll go directly to the gallery—see you there. How’s the calico?”

  “Happy, Brade. Loved and spoiled and luxuriously cared for. What’s wrong? There’s something.”

  “Nothing. We’re just loading up to come home.” How did she always know? How did she sense that he had called her for comforting, for reassurance? “Everything’s great.”

  “You two haven’t fought?”

  “Of course not. Why would we fight?”

  “I see. Well, whatever it is, Brade,” she said softly, “I think you’re very lucky to have Melissa. Don’t—don’t hurt her, Brade.”

  She didn’t wake until nearly noon; the depression didn’t hit her until she was fully awake. Quite suddenly she remembered her dead kit, and the hurting hit her.

  The room was hot, the sun slanting in; she was sweaty, tangled in the sheet. Braden was gone. She rolled over clutching the pillow, heavy with depression.

  She wished they could stay here in this little village and never go back, that she could forget the Netherworld, that they could forget everything but each other and she could forget the feline part of herself.

  Deliberately she made herself think about the gallery opening. She was terrified of the evening to come, terrified someone would see the cat images in Braden’s paintings. How very clever of you, Mr. West. Phantom cats. What a droll idea, so subtle. What, exactly, is their significance?

  And at the opening she would have to face Morian: a woman who knew everything about her, who had told her clearly that she knew. She wanted to run away now, but he wanted her at the opening. She would hurt him if she went away now. He said the paintings were hers, that without her they would not have happened, that without her there would be no opening and he would still be sunk in gloom.

  She knew she must go, and that she must smile and meet strangers and be nice to them. She would disappear afterward. She would go back to the portal alone, and down, and would never see him again.

  She rose and dressed and packed her few things. Braden returned and they went downstairs to Mrs. Trask’s office to say good-bye. The office was as bright and cheerful as the rest of the inn, white wicker furniture and potted plants, and a collection of prints that covered three walls. Some were Alice’s:
an etching of winging gulls, a lithograph of swimming seals, and one of horses wheeling at the edge of the sea. Behind the desk hung an etching of a cat sculpture, the cat leaping after a bird. Her pulse quickened. She recognized it from the Cat Museum. And Braden said, “Timorell commissioned the sculpture shortly before she was killed in the earthquake. Alice thought it had some special meaning for her, that was why she did the etching, several years after Timorell’s death.”

  Now her heart was thundering.

  In the museum, she had examined that cat sculpture. She had found no clue that it might contain the Amulet. Now, she burned to go back and look at it again. She moved behind the desk, to study it.

  The bronze cat’s fur was roughly done. One could see the globs of clay from which the casting had been made. And within the rough clay patterns, across the cat’s flank, was an oval shape unlike the other texture. A little teardrop shape so subtly different one could easily overlook it, but a shape a bit too perfect. A teardrop the same shape as the Amulet. Excited, she turned away when Braden took her hand. She said good-bye to Mrs. Trask and hugged her. The old woman felt like a rock, draped in her black mourning, but her smile was full of joy.

  Chapter 60

  Twenty paintings hung on the white gallery walls, each with space around it, each well lighted from spotlights recessed into the ceiling. Hung all together, the rich, abstracted studies had such power they jolted Melissa.

  She stood alone in the center of the gallery turning in a slow circle, drinking in the colors and shadows, the reflections, so overwhelmed she felt tears come. Glowing with Braden’s passionate vision, each painting seemed to her beyond what any human could bring forth. She had no experience, from the Netherworld, of the passion or skill that could create such beauty. Braden had brought this power out of himself, out of what he was; she stood alone in the gallery wiping away tears stirred by beauty, by his power; and tears of pain because they would soon be parted.