The Catswold Portal

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  And she tried not to see the cat images shadowed within the canvases. She prayed no one would see them. Yet each painting whispered with the faint spirit of the cat, lithe and dreamlike, nearly hidden.

  She had left Braden and Rye in the gallery office unloading and framing the six paintings from Carmel. The two office desks had been laid with white cloths and stacked with ice containers and liquor bottles, silver trays and boxes of canapes. A long table in the gallery itself held cocktail napkins, stacks of glasses, little plates, a cut glass punch bowl, enough for a huge crowd. And the thought of a crowd terrified her.

  Through the fog-softened San Francisco night, they walked two blocks to an East Indian restaurant, leaving Rye to mix champagne punch and hang the last of the show. They sat in wicker chairs with deep cushions dining on lamb curry and a lovely rum drink. It was late when they returned to the gallery. Its street was lined with cars. She felt her heart thudding as they pushed in through the crowd. Braden greeted friends and introduced her. She didn’t like being pressed among so many people, nor did she like the noise of dozens of conversations all at once. Everyone wanted to meet Braden’s model, everyone wanted to compare her face with the work. She wondered why they couldn’t just look at the paintings, just see the paintings. She wanted only to drift unnoticed, hearing their comments about the work, not about her. She smiled and answered questions, trying to be what Braden expected, and it was not until late in the evening that she began to notice something was wrong.

  Braden had drifted away. A dark, intense man was suddenly beside her. When she turned to look at him, ice crawled down her spine.

  He wasn’t tall. He was well knit, with short, dark hair. His yellow eyes were vivid in his thin, tanned face. His voice was soft and purring; brazenly intimate. “I like the work tremendously. So subtle.”

  She wanted to run from him. He did not belong in this room. He did not belong in this world. He said, “You’re a marvelous model.”

  She looked at him coolly. “The model is unimportant; only the painter is important.”

  He smiled. “A painter must have—inspiration.”

  She glanced around the room for Braden but couldn’t see him. The man moved closer to her. “I’m enchanted by the shadows in West’s work.”

  “All paintings have shadows,” she said shortly, edging away from him. Distraught, she backed into the woman behind her, almost spilling the woman’s drink.

  He said, “These are unique shadows.” He took her elbow, easing her away to a little space in the crowd. “Unusual shadows. Shadows that speak to me.”

  She didn’t want this, she’d been so afraid of this. And suddenly other people were crowding around them: a portly man in a black suit, two women in cocktail dresses. They circled her, blocking her retreat, muttering compliments. They watched her through eyes not ordinary. Her discomfort turned to panic as four sets of feline eyes studied her. Then suddenly Morian was there, moving toward her.

  Morian slipped between the two women. She was dressed in a short silver shift, and had silver clips in her hair. She took Melissa’s hand. “There’s a phone call for you in the office.” She patted the dark-haired man on the shoulder. “You can talk with her later, Terrel. She’s a popular lady tonight.” She turned away, guiding Melissa before her.

  They went through the office, where two waiters were replenishing trays, into the deserted framing room. Melissa leaned against the work table, weak. She could not look at Morian, she could not look up into Morian’s knowing eyes.

  Morian cleared a stack of papers from the couch and sat Melissa down as if she were arranging a small child. She brought her a glass of water from the sink at one end of the work bench. “That was Terrel Black. He’s harmless, but he’s pretty intense. He paints and teaches up at the school. You’re awfully pale. Can I get you something to eat, or an aspirin?”

  “No, nothing. Not an aspirin, they don’t—I can’t take them.” Too late she saw the knowing look in Morian’s eyes.

  “Thank you for getting me away. I just felt sick suddenly. Maybe the crowd, too many people.” She was trying not to prattle, and afraid to stop talking. She didn’t want Morian to say anything. She felt ice cold. She didn’t know what Morian would do.

  Morian watched her, then rose. She found a man’s sweater and dropped it around her shoulders. “Stay here, rest a while. I’ll tell Braden where you are.”

  “I…”

  Morian turned back, her dark eyes questioning.

  “Nothing,” Melissa said. “Thank you.”

  Morian nodded, her face expressionless, hiding her own thoughts, then turned away and left her.

  She sat shivering, sipping the water. There was a door at the far end of the framing room beyond the painting racks. It led to the alley—they had brought the paintings in that way. She could leave now, slip away down the alley, take a taxi to the Cat Museum, retrieve the Amulet…

  Before she could decide Braden came in, preoccupied, frowning. “Mettleson is here. Are you too sick just to meet him? He saw the show this afternoon but he wanted to see the Carmel paintings even in this crowd. He wants to meet you. Could you just say hello, then come back and lie down?”

  She followed him out. If she stayed with Braden she could avoid Terrel Black.

  Braden introduced her to Mettleson. He was a short, balding man with thick gray hair at the sides of his head running down into a beard. They exchanged polite, meaningless talk. He told her she was beautiful. He praised the paintings. But then Braden turned away to speak to someone, and the next minute there was a shift in the crowd, and she had been separated from Mettleson. Terrel Black took her arm. His friends crowded close, locking her in a circle. She did not see Braden, did not see Mettleson. And the pale blond girl looked deeply at her, her blue, feline eyes intent. “Do you think Mr. West would paint me? Do you think Braden West would paint my spirit as he has painted yours?”

  Melissa wanted to claw her. Terrel moved casually between them. “It’s the finest work Braden’s done. I’m awed at his—perception. I didn’t know he—I’m amazed at how much he sees.”

  She held her temper. “Braden sees only the color and form, and the reflections of light. He sees only the things he knows.”

  Terrel smiled. “He has to see in order to paint. Are you telling us that he doesn’t know what he sees?”

  “Surely you see something he does not?” she said coldly, and tried to shoulder past him out of the tight circle, but they closed more tightly around her. Their voices were low, caressing.

  “Beautiful paintings…” the red-haired girl said.

  “The lovely shadow of the spirit…” said the pale one.

  “You know things we don’t,” the portly man said softly.

  “Show us,” Terrel said. “Show us, Melissa…Show us how to change…”

  She forced between them and ran. She dodged through the crowd knocking people aside, spilling drinks, shouldering and pushing through. She was out the door, running across the dark street between the moving lights of cars. Brakes squealed, a car swerved, lights blazed in her face.

  She gained the curb ahead of a squealing car, but nearly fell when she caught her heel. She was panting. She righted herself and ran, trying to lose herself in the blackness between street lights.

  But feet pounded behind her and Terrel shouted her name. When she glanced back, four sets of eyes reflected headlights. She ran as she had never run, but she heard them gaining, their feet pounding…

  Terrel was too fast; he grabbed her, spinning her around. She scratched at him and kicked.

  “We won’t hurt you, we only want…” He held her in a steel grip. “Tell us, Melissa. Tell us how to change.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She faced him shivering. And then in spite of herself, his pleading touched her.

  They stood frozen staring at each other. “Please, will you tell us? That is all we want, only to know how to change.”

  It was no good to pre
tend. It was too late to pretend. She said, “You don’t know. None of you know.”

  “None of us. We…” Light flashed suddenly across Terrel’s eyes as Braden’s station wagon skidded to the curb. Braden jumped out reaching for her, but Terrel jerked her away. “Tell us, Melissa!” But Braden was on him, knocking him aside, pulling Melissa close. She pressed against him, hid her face against him.

  “What do they want?” Braden said.

  “I don’t know. Please, will you take me home?”

  He tilted her chin so she had to look at him. “I think you do know.” The others stood poised. Braden looked from Terrel to the blond girl to Melissa. “I think you know, Melissa. I think you must do what they ask. I think you must help them.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you must free them, Melissa. As you are free.”

  She couldn’t take her eyes from his. The two worlds tilted and fell together and she was falling, destroyed.

  “Free them, Melissa.”

  He held her away, his hands tight on her shoulders. “Do you think I didn’t wonder? You caught a mouse in your bare hands. You were shaking it and smiling until you saw me watching you. You fell from the ledge, turned over in mid-air and landed on your feet. Do you think I didn’t wonder?”

  His lips were a thin line. “Don’t you think I saw how the birds in the restaurant upset you—excited you? And the day you got so angry when we talked about people changing into…” He shook his head, his eyes pleading. “Don’t you think I wondered why the cat was never there when you were? Not once did I see you both at the same time.”

  “But Morian said she was there.”

  “Morian lied.”

  “But…”

  He drew a breath, silencing her. “Tonight for the first time I saw the shadow-cats in my paintings.” His face was like stone. “Images I did not consciously put there.” His hands were hot on her shoulders.

  “And just now, Melissa, when you turned and saw my car, your eyes…” He swallowed. She could see the muscles working in his jaw. “Your eyes reflected the headlights—like mirrors. Like jewels. Like a cat’s eyes.”

  She tried to pull out of his grasp.

  “Tell them what they want to know. Tell them now.”

  She looked at him a long time. It didn’t matter anymore, nothing mattered, she had lost him. She turned within his grip and faced the waiting Catswold. There were more now, ten—twelve—more coming out of the shadows.

  And within the shadows someone said, “There is a world—other than this. There is a passage, my family told of it. Tell us about that land. Tell us where the passage opens.”

  “There is war there,” she said. “The passage leads to war, to death for the Catswold. Please…” She didn’t believe this was happening. This couldn’t be happening. “I—I can only free you. I can only give you the spell. I won’t tell you how to go there. There is danger there.” She felt displaced, sick. But she must help them, give them the spell. It no longer mattered what Braden saw and heard, she had already destroyed his love.

  She said the spell quickly and turned away, pulling Braden toward the car. She didn’t want him to see the changing. As she got in the car she heard the words repeated behind her, and repeated again. She got in. “Go quickly, please.” But he had turned and was watching them. He saw in the darkness the tall shadows vanish into small swift beasts, saw the cats running away into the night.

  Chapter 61

  Outdoor lights brightened the fluted borders of the museum’s tile roofs, and the brick paths. Light slanted down through the gnarled limbs of the oak trees to cast their twisting shadows along the garden walls. Braden parked on the empty street and Melissa left him quickly.

  She had remained silent as he drove up Telegraph and then up Russian Hill. She didn’t know what to say to him and she didn’t want to know what he thought; she couldn’t bear to know. She didn’t want to hear his accusations. She had lost him. She was filled with the pain of that loss and if he spoke to her she would weep.

  She moved quickly away from the car through light then shadow, and in the darkness beyond a garden wall where Braden couldn’t see her, she changed to cat. She crouched uncertainly, then leaped up the wall and over.

  She searched the gardens one by one for the sculpture of the rearing bronze cat which Timorell had commissioned. She was not alone within the gardens; other cats prowled, hunting mice and crickets or eating the cat food the museum put out for them. Some challenged her, but none attacked. They seemed more possessive at night, when the museum was exclusively theirs. She found the sculpture at last in a small circular garden planted with lavender. She changed to girl and stood against the sculpture stand touching the cool bronze. The cat was rearing up, the texture of its coat rough with the clay that had originally formed it, from which the cast had been made. She ran her hands along its rough flank, tracing the texture of the metal until her seeking fingers found one perfect oval.

  She pressed it, fingered it, but it did nothing. Maybe this was simply the tear-shaped symbol of the Amulet. She could feel no cracks along the cat’s body where the sculpture might open. She tried to tilt the cat but it was bolted down. Discouraged, she whispered an opening spell.

  The bronze cat fell apart in two halves.

  Within lay the Amulet of Bast, gleaming green in the faint garden lights. When she lifted it, it was heavy and cold to her fingers. She touched the setting that circled it, could feel the two rearing bronze cats. She tried a spell-light, not believing one would come, but her bright light struck across the emerald and deep into it, glowing green.

  She saw that the two golden cats circling it were not mirror images. One looked gentle, that was Bast. The other, Sekhmet, was fierce. And deep within the emerald, cut by some magic she didn’t know, shone the sun. Here was the trinity of the cat goddess: Bast the gentle; Sekhmet the warrior; and Ra the sun.

  How many Catswold women had looked into this emerald and considered their dual natures? How many women, over how many centuries? She slipped the chain over her head and let the Amulet drop against her, heavy, powerful.

  Now the commitment was made. Soon she must face Siddonie and try to destroy the dark queen—the Lillith woman. The power of the Amulet held and terrified her. She felt as if generations of Catswold women had come alive within her, as if their spirits had joined, waiting to see what she would do.

  And when at last she faced Siddonie she would be facing not only the queen of Affandar, but the eternal evil. As Bast had killed the Serpent, so she again must kill it.

  She returned to Braden, needing desperately to be with him for the few moments more they had left. In the car he sat looking at her, and reached for her, drawing her close. “Can you tell me what you did in there? Can you tell me any of this?”

  She looked at him in the darkness, then brought a small spell-light so the emerald shone, hanging at her breast. His eyes widened. She let the light dim and she went into his arms again. He touched her face, stroked her hair, but he didn’t speak. She moved close within his arms, desolate.

  With the finding of the Amulet, the Netherworld and the upperworld had warped together. But their own two worlds had shattered totally apart.

  Chapter 62

  Braden turned the station wagon into the lane, his headlights slewing across the flowered hill. Melissa kissed him and slid out of the car and ran. He jammed on the brakes and was out, too, running, grabbing her. “You’re not going down alone.” She had told him everything, had described the Netherworld for him, had built a picture of Siddonie’s evil, and of the rising war. “I’m going with you.” He held her wrists, so insistent she couldn’t break free.

  “You can’t go, you have no protection, no magic. They—”

  “I have other skills. I’m coming with you.”

  His eyes burned her, his grip bruised. There was no use to argue with him. She said, “Then you must do as I say. There are things you must have—things I
wouldn’t need alone.”

  “Like what?”

  “A lantern or oil lamp—not a flashlight. A knife strong enough for a good weapon. Some food.”

  “Why do you not need a weapon?”

  “I can turn a weapon away. I told you, magic is a weapon there.”

  He didn’t move, just held her prisoner.

  “Please, Braden, there is little time.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone.” Gripping her hand, he headed for the studio.

  “I’ll wait for you, I promise. I must make slow, careful preparations. Please—hurry, get some food for us. And bring a blanket.”

  He searched her face, holding her tightly.

  “You’re wasting time, Braden! I promise I will wait! You must trust me!”

  He released her at last and turned away, running for the studio. She saw the studio lights go on as she pushed in through the portal. She said the spell, she was through the wall when Braden burst into the tool room. She shouted the closing spell; the wall swung closed in his face.

  “Christ! Melissa!” His voice was muffled.

  “Are you hurt?” she screamed.

  “No, for Christ sake. Open the damn wall!”

  “I love you, Braden. I will love you forever. I will come back to you.” If I can, she thought, turning away and choking back her tears. She ran down into the blackness.

  She was soon cold in the thin dress. And the upperworld sandals were not meant for rocky paths. She kept repeating over and over, Please, Braden, know that I love you. I must do this. There is no way I can avoid facing Siddonie.

  But she had no plan. It was madness to think she could destroy Siddonie alone, even with the Amulet.

  Never had a journey seemed so long. She was very cold, and grew despondent. On and on down the rocky path, longing to turn back and be in Braden’s arms. Longing to forget Siddonie and the war, and knowing she could not.