The Catswold Portal

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  He still held Wylles’ shoulder, alternately pushing the boy along and then, when Wylles tried to bolt, jerking him back. Wylles was their only source of information, the only source of the spells which the Catswold folk must learn if they were to survive in the world they approached. And when after several hours they stopped to rest, Braden forced Wylles to say for the gathered Catswold the spell for changing, then the spell for light, then spells for turning away weapons. The Catswold tested each. In the hoary half-dark among lantern shadows the Catswold folk changed from human to cat, and from cat to human, a metamorphosis that made Braden’s skin crawl. Sharply now, he realized that without magic he would be severely crippled in the Netherworld.

  Melissa had told him that.

  Well, hell, he had fought in other wars. If this war was different he would compensate for his weakness. War couldn’t all be fought by magic, not all swords and spears would be deflected. To calm his fears he concentrated on the exotic glimpses of the inner earth given him by the lanterns, images like sudden scenes from a slide projector: waterfalls snaking down fissures, slabs of stone swinging out over black emptiness, echoing spaces dropping as if into hell itself. He imagined he could hear the whispers of dark gods, of Hecate, of Cerberus; he imagined the voices of the Hell Beasts Melissa had described too graphically. And now, no human figure shared the tunnel with him, except Prince Wylles. They all had turned to cats. He picked up the abandoned lanterns one by one, strewn down the tunnels. Alternately dragging Wylles then restraining him, burdened with lanterns he was unwilling to leave behind, Braden felt like some modern day, clumsy Diogenes.

  He had no idea how long they had been in the tunnel moving ever downward. All ability to measure time had left him—the journey seemed outside of time. Several days might have passed; endless nights might have gone by stacked one on another as if someone had shuffled all the dark cards together.

  The end of the world would be like this. Unrelieved blackness hiding whatever waited, so that neither size nor scale nor space could be clearly understood; mankind would be flung into dimensions of which they had no comprehension.

  Suddenly ahead a figure appeared in his light: one of the cats had changed back to human. Then another. Another. Voices rose. Soon a crowd again filled the tunnel. But he did not see Terrel change, he saw the black cat with a white foot running on ahead, swift as wind. And far ahead a faint green light stained the blackness.

  Around a bend they entered a green glow, then around another bend they saw the ragged hole, green lit, that marked the cave’s mouth. He pushed Wylles ahead faster.

  The boy was too docile now, almost sleepy. Braden tightened his grip before the prince could jerk away and run. Together, captive and captor, they hurried toward the hole filled with green mist.

  The stream they had followed flowed out into the light, and the few remaining cats leaped through the water and away into the Netherworld. On the far shore they shook their paws then sat licking them dry, looking around them at the green world, at the home they had never seen.

  Melissa’s world. He imagined her in the ambient greenness reaching out for him, her green eyes loving him, and he was riven with longing for her. And with fear for her—and, perhaps, with fear of her.

  The gathered Catswold were silent; the only sound was the bleating cry of a dove from the forest, a homey, familiar sound as he might hear on the brown grass hills of Marin. And in the silence the few remaining cats began to regain human form as if this world might be too unsafe to remain small.

  But suddenly something exploded toward them out of the sky above the woods. A huge white shape flew straight at them, a creature far bigger than any bird, winging clumsily. It gave a human cry and its white-feathered breasts swung as it flapped down to an ungainly landing on its long bird legs.

  The Harpy landed in a storm of beating wings and immediately embraced Braden, smothering him in dusty feathers. The feel of her feathered body against him was shocking. Like holding a bird—warm and too soft. He thought of Melissa’s description of the Harpy, but in real life the beast was quite beyond description.

  Her voice was rasping and querulous. “Why did you bring Wylles? I didn’t see that in the mirror. We don’t need that burden.”

  “I needed him to open the wall. And to teach the Catswold the spells.” He glanced at her mirror, dangling between her breasts. “If you could see us coming, you could see that we needed Wylles.”

  The Harpy laughed. “I suppose we can deal with the boy. Tired,” she said, leaning against Braden. “I thought you’d never get here. Can your Catswold folk ride?” Then she saw their blank looks. “Have to teach them that, as well. Can anyone use a sword?”

  “We can learn,” Terrel said.

  “I suppose,” said the Harpy without enthusiasm. “There is precious little time.” She tucked Braden’s hand beneath her arm and led the little band toward the forest. Braden moved swiftly, but the Harpy kept hopping and flapping as if impatient with earthbound creatures. The woods were low, twisted, filled with black hollows beneath low growth and with tortured, oddly rounded shadows. Low branches like deformed arms reached out at them; everything in the forest seemed to be watching them.

  Braden thought they had traveled for about an hour when he saw they were approaching a village. The thatched huts were made of mud and straw and were surrounded by an outer circle of animal pens and of lopsided storage sheds. Between the huts, inside the central compound a dozen old men and women and four small children were saddling a herd of tired-looking ponies. Beside the fence lay a stack of weapons, a sorry arsenal of axes and rusty swords. “Give Wylles to me,” said the Harpy.

  Gladly Braden handed the boy over. He watched the Harpy lead him away and shut him into a hut, pulling a bolt across the door. When the ponies were saddled she made the Catswold mount up, and began to teach them to ride. She gave Braden the only decent horse—the gray gelding Melissa had left. “I suppose you can ride. I heard you tell Melissa you could.”

  He looked the Harpy over. “What else did you hear me tell Melissa?”

  The Harpy smiled in a way that made his face heat; he recalled Melissa’s description of how vividly the mirror reproduced its visions. The Harpy smiled and handed him a battered sword. “Go practice on the hay mow. That old man in the blue jerkin will show you what you need to know. Be quick, Braden West. I have a more important job for you to do.”

  Chapter 65

  Melissa descended the cellar stairs among the roars of the Hell Beasts. She cast a spell-light as she moved downward past bins of onions and hanging hams, then soon was dodging the reaching claws of the caged Hell Beasts. She had removed the blue-and-green dress and put on the hunting leathers that Terlis had fetched for her from Efil’s closet. She felt warm for the first time since she had left the tool room and garden. Thoughts of the garden stirred pain, but she must not think of Braden now.

  The borrowed sword she had taken from the queen’s soldiers’ barracks hung at her side heavy and comforting as she approached the Griffon’s cage. She found the lioneagle sound asleep, his golden body forced against the bars, his golden wings jammed between the bars, a few bright feathers sticking out into the passage. He was very thin, his ribs curving beneath his yellow pelt. But still he seemed filled with power. She paused, remembering tales of the Griffon’s unpredictable nature. She removed her sword and laid it on the stone floor of the passage, to show her good faith. Then she said the spell that swung open his cage door, and she stepped inside.

  Within the cage she knelt before the Griffon. He slept deeply. She touched his smooth, thick beak that could crush her arm with one bite. His eagle head rested heavily upon his lion’s paws, his feathered neck emerged powerfully from his golden lion’s mane. As she stroked him, the tuft of his tail began to flick. For a moment she longed to run, to slam the cell door behind her and lock it. She thought of the Toad’s homily, Kiss of emerald blessed by Bast can please the steed of Nemesis, and, leaning over the Griffon, she touche
d his feathered cheek with the Amulet.

  When he moved, her heart skipped. When he opened his eyes, she forgot to breathe. He stared at her muzzily then he woke fully and lunged at her, knocking her flat.

  He stood over her roaring, his yellow eyes blazing, his broad beak open above her throat.

  She shoved the Amulet into his face.

  He drew back blinking.

  She got up and stood facing him. He watched her intently, his golden eyes searching her face at first hungily and then with curiosity. When she didn’t back away, his look softened. Gently he lifted a broad lion’s paw and touched her face, a paw soft as velvet, and warm. He slid his paw down from her cheek over her chest to rest upon the Amulet. She daren’t move. He opened his beak in the grin of the hunting eagle as if he would rip her suddenly, and when he spoke in a coughing roar she was faint.

  “What do you want, child of Bast? How come you to have the Amulet?”

  She swallowed, trying to make her voice work. “I—I have a right to the Amulet, it was my mother’s. I—have no mount powerful enough to carry me into battle.”

  He looked hard at her. “What battle?”

  “The Netherworld is at war.” She looked into his broad, avian face. “Siddonie of Affandar has gone to war to conquer all the Netherworld.”

  He looked hard at her. “You come here alone.”

  “Yes.”

  “You would go alone to fight her? And how would you stop her?”

  “I would stop her with truth. She wins with lies, with deception, but the Amulet can destroy lies.”

  “You have only the Amulet with which to defeat her?”

  “And a sword. And—and your power, if you would carry me.”

  “And what would I gain by doing that?”

  “Siddonie caged you. She took you from your forests. If you help me defeat her, you will fly free again.”

  The Griffon shifted his weight. When he tried to lift his cramped wings, she could see they were stiff. His gaze didn’t leave her. She stared back at him boldly. He stroked his beak across his paws, then turned his head and with his thick beak he groomed the golden fur over his thin ribs. He seemed to be listening to something far away, or to something within himself. She waited.

  At last he looked full at her again. “There is more at stake in this battle, young woman, than you yet know.”

  He said, “Old, dark powers are rising. The queen has waked the primal dark which is the sire of all evil.” He looked at her intently. “Do you not sense this? Does not the rising power of that deep and primary evil touch you, daughter of Bast?”

  The Griffon nodded sagely. “The serpent rises, Catswold queen. The dark enemy of Bast again rises.” He poked his thick beak at her. “Show me the Amulet. Hold it up so I can look at it.”

  She held the emerald before him and brought a spell-light to shine on it. Deep within, the emblem of Ra burned. The Griffon’s gaze grew intense. When he had looked a long time he snapped his gaze on her suddenly. “We are kin, daughter of Bast. You bear the blood of Sekhmet. You bear the lion’s blood.”

  She shivered.

  The Griffon placed a heavy paw on her shoulder. “Dark stirs now across the Netherworld. The Serpent Apep stirs and wakes; the primal dark wakes.” The Griffon’s broad golden beak opened wide enough to swallow her face. His breath smelled like spoiled meat. “I must eat a proper meal before we start out. I am weak; they know nothing about feeding griffons.”

  She led him up the stone stairs to the next level, and watched him cut down hams with a sharp snap of his beak and tear them apart and devour them. Up the next flight, in the scullery, he drank dry the water barrel. She could see through the scullery windows that Terlis and Briccha still worked in the garden, picking beans. As she led the Griffon out toward the courtyard he said, “What made you think you could wake me and not be eaten?”

  She laughed. “I had to try.” She gave him a wink, as she had seen Morian wink, and a slow smile. “The Harpy warned me you were fierce.” They moved into the empty courtyard, and Melissa slid onto his warm back.

  He looked around at her and spread his golden wings and he leaped skyward in a rush of wind, rising straight up above the palace. She stared down at Terlis, saw the white oval of the child’s face looking up, then they had left the palace behind, tilting so close to the granite sky she had to duck. He shouted, “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes, I am afraid.” She stroked his neck as her heels dug comfortably into his sides. The Griffon twisted around again and gave her an appraising look. Under his old, wise gaze Melissa felt very young.

  He said, “Remember, daughter of Bast—daughter of Sekhmet—one must ride into battle meaning to kill. Any other thought courts defeat.” He banked low over a forest. “If you die, you die. One cannot think of that; it saps the strength.” He sped above a deep valley, then above rising white cliffs. “The battle has centered at Cressteane. I sense it like a stench blowing. I sense her there: the dark queen.”

  Chapter 66

  On a narrow ridge east of Shenndeth, Siddonie sat on her horse watching a band of mountain elven driven screaming and fighting over the cliff. The pale little people grabbed at the soldiers’ horses and jabbed with their lances as her horse soldiers clubbed them. For three days her armies had been routing these small, hidden bands, working north from Lettlehem toward the main area of battle. Her troops had swept Lettlehem clean, as well as Pearilleth and now Shenndeth, leaving the villages stripped of life and food.

  Below her a dozen winged lizards banked and dove at the bodies strewn along the cliff, lapping their blood. When a new lizard, a big male, heaved down out of the sky she held out her arm to it.

  It wore a collar. It landed so heavily it nearly unseated her. Its eyes seemed still filled with the Hell fires from which it had just returned. Its long, slick body shone like ebony, its leathery wings glinted with black scales. It grunted a greeting, then spoke in a guttural hiss forced up through its long, narrow throat.

  “Three rebel bands west of Cressteane,” it said, “hiding in the mountains.” It smiled a toothy grimace. “Fear touches them, the spirit of the dark beast has found them. It plays with their fear like dragons play with a lamb.” The lizard’s black tongue flicked with satisfaction.

  Siddonie nodded. “And what else? What of the main rebel army? And what of the Catswold? What has the dark beast done to the Catswold?”

  The lizard turned its face away, as if she would strike it. “The Catswold do not heed the dark beast. I flew all the way through that endless tunnel to Zzadarray. I saw the spirit of the beast lying like fog over Zzadarray darkening the streets and chambers, but the Catswold moved through it never seeing it, never aware of it.”

  “That is not possible. I can see it, and so can they! I see it every night in dream.”

  She did not speak of her fear at night as the dark beast came exploding into her dreams. She would not speak of that to a lizard. The dream filled her with rage. She had called the beast, it must obey her. No creature, no being, dare have power over her. She said, “The beast should be driving terror into the Catswold. Why is it not?”

  The lizard gazed at her intently.

  “Go back. Go back there and find out!”

  “But I can tell you why.”

  “Why, then? Speak up!”

  “The primal dark has risen at your call, but that does not mean it is your servant, Queen Siddonie. You have summoned the dark that lived before the earth was formed. You have challenged it, but it goes where it pleases and it destroys only as it pleases. That beast will never be ruled by you.”

  Her hand circled its throat. “I am its heir! I am daughter of Lillith. It must obey me.”

  The lizard opened its wet mouth in a mirthless smile, and wriggled as her hand tightened. “You have found the power to summon it. It is drawn to you as surely as I am drawn to blood, but that does not mean it will obey you.

  “The primal dark is not your slave, Siddonie. You are its slave.
” It choked suddenly, strangled by her throttling grip; she cast it away from her. It dropped, then righted itself and flew above her clumsily.

  “Go back,” she shouted. “Go back and learn more about the Catswold. I want to know why they resist.”

  From the stone sky, the beast glared at her, then plunged away flapping.

  Chapter 67

  Zzadarray’s towers were airy, open to the Netherworld breezes. The city was built of pale stone, the pillars and stone facades carved into leaf and flower designs. The upper chambers let onto balconies, and the lower chambers onto small private gardens scaled to a cat. In the main city, preparations for war were under way, conducted as smoothly and seemingly without effort as the stalking of small game through Zzadarray’s grassy meadows. The Catswold from Marchell and Cathenn and Ebenth had joined those of Zzadarray, and they were heavily armed.

  All the Catswold women had taken human form. They wore their finest silks and their sacred jewelry, golden anklets, amber necklaces, ruby and emerald girdles. Lapis and emerald combs were fastened into piebald locks, religious treasures all, brought down to the Netherworld in ancient times from the Celtic lands and from Egypt. In the white stone temple as the women knelt, their jewelry was blessed by the five Catswold priests, and their weapons and the weapons of the Catswold men were blessed. As midnight approached the Catswold nation prepared with feasting and then with spells and with prayer. Tomorrow they would ride against the dark queen.

  Their rituals spoke to the sun god Ra, though none of them had ever seen the sun. They prayed to Bast and to Sekhmet, speaking in the lost cadences of Cyprus and Crete, or in the tongue of Mycenae and Knossos. But in spite of the ritual spells a tenseness held the Catswold, a fear none could name, a sense of threat far greater than Siddonie. As dawn began to green Zzadarray’s towers, the rituals ended. The Catswold went silent; a wariness held them. And then they sensed a nearer threat. Something approached the city. Someone moved through the forest toward Zzadarray and it was not one of their own.