The Catswold Portal

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  As the kings completed their circle around the cold-faced queen, Melissa saw Wylles sitting astride a shaggy pony among the upperworld Catswold. The prince’s arm was held securely by Terrel Black as the boy watched his mother’s defeat. Seeing this, Melissa turned away, pressing her face against Braden’s shoulder.

  Chapter 74

  It was midnight. Few lights burned in Affandar Palace, though smoke from many chimneys drifted toward the granite sky. In a large second-floor chamber Melissa undressed before the hearth’s bright flames. Firelight flickered and shifted against the pale walls. As she slipped into bed, the creamy silk sheets felt delicious against her bare skin. She slid against Braden’s nakedness, letting his warmth engulf her. They did not make love. They were silent, thinking about the dead queen.

  Siddonie’s trial had ended at noon. She had been hanged two hours later in the palace courtyard, in a ceremony Melissa hadn’t watched.

  It was stupid to feel sad for Siddonie. She had brought only misery and fear.

  “What was she?” Braden said. “What kind of creature? A totally evil woman…”

  “Daughter of Lillith. Slavemaker. A destroyer of the spirit, Mag said.”

  “I like Mag,” Braden said. He laughed. “Mag and Olive hit it off, all right.”

  “And the Harpy,” she said, smiling.

  He kissed her forehead lightly, stroked her hair. “Three grand old girls. Best thing that ever happened to Olive.”

  They had watched the two old women and the Harpy wander off together as the gathering in the main hall finished and folk, yawning, headed for the chambers that Briccha and Terlis had prepared. They had watched Tom and Wylles, too, as the two boys made the first tentative advances in a wary, uncomfortable relationship.

  Wylles and Tom had ridden together side by side as the Affandar troops returned to their homeland. The two boys, prince and changeling, were visual proof of Siddonie’s deception. To the peasants they passed in the villages, the living signs of the queen’s betrayal had been as impressive as word of her defeat.

  Melissa didn’t know where Efil had gone, or care. Anyway, Affandar had no more royalty. King and queen had been replaced by a council. Soon all the Netherworld would be ruled by elected councils.

  Only Tom had spoken well of Efil. King Efil had shown him how to resist Siddonie, and had caused him to be awake when Pippin came to the window of the palace. “When I saw my yellow tomcat looking in from the balcony,” Tom had said, “that was pretty great. I didn’t believe it at first, but then suddenly Pippin wasn’t a cat anymore.” He had grinned broadly. “A warrior was there. But,” Tom said, “the warrior had Pippin’s eyes.”

  Melissa turned, watching Braden. “I’ll miss Pippin.”

  “And so will Tom. I think Pippin has become a true Netherworlder.”

  “Maybe he’ll come back sometime,” she said wistfully.

  “Maybe he’ll come up with Olive when she’s ready to leave.”

  “If she’s ever ready. She’s as at home as if she belongs here.”

  “Olive longed for years to know about this world.” Melissa slid closer against him. “So many things to sort out, so much for the new councils to do. And at home—all the legal things about Siddonie’s enterprises. So complicated.”

  “Did you say, at home?”

  “I guess I did,” she said, grinning.

  “You would leave the magic?”

  “There’s magic there,” she said.

  “And what about the legal complications? Do you want to stay here, forget them?” He stroked her cheek.

  “I want to be where you are.”

  “No one said we can’t live in both worlds.”

  “No one said that…” She sighed. “We can live where we want to live, as long as we’re together.”

  He kissed her and drew her to him, kissing her throat, her breasts. She returned his kisses at first lazily then with a hot, magical passion more powerful than any spell. He put his hands under her, lifted her to him. The fire’s shadows played across them, cloaking their slow, sensuous lovemaking. He saw the room for an instant as a painting, then he was lost to her; saw the chamber cloaked in breast-shaped shadows forming a rich, dark world, with two pale lovers at its center; and the shadows trembled in the firelight.

  Near to dawn she woke with the sudden need to become cat. She whispered the spell and, as the calico, she snuggled on Braden’s chest; he was deliciously warm, hard muscled, safe. She kept her claws in, but let her pleasure rumble deep in her throat. And of course her purring woke him; he raised his head, surprised, then lay stroking her, laughing at her.

  She rolled over on her back and lashed her tail, biting at his hand. She felt giddy, wild. As cat she was small and vulnerable, but she was safe with him. He stroked her until she bit his hand too hard, then he swore at her. She leaped off the bed, raced to the dressing room, changed to girl, and pulled on her leathers and boots.

  Within half an hour they rode out through the palace gates, heading northeast. When Melissa looked back at the palace windows, their departing reflections were sharply defined: two lovers riding out with a picnic basket tied behind his saddle.

  By mid-morning they were skirting the Affandar River. They had passed through half a dozen villages teeming with returned warriors already plowing and planting crops. They had passed children who had yesterday gone to war as grooms and pages, now gathering wild roots and mushrooms and small wild fruits, and hunting the game birds that yesterday had been forbidden to them. Melissa had shown Braden the dry underground river with its water-carved caves, and they had crossed the high ridges above the sheep meadows. Where the Affandar River ran deepest, foaming over boulders, they tied the horses and spread out their blanket. And on the banks of the deep Affandar River they made slow, easy love, then dozed.

  They woke ravenous, and attacked the picnic. She had packed cold roast dove and fresh bread, peaches and berries and grapes. They had not finished eating when the river began to change.

  Within the foaming rush, the center of the river grew still. A glassy pool formed, reflecting the low stone sky. At its center, deep down, something dark stirred. Braden sat up, watching.

  The dark shadow moved again. Then the pool’s glassy surface broke into ripples, circling outward. And suddenly, a hump broke the water. Another. Another, until seven humps made a line across the river like the back of a huge water beast. Braden had eased his knife from its sheath, but Melissa stayed his hand. And then the farthest hump pushed up out of the pool, and they saw it was a horselike head, its nostrils distended, its mane streaming water. Then another surfaced. Another. She laughed out loud at his surprise when he realized he was looking at seven horses swimming.

  The horses heaved up out of the water onto the opposite bank. They were wild-looking, stocky beasts with wide nostrils, wide eyes, and tangled, sodden manes. The water ran from their manes and tails. They stared at Braden. Their eyes were dark, mysterious. And suddenly the horses were gone and in their places stood seven stocky men with wide, dark eyes, their beards streaming water. They spoke as one.

  “Welcome, image maker.”

  Braden looked amazed, then grinned. He lifted his hand in greeting to the selkies. The seven old selkie men looked at Melissa. “Welcome, sister—shape shifter. Welcome, Catswold queen. Your work has been well done. The whelp of Lillith is dead.” They turned, expecting no answer, and moved away upriver walking single file. Only far upriver did they turn into stocky ponies again. They switched their tails, cocked their ears, and leaped straight down into the fast water.

  She said, “Few have seen the selkies. It is a sign of peace that they have returned.”

  “I would say wonder was more descriptive. How long do you suppose they were there?”

  “Not long,” she said, coloring.

  He laughed. “Gram would have loved seeing them.”

  “I think your Gram would have been at home in the Netherworld.”

  He nodded. “She would h
ave.”

  “Maybe she was, once,” Melissa said.

  “Maybe,” he said, laughing. “Anything’s possible.” He reached for her and held her by the shoulders, looking at her seriously. “I want to paint this world.” He searched her face. “But I never can. It would reveal too much.”

  She touched his face. “It would reveal too much only if the paintings were seen in the upperworld.”

  “But no one—there are no—”

  “There is no one here to feel the power of your paintings? Are you so sure?”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “No galleries. No critics,” she said. “No one learned enough to praise you.”

  His eyes blazed. Then he laughed.

  “They know power when they see it,” she said. “They know magic when they see it. And they know love. They don’t need a degree for that.

  “You could,” she said softly, “be the first image maker this world has known. You could bring to the Netherworld a new kind of magic.”

  Chapter 75

  Sun flooded through the windows of Mathew Rhain’s reception room. Melissa stood within the warm light looking down at the city. Five stories below her lay neat squares of clipped grass and beds of flowers. The streets bordering Union Square were solid cars, moving in a tangle of noon traffic.

  They had arrived early; Rhain was still with a client. Braden sat on the leather couch facing the window, reading a newspaper clipping that the blond secretary had given him when they arrived. It was Mettleson’s review of the show. He looked up at Melissa and grinned. “‘…Symphonic mystery…West’s best work to date.’” He handed her the clipping. “You’ll like the ‘beautiful and elusive young woman’ part.”

  “Is he always so right?”

  “Not always,” he said, laughing.

  Rhain came out with an elderly woman dressed in a stiff navy suit. He ushered her out, then led them into his office. They sat at the conference table, and he pushed a thick file across to them.

  “These are the financial particulars of Lillith Corporation. This is a preliminary report only, a collection of letters, cables, bank statements, summonses, court documents, legal research. You can take it, go over it at your leisure.” Rhain paused, looking them over. “What you have in mind will not be easy.”

  “But it can be done?” Melissa asked, watching him.

  “I think we might do it. We won’t be sure until we get deeper into it, but I think we can do it.” He smiled. “I know the Kitchens will be pleased. Of course you know you could start from scratch more easily.”

  She said, “We want to do it this way.”

  Rhain nodded. “The Alice Kitchen West Foundation. Yes, the Kitchens will be pleased.”

  Braden said, “Thanks for the review of the show.”

  Rhain smiled. “I liked the show. There was a second news release, too. But not about the show.”

  As he leaned back, his red hair caught the light. “I have a friend at the Museum of History. He showed me a release he prepared last week, a bit of publicity meant for a feature article. I—persuaded—him this wasn’t worthwhile publicity, that perhaps the whole project was not worthwhile. I told him that perhaps the museum would fare better by accepting, say, some donated antiques?

  “He let me keep the article. There is no other copy.” Rhain picked up a plain file and withdrew a single sheet.

  September 28, 1957:

  A medieval carving valued at possibly half a million dollars drew the attention of museum experts this week. The oak door, carved with the faces of cats, stands in a Marin County garden. It came to the attention of Field West Museum Director Suel Jenkins while he was searching the museum archives. Jenkins found nine photostats of drawings of the door done by Bay Area artist Alice Kitchen shortly before she died in 1955. She was the wife of painter Braden West. Mrs. West had asked the previous director to investigate the authenticity of the door, but after her death the project was shelved.

  Dr. Jenkins said the door is a fine example of tenth century Celtic art. It has long stood in the weather, enclosing a hillside cave where garden tools are stored. He had no idea why such a valuable door would be left outdoors, in the elements. He said the wood and the carvings are in remarkably good condition. Notations by the previous director, Dr. Lewis Langleno, indicate that the owner of the door and of the property on which it stands is retired Marin librarian and local author Olive Cleaver.

  The museum is now in the process of making an offer on the door. They have photographed it, and with Miss Cleaver’s permission they will exhibit the photographs along with copies of Mrs. West’s drawings in a small exhibition early next year.

  Braden handed the release back to Rhain. He did not comment. There was no way the museum could do anything without Olive, and Olive, when she returned, would not sell the door. Nor would she agree to such an exhibit.

  Melissa said, “There are some lovely antiques I know of—small desks, early medieval chairs—that the museum might like. It might take a little while to get them—here.”

  Rhain looked at her a long time. “I think the museum would be very pleased to have them.” He nodded, grinned at them, and tore the article into small pieces.

  Then he leaned back, studying them. “I have some other interesting connections besides the young man at the museum, folk from whom I get occasional bits of news. May I say that I am, ah, very impressed with your recent adventure?” He smiled and leaned back, closing the file.

  They rose, a satisfied smile linking the three of them. And as they parted, Melissa hugged Rhain. He hugged her back warmly. She felt a hot rush of gratitude and kinship; as if she had not left those she loved so very far away after all.

  Crossing the street, Braden gave her his arm. “We’ll walk to lunch, it isn’t far. I like Rhain—he’s a nice mix of cultures.”

  “Yes, I like him, too. And he makes me feel—closer to McCabe. Where are we having lunch?”

  “It’s a French restaurant where Alice and I used to go. They collect local paintings and prints—there’s a drawing I want you to see.”

  “Alice’s drawing?”

  He nodded. “An early one.”

  She stopped on the sidewalk, holding his hand. “Done when she was a child?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “A drawing of a cat?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I think I remember it. I think I remember the restaurant. Alice—Alice had a birthday party there. It’s a small place—small rooms all connected, with skylights?”

  He nodded. They moved on again along the sunwashed street, but she was shivering. He said, “Would you rather not go there?”

  “I want to go. I want to see it.” But she moved close to him. Remembering the drawing too sharply. He glanced at her, holding her hand tightly.

  She knew she could not avoid this kind of encounter. She knew she must learn to make such things a part of herself. But fear filled her.

  The cat in Alice’s drawing in the restaurant, the same cat as in Alice’s diary, the same cat that had been buried years ago in the front yard of the Russian Hill house—the cat that died before she, Melissa, was born.

  She knew that that cat, when she faced its picture in the restaurant, would look exactly like her own cat self. Its colors and markings would mirror exactly her calico patterns. Its face would be her face, the exact same white markings, the same green eyes. She glanced up at Braden, upset that he would take her there. But yet she knew that he must take her, that the last piece of the puzzle must be touched, and perhaps understood. She knew she could not have gone there without him, that she would not have had the strength without him. She smiled at him, striding beside him along the sun-warmed street, hardly aware of the cars that sped past them, cars that, a few weeks earlier, would have made her cringe with terror. And above them the unending sky rolled away, wind tossed. And everything was all right. With Braden beside her, it was all right.

  Epilogue

  San Fra
ncisco Chronicle, September 14, 1957.

  The female figure is a time-honored theme in painting. The female figure reflected in shop windows, and those reflections woven through with abstract city scapes, produces a richness of subject unerringly right for Braden West. This is West’s best work to date, a difficult feat for one who has long been admired for the richness of his palette.

  West’s show, which opened last night at the Chapman to a jostling crowd, was a smashing success. By the close of the evening, nearly all the work had been sold. The richness of this work is overwhelming. West’s entire Reflection series is of the same elusive young woman, yet not one painting is repetitive, except in the mysterious, symphonic mystery that graces them all. This fascinating show will remain at the Chapman through October 31. It will open in New York at Swarthmann’s in December in a group show with the work of Garcheff, Lake, and Debenheldt. The foursome will move on to the Metropolitan early next year.

  San Francisco Chronicle, September 20, 1957.

  A strange disappearance of San Francisco’s cats has led to complaints over the last week to police and to the Humane Society. Most of the disappearances seem to have occurred last Sunday night. Cat owners reported their pets acting unusually nervous, pacing and yowling. The cats that were let out were not seen again.

  The same night, Marin County residents reported seeing groups of cats running into a garden near Sam’s Bar, a wellknown jazz cafe. Cats were seen by the dozens in the headlights of heavy traffic, and there were more than the usual number of complaints about barking dogs. About three A.M. the barking stopped. No more sightings were reported.

  San Francisco Chronicle, August 8, 1959.

  Business News:

  Meyer and Finley appointed their first woman broker today. Anne Hollingsworth, brokers’ assistant with the firm for twelve years, was appointed head of the San Francisco office. And in another surprise move, nine previously terminated brokers and key personnel were re-hired, after their mass firing two years ago.