Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

Melissa nodded.

“Not many,” said the Harpy, “are privileged to see their own beginnings.” She lifted a wing, casting shadows across the mirror. There, the upperworld city gleamed suddenly with sunlight so bright Melissa squinted.

A man sat at a table in a sidewalk cafe. It was McCabe. She swallowed, watching him.

The cafe was beside long wharfs where huge ships were docked. White birds swooped over the smokestacks. Stevedores were off-loading wooden crates. At his table McCabe was drinking an amber brew, idly watching the street. When Timorell came swinging along he put down his ale, watching her intently, as if he had been waiting for her.

She was looking at everything, drinking in the colors and smells of the wharf. The wind blew her pale-streaked hair like a golden cloak around her shoulders. She was sleek as gold and ermine, her stride long and easy. She did not seem to be looking for anyone but simply walking. Her tongue tipped out, tasting the wind, and there was a little secret smile at the corners of her mouth. At the intersection where the street dead-ended before the cafe, she paused, looking around almost as if someone had spoken. Above her, McCabe had not moved. Timorell looked around her, puzzled, then suddenly she looked directly up at him.

She stood still as a hunting cat, her eyes widening. She was drawn to him, and McCabe rose, his gaze never leaving her.

She came up the four steps and stood looking at him. Then, drawn by his gaze, she slid into the chair he held for her. A power burned between them, filling Melissa with longing. This was their first meeting, this was Timorell’s first awareness of another like herself in this foreign world. Then came a montage, she saw them walking the city streets, their hands touching, their looks slowly revealing and discovering. She saw them in shops, in cafes; talking, always talking. She saw Timorell at night slipping away from her apartment.

She saw McCabe and Timorell in a white room with jutting windows looking down on the city. The walls were covered with pictures of cats like benevolent talismans. She watched McCabe make love to Timorell on a pale rug before the open fire. They loved as man and woman, then as cat and cat, Timorell all gold and white to McCabe’s dark gray beauty. Embarrassed at breaching their privacy, she was yet held by the prophecy their lovemaking wrought, sharp as Timorell’s mewling cry.

And in the instant before the vision faded she saw, against Timorell’s bare skin, an oval emerald pendant framed by two rearing cats.

When the vision fled, she felt she had fallen between the two worlds and was unable to cling to either. The strength of their love had taken her breath, and, too, the sight of the emerald left her stricken with a sense of power she could not unravel.

“What was that jewel…?” she said weakly.

The Harpy flicked at her white feathers. “That was the Amulet of Bast. Your mother,” the Harpy said softly, “was heir to the Catswold queens.”

The Harpy fixed her with a beady stare. “You have forgotten all you ever heard about the Catswold. Only slowly is memory returning. Under Mag’s spell you forgot there is a Catswold nation. Your mother, if she had lived, would be queen of that nation.”

She showed Melissa a vision of white stone towers and caves, of little niches and high alcoves where cats slept on velvet and silk. “This is Zzadarray.” Cats raced along the tops of the walls then leaped down to vanish, turning into silken-robed men and women. “They,” said the Harpy, “are the Catswold of Zzadarray.”

The vision hadn’t faded when Efil shouldered the Harpy aside, facing Melissa scowling. “You don’t need this. You don’t need to see this.” But then his looked softened and he began to stroke her and caress her. She shivered and tensed. He said, “Yes, my love, you are heir to the Catswold queens. You will be queen not only of Affandar but queen of the Catswold. Never has a Netherworld woman had such power.” He kissed her and teased her, moving her toward the bed. But the Harpy pushed between them. She shoved Efil away and fixed Melissa with a hard gaze.

“Do you not understand? You are heir to the Catswold queens. This was why Siddonie wanted you. You could lead the Catswold people anywhere; they would follow you unquestioningly. If Siddonie rules you with her spells, she would rule the Catswold. She would force them to fight the rebels. Now, King Efil means to do that.”

“No,” Efil said. “I will not do such a thing. The womanbird lies.”

Melissa took the Harpy’s thin hand, hardly attending to Efil. Slowly she was beginning to remember past remarks and conversations. The Amulet was a great power—it held the ancient power of Bast. She said, “The Catswold would not follow me if I do not wear the Amulet.”

“Yes, they would follow you,” said the Harpy. “Though your power would be stronger with the Amulet.”

“The old tales say it is lost.”

“Lost,” said the Harpy, preening.

“Cannot the mirror show where it lies?”

The Harpy glanced longingly toward the spell-door then at her little mirror. “Spells were laid to protect the Amulet from visions.”

Melissa looked back at her with all the command she could muster. “You will try,” she said softly. “Afterward I will give you the mirror.”

The Harpy tried. For a long time, muttering soft bird talk, she sought to bring a vision of the Amulet but the mirror remained blank. Suddenly the Harpy lost patience. She lunged at Melissa and snatched the mirror from her. The flurry of her white wings filled the grotto, then she was gone flapping into the night, hugging her little mirror. Melissa watched her disappear through the woods in awkward swoops. The womanbird’s voice echoed, “You have the power…if you will use it…” then her voice was only a bird cry, eerie in the darkness, and Melissa saw a last smear of white lift on the wind and vanish.

She watched Efil spell-close the wall so that no mark remained in the jewel mosaics and she thought, I am Catswold. She felt weak with wonder. And she was filled now with knowledge of the Catswold that had, moments before, not existed for her.

I bear the blood of queens, I bear the blood of Bast. That is why Mag hid the papers. That is why she made the deaf-spells. The stories were there in my mind, but I was deaf to them. This knowledge is part of my memory.

But this returned memory of the Catswold was not all that was lost. There was more. Still she did not remember her childhood.

Efil took her hands, drawing her close, stroking her hair, her throat. She turned her face away; she wanted to run from him, to lose herself in the woods. She wanted time to think. She was only beginning to see who she was. She wanted to understand and know herself; she did not want to be possessed now by another.

“Your promise will be honored now,” he said softly.

He slid his hands down her back, his lips brushed her cheek and her throat. “You are frightened, queen of the Catswold. Do not be frightened, my love.” His tongue touched her throat; his breath was hot against her.

She flinched away, holding herself tight and still. “I want time, I…”

But the fever he stirred was too strong, his caresses and his spells dizzied her. She fought the heat as he cupped her breasts, whispering love-spells. Stroking her, he moved her to the satin bed. He unbuttoned her dress, licking her breasts, weaving a spell that brought fire through her body. She clung to him, stroking him, begging him to caress her; all shame, all distaste vanished. All premonition of disaster vanished.

Chapter 18

The Harpy flew across the night, ducking through caverns and sweeping over valleys, drunk with her regained freedom. Her little mirror swung on its chain against her feathered breast. When she perched to rest high on a cliff, she gazed into the glass and brought a vision of Melissa bedding with the king. She watched with interest for some time, then grew bored and dropped the mirror so it nestled again among her feathers. She flew on, making straight for the Hell Pit, thinking of its warm blaze. She thought of her friend the Toad, and she supposed he had returned to the Hell Pit. She was surprised that she missed him. The Hell Beasts never cared for one another. Her wings stirred a solitary wind across the dark green night and when, banking around a cliff, she saw ahead firelight reflected across the sky, she paused.