Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

“I don’t know how I did it. I—I was afraid. You were right, the rocks are dangerous. I was afraid. I just—tried to right myself. I don’t know how I did it.” She looked at him helplessly.

He held her closer, kissed her fiercely. “Christ, Melissa. I love you, for Christ sake. You can’t—you might have been killed. Why…?”

But he didn’t finish, he only looked at her, holding her. She clung to him, remorseful and lost.

Chapter 57

The Harpy’s mirror was red with flame. In the little glass, the fires of the Hell Pit writhed, and deep among the licking blaze a blackness stirred. Half-hidden by fire the black beast thrust up, shoving aside the manticore like a toy, flicking the lamia away. The creature was so huge its head was an island rising up from the fires. Its eyes were pools of fire that could drown a war horse and rider, its jaws dripped with the flesh of men who suffered eternal damnation in the Hell Pit. As it rose, above it on the edge of the precipice stood Siddonie of Affandar.

Siddonie smiled and called the black dragon to her, summoning its ancient power, summoning the one power that reached beyond all worlds. This beast, part of the primal dark, of the eternal malevolence, was carnal, depraved, absolute in its viciousness, and it was indestructible. If it were destroyed in one place, it would return in another; it was birthed in the black emptiness beyond all worlds.

When the worlds were formed and the common beasts appeared, it had torn apart generations of creatures and eaten them. When men came into the many worlds, it took the weakest to itself and filled those men with evil, and it lived in each of them. In the upperworld it was known as Grendel, as Hecate, as the Mara and Black Annis, and it took the name of modern slavemasters. In the Netherworld it made its nest in the Hell Pit. On every world it nested, yet never did it diminish. It was everywhere, its get were the lamia and the basilisk, the manticore, the daughters of Lillith. Often it ate them then bore them anew. And now, from above, the queen of Affandar spoke.

“I am daughter to Lillith. Lillith’s power is my power, and so I hold power over you.”

The beast smiled, its cavernous mouth filled with viscous flame.

Siddonie said, “I direct you and you must obey. I bid you lead all Netherworld men to me and make them my slaves. I bid you battle beside me and make me victorious in this war.”

The Harpy held her mirror in shaking white hands. When she looked up at Mag, her voice was subdued. “She has called the powers of the black dragon. She has called the embodiment of the primal dark. She is a fool. The beast will destroy her. And it will destroy us all.”

Mag’s hands were still, hovering over the scraps she was cutting up for the pigs. “You didn’t tell me this before.”

“I did not know before. The vision has come only now. Siddonie has called it. She is a fool if she thinks she can control that darkness.” The Harpy’s little yellow bird eyes were hot with anger and grief. “No one can say now what will happen. If the primal dark is loosed unchallenged across the Netherworld, it could destroy everything. Just as,” the Harpy said, “worlds have exploded in the heavens. Just so, this land could know destruction. We could lose all magic, and all wizard light, and be steeped in blackness again for all eternity—a chasm without life.”

Mag scraped the pig food into a bowl. “And will nothing stop the power she has summoned?”

“The power of vigorous life can stop it,” the Harpy said.

“But that power is dying in the Netherworld. It is that vital strength that has, in every world, driven the beast back.”

Chapter 58

The restaurant rambled along the cliff high above the sea. It was a weathered gray building, old and casual. They had a window table facing an explosion of sunset. As they sipped their drinks they watched the colors change, watched the red sweep of sky slowly invaded by storm clouds. But Melissa could hardly keep her eyes on the sunset and away from the caged birds that flitted and chirped beside their table.

The cage was rectangular, some ten feet long with an arrangement of tree branches inside. The two dozen jewel-colored birds were as lovely as real jewels. They were vibrant, swift, enticing. They were every combination of colors: red and purple, orange and green, peach and turquoise, each as rich and spectacular as the jeweled birds of Circe’s Grotto. Their chirping voices were hypnotic, and she was drawn irresistibly by their constant darting flight. The fast hush of feathers made her stomach constrict and her hands clench. She could smell bird, almost taste bird. She tried to study her menu, but could not keep her eyes from them.

For nearly a week she had been docile, had stayed away from the cliff, had not darted her hands into the shallow sea to catch the little crabs that scurried there. And at night when she heard the mouse scratching she had pulled the pillow over her head and clenched her teeth and ignored the little morsel. But the mouse was bold; she found its droppings in front of the dresser and around her suitcase. And with the pressure of restraining herself she had grown irritable, and their lovemaking had suffered. And now Braden had, innocently, seated her next to the birds and she wanted to snatch at them, to rip the wire and grab them.

“What will you have? What looks good?”

Bird! I’ll have bird—raw please, with the feathers on! She pressed her knuckles to her lips.

“Melissa?”

“I—the lobster would be nice.”

“But you’ve been eating lobster all week. Well, I don’t care…”

“The—the crab, maybe?”

“That would be a nice change,” he said caustically, watching her, his eyes faintly narrowed. She lowered her gaze to the white tablecloth and laced her fingers together in her lap, hard, to keep them still, fighting the passions of the little cat.

But soon her gaze wandered to the birds again. The cat was nervy, demanding, like a bonfire inside her threatening to take over, take charge. When she could stand it no longer she excused herself and rushed to the ladies’ room.

She stood looking into the mirror at her haunted face; she could see the cat’s passion and hunger looking out. She tried to calm herself, tried to drive the little cat away and ended up crying, her thoughts out of control. And why did she keep wanting to curl down into dark places? Everywhere they went, she was drawn to the shadows behind chairs, to the dark caves under tables or beneath bushes. On the beach among the rocks she would stare into little crevices, wanting to crawl into them. In the lobby, it was the secluded darknesses behind the tall ceramic planters. The little cat had never been so drawn to darkness. What was happening to her?

She returned to the table feeling wrung out, weak, and still the birds flitted and darted. She got through dinner taut and uncomfortable, and it was that night, nervy and upset, that she began to save scraps for the mouse, tucking a bit of bread into her purse beside the roll of bills.

From then on, at each meal she tucked away a crumb, tiny morsels that she put down late at night after Braden slept. Each night she told herself she wouldn’t do this anymore, and each night she placed her bait closer to the bed.

Each night the guilt, the furtive slipping out of bed then back again to lie listening. She was being very stupid; he was going to find out. And the mouse became bold—it would run out, snatch her offering, then sit up holding the bread in its paws, eating right in front of her. And at last the night came when she could no longer lie still.

She could see the mouse across the room in the faint hint of moonlight. She rose, her fingers curling and straightening with the need to make claws, and she knew she dare not change. Half-naked in her panties, she slipped toward the mouse, light and quick. It was just behind Braden’s shoe. She could see it and smell it, could see its whiskers twitching. She crept close and crouched and snatched it in her cupped hands.