Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

She lay awake that night long after Braden slept. Near midnight she rose and stood restlessly at the window, then pulled on shorts and a shirt, and went out.

The village was dark, the moon veiled behind clouds. She walked to the beach but didn’t go out on the sand. She followed beside it through tangled bushes and tall grass, compulsively moving toward the darkest shadows. Soon she knelt, crawled on hands and knees in among the bushes and she changed to cat. She had no choice but to change.

The calico paced and wound among the bushes feeling sick. Her coat felt matted, and she didn’t want to groom herself. She came out from the bushes once to stare away toward the sea, and when a sharp pain gripped her, she crouched. The pounding sea sounded like a giant heartbeat. When the pain was gone she moved back under the bushes and crept along through the tangle. She was all instinct now, searching for the darkest shelter, searching for the driest, softest bed. Another pain caught her, and she crouched, panting.

When the pain was gone she moved on again, seeking urgently. She pushed through the tall grass and wild holly, and another pain brought her down.

When the pain passed she remained hunched on her forelegs, breathing hard. Another pain pressed, and another. She rose, searching. She found no place better than the last. All the ground was damp. Pains forced her into another crouch, her claws dug into the earth; her thoughts sank into mindless pain and the need to lick, to push out; frightened and alone, she felt water break. Her pain and her cry tangled together. She felt the first kitten come. Turning her head she saw it, gauze covered, dropping down in the wetness.

She tore the damp, spider-web gauze away. She licked the tiny kitten frantically, wanting to clean it before the next one came. She licked its tiny closed eyes, its little face, its minute ears. Why was it so still? She licked harder, pushing at it, waiting for it to move, waiting for the next pain.

The gauze was gone from the kitten. She severed the cord. But still the kitten didn’t move.

She pushed at it, rasping along its skin with her rough tongue to wake it and make it breathe.

The kitten didn’t wake. It lay mute and still.

There were no more pains.

She lay quiet at last, her one dead kitten cuddled against her throat, her paws curved around its little, still body.

It was much later, as dawn touched the sea, that she licked herself clean and rose wearily to her four paws, looking down at her dead kitten.

She was unwilling to leave it alone.

Yet she knew she must leave it.

She dug a grave for it, first as cat, her claws tearing at the earth, then as Melissa, her hands scrabbling into the torn soil. She buried her kitten deep, and covered its grave with holly thorns and stones.

She backed out of the bushes and stood up. Her hands were caked with dirt, her nails filled with grit, her clothes dirty. Her legs were scratched from the bushes. Mourning deeply, she made her way back through the early dawn to the inn, to Braden. Wanting him to hold her, wanting to be held, to be safe and held.

Chapter 59

She returned slowly to the inn. The dawn sky was dark gray streaked with silver, pierced by the dark Monterey pines marching down the center of the empty, divided street. Her thoughts, all her being, were centered on her kitten. She could still see its tiny claws, its blind eyes. Too sharply she could see her little kit lying still and lifeless.

She had said spells over him, knowing that was useless but needing to say them, needing their comfort. She was terrified that when she told Efil she had miscarried, she had cursed her unborn Catswold kit. She passed Braden’s station wagon parked at the curb, then turned back because she had felt along her bare arm a wave of heat from it. When she touched the hood, it was hot. He had been out; he had been looking for her.

She met him on the stairs. He was wearing cutoffs and a sweat shirt. He followed her back to the room, stood waiting for an explanation.

“I went for a walk.”

“In the middle of the night? I woke at three o’clock and you were gone, Melissa. I’ve been driving around this damn town looking for you. I came back to see if you were here. I was about to go to the police.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why the hell didn’t you wake me? I thought—Christ, I didn’t know what to think.” He grabbed her hands, then saw the caked dirt, the grime in her nails. “Where did you walk?”

“On the beach. I—collected some shells and rocks, but then I left them. And I picked some grasses and holly.”

“For a bouquet?”

“The grass wilted, the holly stuck me. I threw it all away.” Must he press her? Couldn’t he just gather her in and hold her? She went into the bathroom and shut the door. She washed her hands, and scrubbed her nails. Her face was dirty, her eyes red. She filled the basin with cold water and ducked her face in, letting the coolness pull away the grainy, hot feeling, scrubbing her face hard with the washcloth.

When she came out his anger had abated. “I’m sorry. I was so damned scared. I didn’t know where you went, I didn’t know what happened to you. I remembered how you came to the studio that evening with the wound on your head as if someone had beaten you. I thought…” He sat down on the bed, just looking at her.

She sat down beside him and leaned into his warmth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She was so tired. She could still see her tiny lifeless kit, could still feel his delicate little body, his tiny paws and tiny, perfectly formed claws. Braden stroked her hair and rubbed the back of her neck. But she couldn’t bear to make love. She shook her head weakly; mourning her kit, and already mourning her inevitable parting from Braden. He held her, letting her doze.

It was much later that he held her away from him with a deeply searching, uneasy look. “When we go back, Melissa, will you move in with me? Will you live with me? I have this irrational feeling you’re going to disappear.” His dark eyes searched hers, loving her. “I don’t mean to press, to smother you. But I don’t want to lose you.” She snuggled closer, touching his cheek. He said, “Will you live with me? Will you think about getting married? We could think about that.”

“I…” She looked at him helplessly.

He waited.

“We—we could think about it.” But they could never marry. She must go back to the Netherworld; she did not belong in this world; she did not belong with him. And soon he would begin to put the strange occurrences together. He would figure out what she was—an impossible creature, half woman, half cat, and he would be sickened.

“Melissa? Will you marry me?”

“We—we need time to—think about it.”

The line at the corner of his mouth deepened. She hugged and kissed him, making herself go soft and relax against him, teasing him until at last he made love to her; his loving should have been healing, but their tender, passionate loving made her mourn him, drove her into deep depression for what she had already lost, so all she wanted to do was weep.

They showered together, and he washed her back. Turned away from him, she let her tears mingle with the hot water.

As he toweled her off, he said, “Shall I send down for some breakfast? You look so tired. Climb into bed. I’ll call the kitchen.” He tucked the towel around his middle and went in to straighten the bed for her. She climbed in gratefully, but then she saw his suitcase sitting by the door, his closed paint box, the folded easel, and remembered that this was the day to go back; they had no choice, the opening was tonight. She swallowed tears that threatened to swamp her, and turned her face into the pillow.