Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

She stood alone in the center of the gallery turning in a slow circle, drinking in the colors and shadows, the reflections, so overwhelmed she felt tears come. Glowing with Braden’s passionate vision, each painting seemed to her beyond what any human could bring forth. She had no experience, from the Netherworld, of the passion or skill that could create such beauty. Braden had brought this power out of himself, out of what he was; she stood alone in the gallery wiping away tears stirred by beauty, by his power; and tears of pain because they would soon be parted.

And she tried not to see the cat images shadowed within the canvases. She prayed no one would see them. Yet each painting whispered with the faint spirit of the cat, lithe and dreamlike, nearly hidden.

She had left Braden and Rye in the gallery office unloading and framing the six paintings from Carmel. The two office desks had been laid with white cloths and stacked with ice containers and liquor bottles, silver trays and boxes of canapes. A long table in the gallery itself held cocktail napkins, stacks of glasses, little plates, a cut glass punch bowl, enough for a huge crowd. And the thought of a crowd terrified her.

Through the fog-softened San Francisco night, they walked two blocks to an East Indian restaurant, leaving Rye to mix champagne punch and hang the last of the show. They sat in wicker chairs with deep cushions dining on lamb curry and a lovely rum drink. It was late when they returned to the gallery. Its street was lined with cars. She felt her heart thudding as they pushed in through the crowd. Braden greeted friends and introduced her. She didn’t like being pressed among so many people, nor did she like the noise of dozens of conversations all at once. Everyone wanted to meet Braden’s model, everyone wanted to compare her face with the work. She wondered why they couldn’t just look at the paintings, just see the paintings. She wanted only to drift unnoticed, hearing their comments about the work, not about her. She smiled and answered questions, trying to be what Braden expected, and it was not until late in the evening that she began to notice something was wrong.

Braden had drifted away. A dark, intense man was suddenly beside her. When she turned to look at him, ice crawled down her spine.

He wasn’t tall. He was well knit, with short, dark hair. His yellow eyes were vivid in his thin, tanned face. His voice was soft and purring; brazenly intimate. “I like the work tremendously. So subtle.”

She wanted to run from him. He did not belong in this room. He did not belong in this world. He said, “You’re a marvelous model.”

She looked at him coolly. “The model is unimportant; only the painter is important.”

He smiled. “A painter must have—inspiration.”

She glanced around the room for Braden but couldn’t see him. The man moved closer to her. “I’m enchanted by the shadows in West’s work.”

“All paintings have shadows,” she said shortly, edging away from him. Distraught, she backed into the woman behind her, almost spilling the woman’s drink.

He said, “These are unique shadows.” He took her elbow, easing her away to a little space in the crowd. “Unusual shadows. Shadows that speak to me.”

She didn’t want this, she’d been so afraid of this. And suddenly other people were crowding around them: a portly man in a black suit, two women in cocktail dresses. They circled her, blocking her retreat, muttering compliments. They watched her through eyes not ordinary. Her discomfort turned to panic as four sets of feline eyes studied her. Then suddenly Morian was there, moving toward her.

Morian slipped between the two women. She was dressed in a short silver shift, and had silver clips in her hair. She took Melissa’s hand. “There’s a phone call for you in the office.” She patted the dark-haired man on the shoulder. “You can talk with her later, Terrel. She’s a popular lady tonight.” She turned away, guiding Melissa before her.

They went through the office, where two waiters were replenishing trays, into the deserted framing room. Melissa leaned against the work table, weak. She could not look at Morian, she could not look up into Morian’s knowing eyes.

Morian cleared a stack of papers from the couch and sat Melissa down as if she were arranging a small child. She brought her a glass of water from the sink at one end of the work bench. “That was Terrel Black. He’s harmless, but he’s pretty intense. He paints and teaches up at the school. You’re awfully pale. Can I get you something to eat, or an aspirin?”

“No, nothing. Not an aspirin, they don’t—I can’t take them.” Too late she saw the knowing look in Morian’s eyes.

“Thank you for getting me away. I just felt sick suddenly. Maybe the crowd, too many people.” She was trying not to prattle, and afraid to stop talking. She didn’t want Morian to say anything. She felt ice cold. She didn’t know what Morian would do.

Morian watched her, then rose. She found a man’s sweater and dropped it around her shoulders. “Stay here, rest a while. I’ll tell Braden where you are.”

“I…”

Morian turned back, her dark eyes questioning.

“Nothing,” Melissa said. “Thank you.”

Morian nodded, her face expressionless, hiding her own thoughts, then turned away and left her.

She sat shivering, sipping the water. There was a door at the far end of the framing room beyond the painting racks. It led to the alley—they had brought the paintings in that way. She could leave now, slip away down the alley, take a taxi to the Cat Museum, retrieve the Amulet…

Before she could decide Braden came in, preoccupied, frowning. “Mettleson is here. Are you too sick just to meet him? He saw the show this afternoon but he wanted to see the Carmel paintings even in this crowd. He wants to meet you. Could you just say hello, then come back and lie down?”

She followed him out. If she stayed with Braden she could avoid Terrel Black.

Braden introduced her to Mettleson. He was a short, balding man with thick gray hair at the sides of his head running down into a beard. They exchanged polite, meaningless talk. He told her she was beautiful. He praised the paintings. But then Braden turned away to speak to someone, and the next minute there was a shift in the crowd, and she had been separated from Mettleson. Terrel Black took her arm. His friends crowded close, locking her in a circle. She did not see Braden, did not see Mettleson. And the pale blond girl looked deeply at her, her blue, feline eyes intent. “Do you think Mr. West would paint me? Do you think Braden West would paint my spirit as he has painted yours?”

Melissa wanted to claw her. Terrel moved casually between them. “It’s the finest work Braden’s done. I’m awed at his—perception. I didn’t know he—I’m amazed at how much he sees.”

She held her temper. “Braden sees only the color and form, and the reflections of light. He sees only the things he knows.”

Terrel smiled. “He has to see in order to paint. Are you telling us that he doesn’t know what he sees?”

“Surely you see something he does not?” she said coldly, and tried to shoulder past him out of the tight circle, but they closed more tightly around her. Their voices were low, caressing.

“Beautiful paintings…” the red-haired girl said.

“The lovely shadow of the spirit…” said the pale one.

“You know things we don’t,” the portly man said softly.

“Show us,” Terrel said. “Show us, Melissa…Show us how to change…”

She forced between them and ran. She dodged through the crowd knocking people aside, spilling drinks, shouldering and pushing through. She was out the door, running across the dark street between the moving lights of cars. Brakes squealed, a car swerved, lights blazed in her face.