Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

He had no idea how long they had been in the tunnel moving ever downward. All ability to measure time had left him—the journey seemed outside of time. Several days might have passed; endless nights might have gone by stacked one on another as if someone had shuffled all the dark cards together.

The end of the world would be like this. Unrelieved blackness hiding whatever waited, so that neither size nor scale nor space could be clearly understood; mankind would be flung into dimensions of which they had no comprehension.

Suddenly ahead a figure appeared in his light: one of the cats had changed back to human. Then another. Another. Voices rose. Soon a crowd again filled the tunnel. But he did not see Terrel change, he saw the black cat with a white foot running on ahead, swift as wind. And far ahead a faint green light stained the blackness.

Around a bend they entered a green glow, then around another bend they saw the ragged hole, green lit, that marked the cave’s mouth. He pushed Wylles ahead faster.

The boy was too docile now, almost sleepy. Braden tightened his grip before the prince could jerk away and run. Together, captive and captor, they hurried toward the hole filled with green mist.

The stream they had followed flowed out into the light, and the few remaining cats leaped through the water and away into the Netherworld. On the far shore they shook their paws then sat licking them dry, looking around them at the green world, at the home they had never seen.

Melissa’s world. He imagined her in the ambient greenness reaching out for him, her green eyes loving him, and he was riven with longing for her. And with fear for her—and, perhaps, with fear of her.

The gathered Catswold were silent; the only sound was the bleating cry of a dove from the forest, a homey, familiar sound as he might hear on the brown grass hills of Marin. And in the silence the few remaining cats began to regain human form as if this world might be too unsafe to remain small.

But suddenly something exploded toward them out of the sky above the woods. A huge white shape flew straight at them, a creature far bigger than any bird, winging clumsily. It gave a human cry and its white-feathered breasts swung as it flapped down to an ungainly landing on its long bird legs.

The Harpy landed in a storm of beating wings and immediately embraced Braden, smothering him in dusty feathers. The feel of her feathered body against him was shocking. Like holding a bird—warm and too soft. He thought of Melissa’s description of the Harpy, but in real life the beast was quite beyond description.

Her voice was rasping and querulous. “Why did you bring Wylles? I didn’t see that in the mirror. We don’t need that burden.”

“I needed him to open the wall. And to teach the Catswold the spells.” He glanced at her mirror, dangling between her breasts. “If you could see us coming, you could see that we needed Wylles.”

The Harpy laughed. “I suppose we can deal with the boy. Tired,” she said, leaning against Braden. “I thought you’d never get here. Can your Catswold folk ride?” Then she saw their blank looks. “Have to teach them that, as well. Can anyone use a sword?”

“We can learn,” Terrel said.

“I suppose,” said the Harpy without enthusiasm. “There is precious little time.” She tucked Braden’s hand beneath her arm and led the little band toward the forest. Braden moved swiftly, but the Harpy kept hopping and flapping as if impatient with earthbound creatures. The woods were low, twisted, filled with black hollows beneath low growth and with tortured, oddly rounded shadows. Low branches like deformed arms reached out at them; everything in the forest seemed to be watching them.

Braden thought they had traveled for about an hour when he saw they were approaching a village. The thatched huts were made of mud and straw and were surrounded by an outer circle of animal pens and of lopsided storage sheds. Between the huts, inside the central compound a dozen old men and women and four small children were saddling a herd of tired-looking ponies. Beside the fence lay a stack of weapons, a sorry arsenal of axes and rusty swords. “Give Wylles to me,” said the Harpy.

Gladly Braden handed the boy over. He watched the Harpy lead him away and shut him into a hut, pulling a bolt across the door. When the ponies were saddled she made the Catswold mount up, and began to teach them to ride. She gave Braden the only decent horse—the gray gelding Melissa had left. “I suppose you can ride. I heard you tell Melissa you could.”

He looked the Harpy over. “What else did you hear me tell Melissa?”

The Harpy smiled in a way that made his face heat; he recalled Melissa’s description of how vividly the mirror reproduced its visions. The Harpy smiled and handed him a battered sword. “Go practice on the hay mow. That old man in the blue jerkin will show you what you need to know. Be quick, Braden West. I have a more important job for you to do.”

Chapter 65

Melissa descended the cellar stairs among the roars of the Hell Beasts. She cast a spell-light as she moved downward past bins of onions and hanging hams, then soon was dodging the reaching claws of the caged Hell Beasts. She had removed the blue-and-green dress and put on the hunting leathers that Terlis had fetched for her from Efil’s closet. She felt warm for the first time since she had left the tool room and garden. Thoughts of the garden stirred pain, but she must not think of Braden now.

The borrowed sword she had taken from the queen’s soldiers’ barracks hung at her side heavy and comforting as she approached the Griffon’s cage. She found the lioneagle sound asleep, his golden body forced against the bars, his golden wings jammed between the bars, a few bright feathers sticking out into the passage. He was very thin, his ribs curving beneath his yellow pelt. But still he seemed filled with power. She paused, remembering tales of the Griffon’s unpredictable nature. She removed her sword and laid it on the stone floor of the passage, to show her good faith. Then she said the spell that swung open his cage door, and she stepped inside.

Within the cage she knelt before the Griffon. He slept deeply. She touched his smooth, thick beak that could crush her arm with one bite. His eagle head rested heavily upon his lion’s paws, his feathered neck emerged powerfully from his golden lion’s mane. As she stroked him, the tuft of his tail began to flick. For a moment she longed to run, to slam the cell door behind her and lock it. She thought of the Toad’s homily, Kiss of emerald blessed by Bast can please the steed of Nemesis, and, leaning over the Griffon, she touched his feathered cheek with the Amulet.

When he moved, her heart skipped. When he opened his eyes, she forgot to breathe. He stared at her muzzily then he woke fully and lunged at her, knocking her flat.

He stood over her roaring, his yellow eyes blazing, his broad beak open above her throat.

She shoved the Amulet into his face.

He drew back blinking.

She got up and stood facing him. He watched her intently, his golden eyes searching her face at first hungily and then with curiosity. When she didn’t back away, his look softened. Gently he lifted a broad lion’s paw and touched her face, a paw soft as velvet, and warm. He slid his paw down from her cheek over her chest to rest upon the Amulet. She daren’t move. He opened his beak in the grin of the hunting eagle as if he would rip her suddenly, and when he spoke in a coughing roar she was faint.

“What do you want, child of Bast? How come you to have the Amulet?”

She swallowed, trying to make her voice work. “I—I have a right to the Amulet, it was my mother’s. I—have no mount powerful enough to carry me into battle.”