The Catswold Portal (19 page)

He waited.

“It started this morning. But he's so…”

Braden tried not to show his annoyance.

“Listen, Brade, I know how it sounds. But it's true. He's—it started this morning all at once. He is totally, completely different. He could be a different boy.”

“But you can't…”

“He is so changed, Brade. As if—as if that boy up there is not my son.” Anne looked up at him, her face puffy and desperate. He felt chills; he'd never known Anne to have flights of imagination. He wondered if she'd been working extra hard or if something had happened he didn't know about. Anne was the sensible one, always in charge of her life, perfectly groomed in her neat little business suits, able to juggle her work and care for Tom, planning things out, knowing exactly what to allow for in a given situation.

He said, “All the time Tom was sick he wasn't like this?”

She shook her head.

“But now, today, he's different.”

“Yes.”

“Did you call the doctor?”

“I called him and went to talk to him. I just got back. He said—he just said…to wait. To see how Tom is in a few days. See if he gets worse. Call him if he gets worse.”

Braden took her glass and went to refill it. When he got back she was sitting just as he had left her, clutching her hands together in the same way, her knuckles white. She went on talking as if she hadn't stopped. “And the cat—he—Tom tried to kill Pippin.”

She looked at Braden nakedly, her eyes like a hurt child. “You know how Tom loves Pippin. That cat hardly left Tom's room the whole time he was sick. Tom lay there with Pippin cuddled in his arms.” She began to sob again, choking, then looked up at Braden with cold anger. “This morning Tom threw an iron bookend at Pippin—threw it hard enough to kill him, it made a terrible dent in the wall. It barely missed Pippin. Tom was white with rage. When Pippin leaped away, Tom grabbed up the lamp to throw that, jerking out the cord, standing up on the bed screaming. I snatched the lamp from him and got Pippin out of the house. The look on Tom's face, his eyes…The cold, horrible look in his eyes…”

Braden held her—he didn't know what else to do.

“Pippin won't even come to me now. He just runs; he won't come near the house. I don't blame him.”

“Maybe it's Tom's medicine. Could the medicine have turned him strange?”

“He hasn't had that prescription for a week. He had Pippin on his bed last night while he ate dinner, loving and petting him. It was only this morning when I carried Pippin into his room that…Pippin tensed suddenly and stared at Tom and leaped away, clawing me and hissing. He has never done that. And the minute Tom saw him he went white and grabbed the bookend.”

“But why did Pippin hiss when you brought him in? Tom hadn't hurt him yet.”

“I'm trying to tell you. Tom…” She set her drink down, put her face in her hands.

He knelt beside the chair, holding her hand, puzzled and upset by her lack of control.

“When Tom got sick that first night, Brade, when his fever was so high, he kept saying strange things, crazy things. But he was never like this, not like today. He seems filled with hatred suddenly—with a cold, terrifying hatred.”

“Drugs can cause mental change, Anne. Psychological change.”

“When I reminded the doctor of that, he said,
Not with this drug.
”

“And a drug could cause him to smell different,” Braden said reasonably. “Maybe to the cat he smells different. Maybe—Bob says…”

“I don't want to hear what Bob says.” She glared at him, then lowered her glance. “I'm sorry. You touched a sore place. I don't want to think about—about Tom being…”

He held her close. “I know you don't. But if the drugs caused it, it isn't like his father was. It's—why don't you…”

“Talk to Bob?” She shook her head.

“Talk to the doctor. Ask him if—”

“I told you! I did talk to him! That's half of what's the matter. He doesn't believe me. He really doesn't give a damn!” She stared at him, enraged. “I just came from talking to him. He left me so—he said there was never a case of that happening with this drug. Never. But then when I pressed him he said maybe it could happen, he simply couldn't say. He didn't offer any help, he didn't offer to see Tom. He didn't want to run any tests, he just said to wait, see what happens. He just covered himself and left me hanging. That's what's so terrifying, that there's no one to understand or to help. No one to tell me what's wrong.”

A crash cut them short. Braden remembered the cat and headed for the kitchen.

The cat was in the middle of the table ravaging a loaf of bread. Ravaging was the only word; she had shredded the
wrapper and was hunched over the bread, gulping it down. She had, in the process, knocked a plate off, smashing it.

“When did you get a cat?” Anne said behind him. “Tom will—would have—would have laughed,” she said faltering.

“After all your remarks about cats. Braden, she's hungry. You can't feed her bread. Don't you have any cat food?”

“It's not my cat. I didn't feed it the bread—can't you see it just helped itself? I didn't ask it in here, it's Morian's cat. Go call her and tell her the damned cat's down here.” Maybe that would distract Anne. And maybe Morian could do something to help her, make her feel better.

Anne knelt and took the cat in her arms, stroking it. It relaxed against her, staring into her face coquettishly, and purring. With the cat over her shoulder like a baby, she opened the cupboard door, found a can of chicken, as familiar with his kitchen as with her own. They often fixed meals together, platonic and comfortable, Anne and Tom, Morian and Olive Cleaver.

“For Christ sake, don't feed it my chicken. It'll never leave. Let Morian feed it.”

“She's starving, Brade. Look how thin she is. She needs meat.” She opened the can and dumped the boned chicken on a plate. The cat leaned out from Anne's shoulder, her paw reaching for the plate.

He said, “That cat ate two eggs this morning, five strips of bacon, and a piece of toast. It's had enough protein to run a polar bear. I eat that canned chicken for lunch.”

“You eat hamburger and eggs for lunch. Go call Morian yourself.” She sounded more like Anne again. She got the milk, poured some into a salad bowl, and watched tenderly as the cat slurped and gulped.

“That was the last can of chicken,” he said, watching the cat with interest. He had always thought cats were neat, silent eaters.

“You can go to the store for more chicken. The cat can't.”

“I wouldn't bank on that. It's got what it wanted so far.”

“She really isn't yours? She's beautiful, Brade. Where did she come from? Her coat is lovely. And those eyes…” She
knelt, lifting the cat's chin, gazing into its eyes. “So green—and a line of kohl around them, the way the Egyptian queens did. Oh, you are beautiful, my dear.” She seemed to need the diversion. As she knelt there stroking the cat, the line of her body softened, her face grew softer. “Did Morian bring her to you? That would be like Morian.” The cat had finished eating. She picked it up again and rose, holding it against her throat. “How can you hate her, Brade? She's so dear.”

“I don't hate her. I just don't want a cat. She's a stray. She's Morian's.” The cat looked at him coolly and intently from Anne's shoulder, her green eyes nearly on a level with his. He stared back at her, annoyed, then headed for the phone.

Morian picked up on the third ring. He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Mor, the cat's still here.”

“I just got home. I'll be down in a while.”

“Anne's here. She has a problem.”

Morian came on down, took a look at Anne, and drew her to the couch. As Anne talked Braden cleaned up the broken plate, then began to clean his palette and brushes. The cat lay curled in Anne's lap, asleep.

Morian didn't argue that Anne might be mistaken about Tom or overtired, or that Tom needed mental help. She didn't suggest seeing Bob, she just listened.

When at last Anne was eased, Morian took the cat from her, cradling it in her arms. It hardly woke, relaxing against her as it had against Anne. Nothing was changed about Tom, Morian hadn't solved anything, but Anne felt better, had gotten it out of her system. The two left together, Morian giving Braden a pat on the cheek, carrying the cat away to make it a bed and get it settled; there was no question of her wanting it.

 

Not until some hours later did Wylles wake from napping, confused about where he was, feeling sick and cold then hot. He rose and slumped to the window, sweaty and irritable in the unfamiliar, sticky pajamas. He was looking at a
garden he had never seen before. He tried to find some coherent memory, and could not. Everything was muddled, unfamiliar, and confusing. He could remember nothing before this day.

He knew he did not belong here. Maybe he was caught in some enchantment, though he could not remember much about enchantments. He did not know where he belonged, only that he did not belong here.

When he saw, in the window of the house next door, a cat clawing at the glass trying to get out, he froze. He hated cats, though in his crippled memory he didn't know why. But watching the dark, white-marked beast, he was filled with fear and disgust.

T
he Harpy sat rocking beside Mag's wood stove, her expression content but remote, her thin hands cupping her little mirror, her wings lifting awkwardly to avoid the chair's moving rockers. She regarded Mag stubbornly. “If I showed you where Melissa is, you'd go charging off to find her. You wouldn't leave her alone. This is her life; she must sort it out for herself. I assure you she is all right.”

“She's not all right. She's been changed into a cat, and she has no idea how to change back. I never let her learn a changing spell, never let her see one. Now,” Mag said remorsefully, “she's in danger every minute. How can you say she's all right? And if Siddonie learns she is still alive…” Mag stopped speaking and glared at the Harpy.

The Harpy thought Mag would love to wring her feathered neck. She said, “I would not worry about Melissa. At
this moment she is content and happy.” She wanted to spy on Melissa some more—she knew she was in Braden West's studio—but she would bring no vision until Mag had left the cottage. She closed her eyes, slowed her rocking, and pretended to doze.

Mag glared, flung on her cloak, grabbed up a bucket of slops from the corner by the door, and went to tend the pigs.

The Harpy sat petulantly, thinking. She didn't understand where her sudden streak of caring had come from; she had never cared about anyone, not since she was a fledgling pecking around her mother's feet among the flames of the Hell fires. Caring, feeling pain in her heart, wasn't a harpy's style.

But she did care. She found herself uncomfortably worried about Melissa, though she would not have told Mag that.

Maybe this burgeoning sentimentality was Mag's influence. Or maybe it stemmed from some genetic fault, some weakness left over from gentler times when harpies lived in the upperworld and consorted with humankind. Then, when harpies still lured sailors to their deaths, there had been tender moments, moments of passion and sometimes of real love and caring before they drowned their hapless victims.

Maybe she was a genetic throwback.

Now, alone in the cottage, she brought a scene which she hadn't shared with Mag, viewing again an encounter that had made her smile. As she watched Melissa and Braden West, the Harpy clacked her beak with pleasure.

In West's studio, the calico lay on the model's couch sprawled across a spill of vermilion silk. West was reaching for her angrily as if he would jerk her off the couch and throw her out the door. But then suddenly he drew back, his anger seemed to dampen, and he lifted the little cat gently, almost cuddling her.

The cat gazed up at him with languid ease and trust, her white paws limp, her small, pretty body limp in his comforting hands. The Harpy opened her beak with devilish interest as Braden carefully laid the cat down again on the silk,
and stroked her. He was smitten, already infected with tenderness.

The Harpy liked West's tall, tanned leanness, his look of taut strength. But more than that, she liked his kindness. She was amazed at herself that she cared about kindness.

And there was something else she liked about West, something she couldn't sort out. Puzzling over the attraction, she thought maybe it was the fact that West didn't know he was kind; West thought of himself as hard-nosed and blunt. The Harpy watched him with interest, but at last she turned from Braden and Melissa to bring another vision: a conversation in the Netherworld that she had glimpsed earlier.

The queen and her seneschal stood in Prince Wylles' chamber observing the changeling boy they had stolen. Siddonie was dressed extravagantly for the royal ball in a swirling satin gown the color of the deepest Hell flames, and with rubies woven into her elaborately upswept hair.

On the bed, Tom Hollingsworth slept deeply. Drugged and spell-laden, the boy was now as pale as a Netherworlder. As the Harpy watched, Siddonie drew her hand across Tom's closed eyes, renewing and strengthening the spells she had laid on him earlier.

“You will remember nothing of the upperworld. You will learn willingly all I command you to learn. You will be healthy and strong in the Netherworld for as long as I require this of you.”

The queen lowered her pale hands and turned to Vrech, her expression triumphant. “You did very well, my dear Vrech.” She stroked Vrech's cheek, moving closer to him. “Now, of course, the boy must be properly trained.”

Vrech nodded. “I have spoken with the horsemaster. In my absence, he will do quite well with the boy. He will put him on a horse, and teach him to handle weapons. The new Wylles should be ready soon to travel with you to the villages.”

Siddonie brushed Vrech's lips with stroking fingers. “I plan to take the boy to every village in Affandar. I want him
seen by every subject, every croft and herding family. Everyone in the Netherworld must know that Prince Wylles is again healthy.”

Vrech's hands wandered over the queen's breasts. But his eyes, regarding the boy, were cold with another kind of promise.

Suddenly the boy stirred.

Vrech and Siddonie drew back, and quickly Siddonie cast a sign across Tom's face.

But still the child's eyelids moved. His hand slid across the cover, and his color rose. His eyes opened and he lay looking up at them, dazed, uncomprehending. Siddonie repeated a spell, and repeated it again.

The boy shivered, seemed to be trying to move. Then he dropped into sleep.

The Harpy, watching in her little mirror, saw in that instant when the boy had looked up something that perhaps the queen and Vrech did not. She saw deep in Tom's eyes a spark of sharp awareness. The boy was alert, intense; a look he quickly masked.

Siddonie watched the boy with cold anger. “He should not have awakened. What has caused this? What sort of boy did you bring me?”

Vrech had paled.

“I assume, Vrech, that you were more efficient in carrying out your other instructions. I assume you took more care in seeing to my wishes regarding Melissa.”

“I told you that after I dropped the cat, I patrolled the highway. I am certain that pack of dogs tore her apart. There was orange-and-black fur everywhere.”

“You might have waited and seen it happen.”

“The Primal Law—if I saw it happen and didn't stop it…”

“A technicality, Vrech.” The queen studied him with remote dislike, all her lust for him gone. “In the morning you will return to the upperworld. You will go directly to the ranch and set about replacing Melissa with a false queen. I want a girl who is sufficiently avaricious but who can be
readily trained.” She turned from him abruptly, her red satin gown swirling, her ruby encrusted hair catching the lamplight. She paced the room as if too filled with energy to be still; then she turned back suddenly, giving him an unexpected smile. “You may, of course, attend tonight's ball before you leave.”

This ball, the Harpy knew, was another triumph for Siddonie. The wedding of Princess Natalia to King Allmond had brought into Siddonie's fold of politically subjugated nations the rich kingdom of Shenndeth, and King Allmond would be a loyal addition to Siddonie's cadre of obedient monarchs.

They left the chamber of the prince and moved into Siddonie's rooms, where Crandall Havermeyer waited.

Havermeyer's back was to them. He stood at the window looking out between the black draperies, his squarely built figure silhouetted by the fading green light. The upperworlder was so heavily built that he looked at first glance to be a strong, solid man. But at second look one perceived a frail construction, as if his body was made of hollow bones joined insubstantially by ill-fitting joints. The overall impression was of a body improperly designed, a rickety machine that could fall apart under physical strain.

The pant cuffs of Havermeyer's upperworld suit were wet, likely from the tunnel or the stream. His camel hair coat was wrinkled. His square jowls needed shaving. His skin always looked gray, dry as paper. His face was, as usual, without expression.

Siddonie looked him over with distaste. “Have you arranged to get Wylles and the Hollingsworth woman away from the garden?”

“I am arranging it. This is not something one does overnight.”

She snorted. “You make a major project of everything, even something as simple as this. Have her fired, Havermeyer. See that she's offered a job in another state, one she can't refuse. I want this done immediately, not in your usual tedious fashion. I want Wylles away from the portal. If the
spells on him don't hold, I don't want him trying to return here. You will arrange this quickly. Do you understand?”

He nodded, stone faced.

“Once this is done,” she said, “I want you to go directly to the ranch.” She moved to the window, looking out. Her view was of the courtyard, where the gates were wide open. In the dark green evening, carriages were already arriving from Cressteane and Ferrathil. Lanterns swung, sending arcs of light across the milling horses. Soon the courtyard would be full as a steady stream of richly dressed monarchs and their entourages made their way through the palace doors and into the ballroom. Siddonie turned, regarding Havermeyer impatiently. “You and Vrech will select, from among the captive Catswold, the girl to train in Melissa's place. She must be calico like all of their queens. She must be spirited, selfish, and tractable. I want a girl who is a fighter. I want a whelp of alleys, a slut who craves power.”

Havermeyer's eyes hardened.

“Once the young woman is selected, Crandall, you will remain at the ranch for as long as Vrech needs you. You will help with her training in any way Vrech chooses. Do you understand me?”

Havermeyer nodded but still he didn't speak. Vrech said nothing.

“What is this silence? What's the matter with you two?”

Havermeyer shifted his weight. “You can't train one of them. No one can—no spell can make them tractable.”

“Of course they can be trained,” she barked. “The upperworld Catswold are nothing, not like these Netherworlders. I should think you would look forward to it—a young, fulsome Catswold girl to do with as you please.”

She smiled. “You will train her to every power of magic you can force from her. I don't care how you train her. I don't care what methods you use. I want a Catswold woman who looks like a Catswold queen, who knows all possible Netherworld magic, who is totally ruthless. And who is totally obedient to me.”

“But she won't have the power of a Catswold queen,” Havermeyer said. “There is no way to train her to that.”

“One can fake, with common magic, a formidable power. She must learn that magic. She must learn to manipulate. She must learn to feign sincerity just as convincingly as
you,
my dear Crandall, can fake honesty.

“And the girl must have charisma.” She moved to Havermeyer, touching his cheek. “Charisma counts for much, Crandall. In both worlds.”

The Harpy let the vision fade, preening her beak on her ragged feathers. To please herself, she brought a vision of the little calico being cuddled by the distraught Hollingsworth woman and then by the dark-skinned model. She smiled. Melissa would do all right.

When Mag came in from slopping the pigs, the Harpy's mirror hung idle and blank and the Harpy appeared to be sleeping.