Cat Magic

by Whitley Strieber

She looked Mandy up and down. “Yes, perhaps so. You did well with the Leannan and with the Holly King. In the sense that you’re still alive.”

  “The Leannan… the fact that she exists is what 1 cling to. No matter how I feel, that tells me something about this is very real and very important.”

  “Oh, little creature, how innocent you are. I suppose there’s still enough arrogance left in me to make it impossible for me to see how anyone could take my place. Then I see the fire in you, and I think: you can do it. And I’ll tell you something. You’re going to have a terribly difficult reign. There will be persecution of witches, environmental disaster, perhaps even a world war that will burn us along with the rest. But somehow, if you survive the initiation, I think I agree with the Leannan Sidhe. You are well chosen.”

  “I guess I’m complaining because I’m not used to this constant sense of jeopardy. I sort of see the need, but still, haven’t I proved myself yet?”

  “Do you know the story of Persephone in Hades?”

  “Of course.”

  “You haven’t proved yourself until you have gone to the world of the dead and returned to tell the tale.

  And I won’t say another word about it, except that a young woman—not a very good witch, but a witch—died for you yesterday, and I want you to respect her memory and not be such a complainer.”

  “Died for me? In the Wild Hunt?”

  “Before that. In an entirely different part of the process, one that relates to the Great Test.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t be so damned cryptic.”

  “You haven’t complained before. If that woman’s death is to have any meaning, don’t complain now. And don’t overdo that eye shadow. The Vamp look went out some time ago.”

  “I wish I was in control!”

  “The only one in control around here is the Leannan. She knows something about you of which you’re totally unaware. The Leannan knows who you really are.”

  “I’m me. That’s the long and short of it.”

  “You’re an ancient and very powerful witch.”

  Those words seemed to explode in Mandy’s brain like a white slash of lightning. She cringed, such was the power of this fiery internal bolt of recognition.

  Constance continued. “You’re terrified of your own history. That’s part of what makes you such a passenger in your life. You will drift until you begin to do what you were born to do.”

  “You say the Leannan is in control. She’s like a ghost. We hardly see her, let alone talk to her. Most of them have never seen her.”

  “She’s not fifty feet away from this spot. She’s even played her harp for you. Haven’t you heard?”

  “The music was very nice.”

  Constance snorted. “It was designed to evoke conscience, and it did. You learned from it. Now, listen, you must act. You must begin now, immediately. Show yourself in the town. The town covens need a boost of morale.”

  “Who’s my armed guard?”

  “You can’t use a guard.”

  “How about Raven? He could have used one.”

  “Let’s go up to the house. Your car’s there and you’re due at your uncle’s within the hour.”

  “At my—since when? I don’t want to go to my uncle’s. Has that ever occurred to you?”

  “You’ve got canvases and frames and paints there. Clothes. Books. You need to pick them up.”

  “I don’t want to leave here. If I’m so important, I must be able to make a few decisions. And my decision is, I’m staying right here on the Covenstead.”

  “The prospect of Maidenhood is making you imperious, Amanda. I’m not sure I like you imperious.”

  “Then don’t come in here and order me around. I’ve had more than my share of terrifying and difficult experiences orchestrated by you, and I have no intention of having any more.”

  “What possible terror could your uncle hold for you?”

  “I just don’t want to deal with him. He’s disturbed, and he’s not going to become my problem.”

  “After what happened to Raven last night, and the business of the young woman, I just want you to give the town covens a morale boost.”

  “Why don’t you go?”

  “You’re the one they’re excited about.”

  “How can you be sure of that? My impression is that I’m quite the outsider.”

  Constance looked a long time at her. “You were born to your role.”

  “You hardly know me.”

  “You say that! You’re naked in your work, dear girl. I know you from your painting. And I know that your visual skill is more than ordinary, or even extraordinary. It’s almost unique.”

  “I’m not that good.”

  “As a painter, no. There is something inherently banal about fantasies of elves and such, I’ll grant you that.

  But the detail with which you render them, the depth of vision, suggests an imagination of great power. I know, I’ve spent time over your work.”

  “So have I.”

  “The Leannan says you have the birthright and I say you have the power. If you can visualize, you can do magic, which is a matter of making the real world run parallel to the inner one of images and dreams. You have the strength to visit the House of the Godfather and come back. I did it, and I am less than you.”

  Visit the House of the Godfather?

  In the story Constance had told the children the other night, the Godfather was death.

  The visit to me town suddenly seemed even more dangerous.

  She wished she could just be left alone to wander around and learn more about the Covenstead, maybe even do a little painting. Some portraits of the witches, sketches of Ravens before the memory grew too static.

  Constance looked straight into her eyes. “That, my dear, is not your fate. The days of painting and dreaming are behind you. You have a great work to do.”

  What could Mandy say? Constance had just read her mind. “What are you, Constance?”

  “You’ve asked me that before.”

  “What are you?”

  “The best friend you ever had!” Her voice rang through the cottage. In the silence that followed the harp started again. This time the tune turned Mandy’s heart, for she had not heard it since she was very small.

  Sweet and low, sweet and low,

  Wind of the western sea.

  Low, low, breathe and blow,

  Wind of the western sea…

  The harp notes were from a small instrument, plucked by fingers able to touch the strings with great precision. Behind the gravity of Constance’s expression was hidden a smile. “The Leannan wants you to go, Amanda.”

  The music, Constance’s loving expression, Mandy’s memories, all combined to create a moment of great beauty. Mandy found that she had not the heart to refuse them what they asked.

  “Your uncle needs you now. Help him. He is your father’s brother, after all.”

  Her father’s brother. Maybe in another age that would have meant a lot.

  The harp whispered, the harp sang.

  Mandy dressed in the clothes. Constance embraced her and kissed her, and wished her well. “Blessed be,” Constance whispered.

  Mandy started on her journey.

  Chapter 17

  High morning was relentlessly bright, with water and melting snow sparkling off every twig and tuft of grass. Amanda guided her little Volks along, aware of the expensive crinkle of her suit and the creamy scent of her perfume.

  She understood that she was entering the world of death and that there was great and ancient precedent for her journey. In the passage of the seasons Persephone moves through the netherworld to return to life in the spring. She is the corn seed hiding in the winter field, springing up alive again in the summer, giving humankind nourishment and prosperity.

  Amanda was to make Persephone’s passage, and she was to do it now, dressed as if for a sacrifice.

  Constance had obviously walked death’s edge herself when Hobbes shot her. A
mong ancient cultures everywhere: the Indians, many African tribes, the peoples of Siberia—wherever the old religion persisted—it was necessary to make this journey in order to become a guide for others.

  The Volks hummed on. Nice of them to pull it out of the mud for her. Nice of them to tell her how to leave the estate by car. She was supposed to follow an almost hidden track through the hummocks and northward into the farm.

  It was eerie in among the sharp little hills, especially considering how old they were and what they were said to contain. What must the fairy city have been? Were there silver towers, or painted gates, or pearl-white roofs sweltering under the prehistoric sky? Or had the fairy come from some far place, from the stars, even recently?

  Did their ancient cities exist only in the minds of their human followers? Somehow she thought they lived in structures very much like the round meeting hall of the witches. Theirs was a whole civilization of magic, based on the simplest of goods. Their glories were those of thought unbound.

  To them the mind of man was easy to control. Thus the Leannan could seem to change her shape or even become invisible.

  The fairy would never emerge, though, into this world, not as it was, a place of illusions. They would do no more than watch from their far hills and their flights in the sky.

  The goal of the witches was to create a world where even fairy could be understood, which meant one where men no longer thought of the earth as something separate from themselves, but viewed humanity as one organ in the living body of the planet, and could see the universe all in its truth, without the self-deception that the human species was separate from the deeper continuity of the planet to which it belonged.

  The Leannan was without question the loveliest form Amanda had ever seen or imagined. She almost wept to remember the music of that tiny, perfect harp, to imagine those fingers working the golden whiskers.

  Just in time she downshifted to compensate for a length of muddy sand, and found herself out of the valley of the hummocks and on the witch farm.

  Riding through it last night, she had known that it was fertile, but by day the fecundity of the place was startling.

  There were no tractors rattling here, and the air smelled of the sweat of the plants, not the sharp odors of fertilizer and insecticide.

  The scent was an intoxication, pouring in her open windows as she drove along the narrow road between rows of corn. It was mixed of wet hay and cut stems and the rot of the season. Among the fallen stalks and the brown vines the farming covens worked. Amanda came to a group of women laboring with scythes in wheat. They moved along the roadside, their tools whistling in the air, the stalks falling with a hiss and a swish, and the rattle of the wheat berries dropping onto canvas. They chanted as they worked:

  “Where have you gone, John Barleycorn,

  Where have you gone, John Barley?”

  “I’ve gone to the fields where the stalks are grown,

  You’ll find me in the fields, John Barley.”

  The chant was whispered, as if to the stalks themselves. Rapture moved in the faces of the reapers as the wheat fell. Nearby a group of children rolled and laughed in the stalks, and three men bundled hay.

  Never before had Amanda had such an impression of how very old some human things have become.

  Mankind has been fanning for a long time now. She did not sense the presence of actual deities in these fields, but the mystery and the energy of the old gods seemed very real indeed. Demeter was the Goddess Earth, also called Gaia, known among Catholics as the Blessed Virgin Mary. Out of her rich belly her daughter Persephone emerged, escaping from Hades. Among the Romans Persephone’s name was Proserpina, and she was the goddess of health and well-being, as well as death.

  Amanda had to learn what Proserpina knew. That knowledge was to be found in the world of the dead.

  With it she could bring prosperity to the Covenstead.

  There were chants going among many of the teams, the round voices of the workers harmonizing with the roar of insects and the bright calling of the children. As Amanda drove carefully along, she became conscious of how rich life in fields really was. How was it that such magic had been forgotten?

  Where is mankind going, that we would choose to leave farms such as this behind? Too much of the joy of working with the earth has been sacrificed. No prayer is needed to assist the fertilized plantings of Iowa and Kansas and California, but without prayer we are less human than we were, and our farms are less alive, our food less true to the needs of our flesh.

  And yet, our flight from the magical and the prayerful was not without sense: there was terror somewhere here, beneath the swelling light of the sun.

  “Hello, Amanda!” A tall woman held a huge pumpkin aloft, her figure tiny in the sweep of the land.

  Amanda waved from her window and tooted her horn. The woman, though, had put down the pumpkin and was running across the field. Amanda was stunned to recognize Kate, George’s former wife. She stopped the car and got out.

  “Amanda, look at you, “Now you’ve grown!”

  She embraced Kate, whose hair had gone gray, but whose face was radiant, flushed with sunshine and work. She wore a loose homespun dress tied by a black cord. On her feet were thong sandals wrapped to her ankles. In her hair was a silver pin of the quarter moon.

  “Kate, I didn’t realize that you’d come here.”

  “We all did. George became impossible.”

  Amanda nodded.

  “Constance has told us many times about the coming of the Maiden, but I had no idea that it was you.

  When I heard your name I thought, is it possible? Then I saw you. Our Amanda. I just can’t believe it.”

  Silence fell. There was obviously something else on Kate’s mind. She was still smiling, but there was pain in the smile.

  “I spent a night at your house,” Amanda said. “I’m going there now to pick up my things.”

  “You’ve seen him? Constance won’t let him on the estate anymore. Is he well? Or is that the right question?”

  George was certainly not well. “You’re forbidden to see him?”

  “God, no. Connie doesn’t do that sort of thing. Afraid to see him. Amanda, something happened to him, something dark that has to do with Constance. Don’t think she’s all sweetness and light. She isn’t! She drew him into an involvement with death. She saw things about him that made him become obsessed. It was like death entered the house. We were in one of the Kominski covens. We were so happy. It was new and it was fun. Then George started these sessions up at the estate with Constance. The next thing I knew, he had started that series of experiments, trying to kill things and bring them back to life.”

  Suddenly she stopped, looked around. “Let’s continue this in the car.” Amanda followed her in. They rolled up the windows. “I think Constance did something to his mind. He changed. All of a sudden he wanted a ritual chamber in the basement.”

  “The Kitten Kate Room?”

  “God, yes! It was so crazy. What in the world do cats have to do with it? He went in there and performed acts of self-abuse. He injured himself with candles. I trusted Constance and I sent him to her, and he got even worse! His work came to dominate his life. He’d spend literally days in that lab with that awful girl, Bonnie Haver, a tramp and a drug addict.”

  “Bonnie Haver? You mean the one from Our Lady?”

  “Yeah, you must have been in the same class, or close to it.”

  “I remember her. She was involved in a horrible scandal. More than one horrible scandal.”

  “She’s no better now than she was then! She had a terrible effect on George. The more he saw of her, the more time he spent in that hideous, demented room. My God, Amanda, I could smell the burning skin. It was hideous, hideous!” She slammed her hand against the dashboard. She was crying too hard to go on.

  There was certainly a dark side to Constance. Dark and subtle.

  The words of what had once been a favorite poem of hers came to mind.r />
  I am the mower Damon, known

  Through all the meadows I have mown.

  For a moment she could see him, huge and dark, straddling the fields with his great scythe like a fiery ray of sun. I am the Godfather Damon.

  “He was such a brilliant man. Now he’s crazy.” Known in all the meadows—

  Snick. Snick. Snick. Down go the stalks. To his cool cave descending… All the meadows he has mown. “Why did you come here?”

  “I wanted to, I was desperate to live here. So were the kids! Poor George—it’s terrible what’s happened to him, but still, I love the Covenstead.”

  “Have you confronted Constance?”

  “Of course! She listened, then she embraced me and sent me on my way. End of story. Amanda, they’re all saying that you’re going to be Maiden of the Covenstead. Please, if you are, remember what I’ve suffered. My husband has been destroyed for some scheme of Constance’s.”

  “I’ll remember, Kate. And I will make Constance tell me what it’s all about as soon as I get back from town.”

  Kate kissed her cheek. Her eyes were big with sorrow. “I want my husband,” she said. Then she went back to her work.

  Driving along, Amanda had the sense that something larger and darker even man she had thought was occurring. The trouble with this play was that the actors were not allowed to know the plot. Thus they were not actors at all, but puppets. She didn’t like being a puppet, not in such a fierce and dangerous mystery.

  By the time she began passing the vegetable patches she was trembling The warm, pellucid air was pearl-white with haze from the rapid snow melt. She sensed the close presence of a terrible contrivance of magic, terrible and beautiful, as sweet as light, yet so very dangerous. She recalled the Leannan’s guards, with their rat teeth. The Leannan, too, must have such teeth. Were they evolved from rodents, the fairy, as we are from apes, or had they come to earth from another planet? And Constance—what did she really know, and what did she really intend to accomplish?

  She thought, as she rounded the last quick turn in the road, that she heard a horse galloping. Just here she had cried out for the sheer exhilaration of it, upon Raven’s back, when they were flying together. Oh, horse.