The Dark Yule

by R. M. Callahan

  “I’d make Morwen leave if I could,” I said at last. “But she won’t. She loves that old house. And she’s pregnant…”

  “Ditto. Mark and Clarence will never leave their guest house. They’ve sunk too much time and money into it,” said Libby. His paws fidgeted in the snow, as if they’d like to leave, whether he would or not. “I guess I’ll stay and try to help them, however I can.”

  “If Lydia travels for Christmas, and she might, then I’m going with her,” Dot warned. “But if she doesn’t…”

  “You’ll stay,” I finished for her, when she didn’t.

  “Fuck the King and his court,” she grumbled. “I wish we had Big Red. He’d know what to do.”

  “Oh!” Libby exclaimed, bat-like ears sweeping upright once more. “That’s right! I mean, we can’t ask Big Red. But we could ask Tilly! Surely she’ll know what to do.”

  “Tilly is dead,” I told him flatly. “She died this afternoon.”

  “Really? Damn!”

  “Getting back to the point, Spice,” Dot insisted, “how exactly are three, maybe four, cats supposed to track a couple of humans? Libby, do they have a car?”

  “Yes,” he said gloomily.

  “Humans in a car in this kind of weather?” Dot crouched down low, betraying her anxiety. “We’d be better off spending the time fortifying our homes.”

  “We can do both,” I said. “I—”

  Three short, staccato barks rang out from the evergreens. Dimly, through the driving snow, I could see the light turn on in the upper room of the house across from us. When another light turned on in a downstairs room, I knew it was past time to go.

  “I have an idea,” I finished. “It involves the dog.”

  “Of course it does,” Libby sighed.

  “But first,” I advised, watching the porch light flood the yard, “we need to scoot.”

  9

  Unspeakable

  There were no night-gaunts haunting our roof tonight, thank heavens. Though Tilly’s gift had replenished me for awhile, by now my very bones ached. I needed to curl up somewhere, warm, and soft, and quiet. Had the laundry basket been emptied yet? I would soon find out.

  No sooner had I squeezed through the cat flap than a heady whiff of incense seized my attention. Dragon’s blood again, same as last time. It was a little stale—it had probably been burned some time ago. But to what purpose?

  Sharpening my gaze to See That Which Cannot Be Seen, I immediately glimpsed the faint—I don’t know, what is the visual equivalent of a tickle? Let’s call it a twinkle, though it resembles neither a star nor a firefly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw this ‘twinkle’ in the large picture window of the old parlor. I padded over and reared up, resting my paws on the glass to nose at this new piece of magic.

  It was actually an old piece of magic, at least historically: a stone with a hole worn through it by the sea, and an old iron key tied to it with twine. It was the most basic of protective charms, the sort of thing anyone with a feel for folk traditions might dangle in their window. As for the magic involved, the ‘twinkle’ about it was discernible but faint, much like the lingering aroma of incense. It certainly didn’t pack much of a punch.

  Yet I was ecstatic, for this indicated two important developments: first, that Morwen had indeed resumed her witching ways; second, and far more importantly, she was at last properly frightened by recent events. Very well, let her be frightened. Every human in Kingsport was in over their head—it was just that most of them didn’t know it.

  I stole upstairs, avoiding the squeaky spots on the carpeted staircase. Listening at the door, I could easily discern Morwen and Her Husband’s breathing in their own room. Satisfied that they were sound asleep, I padded over to my baby’s room. Her Husband had closed the door, no doubt with the intention of keeping me out. Too bad for him—I had no trouble stretching up and hooking a paw over the lever, dragging it down far enough to unlatch the door.

  There was my baby, curled in his crib, smelling of peanut butter and bananas and yogurt and whatever else they’d stuffed into him before bedtime, in hopes that he’d sleep through the night. He was lying on his stomach with his arms stretched behind him and his buttocks high in the air, snoozing as profoundly as an exhausted kitten.

  The aforementioned aching bones prevented me from just jumping in. Instead, I took a more circuitous route, from rocking chair to bedside table, bedside table to changing table, changing table to crib rail, and from there into the warm, snuggly, baby-scented depths of his bed. As I settled my warm belly over his cold little toes, I again felt a twinge of shame. We cats prided ourselves on our independent natures and eccentric ways. To be so wholeheartedly devoted to a human baby was simply un-feline.

  The fact was that I’d simply gone too many lifetimes without giving birth. I’d been fixed in my last two lives, and had been run over as a kitten the life before that; my memories of my litters, and of motherhood in general, were growing too vague for comfort.

  The day their eyes opened, that had always been my favorite: one by one the little blind faces blinking wide their gem-colored eyes, like flowers blossoming to the sunlight. That was the moment they became not just crawling, mewling, wriggling sacks of fur and instinct, but felines unto themselves. “The eyes are the windows to the soul,” I believe humans say, and it’s quite true—that was also usually the day they began to remember their past selves. In previous lifetimes I had birthed some truly amazing souls into this world, cats with ten or twelve or more lives behind them. All had thanked me for the warm, sweet welcome I’d offered them, with my womb, my milk, my tongue, and my love.

  As I pondered all this, the door squeaked further open. I stiffened, ready to spring from the crib to escape Her Husband, then relaxed. It was only Morwen, wrapped in Her Husband’s brown bathrobe.

  You terrible animal! She scolded me in a hissing whisper. I can’t believe you ran away from the vet! And then—Poor thing, they told me a big dog attacked you! Are you all right, sweetie? Did he hurt you? Poor Pumpkin Spice…

  I purred reassuringly, and allowed Morwen to lift me from the crib. She cuddled me for a moment, rubbing her nose into my thick fur and murmuring sweet nothings. I purred ferociously in response, swiping my cheek against any part of her that presented itself: her shoulder, her ear, her hand.

  And now, you naughty thing…Morwen plopped me on the floor, not even bothering to bend down and give me an easy landing. I fell upon my feet, naturally, but could not resist a sharp mrow at the sudden impact upon my weary muscles. This ends today, Morwen declared.

  Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good. Morwen began making her unsteady way down the staircase. I followed closely behind, trying to remain as near as possible, while not actually tripping her.

  When she reached the kitchen, she picked up some things off the kitchen table. I craned my head back, trying to see what they were, but I couldn’t until she headed for the back door. Then I saw what she carried—a hammer and nails!

  No! I leapt for the cat door, but for an enormously pregnant woman, Morwen moved surprisingly fast. She also cheated: she grabbed my tail as I dashed away, hauling me backwards. I yowled and hissed, but it did no good. Blocking me with her backside, Morwen bent over, placed a nail against the end of the rubber flap, right where it overlapped with the door, and pounded it into place. Bang! Bang! Bang! went my freedom, as Morwen hammered nail after nail home. Not even my full weight was going to tear that flap free.

  When she finally stood up again, I sat heavily and stared at my former exit, too aghast even to protest. Morwen, apparently done ruining my life, placed the tools on the kitchen table with a loud clank. Coming back, she bent down with an ooph and scratched me under my chin.

  Sorry, girl, she murmured, stroking my back when I sullenly jerked my head away. But it’s dangerous out there. You’re coming home all beat up, and there’s other things as well…it’s just not safe.

  Her meaning hardened. So get used to it. You’re a housecat now.


  When I didn’t respond, she sighed, patted the top of my head, and shuffled back toward the stairs. I stayed on the kitchen floor, staring through the back door’s cracked glass window, and watched a night-gaunt soar past the waning crescent moon.

  * * *

  “They’re not going to let you out?” Cinnamon wanted to know. She was pressed against the screen in the kitchen window, her magnificent fur’s pattern barely discernible through the thick netting. I was lucky the window was open, so that we could actually talk. Fortunately, the ancient oven heated the kitchen to an unbearable degree, even in winter, and Morwen was in full Christmas-cookie-exchange mode.

  “No,” I replied gloomily. “It’s been a full day and she hasn’t changed her mind.”

  “Did you cry really loudly?” Cinnamon pressed.

  “Of course.”

  “And prostrate yourself in front of the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “And refuse to eat?”

  “Yes.”

  Cinnamon sat down carefully on the ledge and sighed in wonder. “Your human is really tough.”

  “She’s scared,” I explained. “Unlike most of the pinheads in this town, she knows something’s wrong.”

  “My humans know something is wrong,” Cinnamon contradicted me. “They’re getting in a feng shui expert after the New Year.”

  “I think this is a little bigger than rearranging a house.”

  “And the grandmother has been burning extra incense at the altar every night, and chanting. And she talked on the phone with some Taoist priestess who’s sending a Fu through the mail.”

  “Well, all right, so she knows something’s up,” I conceded grudgingly. “That’s better than nothing. But look at Mark and Clarence. We think the photographers living in their house are the cause of it all, and they’re—”

  “Caroling,” Cinnamon supplied helpfully.

  “Seriously?”

  “Tonight, and every night until Christmas.”

  “That’s unhelpful.” I paused to nibble at an itchy spot on my shoulder, and then lick the disordered fur back down. “Remind me what day this is, would you?”

  “Two days until the new moon,” Cinnamon replied promptly. “Coming next is the Frozen Mouse Moon.”

  “I knew that,” I told her irritably. Like most cats, I knew the movements of the moon instinctively, right down to the tips of my whiskers. “I meant, how long until the solstice?”

  “Also two days.”

  I blinked at her and sat up a little straighter. “The solstice and the new moon coincide? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Cinnamon tilted her delicate head back, apparently engaged in examining her memories. “I’m pretty sure, anyway.”

  “A new moon on the solstice. How often does that happen?”

  Cinnamon pondered, cocking her head to one side. “I’m not sure. We’d need a cat who knows more about the stars. Maybe in the dreamlands?” she suggested.

  “Maybe. I don’t know, it might be nothing. But,” I added, with a self-pitying little mrrow, “I might as well go there and check. It’s not as if I have anything better to do.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cinnamon consoled me. “Morwen’s got to give in if you just keep making a fuss. You’ll be out in no time.”

  I was less certain of that. Morwen had occasionally made noises about keeping me indoors, especially as the risks for free-roaming cats had become more widely publicized, but I’d never seen her so determined.

  “Tell me at least,” I said, changing the subject, “that the dog thing is working.”

  ‘The dog thing’ was a plan hastily communicated to Dot the morning after my imprisonment, when she’d dropped by on her hunting rounds. I’d spoken to her through the tiny crack under the front door, and explained the idea I’d conceived at the graveyard: that though four cats could not hope to closely follow humans in cars, dogs might be able to scent them, and track them in that fashion. What was more, it was evident that the dog communication network was much tighter and swifter than that of the cats. Should they be willing to cooperate, they might be able to provide us with valuable information on the whereabouts and doings of the “photographers.”

  “Eh, sort of. Dot went to visit the mastiff twice, but so far he’s just said that the humans drive around a lot. But he says the dogs are watching, and willing to help. If they find anything, they’re supposed come here—she’s told the mastiff where you live.”

  “A fat lot of good that will do.” Abruptly my temper boiled over, and I smacked at the screen in rage. “Of all the times to get overprotective, Morwen!”

  Oh, what are you hissing about now? Morwen asked, bustling into the kitchen. She was covered from head to toe in flour, and wiped her sweaty forehead with an equally sweaty forearm, resulting in a smearing of flour in her dark hair. Aw, who’s your friend?

  Cinnamon turned on the charm, purring, walking back and forth on the ledge, and pressing herself against the mesh. Morwen tickled her a little through the screen before trying to pet me. I dodged the caress, and not only because I didn’t want flour in my fur.

  Oh, don’t be mad, she clucked at me. I know you want to play with your friends, but it’s really not safe out there. You go on home, she addressed Cinnamon. Go get inside. It’s too cold for a short-haired cat, and besides… She let the sentence trail off, with a frown, before turning back to one of several mixing bowls.

  “When is she due?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Early spring,” I said. “Another three moons, at most, and probably before then. My baby—I mean, her son—was early.”

  “Good luck,” said Cinnamon, and I knew she didn’t just mean for the baby’s birth.

  “Thanks,” I told her. She gathered herself, preparing to spring from the ledge, but I stopped her. “So, by the way…you didn’t decide to join the King’s court? And head south?”

  She blinked tawny eyes at me. “What? No.”

  “He didn’t ask you?”

  “Of course he did. But I want to help.”

  With that simple assertion, she leapt gracefully down, and loped off through the deepening snow. My ears twitched in puzzlement as I watched her go. I never could guess what that cat would do next.

  Wet, heavy snow had fallen quite steadily—if slowly—ever since last night, resulting in drifts so deep, and roads so icy, that Morwen had actually stayed home for once. Hence, the baking fit. I stared out at the drifting snowflakes, and then through them to the gray sky overhead, where I’d last seen the night-gaunt soar.

  The new moon and the solstice—that is, Yule—would coincide this year. What did that mean?

  * * *

  Since I was a useless housecat now, doomed to file my claws on baseboards instead of mouse skulls, I left the overheated kitchen and did the only sensible thing.

  I took a nap.

  But not just any nap. I prepared myself for an epic undertaking in the dreamlands. I drank my fill of water. I crunched down as many disgusting shrimp kibble bits as I could. I used the litter box, and scattered its little crystals all over the bathroom floor, as a continued protest against my imprisonment. Then, having checked on my baby to ensure he was safe (he was yelling for cookies in his high chair), I stole up the stairs to the attic, to the door I was certain remained unlocked.

  It was more than unlocked—it was slightly open. Morwen had indeed been making use of this room. When I poked my head inside, I could see, by the dust-filtered sunlight of the dirty window, that all the cardboard boxes had been pushed back into corners. The old chalk circle had been freshened, its directional and elemental signs scribbled anew. The mass-market grimoires hadn’t been put away, but had been left stacked high upon her desk.

  I purred as I strolled in—careful not to disturb the circle—and sprang atop her chair. The old desk fairly hummed with energy: if wood could purr, it would’ve joined me. Whatever consciousness a desk might possess, it, too, was pleased to be put back to use.

  I curled up
in the Morwen-scented chair, covered my nose with my tail, and descended into sleep.

  * * *

  Carter’s sunset city wasn’t actually a very good place to encounter new cats. We went there to refresh ourselves, not to strike up conversations. So I turned my dream towards Ulthar, and in particular to the warm, worn stone hearths of the Arched Back Inn.

  It was crowded as usual, and for a moment I dithered at the door, trying to see both around the long legs of human customers, and the swaying tails of the cats. A particularly lush, golden coat caught my eye. There, in a prime place on the hearth, exactly the right distance from the flames, I spotted that old scoundrel Solar. He sat regally upright, chattering cheerfully at an awestruck white molly scarcely older than a kitten.

  As I approached, winding my way past human legs, through chair legs, and over the occasional booted foot, Solar spotted me. The white cat followed his gaze and I saw (with no little envy) that she had eyes of two colors: one a brilliant green, the other an equally bright blue. Truly, she was a lovely creature.

  So you can imagine my deep gratification when Solar dismissed her with a brief, “Do you mind budging over? This is an old friend I’d like to catch up with.”

  The white beauty evidently did mind, for she rose and, with her head and tail at an equally haughty angle, stalked off. I settled into her pre-warmed seat with no remorse, and greeted Solar with a quick sniff of his whiskers, followed by an affectionate mutual cheek swipe.

  “I didn’t know we were old friends,” I remarked with a purr.

  “We are now,” said Solar, cuffing my shoulder playfully. “And we never finished our earlier conversation.”

  “No.” I recalled the circumstances—that terrible fight between Morwen and Her Husband in the kitchen—and shuddered, wishing I could shake the memory off like water. “There’s been trouble at home.”