The Dark Yule
Page 19
That did it for me. I was grateful for his unconscious aid, but I wasn’t that grateful. Rolling to my feet, I swept my tail out of his grasp and stalked away, head high to compensate for the lack of a sassily waving plume. Oh, well. At least I still had a tail when I dreamed.
And speaking of dreams, I had to find some way to tell Morwen what I’d seen—and heard—in the temple. Since she didn’t speak cat, and I didn’t speak human, that would be far from easy.
The kettle was whistling in the kitchen, and Her Husband was lifting it off the stove. I slunk past him, belly low to the linoleum. Her Husband and I never got along at the best of times, and he’d been particularly nervy of late. I thought I knew why, too. It wasn’t only because his wife was about to deliver their second child.
Rather than engage with Her Husband, I skittered up the shabby, carpeted stairs to the bedrooms. A reek of paint hung in the air, and a bucket and brush had been abandoned at the third bedroom’s door. That bedroom had heretofore been a dusty space reserved for guests; now it was to be a second nursery for this newest human addition. That is, assuming the birth went well…
I poked my head inside the nursery-to-be, which was barren of furniture save for a lone rocking chair. Morwen wasn’t in there. But I did spot something new hanging in the window, something that swayed and twisted in the light.
I blinked and altered my vision in that special, feline way, to see That Which Cannot Be Seen. Upon second sight, I was scarcely surprised that the object in the window gleamed faintly, with a curious little twinkle that indicated magic.
I padded over to the window. The object appeared to be a cross made from rough-cut twigs, wound about with blue thread in a distinctive, web-like pattern. The shine of magic upon it was discernible, but very faint indeed—hardly more than a suggestion. Dangling from a long string, the little charm looked downright tantalizing; I stretched upwards against the wall, as high as I could, and batted in its general direction. However Morwen, who was no fool (at least when it came to felines), had hung the talisman well beyond my reach. Disappointed, I turned away from the charm with a long, bitter maaoooow, and continued my search for the temptress who’d designed it.
Since she’d abandoned her work in the nursery, it wasn’t hard to guess where she might be. I dashed up the next staircase, a bare wooden thing that creaked alarmingly. The door to the attic was slightly open, enabling me to squeeze inside.
In the middle of the chalk circle, with her black skirts spread around her, sat Morwen. Her pregnant belly was simply enormous at this point; it rested between her thighs as she bent over her finicky work. A stick of sandalwood incense burned a tail’s-length from her thigh, and the floor was cluttered with the tools of her practice: a knife, yarn, stubs of half-burned candles, a bowl of salt, a bottle of whiskey, and the iridescent feather of a magpie.
With a mrrow! of greeting I stepped cautiously over the boundaries of the circle, careful not to smudge the laboriously-drawn signs of the elements that bordered her working space. Morwen extended her hand at my approach, and after a salutary sniff of her fingers, I grazed my jaw along their tips, scratching the itchy place that exists under the chin of every cat.
Look, Spice, Morwen said. I couldn’t actually understand her babbling vocalizations, no more than I could understand the birds that sang and squawked in our bushes. Because of our connection, however, I could grasp the meaning behind her words. Look at this. It’s a spirit trap.
She dangled her work in front of me—an exact copy of the little charm in the nursery window, only this one was green instead of blue. My pupils dilated as it twisted on its string. The threads gleamed in my enhanced sight as I crouched low, my stubby tail quivering.
No! Morwen told me sternly, but it was too late. I’d already sprung up, both paws extended, claws fully unsheathed to seize the delightful toy. I got it! I yanked it from Morwen’s grasp and pounced upon it, bearing the talisman down to the floor. It was mine! The beast was mine!
No, Spice, no! Bad cat! Morwen scolded, as I rolled onto my back, kicking the loosening green threads with both back paws. Disembowl the creature! Kill it! Kill it!
Goddamnit, cat, Morwen grumbled, and snatched it out of my paws. I let her take it—I’d had my fun. Patiently I waited, tail still twitching with excitement, while she mumbled and grouched and rewound the threads I’d pulled free.
“A spirit trap, huh?” I said, when I guessed her temper had cooled somewhat. “Interesting color choice. I would’ve gone with red, myself. Spirits are drawn to red.”
Morwen ignored my sally and continued winding the threads. I sighed internally. There had been a few brief, shining moments of true communication between us three months ago, during the events of the Dark Yule. Morwen had actually understood what I was saying to her, even comprehending such specifics as “Let me out!” and “Deep Ones!” That was also when Morwen had successfully worked magic upon my tail, inducing a hearty, healing scab days before one could be expected to form. We’d both been thrilled, I think; we’d believed that our lives had changed forever.
We’d thought wrong. Or, rather, I was coming to the conclusion that we’d thought wrong. Morwen had awoken the next morning with all of her pre-marital interest in witchcraft revived. She’d pulled down all her magic books, and returned from the grocery store laden with spices and herbs. A dozen little charms were now scattered around the house, and heaven forbid Her Husband or my baby even glance at one wrong, let alone touch it. So all-consuming had her passion become that the baby’s room still wasn’t ready—because whenever Morwen swore that she was going to finish the nursery, she snuck off to the attic instead.
And what was the result of this feverish activity and study? Very little, so far as I could tell. True, her charms got a bit better each time, but they were far from the most effective wards. In magical terms, they were a four-foot chain-link fence, as opposed to a twelve-foot high brick wall: more of a suggestion than a genuine deterrent. That suggestion was enough for any of your garden-variety spirits, but Kingsport had more than its fair share of darker entities.
Such as the ghouls, for example, who’d been in Kingsport since the first body was first laid to rest on Burying Hill, and whose long-lasting wrath seemed fixated upon me.
But the magic didn’t concern me as much: I had to assume that Morwen would eventually either learn better, or give up. What truly worried me was our inability to communicate. I’d attempted repeatedly since the Dark Yule to get Morwen to hear me, and had failed every time. She would try to listen, I could tell, and she had become more attentive and observant, but the gap still stretched far between us. Genuine understanding remained out of reach.
And yet, somehow, I had to convey to Morwen what I’d heard in the dreamlands temple, before my vision had been so violently interrupted. Even the memory of that high-pitched wail of pain sent tingles down my spine, trembling each hair upright.
Morwen finished her work and set it aside. She reached for a black-handled knife, doubtless preparing to consecrate the charm. I intervened, interposing myself between her and the blade.
Move, Spice! Morwen commanded. I reacted the way any proper cat would. I sat on the knife, and glared at her.
Ugh, Spice… Morwen rubbed her belly and heaved a sigh, doubtless feeling quite sorry for herself. I knew she’d be feeling even sorrier shortly, and so persisted in my attempts. Getting off the knife, I meowed plaintively, and butted my head into her belly.
Ooph, Spice, don’t.
Sitting determinedly in front of her, I gently patted her stomach with a velvety paw, then stared her straight in the eye. She frowned at me.
What is it, Spice?
Encouraged, I patted her belly again, and continued to fix my gaze upon her. Her frown deepened with concentration.
Is something wrong with the baby?
Morwen sounded distressed—but at least I’d aroused her concern. I patted the belly a final time, then placed both paws upon her stomach and reared up, to
touch my nose to hers.
Ow, Spice!
I got off her and stared at her, tail twitching, trying to gauge the impact of my efforts. Morwen certainly appeared troubled. She pulled up her shirt and examined her belly, which to my mind looked ready to burst. Human pregnancies astounded me. All that time and discomfort, for just one baby—maybe two at the most? Highly inefficient, not to mention extraordinarily difficult for the females.
Not for the first time, I blessed the stars for incarnating me repeatedly as a cat. Every lifetime I could remember, I’d been a cat—and I intended to keep it that way, thank you very much.
Maybe I’d better go into the clinic, Morwen said. I mrrowed in affirmation, and rose to get out of her way.
Or… she went on. Hmm.
There was a stack of books to her left; she pulled out one and opened it, resting it atop her stomach to read. I suppose it was a grimoire, of sorts, though what self-respecting grimoire was covered with a colorful cartoon of a grinning witch perched saucily on a broomstick, I couldn’t say.
Several long minutes passed, while Morwen silently flipped through the book. At last I got bored and wandered off to a corner, where I discovered interesting evidence of new mouse activity: three tiny feces, all relatively fresh. It was spring now, after all, if just barely. The equinox was approaching, and the deadlock of snow and ice was beginning to lift. Wild mice would begin breeding again, and seeking new nests for themselves and their offspring. I would have to be vigilant in the coming days and weeks.
My ear swiveled at the sound of Morwen’s voice, and glanced over my shoulder, to see her dipping a length of blue string in a jar of water. Curious, I ambled back toward the circle, and sat at its edge, my paw at the tip of the symbol for Fire.
Morwen spit upon the string, leaving a gooey glob dangling from the middle, then ran it through her fingers to spread the saliva along its length. This accomplished, she waved the string through the smoke, muttering indecipherable words as she did so.
Now, what should I say? Morwen murmured. Power…hour…what rhymes with peace?
At last she came to some conclusion, for she nodded briskly, cleared her throat, and sat more fully upright. As her nimble fingers knotted the bottom of the string, she softly chanted an incantation, which I understood to mean something like this:
Here I bind full labor power
Until my baby’s birthing hour.
The knot’s undone, my power’s unleashed.
My baby slides out like she’s greased
And we’re both safe and full at peace.
This incantation she repeated for six further knots. When it was finished, she opened a box nearby and selected an old, black scarf, one I recognized from her college days. I recalled rolling myself into its silken folds as a wee kitten, and chewing the tassels at the end. In this fine old scarf Morwen tucked the string.
Now she stood—a lengthy and, judging by the sounds she made, excruciating process. Waddling over to her desk, she pulled out a small drawer and rested the little black packet inside, before closing it firmly.
I’ll finish charging it later, she said, more to herself than to me, I’m sure. I meowed at her, catching her attention once more. She smiled and wiggled her fingers, but didn’t bend to pet me, which was probably for the best in her top-heavy state.
Don’t worry, Spice. I’ll still go to the doc.
Her Husband was calling up the stairs. I never could understand Her Husband properly—very little sympathy existed between him and me—but judging by the exasperation in his tone, Morwen’s tea had gotten cold…again.
I followed Morwen to the door, but as she began her precarious walk down the stairs, I stopped to stare over my shoulder at the desk. Surely I should’ve felt pleased—by combining magic with medical advice, Morwen was addressing any potential problem at every level she could. And yet…something about that little charm unsettled me.
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About the Author
R.M. Callahan is an author and narrative designer who is frankly glad she can’t See That Which Cannot Be Seen. She currently lives in the Land of Blue Dragon (Vietnam) with her husband M.R. Callahan, two rascally children, two equally mischievous dogs, and a brown cat that bears no resemblance to Pumpkin Spice whatsoever.
The Callahans together write the Tales of New Kingsport, a set of intertwined series that are full of Mythos-influenced mayhem. They also run the Callahan Creatives Agency and have written for a wide variety of games and related content. If you enjoy humorous sci-fi and/or podcasts, you can listen to more of their work at http://planetarybroadcastnetwork.com.
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Also by R.M. Callahan
R.M. and M.R. Callahan together write the Tales of New Kingsport, a set of intertwined series full of Mythos-influenced mayhem. See all their books at www.flockhall.com.
The Dead Witch
https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Witch-Pumpkin-Spice-Tales-ebook/dp/B07P91XNNW/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=the+dead+witch&qid=1568041999&s=gateway&sr=8-1
Can this cat save Kingsport—twice?
Pumpkin Spice—Maine Coon cat and part-time familiar—refuses to let her witch die. But Morwen’s birth spell has gone seriously wrong, and now Spice has hours—perhaps less—to break the enchantment before it kills both mother and child.
Which is the perfect time for Spice to learn a terrible secret:
The Dark Yule is far from finished with her.
On that dreadful night, Spice accidentally let someone escape. Someone whose very presence has awakened another creature.
A creature long-hidden and forgotten, in a realm neither here nor there, but desperately clawing its way towards our world…
The Damned King
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1732867577?pf_rd_r=K45YCEB7P816W2E9A6XA&pf_rd_p=6fc81c8c-2a38-41c6-a68a-f78c79e7253f
Spice loves her witch…but not the creature possessing her.
Pumpkin Spice, Maine Coon cat and part-time familiar, knew Morwen’s magical mentors were bad news. But did Morwen listen to Spice’s sage advice? Hell no! So instead, Spice has to beg her frenemy, the ghoul-king, to drive Morwen’s tormentors out of town.
But those wicked witches have friends in low places…