The Catswold Portal

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  But of course she was imagining that; there was no way Morian could know.

  Chapter 55

  She was afraid of taking the elevator by herself. She got out of the station wagon nervously as Braden paused in traffic. She entered the brick office building, pushed the elevator button, and steeled her nerve to slip inside. She was glad she was alone and not among strangers. She rode up feeling skittery, wanting to climb the wall. She tripped as she left the moving box and thought the door would close on her. Unnerved, she fled to find Mathew Rhain’s office.

  A blond, tight-lipped secretary took her name. Melissa turned her back on the woman and stood looking at the watercolors of sailing ships that decorated the waiting room. When Mathew Rhain came out of the inner office she froze, so startled she found it hard to speak.

  Rhain was a short, stocky man with hair the color of red clay. He had a broad, freckled face and broad, short-fingered hands. He was taller than an elven man, and he greeted her with the smooth manners of an upperworlder; but Mathew Rhain had elven blood.

  Why would a Netherworlder be living and working in the upperworld?

  But why shouldn’t he? McCabe had. Mag had, once. No one knew how many Netherworlders had escaped the tyrannies of enslaved nations to live in the free world above.

  Rhain studied her with intense interest, as curious about her as she was about him. He took her hand, searching her face. “You are McCabe’s daughter. Even if West hadn’t told me, I would see it.” He drew her into his private office and closed the door. The room was furnished with colored leather chairs, an oriental rug, and more sailing ships, in paintings, and as models arranged along the tops of the bookshelves. On a table at one end of the room lay three black leather binders.

  Rhain seated her at the table. “McCabe was my good friend. I wish he could know that you are well—that you are here.”

  She squeezed his stubby, square hand. “Braden said you would want some proof of who I am, but I’m afraid I don’t have any proof.”

  “I think I can arrange some proof. These are McCabe’s journals. I have kept them safe since he died.”

  “Was there—anything besides the journals?”

  He settled a quiet look on her. His eyes were rust colored, with little lights that softened them. “There was nothing else. John Kitchen has McCabe’s paintings, those that were left, and what few books survived the earthquake. Perhaps he has other things. Do the Kitchens know you’ve—returned?”

  She supposed Braden had explained to him about her memory. She said, “Not yet. Braden says they are in Europe.”

  “They’re expected back in a few weeks.”

  She said, “Have you lived in the city long? Did you know my father long?”

  “My grandfather and McCabe’s grandfather were friends, in the gold fields. I—have lived in many places.” He reached for the leatherbound books. “You may find the journals difficult to open.” He sat down opposite her, watching her. Reaching to open the first journal, she understood why she would need no identification. The journals were sealed. She glanced up at Rhain. If she wanted to open her father’s journals she must use Netherworld powers. She must put all her trust in this sandy-haired elven man if she were to find any clue to the Amulet.

  She was afraid—of being discovered, of Braden learning about her.

  But she must do this.

  The books had dates on the front, written on a white label in a bold script. She chose the volume that would cover the year Timorell came up into the upperworld. Not looking at Rhain, she made a silent spell for opening.

  The cover freed itself. She opened McCabe’s journal then looked up to meet Rhain’s eyes. Their secrets were shared, and she knew he must trust her now, as she was forced to trust him. He rose, and left her, shutting the door behind him.

  She touched the velum page, admiring McCabe’s neat, square script. She meant to flip through until she found McCabe’s description of Timorell, but the journal fell open to that page as if McCabe had gone back often to this passage where he first saw Timorell.

  Thursday, May 6:

  Through her window I could see her asleep, the cover thrown back. She and her husband and the child have taken a rented apartment; it smelled of stale cooking and dust. I thought she should not be in such a place. She is like the sun, her hair is all shades of gold and red. She is tall, sleek, a silken woman. I wanted to wake her, to touch her, to whisper a spell and see her leap to the sill as golden cat. She stirred and sighed as if she sensed me there. I waited for her to wake, never patient, until I realized that someone watched me. Her husband’s sister watched me: an evil child. Darkly evil

  Saturday, May 8:

  I returned to her this morning before dawn: She stood at the window letting the sharp wind bathe her bare skin. I stayed out of sight. She seemed excited by the wind, by the smell of the bay and the city smells; the wind carried its scents to her like a feast, she kept scenting out, and perhaps she was aware of me, too. She seemed fascinated with the rooftops that spread below her. I could imagine the golden cat chasing across them. But when she looked up at the sky she seemed to go dizzy; as morning came brighter she could not avoid looking. She gripped the window frame, she looked up slowly, staring directly up. The distances seemed to make her faint; she leaned her head against the window frame as if to regain her balance. I think it unnatural to live all your life with a solid granite roof above you.

  Tuesday, May 11:

  I spent the morning inspecting the job up on Glasgow Street, then drove down the Peninsula to pick up the kitchen tile and the cabinets. I returned, unloaded them, and knocked off at noon thankful I have a good foreman, good men. I think of Grandfather mining gold in Coloma—and in deeper mines. This was the only thing we didn’t agree on: where best to work, above ground or below. I am restless and unable to settle. I have seen her twice more, walking the neighborhood near their apartment; I must confess I cruise near her apartment. When she goes walking she tries to look at everything at once, tries to take in every new detail, every scent and sound; but she is nervy, skittish.

  I have talked with others who have come up, it took them weeks to get used to so much space and to the open sky and the sun. I cannot conceive of living all my life beneath that weight of earth. I think I would tear the stone apart to get out. I remember too well Grandfather’s tales of earth shifting and chasms collapsing—though folk seemed to take that as much for granted as we take earthquakes and/or hurricanes.

  Friday, May 14:

  The sharp wind sweeping in through the Golden Gate makes me wild. I can’t settle. I drove by the piers, stopped to watch a Norwegian ship offloading rubber, a Chilean ship discharging leather; but the ships didn’t hold me as they usually do. I can think only of her. She is seeing this world for the first time and I long to be with her. But she must make her discoveries on her own; and perhaps she is happy with her husband. I can’t bear to think that; he is not Catswold; how can he appreciate her?

  Monday, May 17:

  I have followed her. She is a delight to watch, everything is new and wonderful. I think this is a time of growing for her, and I feel that it is a time of pain. Her husband seems to share nothing with her. He seldom goes out with her. I am glad. I couldn’t bear it if she loved him. We will meet soon. My patience will not hold much longer.

  Wednesday, May 19:

  I have not written anything for a long time. We have met, we are together. I need not write of this.

  Friday, May 21:

  Her husband deals in stocks, bonds, land, small corporate trades. His young sister absorbs adult business affairs with a shocking hunger and rapidity, with the same commitment and trained memory that she absorbed spells and enchantments. A voracious child, singleminded as a young vulture. Tim fears her.

  Saturday, May 22:

  My love has moved in with me; she is all my happiness. She relishes everything about the city: the wind, the shops, the little restaurants, the wharves. We walk, we laugh, we eat and
listen to music, and make love.

  She is fascinated by the sleek cats of the city basking under stairs or on balconies. She will kneel to stroke them; she is aware of every cat—and they, of her. Cats wait for her behind curtained windows and in alleys, though she talks to them in a language that none of them understands.

  Wednesday, May 26:

  Tim doesn’t know what to make of my collection of paintings of cats—they fascinate her in an uneasy way. She has grown up to feel that images are evil. I try to tell her that these were made with love. There is one sketch she keeps returning to, of the young calico, a charcoal sketch Alice did. I told her it was done by the daughter of a friend, and I took her to meet the family. She and Alice were drawn to one another. Tim took the child’s hand in a strange, tender gesture, delighting Alice. They are already fast friends.

  Saturday, May 29:

  I have taken Tim to the Cat Museum. She was charmed; she wanted to know how I happened to do the designing. I told her Alice’s father suggested me, that the old doctor who commissioned it didn’t know half how interested I was. That amused her. And Tim has done a strange thing, she has commissioned a piece of sculpture for the museum. She wanted me to help her choose an artist. I have suggested Smith, a metal piece. He is already at work on it.

  Melissa paused, feeling her pulse pound. Why would Timorell commission a sculpture in a museum strange to her, in a world strange to her?

  Unless she had a special use for that sculpture. She tried to remember an iron or bronze cat with the artist’s name Smith.

  In the succeeding pages, she found no further mention of the sculpture. Braden had come in; the two men sat at the other end of the office deep in conversation. She felt unnerved to see him talking comfortably with a Netherworlder: how strange that the two worlds kept pushing together, flowing together. She had thought of Braden as totally removed from the realms of the Netherworld, but now that separation seemed less severe.

  Wednesday, January 12:

  Tim’s husband saw her on the street yesterday. He could see that she was pregnant and he thought the child was his. She told him it is not, that she is not his wife anymore, not in her eyes. She was in a rage when she got back to the apartment; she did not like having such anger while she carried the child. She made spells to drive the anger away.

  Thursday, February 16:

  Our baby was born at one o’clock this morning in a small hospital in Marin County. We were concerned about Tim going into a hospital, but Rhain knew some people, a doctor we could trust. And I was in the room, whispering spells to keep her and the baby from changing. Tim’s labor was relatively easy. Our child is the most beautiful little girl, with lovely calico hair. A nurse said her hair would turn the right color soon, not to worry. We laughed about that. We named her Melissa. Melissa McCabe. Tim made a quick recovery; we were out of the hospital and back in the apartment the next afternoon. When Alice came to visit she was ecstatic with the baby. Melissa took to her, reaching for her with a little mewling cry that startled Tim, but it was only a human baby cry. Of course Alice doesn’t suspect.

  Melissa turned forward to the last two entries.

  Wednesday, August 9:

  Something is happening—the common street cats sense it. All morning they have been out on the streets, acting strangely, searching restlessly for places to hide, then moving on. Dogs run the streets nervously. The earth is trembling, though so far only we and the animals can feel it. I am afraid for Tim and Melissa. I will not leave them.

  Saturday, August 12:

  The trembling was three days ago. My nerves are like hot wires, and not only with fear of the physical damage. I cannot help but equate the earth’s trembling with forces of evil, as my grandfather believed.

  But this is not the Netherworld, and the trembling has settled now; I will work on the Marin house today only because Tim insists.

  The empty pages that followed should have been filled with their lives together, with their love, with their baby growing up, learning to walk and talk, learning to live as McCabe and Timorell did, both as cat and as human.

  She imagined too vividly her father falling from a rooftop, twisting, fighting himself, then hit by falling bricks. She tried not to see Timorell sprawled under the fallen bookcase in the wrecked apartment. She was trembling with pain for them, wanted to weep for them.

  When Rhain rose, she said, “I must give the journals back.”

  “It is only a formality. They have been safe here for a long time.”

  She laid her hand over the volumes, closing them with a silent spell. She rose, handing them to him. Their eyes met, sharing their secret.

  Chapter 56

  The coast was ragged and wild. Waves crashed against the dark, wet cliffs. Occasional cypress trees thrust out of the stone, trees as gnarled and bent as if giant hands had twisted them. Seaspray leaped on the wind, beading Melissa’s blowing hair, dampening Braden’s shirt. They stood together looking straight down the rocks at the sea where the water heaved and fell. Dark kelp beds soughed up and down, and surface breakers crashed thundering against the pitted stone. The smell of salt and iodine made Melissa tip her tongue out to taste the sharp scent. Braden watched her, powerfully immersed in her animal pleasure at the wildness of sea and wind. She seemed as totally engrossed as if she had never seen the sea. Each time gulls wheeled over them her hands moved involuntarily, as if she wanted to fly with them—or snatch them from the wind and hold them.

  Driving down from San Francisco they had stopped at Half Moon Bay for lunch, had sat at a window table facing the beach, eating clam chowder and French bread. Outside the glass, the deserted white sand stretched to an empty sea, and even that flat expanse had held her. She had seemed fascinated with the wheeling gulls; her mouth had curved up with pleasure when gulls screamed by their window. Now he watched her, charmed by her eagerness, wanting to show her everything, to share with her the village where he had grown up, its red-roofed cottages, its hilly, winding streets, its little restaurants and galleries. Wanting her to love the inn that had been his home, wanting her to be a part of it.

  Within an hour he was showing her Carmel, the narrow, shop-lined alleys, the Monterey pines marching down the divided main street. The inn stood a block from the shore; he could see that she liked its white stucco walls and red tile roof, and its balconies bright with potted red geraniums. Mrs. Trask kept it just as neat and welcoming as it was the day she bought it from Gram. He parked and reached behind the seat for their bags and his painting things. Melissa swung out, took her bag and his and went ahead up the brick walk, looking.

  The lobby pleased her; she entered slowly. Sunlight through tall windows played over the white walls and potted ferns. The large cool room was high ceilinged, its brown tile floors bare, its white wicker chairs cushioned in pale blue. Only the proprietress looked out of place, black as a raven in her long black dress and thick black stockings and flat black shoes. Mrs. Trask was a hard-looking old woman with gray, grizzled hair knotted behind her head. But when she saw Braden and cried out a greeting and hugged him, her face changed; she was all smiles and warmth. “I save your usual room. Is enough space for easel. Do you bring a cloth to cover my floor?”

  Braden nodded and grinned, hugging her.

  The woman looked at Melissa shyly, perhaps comparing her to Alice, but then she smiled and took Melissa’s hand in a warm, engulfing grip.

  Their room was on the third floor. Its wide corner windows looked down over the village to the sand and sea. Its tile floors showed off white embroidered rugs, and the thick white spread was embroidered with flowers; crewel work, Braden said. He unfolded his drop cloth in a corner and set up his easel, then grabbed her in a hug. “I don’t know whether to take you to bed, or swimming. Either way, take your clothes off.”

  It was much later that they swam. The sea frightened her and was ice cold. Behind them the beach was nearly deserted except for a few walkers; no one else was swimming. The waves hit her so hard s
he could hardly stand. Beyond the waves, Braden swam strongly, and she wouldn’t be outdone. She followed, thankful Mag had made her learn in the swift Sesut River. But they came out soon, freezing, and lay warming on the sand, holding hands, feeling the heat build, thinking of lovemaking until they rose and returned to the inn.

  They entered the inn through the rear patio where they could hose off their feet. The bricks had just been washed. The round tables were pushed together and the chairs piled on top, and a man in coveralls was setting mouse traps behind the potted geraniums. Mrs. Trask sat at a table cutting up raw bacon for mouse-bait. Her face looked angry and sullen, as if she trusted no one, but again when she smiled the sun came out. Melissa wondered if she had had a very hard life.

  The old woman looked them over. “You have goose bumps. No one swims in that water—water like ice. Foolish, Braden. People drown in that water.” She saw Melissa staring at the traps, and smiled.

  “Mouse somewhere. It overruns us. I tell Arnol, either we must catch him or we have to have a cat. I never see mouse so bad.”

  And there were mice; that night in the small hours when Braden slept, she heard scratching in the wall and lay trying to decide exactly where. The sound drew her, teased her; she was afraid of the way it made her feel. She rose at last and stood looking out toward the sea where the breakers rolled white in the moonlight, trying to hear only the pounding waves, trying to ignore the scratching in the walls behind her.